Dragonfly Kisses (12 page)

She drew in a deep breath and skated a glance around the room, soaking in the simmering anticipation from this, her most important audience. For each one of them was, in her heart, her brother.

Her gaze stalled on one face.

One dear, dear face.

And her pulse leapt.

Oh, definitely not a ‘brother’ face. Not with that sharp-cut chin, those glittering eyes and scruffy evening beard.

She launched into the piece, joy trilling through her fingers, her soul, giving a lightness to her play she had never known before.

Because Dylan had come.

He hadn’t wanted to come. He hadn’t intended to come.

Not here. Not to this place. He’d had the worst day of his life in this place and vowed never to darken these doors again.

But two weeks without Cassie had been brutal. He’d thought about her every day. He’d called her. But obviously Bella had scribbled down the wrong number next to Cassie’s name. When he punched it in, he got some boutique—a sex boutique—and when he asked for Cassie, the chirpy voice on the other end of the line said there was no Cassie there.

So he had come. To the Remlinger Center—the world renowned children’s cancer clinic—to hear her play. To see her. Hoping against hope he didn’t burst into tears.

The place was oddly unchanged—unlike his life since he’d been there last. The halls were scrubbed clean, and the scent of antiseptic lingered in the air. The mood was muted and shadows haunted the children’s eyes. Haunted the parents’ even more.

But what surprised him and horrified him and moved him beyond words was that he felt her here. His Lila. His baby. As though some part of her lingered with these other children, offering comfort through their suffering.

He closed his eyes and reveled in the sense of closeness, let the rich tones of Cassie’s “Bumblebee” waft over him. Her skill, her deftness, left him breathless. Lila would have loved it, he thought. She would probably have insisted on calling it “The Dragonfly Song.” And, incongruously, he found himself chuckling at the thought.

It was a short piece, probably because Cassie played it so damn fast. But when she finished, she launched into another, one he recognized as Saint-Saens. He’d taken to listening to classical cello and now knew all the famous works. At the first familiar strains of “The Swan,” a little boy at the front of the room clapped his hands and hollered “Woo hoo!” and everyone, including Cassie, laughed.

She played a few other songs, all of which he knew. But then she played something he had never heard before. It was a beautiful composition, light and airy and filled with a thread of hope, while at the same time poignant and sad. It spoke to him, this song, and he did end up in tears, which was particularly mortifying because a small girl in cotton candy pink pajamas shuffled up to him and, with a somber smile, handed him a napkin.

He thought it was to dry his tears, but when he lifted it, he saw she’d drawn something on it.

His pulse stuttered as he recognized a familiar form. The long slender body. The delicate gossamer wings—drawn though they were with a purple crayon. A dragonfly.

“She wanted you to have this,” the little girl said, patting his hand. And then she turned and shuffled back to her table, towing her IV stand behind her.

Dylan sat there. Speechless. Poleaxed. Staring at a napkin.

Something unbearable and magnificent swelled in his soul; the hard shell around his heart cracked and broke the way a seed cracks to allow for the power of new life to spring forth.

And the floodgates opened.

But they were good tears. Healing tears. Cleansing tears.

He sent up a little prayer, thanking God he’d had the foresight to sit in the back of the room so no one could witness this indignity. He wept, unashamedly.

Well, maybe a little ashamedly. He was a grown man, after all. Grown men weren’t supposed to blubber.

But damn it all, it felt good. It felt right.

By the time Cassie’s song ended he had regained some semblance of control over his wayward emotions. He also felt suddenly, incomprehensibly happy. As though he had finally been able to grieve. Been able to let her go. Been able to set both of them free.

He wiped his face on his sleeve, then carefully folded the napkin and tucked it into his pocket. And he stood. For Cassie had finished and was putting away her cello.

And they had a date.

For dinner.

He couldn’t wait.

Chapter Thirteen

“You came.”

He loved the look in her eye as she gazed up at him. It mirrored the emotion swirling in his chest. “I missed you.” His voice broke on the words. “And I seem to remember we have a dinner date?” He posed it as a question because they hadn’t spoken in over two weeks and her offer had been a casual one.

“Dinner would be wonderful.” The warmth flooding him at those simple words wasn’t logical, but then none of this was. And he didn’t care. She smiled impishly. “Shall we walk down to the water?”

He nodded. Again, didn’t care. Didn’t care where they walked. If they walked. As long as she was by his side.

“Let me see if they’ll hold my cello,” she said.

He nodded and picked it up for her, trying not to grunt at the weight.

She laughed. “It can be unwieldy. Oh, Barb?” She turned to a nurse wearing Elmo scrubs preparing to herd the children back to their wards. “Can I leave this in the storage room while we go for dinner?”

Barb nodded. “Sure, Cassie. You know where it is?”

“Yup.” Cassie shot him a grin, whispering conspiratorially, “I’ve done this before.”

Carrying her cello, he followed her from the room. It took a while, as she was stopped by every parent and every child and every doctor in the damn place. He loved her grace, her patience, her gratitude for being able to give of herself.

That was something missing in his life, he’d noticed. There was nothing in his current profession that gave anyone anything, other than a ribald morning drive. He wanted his life, his job, to mean more.

Besides, he suspected he’d outgrown sophomoric humor.

Perhaps it was time to look for another job.

Once they made it through the adoring throng, Cassie led the way down a narrow hallway toward the back of the clinic, and the cacophony of the playroom receded. “The storage room is here,” she said, turning one more corner and opening the door to an oversized closet filled with art supplies.

He stepped inside and carefully set her cello on the linoleum at the back of the room. “Will it be safe here?”

She chuckled. “Perfectly safe.”

He straightened and looked at her and something swelled in his heart. She was so beautiful in the buzzing glare of the florescent lights. He couldn’t stop the smile curving his lips.

Her nose wrinkled. “What?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I’ve missed your face.” He cupped her cheek, reveling in the soft warmth. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she whispered.

Silence blanketed them as their gazes tangled. Words, unspoken, passed between them. A certain tension rose. She broke the contact, but only to glance at the door. He reached out and pulled it closed.

And then he backed her up against the wall and kissed her.

Kissed her. Consumed her was more accurate. One taste, one soft brush of her lips against his and he lost all control. How he’d missed this. Craved this. He probably had not even allowed himself to admit the depth of his feelings, acknowledge the ache. Until now.

He deepened the kiss, and she opened to him, fisted his hair and held him close. Made tiny murmurs in the back of her throat. Unintelligible, yes, but eminently clear. At least to him.

Her tongue, shy and sweet, pressed between his lips, and a shudder of lust took him. He sucked her in, and she groaned. Delved deeper.

Something about her tongue invading his mouth made him go a little wild. His cock surged. He rubbed it against her belly. She lifted her leg and hooked it around his thigh, pressing closer.

“God,” he growled.

Her nails scraped over his nape and shivers of delight rippled down his spine.

It had been too long. Far too long. He wanted her. Needed her. Ached for her.

And she was wearing a skirt.

A long, flowing skirt, but he quickly found the hem and slid his palm up her bare thigh, cradling her, stroking her soft skin with his thumb. When she whimpered and wriggled—impatient, perhaps that he was caressing her thigh, and not elsewhere—he cupped her ass beneath her skirt and pulled her against him.

He slipped beneath the band of her panties and then, unable to resist, brought his hand around front. He had to ease back a bit to make room, but he was determined. When he found her slit, when he stroked her, she was damp.

She shuddered as he teased her clit. It was a hard nubbin, swollen, damp.

“Cassie.” He kissed his way over her cheek to nest in her neck.

“Dylan,” she panted. “Yes.”

He eased two fingers into her cunt and shuddered. Tight. Hot. Ready.

They couldn’t do it here. Not in a closet filled with markers and finger paints, bathed in fluorescent light. They shouldn’t.

But God, he needed her.

She convulsed around him. Their gazes met. Hers hot and hungry and needy. She found him, cupped his aching cock. Squeezed.

All thoughts of finger paint fled.

He yanked her panties down to her knees. With trembling fingers, he unsnapped his jeans. She went up on her tiptoes and lifted her leg higher on his hip, giving him access. He took his cock into his hand and guided it in. Guided it home.

Breath hissed from him as she encased him in a warm, wet, sucking embrace. “Jesus,” he hissed. He buried his face in her neck and eased out. Drove in again.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. He lifted her all the way up and braced her against the wall and tipped her slightly so he could go deeper. He pulled out and drove in again and she clutched his shoulders and clung to him, inside and out as he pummeled her.

It was hard and fast and scorching. With each plunge, the agony of wanting built, driving him higher and higher, urging him on to a wilder frenzy.

She was with him, panting and snarling and nipping his neck. Her body welcomed him, bathed him. When she tightened around him, he knew she was close. And he let go the reins, pounding into her in short, frantic thrusts.

The slap of groin to groin echoed in the small room, entwined with their impassioned, feral groans. The sensation of skin to skin, the creamy slide against her constricting walls made drool pool in his mouth. Heat crawled up his nape. Every muscle in his body tightened. Cum churned in his balls.

But still, he held back. It nearly killed him. When he could stand it no longer, when his patience was absolutely at an end, he thumbed her clit. She sucked in a breath and let out a crazed wail, muted against his neck. She clenched around him, shuddering and quivering and rippling around him, and he could hold out no longer.

He exploded.

Imploded.

Emptied himself.

Flooded her.

The rapture of his release was magnificent, divine.

And her expression, when she opened her eyes and peered up at him with a slow smile on her perfect lips? That was divine as well.

“D-dinner?” she said, huffed on a panted breath.

“Yes,” he said, pressing his lips to her sweat-covered brow. “Dinner.”

It took them a while to pull themselves together after their impromptu little tryst. Probably because Dylan couldn’t stop kissing her. But they finally disentangled and straightened their clothing and made themselves presentable enough to emerge back into the world.

After she made a quick trip to the ladies room, they headed out into the falling dusk and ambled over to the Pike Street Hillclimb down to the waterfront. She made him skulk with her out the back door of the clinic when she pointed out a lanky man in a too-formal suit lurking near the front door. He wasn’t much of a skulker, but he liked skulking with her. Especially when she was fleeing the attentions of another man.

He slipped his hand into hers as they made their way down the steps, enjoying the soft caress of the evening breeze and the vista of city lights around them. It was a beautiful spring evening, and the waterfront was crowded.

They walked along the pier listening to the music and the laughter, the chattered conversations. But they didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. Just being together was enough.

He glanced over at her, loving the way her eyes danced as she peered into the shop windows or stopped to greet the beautiful white carriage horse, patiently awaiting its next passenger. His fingers tightened on hers, as though he could hold her, keep her.

She was an amazing woman, his Cassie.

While he’d had many partners in his life, he’d never been so swept away by passion that he’d taken a woman against a wall in a storage closet. But something about her lit a fire inside him. Their souls fed each other, and when passion rose, they rode an unstoppable wave.

She made him forget all the heartache. Made him forget all the pain. Let him simply be.

Then again, tonight had been a turning point for him.

He had wept for Lila. Released her, the way a man might release a once-wounded dove and watch it soar free. Somehow he’d set himself free as well.

That inexpressible surge of joy probably had a great deal to do with the fact that he had completely lost control of himself in a storage closet with a gorgeous, vivacious, magnificent woman. A smile tweaked his lips as a lightness of spirit welled up within him once more. He wanted to throw his head back and laugh. Life was wonderful.

And Cassie was by his side.

“How about here?” She gestured toward a tiny restaurant proffering clams by the bucket. It had an outdoor dining room, right on the water. He had the sense she’d guided them directly here.

He nodded. “Perfect.” He didn’t care where they ate. What they ate. If they ate. He only wanted to be with her.

She sighed. “I’ve been dying for clams.”