Last First Kiss (12 page)

Chapter Fifteen

D
INNER
WENT
BETTER
than fine. Sawyer proved himself an eager sous chef, rolling up his plaid shirtsleeves to reveal powerful forearm muscles that flexed as he diced. Despite his height and powerful build, he moved around her kitchen with surprising grace, happy to take direction. His willingness to trust her was as sexy as his Wrangler-clad ass, and that was really saying something. Gregor always second-guessed her choices; confident he’d improve upon them. Sawyer didn’t flinch when she requested that he separate the egg yolks, stir them into the creamy Parmesan cheese mixture, and then pour the whole concoction over the linguini.

“The raw eggs cook on the hot pasta,” she explained, coming up behind him to sprinkle in parsley, just so he’d be reassured a semblance of a plan existed. “I omitted the pancetta, hope that’s okay.”

“Sounds good,” he said offhandedly, sucking cream off his fingertip.

Her breath audibly hitched. If she said the word, he’d lick her with that tongue, touch her with those fingers. She’d forgotten the way desire created a free-falling, vertigo sensation, as if the bottom dropped from her own personal Gravitron.

It felt good. God, it felt good. Part of her was terrified, and another part wanted to throw her head back and laugh with sheer dizzy glee.

The meal held a few awkward silences, but the wine and long looks smoothed everything over, even if all the crossing and uncrossing of her legs made it impossible to eat much.

After dinner, he rose to clean up.

“No, no,” she said as she waved her hands. “Sit.”

He shook his head. “I’ve got this covered. Your job is to relax and finish that glass.”

She took a sip of the pinot. He hadn’t brought over a fancy bottle. The Brightwater Save-U-More only carried the big, mainstream brands. Gregor would scoff at it, but the flavor was perfect, deliciously robust and strong, like the man washing her dishes.

After he finished drying, again at his insistence, she invited him to the back porch swing to enjoy a mason jar of homemade lemonade. “It’s made with agave,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“A succulent that creates a syrup that’s sweet like honey.”

His brows knit. “Why not use regular honey? You’ve got the apiary for it, down in the far west corner.”

“Is that still there?” She hadn’t even ventured to that part of the property yet.

“Sure is. We’ll go visit it soon.”

The swing’s chain creaked slightly as they watched the moon rise over the range. Her bare knee grazed his thigh as he rocked them back and forth. The denim roughed her skin, soft and worn, like he was a man who worked hard.

And played harder.

A mosquito buzzed and she reflexively slapped the side of her neck. “Dang, it bit me.”

“Here, let me help,” Sawyer reached into his jar, plucked an ice cube, and ran it over her neck. A bead of water trailed down her skin, disappearing under her collar. The cold tightened her nipples and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Better?”

“Does that really help?”

“Depends how badly you need to scratch an itch.”

The cold wasn’t the only thing making her tremble. “We are talking about mosquito bites, right?”

“Sure.” He raised his brows in mock innocence, sliding his arm around the back of the swing, loosely draping her shoulders.

She tilted against him laughing, hands bracing his chest, and just like that, she fell into those deep green eyes. Sanctuary. He was sanctuary. She could be safe here, in the dark, with his heart hammering against her palm. Slowly, her clutch transformed into a tug as some mysterious devil pushed her forward until her lips grazed his. The ice cube clattered to the porch as he wrapped cool fingers around the back of her neck, holding her in place.

This couldn’t even be called kissing. It was inhaling, vital as oxygen. Every part of her body craved contact. She swung a leg over his waist, drew herself on his lap as the swing creaked. His hands were everywhere, all at once, tangling in her hair, running down her back, molding to her ass, and hauling her closer.

She dragged her cheek over his light scruff. His hands locked firm on her hips while she burrowed into his neck, sucked the side of his throat, the thick tendon that disappeared under his collar. His stomach flexed against hers when she kissed each of his eyelids and nipped the tip of his nose. When she licked the seam of his lips, he braced her face.

“My turn.” His kisses came slow, lazy, tart with a fresh lemon bite and underlying hint of sweetness. His gruff groan shook straight to her core and she ground harder, drove herself against him, determined to hear him make that sound again. Which he did.

“So good, Annie, God, you’re sweet,” he rasped in her ear. “How are you so fucking sweet?”

The shiver that ran through his body entered hers. “Must be all that agave.” The swing’s creaking grew rhythmic and they laughed softly into each other’s mouths.

Then he stood, locking her against him, fingers clasping her bottom.

“Where are we going?” she murmured drunkenly. She’d had only two glasses of pinot but buzzed like she’d gulped the whole bottle.

“Got to look at you.”

Look? Her stomach ached like she’d done a hundred crunches. Looking meant seeing, and what would he notice?

He opened the back door without breaking the rhythm of their kiss, sitting her on the edge of the kitchen table before kneeling to unbuckle her strappy sandals. “On second thought, these are better on.” He rose, settled her onto her back, and undid the first button of her mini dress.

Can’t the lights be off?
More buttons opened. Should she find a sexy angle?
Do I have a sexy angle?
Okay. Okay. Forget the sexy angle. Try to relax.
At least she wore a lace bra today, in a small, private nod to mojo.

“Pretty.” Sawyer grazed the freckles smattering her clavicle with the back of his knuckles. The light gesture twisted her core to a maddening, impatient ache. “They look like Orion’s belt.”

She sucked in when her exposed belly button hit the night air.

“A tattoo?” He bent and traced the small black birds spiraling up her hip with the tip of his tongue.

Her back arched. “I got it after Atticus was born.” When she’d wanted to fly away with her baby, leave the nest that felt more and more like a cage. Instead, she’d inked wings on her body and hoped for the best, but best never showed up.

She squeezed her eyes as his finger traveled the silvery stretch marks across her lower abdomen. She’d used cocoa butter, drank water, and popped Vitamin E like candy, but despite valiant efforts, her third trimester pregnant belly cracked like an egg.

She instinctively tugged her dress closed.

“No.” He caught her wrists, keeping her open, urging her to be exposed.

“Please, stop,” she gasped. “I—I—I don’t like them.”

“Why?” His eyes were serious.

“They . . . ” She wished she had a better reason than the truth. “They aren’t very pretty.”

“Annie Girl?” He released her wrists to open her legs, placing each one on the outside of his narrow hips before bending to lace their fingers together. “You’re right.” He pressed his forehead into hers. “They aren’t pretty.”

She bit her top lip. Of course, he was only repeating what she herself knew, but the words still hurt.

“They are beautiful,” he said with a sharp inhale.

She averted her face and her reflection stared wide-eyed from the kitchen window. How in the world did she end up here, spread out like a Thanksgiving feast, with this gorgeous man above her?

He nuzzled between her breasts. “They’re real.” He nipped her nipple through the demi-cup’s lace. “Your body had to change, stretch, to hold life. Each of those little marks is a love line.”

Hot tears heated the corners of her eyes.

“And your arms.” He drew thumbs over her biceps. “They are strong.”

“I carry a five-year-old when he refuses to walk.”

“You’re bothered by this.” He stood, staring intensely. “Me, looking at you.”

She blinked first. “It’s almost too much.”

He grabbed her hips and hooked his thumbs into her underwear’s waistband. Her bra was Victoria’s Secret, but her panties were one hundred percent boring white cotton.

“I like these,” he murmured. “They are cute, like you.”

“Oh God, that word.” She covered her face with her hands, peeping through her fingers. “Cute is the Easter Bunny.”

He snorted. “Nah, I’d never go down on the Easter Bunny.”

Her rib cage compressed.
If you don’t breathe you’ll pass out.
“Go down?”

He blew on her stomach and eased her boycut underwear over her thighs, trembling knees, until they were off. Then more looking, and if she’d felt exposed before, this was like being in an x-ray machine.

Why did he want to look down there? This wasn’t what she was used to. Gregor liked it doggie style and always turned out the light. She’d fake it, afraid less that he’d feel inadequate and more that she was somehow deficient, like his relentless pounding should do it for her. Afterward, she’d finish alone with her vibrator or fingers. That was their routine, simple and predictable.

This was anything but. Sawyer quit staring. He was, good Lord, down on his knees and about to . . . “Oh. Oh, no. You don’t have to.” She half-sat, digging her fingers into his thick chestnut hair and tilting his head back to make eye contact. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to.”

His green irises darkened to a near hazel. “Oh, I want. But what about you, Annie? What do you want?”

“I don’t know.”
Liar.
She knew. She just didn’t have a clue how to ask.

He planted a kiss against the softest part of her thigh, not breaking their gaze. “Well, why don’t we figure it out?” He kissed her other thigh. Gently, he opened her up and kissed, there, once, slow, gentle, reverently between her legs. His tongue rolled over her sensitive flesh, light, teasing with the promise of what he could offer.

Her body made a confession, saying
yes, please, that’s exactly it
, melting into his mouth.
Jesus, Lord, and an army of saints.
He alternated between using the flat of his tongue to tickling with the tip. Not only did he take her breath, she was sure she’d never find it again.

He spread her knees wider and someone cried out; it took a few dazed seconds to realize it was her. Each slick glide hit her senses with a sudden ferocity akin to pain. Her pelvis coiled into hot desperate pleasure. Garbled words tore from her mouth, and incredibly, he understood exactly and took her there, to the place she desperately needed to go.

She gripped the top of his head with one hand and leaned back on the other, going from wet to wetter, her shoulders thrust back, shaking from the force of his approving growl.

That was what was different. He enjoyed this, took his time, did it right, and everything that would normally be okay, or pretty good, transformed into a whole lot of awesome. She traveled inward to the part of herself that held on tight and saw she wasn’t ready to let all the way go, but she could loosen her grip. When he reached and palmed her breast, lightly pinched her nipple through the lace, the double touch of his hands and mouth vaulted her to sweet disorder, seeking mercy and hoping never to find it.

When it was over, she fell exhausted against the table, incrementally returning to her senses. He stood above her, utterly still, watching. Always watching.

No bolt of self-consciousness struck. She wasn’t sure what to make of that, or the serious erection tenting his jeans.

“Thank you.” A little weird to say, but that was where she was at. What he’d just done, what he’d given her—all she had was gratitude.

The words changed his features from serious to privately amused. “My pleasure.”

She crossed her legs and did up her dress. Her undies lay crumpled on the linoleum like a parachute. Time to invest in new pairs that were more “Hey, I can be sexy. For real, I can.”

“What?” He stepped closer and tilted her chin.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve gone somewhere.”

“I was wondering.” She stroked the inside of his wrist. “Now what do we do?”

“Thought we did pretty well for starters.”

Her answering laugh was unfamiliar, husky, sexy even. “That, a minute ago, was amazing. You’re amazing. Want to go to the living room? I’ll figure out a way to return the favor.”

And there she went, making a perfect moment totally awkward. She dug her nails into her palms. He’d given her the best orgasm of her life and now she’d reduced lovemaking to something to be haggled over. What was she going to say next?
I’ll do hand jobs but not penetration. Or maybe penetration. Are we there now? At the sex point?
Probably. They weren’t teenagers anymore. Single guys didn’t do heavy petting in their late twenties, right?

Crap. She had no idea.

“I don’t want anything in return,” he said hoarsely.

She knit her brows. “You don’t?” His massive hard-on begged to differ.

“Trust me, Annie Girl. Getting you off is its own reward.”

“Um, you’re all”—she waved her hand at the boner situation—“that way.”

“I’m patient.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“You. I want you. Always have.” He ran a hand through his hair and it stood up a little wildly in the back. “But I can also see you’re still balancing on that back foot of yours. Let me know if you change your mind. Jump, and I’ll catch you with both hands, but I won’t push.”

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to let go and trust after everything that’s happened to me.”

“I know.” He pulled her close and held on tight.

He was a good guy, a great one even.

What was she doing?

Surely she didn’t belong here, in Brightwater, the very place she’d spent her adult life—and a small fortune in therapy bills—trying to forget. She needed to figure out a stable career path to provide for Atticus. And her son deserved a place to grow up where he’d be happy, not picked on or bullied for wearing pink or having an active imagination.