Sea Glass Sunrise (23 page)

There was no worshipping here, no claiming of a prize. It was equal want to equal want, partner to partner, man to woman, basic, honest.

“You need to be sure,” he said. “It’s been two years for me, longer. Not since my divorce. I—”

She silenced him with a kiss. Something about the combustion of how their intimate parts felt—all but fused together below—contrasted with the softness of her kiss—the way she took his mouth, claimed his mouth, slid her tongue between his lips, and this time seduced him back between hers. It made her heart swell to almost bursting.

He broke the kiss, panting hard. “Jesus, I want you. I’ve wanted you since I laid eyes on you, I—”

“Then take what you want,” Hannah told him, turning his mouth back to hers, until their gazes clashed and caught again. “Because I want you, too.” She leaned in and kissed him again, keeping her gaze on his until the last possible second, then letting her eyes drift shut as his hands slid down and gripped her. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her bottom as he jerked her against him, pushed against her. “I’m sure,” she whispered against his mouth. “So very, very sure.”

And though some part of her was well aware she might be anything but sure later on, in that moment, it was the God’s honest truth. And what happened later mattered not at all.

He groaned in acceptance, and took her mouth, growling, “Hold on tight.” Then he was wrenching at his jeans and reaching under her dress to tear the lace straight across the front of her delicate panties, so the silky panel between her thighs dropped away.

That act alone drove her straight back to the edge, and she knew he’d find her wet—no, drenched—as she finally felt the heat of him, velvety smooth and deliciously hot, against her finally bared skin. “Yes,” she cried as he teased her. “Please.”

“I swear to God, you’re going to kill me,” he ground out, then took her mouth as he gripped her hips. He pulled them down and surged inside of her in one, deep thrust.

She cried out, and when he instinctively began to pull out, she dug her heels into his buttocks and locked him in. “No,” she said, raggedly, then pressed her cheek against his neck before biting his ear and growling, “More please,” in guttural, Brit-inflected English.

“Why yes, Miz Scarlett,” he said, laughing and groaning at the same time. “I believe I shall.”

And how it was that they could be almost insane with lust and desire for each other, and laughing at the same time, she had absolutely no idea, but it felt . . . gloriously freeing. And good. And strong. And . . . real. She’d never laughed in moments like this. Actually . . . she’d never laughed with Tim even in moments not like this. Not that she and Tim had ever had moments anything like this. And then Calder thrust into her again, and that was the last time she’d allow Tim Underwood into her thoughts, no matter the moment, ever again.

Calder kissed the side of her mouth. “You feel . . . like—”

“Home,” she finished, not knowing where the word even came from, only knowing it was right. She shifted so he could sink even more deeply inside of her, and they both moaned.

He took her again, and again, and she rode him every slick, sliding thrust of the way, moaning, gasping, alternately crying out and grinning like a loon at the insanity of the pleasure they were able to give each other. “Yes!” she cried, her hands fisted in his hair as he drove her up to the edge yet again. She pulled his mouth back to hers as he picked up speed. “Yes, yes, yes,” she murmured between kisses. Then she took his tongue and sucked on it in matching rhythm to his strokes until he shuddered against her, his growl deep in his chest as his climax ripped through him. It made her feel exultant and all powerful and more intensely female and desirable than she’d ever felt in her life . . . and that took her over the edge right after him.

Chapter Fifteen

Calder held on to Hannah with one arm and braced the other against the side of his truck. His breath was labored to the point of wheezing, and his legs were shaking. He’d never had—that was, he didn’t know it could be—because it never had been . . .
damn
.

“I’d stay inside you for the rest of my—but I don’t think I can—” He slid out of her and she unwrapped her legs from around his waist and let her feet and the hem of her dress drop down as he rolled to his back against the truck. He kept her tight against him, wrapped up in his arms, holding them both up as they panted and laughed through their gasping breaths.

“I don’t know what that was,” Hannah said, sounding as stunned as he felt. “But I know I’ll never make myself believe it was real. And I was there.”

He slid his hand up her spine and sank his fingers into her hair, which wasn’t a sleek, shiny waterfall now. It was wild and tousled, and he loved that he’d mussed her up a little. “Scarlett, that was about as real as it gets. I don’t know how we’re still upright.”

She giggled at that, and he thought it was the very best sound he’d ever heard. “I think saying we’re standing is more a technicality due to the position of your truck than an accurate assessment of our current abilities.”

He let his head loll back against the door frame and let out a wheezing snort. “Indeed, Counselor, I do believe you have a point.”

She rocked against him and snickered. “Well, one good point deserves another.”

He thought he might choke on the laugh that swelled up in his chest. “You never cease to surprise me,” he managed.

She lifted her head and said, “I’m not sure how to take that,” but the affront in her voice was cancelled out entirely by the wicked gleam in her beautiful, storm-blue eyes.

“Oh, in a good way. In a very good way.” He thought about how he’d initially assessed her, and though he’d discovered within minutes of that assessment just how flawed it was, she continued to be nothing like he’d assumed she’d be, or maybe, more accurately, how he’d been afraid she’d be.

She’d struck a spark in him from the moment he’d opened the door to her ruined little sports car, and denying that, or worrying that it was a mistake to give in to it, had clearly gotten him nowhere.
Except right here. Where you wanted to be all along.

He closed his eyes and kept her bundled against his chest as he let that truth sink in. And now that he was there? Now what?

He didn’t know. Had no idea. The only thing he knew was that holding on to her, laughing with her, talking with her, even arguing with her, were the parts of his days, of his life, the ones he held on to, the ones he thought about, the ones that made him smile.

“You need oil for those gears,” she murmured against his chest.

“What?” he said. He emerged slowly from his thoughts, and realized they were no longer clinging to each other for support. Their breathing had steadied, evened out. They were wrapped up in each other now because . . . because that’s where they still wanted to be.

She slid her fingers up his neck and through his hair, making him groan with pleasure, as his body considered a miraculous twitching return to life. Then she knocked gently on the side of his head and laughed into his shirt. “I can hear the gears turning in here,” she said.

“You’re a mind reader now?” he murmured, holding on to the moment, holding on to her.

“You’ve either returned to the real world,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice, “or you’re desperately afraid that the seagulls are going to come down and pluck me away.” She wiggled slightly, just enough to make him realize he was holding on to her rather tightly.

He relaxed his arms, but didn’t let her go, and was surprised by the relief he felt when she didn’t make any move to disengage herself. “Sorry,” he said, then leaned down and kissed her temple. “And if I’m under oath here, Counselor, the answer is . . . a little bit of both.”

She lifted her head then and leaned back so she could look up into his eyes, which he’d opened enough to look right back into hers. Her eyes were still a dark and drowsy blue, the look of a woman well pleased, and his body twitched again. Her knowing smile added a little zip to that burgeoning need. But he hadn’t missed the way she was probing his eyes, his face. Even supremely relaxed, she was still focused, still intent. His smile grew at that, because he realized that rather than put him off, or make him think her too stiff or stuffy—something he knew quite intimately not to be true—he found her always-ready sharpness, her intellect, to be a big part of his attraction to her.

And it wasn’t until that moment that he realized some part of him had always had a bit of an issue with Tenley’s sublime lack of interest in what was going on around her. Well, he’d known it had bothered him, he just hadn’t fully understood why. Tenley hadn’t had a full-time occupation, but she had filled her time both with making a home for the two of them and with her family’s charitable work. He’d been proud of her, hadn’t resented her lack of drive or ambition. She might have been a bit overly emotional about things he couldn’t understand, and she wasn’t particularly self-sufficient when it came to entertaining herself, always needing to be doing something, talking to someone, running off to somewhere, but for all of that, she wasn’t stupid or flakey. She just hadn’t been . . . aware. Tuned in. Paying attention.

“I can assure you that the seagulls won’t be interested in carting me off. You won’t have to use your mad Samaritan skills to rescue me again.”

He slid one hand up her back, then pushed back the wild tangle of hair next to her face. “You don’t always have to rescue yourself, you know.”

Rather than be annoyed by that, or defensive, she laughed and the tone was decidedly self-deprecating. “That’s not the problem. The problem is needing to be rescued at all.”

He leaned down and caught her face to his, kissing her slowly, but thoroughly, until they were both a little needy again. Her eyes drifted open as he lifted his head. “What was that for?” she asked, and the soft heat in her voice did amazingly restorative things to his very recently depleted manhood.

“Everyone needs to be rescued from time to time,” he said.
Sort of like what you’re doing for me, right now.
He straightened up until they were both steady on their feet. “Tide’s out,” he said. “Take a walk with me.” He nodded to the exposed floor of the inlet.

“Okay,” she said, sounding both surprised and pleased, making him glad he’d gone with the impulse.

He just wasn’t ready to let go quite yet.

He zipped up while she reached under her dress and slipped off her ruined panties, and the idea that she was commando under that pretty floral sundress shouldn’t have made him so hungry, given what they’d just been doing, but the truth was, as wild as it had been, he hadn’t actually seen any part of her naked. Yet.

He went around to the back of the truck and pulled out two pairs of old Wellies, setting them both on the ground. The tide might be out, but what was exposed wasn’t beach so much as ocean floor. Not for bare feet.

“So attractive,” she said, but rather than nix the stroll, she simply lifted her skirt, bundled it to the side and tied it into a sort of giant knot the way some women did with long T-shirts at the beach. She looked at him and laughed. “What? I’ve already forfeited any style points I had by putting on those things”—she nodded at the mud-spattered green rubber boots—“so going into negative numbers isn’t exactly going to hurt me.”

He picked up the smaller pair, which belonged to one of the young guys he’d hired on as summer barn help and set them down in front of her, then provided his shoulder while she slipped her slender feet out of her sandals and into the boots.

“There’s like, straw in these. Or something.” She looked up at him, her hand still on his shoulder. “I probably shouldn’t ask.” Her blue eyes were sparkling and he wanted her even more than he had an hour ago.

“Safer bet,” he told her, then kicked out of his work boots and tugged on the other pair, over the legs of his jeans. He held out his hand. “Shall we, Miz Scarlett?”

“Why, I do believe I’ve left my bonnet in the cab of your surrey, Mister Blue.”

He laughed and gave her a questioning look. She hadn’t been wearing a hat.

Seeing his expression, she said, “I saw a baseball cap on your backseat. Could I borrow? I’m not supposed to have my face in direct sun what with the stitches, black eyes—”

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, knowing she wasn’t fishing for compliments, which made it that much more fun to give them. “I can’t vouch for what condition the ball cap is in, but . . .”

“I’m sure it will be fine. Thanks,” she said, as he opened the door and dug around under the lunch leftovers.

It was a Blue and Sons company hat, thankfully not in bad shape. He kept it, along with a hard hat, in the truck for walking job sites, so it didn’t see too much wear and tear. Still, he dusted it off on his thigh before handing it to her.

“Thanks.” She scooped her hair up in a high ponytail, popped the hat on her head, slid the ponytail through the strap opening in the back, then pulled the strap snug, all in a matter of seconds.

“I’d almost believe you’d done that a time or two before,” he said.

She tilted her head and he thought there wasn’t anything she couldn’t make look good. “What makes you think I haven’t?”

“Well, neither the sundress you have on now, nor the lawyer suit you had on earlier, looks like it goes well with a ball cap.”

She laughed easily, and it was that self-deprecation thing that always caught him off guard. Tenley had been very worried about her appearance, always wanting to present herself in the best light, and there was no teasing her on the subject. And Lord help him or anyone who made her mess up her hair. Calder was not interested in making anyone feel bad about herself, but even he had to admit the minefield of his ex-wife’s insecurities had been exhausting at times.

“I will admit that my current wardrobe—or the one I had when I left D.C.—was not conducive to ball cap wearing. I didn’t even own a pair of jeans.” At his raised brow, she said, “I was never doing anything that informal.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.

She laughed again. “I know, right?”

He nodded toward the waterfront and they made their way down to the washout and started picking their way between the kelp beds and other flotsam and jetsam. She occasionally stooped and sorted through the tidal detritus with a stick, leaving him to marvel over how she could go from cool, sleek, and elegant lawyer—which she’d been, even in her soft cotton sundress—to baseball hat-, knotted-up dress-, and muddy boot-wearing beachcomber. Both suited her like a second skin.

She crouched down and was picking up shells, discarding some, rooting some more, when she let out a particularly content-sounding sigh. “I used to do this all the time growing up. I never got tired of it. Like a treasure hunt.” She glanced up at him. “Which is where the mad baseball-cap-wearing skills come from. Apparently some things you never forget.” She laughed rather delightedly, and went back to digging.

The sun was shining on the thick fall of her ponytail, which was wild and messy from their earlier adventures; her knees, which were exposed as her knotted dress had ridden up her thighs, were somewhat knobby, he noticed. Which made him smile, because somehow that was the last thing he’d expected on her sleek frame, and yet, in that moment, he thought, of course they were knobby. And suddenly he wasn’t having as hard a time picturing her on his farm. Not having a hard time at all.

“Aha!” she shrieked, and straightened, then wobbled when her boots sank in the muck.

He reached out a quick hand for her elbow, steadying her, and she turned into his arms.
I could get used to this, Hannah
, he thought, feeling both protective and possessive, certain she wouldn’t be grateful for either emotion.
I could get used to you.

“Look! Sea glass.” She turned the small, blue, pitted piece of saltwater-worn glass in her fingers. “For Kerry, it was fossils, and for Fiona, it was rocks and shells.” She looked into his eyes, hers a brighter blue, sparkling like the water beyond. “For me? It’s always been sea glass. I had jars of these at home, all shades of blue and white and green. I wonder where those jars are now?” She looked down at her dress. “No pockets. Figures.”

She went to toss it back, but he caught it before the speck of blue left her fingertips.

“It’s okay,” she said, looking sheepish. “It’s no big deal.”

If she’d seen her own face, the delight in her eyes, she’d know it was definitely a big deal. He took the smooth pebble of sea-washed glass and slipped it in his shirt pocket. “Fortunately, I have pockets.”

Instead of rolling her eyes, and turning back to her hunt, she rose up on her tiptoes, her boots making a sucking, popping sound as the heels came out of the muck, making them both grin, and she kissed him on the mouth. “Thank you. You’re always rescuing me,” she said. Their kiss tipped up the brim of her cap and she put a muddy hand on the top of it to keep it from falling off, her mouth curving in a dry smile. “I don’t know why I’m surprised any longer.”

He grinned, turned the brim of her cap sideways, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Deeply, slowly, thoroughly. She moaned into his mouth as he parted her lips; then he groaned when she readily welcomed him. “Hannah,” he said, raggedly, when he finally lifted his mouth from hers.

“Mmm,” was her only response; then she slid her arms around his waist and nestled more deeply, more perfectly, in his arms, and pressed her cheek to his chest.

Something inside of him seemed to settle, almost like a part of him physically clicking into place, when he had her in his arms this way. He couldn’t question it or wonder about it; he could only accept it, and how it made him feel.
Like I’m home. She’s home.
He wrapped her up close and held her there, looking out toward the receding harbor waters, but not seeing any of it.
I don’t want to let you go. I don’t want to let this go.
Of course, he’d have to do both. He let out a slow, quiet sigh and pressed his cheek to the top of her ball cap, wishing life weren’t so complicated, for either of them.