Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel (30 page)

Off-balance and fumbling around in the dark—literally and figuratively—he did exactly as she’d commanded and slipped under her cool cotton sheets naked.

The fury of the storm had passed, rain falling in the aftermath. He’d never slept over with any woman he was seeing. He was the jerk who rolled off and grabbed his pants. He wasn’t the chump who took off his pants to cuddle.

When the rain stopped, he would leave. The argument between his brain and his heart quieted with the compromise. She was back, her hips and hair swinging, her breasts small but full and perky, her legs long and lean. He silently thanked his gene pool and the ability to see every glowing curve of her body.

She slipped under the sheet and pulled at his far shoulder, forcing him on his side to face her. Then, she scooched closer and wiggled until their bodies were pressed together from chest to feet. “There now. Cuddling isn’t so difficult, is it? Even you can learn to do it, Cade.”

He smiled into her hair and breathed her in. Under the vanilla scent of her soap was the smell of sex. He smelled good on her. No, more than good—perfect.

He roamed his hands over her back and down to her butt and up into her hair while her hands were performing a similar trek over his body. She nipped his neck and his pulse jumped.

“You smell so good I could eat you.” The words were out before the double entendre registered, or maybe it was a Freudian slip, because his assessment was perfectly accurate.

“Cade.” The way she whispered his name cast her back into the shy Monroe.

He loved she could be genuinely sassy and sexy and shy all within a few minutes and sometimes at the same time. He laughed softly and hugged her close. Thank God the rain still fell outside her window, because he wasn’t ready to leave. Not quite yet. He’d definitely undervalued the act of cuddling.

He closed his eyes when one of her hands threaded through his hair and massaged his scalp. How long had it been since anyone touched him without wanting anything in return?

He cast back to his childhood, when his parents had been alive. His days and nights had been full of a freedom he’d tried hard to replicate after he’d left Cottonbloom. Freedom from having to worry about food, keeping his family together, keeping a roof over their heads. Freedom from responsibility.

Feeling as close to that freedom as he’d been in a long time, he drifted into a state of limbo, the sound of the rain in his ears and her hands on his body performing an ancient alchemy. Time became irrelevant. Everything was laced with her scent and touch. He might have dreamed.

He was hard again, maybe harder than he’d ever been. Painfully so. Restless, he shifted, the night air cooling the heat building in the core of his body. A warm, wet mouth closed over him.

He lifted his head off the pillow. Monroe’s hair was spread over his thighs, her hand around the base of his erection, her tongue circling the tip. This was a dream. He let his head fall back with a groan and raised a hand to cup her hollowed-out cheek. Bold, sexy Monroe was back.

“If I’d known cuddling involved this I would have taken it up years ago.” He’d tried for teasing, but his voice was harsh.

Her mouth left him, and his hips bucked up, seeking her warmth. “Consider this cuddling with benefits.”

He pressed the side of his face into the pillow and smiled. Their bedroom banter was as foreign to him as the cuddling was, but he liked it. A lot. And while the Cade Fournette who didn’t cuddle or tease would have selfishly let her finish him, the one in her bed wanted to drive her as crazy as she made him.

In an athletic move that had her squealing with laughter, he pulled her up his body and rolled her over, his body on top of hers. The darkness was too deep to see the color of her eyes, but he could see her smile, easy and accepting. A warmth spread from his chest.

He kissed her. She wound her arms around his neck and opened for him. It was her nature to give and expect nothing in return. It was his nature to take. Or at least it had been the past few years, but he hadn’t always been a selfish bastard. She brought out something in him he’d tried to leave behind. Maybe he’d had to come home to find it. All he knew was he didn’t want to take from her. He wanted to give, to hold, to protect.

He broke their kiss and stared down at her, both of them breathing hard, all tease gone. Words swirled in his head but didn’t assemble themselves into a coherent thought. Past, present, and future coalesced into a single moment.

Fear had him sliding down her body. Pleasure was simple, and something he could give without losing part of himself. Everything about her was sweet and welcoming. He could have stayed between her legs until the sun rose, her body writhing against his mouth, hearing her chant his name and tug on his hair.

Her climax was sudden and intense, and he held her hips down to ride it out. He stayed to play long after she’d stopped shivering against him. She pulled at his hair, the tingling pain only intensifying his need. He shook off her hands and knelt. Her legs were spread wide, and her back arched, begging him without words.

Part of him wanted to take her face-to-face again. He wanted to see what secrets she held close, but in turn she might see his, and he wasn’t ready for that. He might never be ready for that.

“On your hands and knees.” His voice was too rough, too commanding, for the tenderness they’d shared, but he couldn’t help it.

He thought she might argue or tease him, but as if he’d snapped a whip she moved to her hands and knees, wiggling back until she cradled his erection. He fit himself to her and pushed forward, the tight pull of her body even more amazing than before.

He’d planned to close his eyes and chase his pleasure. Instead, he curled his body over hers, his mouth at her temple. Words compressed from his lungs with each hard thrust. They barely registered.

He needed her to come with him. Her pleasure heightened his own. He snaked a hand between her legs and stroked. He wasn’t a beginner in knowing how to bring a woman to climax, but with Monroe it was effortless. She was completely in tune with him and incredibly responsive.

As soon as the shudders took over her body, he bucked into her until he too came in a rush that left his body weak. He collapsed on top of her, driving her flat to the bed, his face buried in her hair. What was supposed to be detached doggy-style sex had turned intensely intimate.

Some of what he’d whispered in the dark rolled back through him, firing an embarrassed heat. He’d told her she was beautiful and sexy. True. Sweet and strong. True again. The word “love” hadn’t passed his lips, but the word “forever” had. As in he’d wanted her forever, wanted to stay in her bed forever.

Less than three weeks, she said earlier. He’d been back mere days. His years in Seattle seemed a dream. He’d been living the life of a ghost, leaving his soul to wander Cottonbloom. The steamy heat must be driving him crazy.

He rolled to her side and more cuddling commenced. She nuzzled his neck, pressing kisses against his damp skin. The rain had turned to a drizzle, only the occasional ping against the window breaking the silence. He should leave. He would leave.

She took his bad hand and pulled him over to his side so she could massage it with both her hands. “Everything still feeling tingly?”

The question surprised him. He expected her to bring up his runaway tongue. “Even my toes. I haven’t come that hard since I was a teenager.”

Her laughter bubbled out and she leaned up to kiss him, her lips curved in a smile. “I meant the nerve damage in your hand, silly, but you made me feel pretty tingly, too.”

Silly
. No one had called him silly since he was a kid. “I’m learning to ignore my hand.”

“Grip my wrist.”

He did, and even he could feel the improvement he’d made even though his fingers sometimes refused to cooperate. His knee barely even twinged now. It was time to head back to Seattle. Instead of relief, dread with a fair amount of irony bit him in the metaphorical ass.

She continued to minster to his hand. Her warm, soft, naked body sent him sneaking toward sleep again. He’d rest his eyes for ten minutes, let her drift off, and tiptoe out. Facing her in the light of morning seemed too daunting.…

The clang of a pan startled him awake. Filtered sunlight traced dust motes through the air. Clutching the sheet to his chest like some virtuous maiden, he sat up. There was no sneaking out in the light of day with Monroe awake and between him and freedom. He was screwed.

He pulled on his still-damp jeans and his boots. His shirt was somewhere on her den floor. He sidled out of her bedroom, but the open floor plan put him in view before he made it a handful of steps.

“Morning,” she said in a too-chipper voice considering the time. “I’ve got pancakes and bacon ready.”

He turned slowly. Her blond hair tumbled down her back, messy and sexy as hell. His white T-shirt hit her mid-thigh, and she wore nothing else if her pert shadowed nipples were any indication.

She slid a plate piled high with steaming pancakes onto the bar, melting butter spreading over the top. He took two steps toward the kitchen as if expecting a booby trap.

The flash of a memory rocked him. Waking up in his childhood bedroom to the smell of bacon and the murmur of his parents’ voices punctuated by the occasional laugh. How different would his life have been if they’d lived?

A loss two decades old suddenly felt immediate. His parents gone in an instant. The trajectory of his life skewing like a satellite out of orbit, spinning out of control. He mourned what might have been.

Monroe’s smile fell, and she stepped from behind the counter. “What’s wrong?”

He had spent years turning himself into a fortress, impenetrable. Yet she could tell something was wrong in two seconds without a single word. Panic and claustrophobia heated him.

“Thanks, but I have to go help Sawyer. I didn’t mean…” He swallowed and backed toward the door.

Her face clouded, but he couldn’t tell whether she was hurt or angry. She had a right to be both. The door turned into his enemy. The injured fingers of his left hand couldn’t maneuver the chain lock.

Her hand covered his, her warmth at his side, her scent winding around him like a caress. She flipped the dead bolt and slipped the chain free, their hands brushing. He hoped she put his trembling hand down to his injury and not the emotional deluge swamping him.

The door swung open, and he gulped in great breaths, making a run for his truck. It felt cowardly and wrong all the way around, but he couldn’t help it. He drove off with her standing on her porch in his T-shirt. He watched her in his rearview mirror until he made the turn off her street.

Chapter Twenty-four

“Ohmigod, you had sex?” Regan’s voice veered high and loud.

Monroe shushed her and glanced around Regan’s interior design studio. The only customer was Nash’s aunt Leora, who had the hearing of a hawk even into her seventies. Monroe hadn’t meant to tell Regan anything, but the anxiety that had built over the past few days with no word from Cade needed an outlet, and she needed advice.

“You would not believe how awkward it was in the morning. First of all, I’m pretty sure he planned to leave two minutes after we did it the first time.”

“The
first
time? You go, girl!” Regan held her hand up for a high five.

Monroe slapped her hand absently. “Yeah, well, so the next morning I’m feeling pretty awesome, wearing his T-shirt, making pancakes, and here he comes out of the bedroom doing the walk of shame. As soon as I put the plate down, he tried to bust out my door like the Kool-Aid Man. He left without a shirt on.”

Regan held her fist against her mouth. Monroe wasn’t sure if she was stifling shock or giggles. “I’m sorry. I know that sucked. How mad are you?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. Kind of upset, but then his face … Something was upsetting him. He tries so hard to stay impassive, but it was almost like he wasn’t even there with me. He was somewhere else.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend in Seattle? Or a
wife
?”

While Monroe knew little about his life in Seattle, she almost wished the problem were another woman. Whatever had sent him running was even scarier. A flesh-and-blood woman was less intimidating than the host of demons he fought.

“Regan, dearie, can I get your opinion?” Ms. Leora’s voice wavered to them. She held up a floral upholstery in blues and greens. “Wouldn’t this make lovely pillows?”

Regan cocked her head. “Indeed, and they would go well with the upholstery we had your living room couch covered in last fall.” She led Ms. Leora to the counter to write up a ticket.

“Hello there, Monroe. I heard your fund-raiser did well.” Ms. Leora plunked her pocketbook down on the counter.

“It did, thank you, Ms. Leora.” Monroe pasted on a smile.

“And how is planning for the tomato festival going, Regan?” Ms. Leora clutched her pocketbook close, her fingers thin.

“It’s great.” To anyone else Regan’s smile appeared sunny, but Monroe recognized the strain.

“I hope it won’t end up being a waste of time and money. Who’s paying for the fancy gazebo in the meadow?”

“The lumber came wholesale, and Nash is kindly donating his time to help frame it.”

“So he informed me. At least he’ll get outside. I worry he’s not making friends now he’s back.”

Monroe couldn’t help but smile over the coddling statement. “Nash is doing fine. We all hung out the other night, as a matter of fact.”

Ms. Leora flashed an assessing gaze over Monroe and hummed before turning distinctly lemony and returning her attention to Regan. “You’re aware, of course, the city is reassessing the properties along River Street and raising taxes. Poor Martha is feeling the strain. Elizabeth, bless her heart, didn’t leave the Quilting Bee in the best shape for her daughter.”

Martha was a generation younger than most of the women who gathered and shopped at the Quilting Bee. Her mother had a fatal stroke in the middle of a stitch, leaving the shop to her only child. Martha had never married, and as the years passed the Quilting Bee seemed more a burden than a joy, her mother’s legacy in Cottonbloom a yoke around Martha’s neck.