Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3) (8 page)

BOOK: Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3)
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“Yes,” I said aloud, the word catching in my throat as Thomas pistoned into me. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He released my arms and lifted me, holding me against him, one arm cradling my frigid breasts. The warmth was so astonishing, I jolted. His fingers found my clit, stroking gently over the sensitive bud as his cock worked inside me. He clutched me to him.

“It’ll never be just sex for us,” he whispered in my ear. “Tell me you know that, Jane. Tell me.”

“Yes,” I moaned as the orgasm crashed through me, my inner walls constricting and fisting around his cock as he continued to ram into me.

“Again,” he said. One hand gripped my shoulder and pushed down as he fucked upward, his hips grinding harshly.

“Yes,” I said.

“Again.” His fingers massaged my clit, sending another spiral of pleasure crashing through my limbs. I came again, my pussy sucking at his cock as his tongue devastated my mouth.

“Yes,” I gasped when his mouth released mine.

“Again,” he demanded, his gaze boring holes into me.

“Yes,” I whispered, lost in the deep blue storm of his eyes.

“This is us,” he said. “This is us. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.”

He took my mouth again, and we fell together against the boulder. He came apart, exploding inside me with one final thrust, moaning against my lips, as the climax tore through him. He held me to him, so tight I thought my flesh would bruise in his arms. It wasn’t tight enough.

He was right, this was us. This uncanny ability we had to recognize the need in each other, and fill it. To push and challenge each other when it was needed and to soothe with words and touches when it all became too much.

“This is us,” he breathed against my cheek. “Just this. No props, no games—”

“No secrets,” I whispered, and felt his arms tighten just a little more.

5

I
felt
like I was going to my execution. Okay, maybe execution was being a bit dramatic. But I was definitely dreading what was waiting for me at the end of the hall. I’d made a proclamation on the beach: no secrets. Now I had to back that shit up, and my stomach was flip-flopping at the thought.

There was a fire blazing in the stone fireplace in the center of the living room. The lights were dimmed, and starlight was twinkling on the water that was just visible on the other side of the great bank of windows. I padded into the room, bare toes squishing into the deep pile of the carpet. We’d taken a shower when we came back inside and afterwards, Thomas left me alone as he attended to dinner. I’d wrapped myself in a fluffy robe, piled my wet hair on top of my head and forgone any makeup. I had a feeling I’d just be crying it all off anyhow.

“Ah, there’s my angel,” he said, emerging from behind the bar at the far end of the room. His hair was wet too, tumbling over his forehead in unruly waves. He wore jeans and a crisp blue dress shirt, unbuttoned to mid chest, the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. “You look lovely. The flush of our lovemaking still colors your cheeks. Or maybe that was the cold. Or my hand.” He winked at me. I giggled and walked towards him. My cheeks were definitely still flushed. “I’ve found their wine stash, come help me decide.” He smiled and beckoned me to the bar, setting bottles up on the counter as I sat on a stool. “I’ve got dinner in the oven, so barring any unforeseen power outages we should have a lovely steak pie in about forty-five minutes.”

“Oh, that sounds yummy. I wonder what’s in it?”

“I peeked under the crust,” he said conspiratorially. “And was able to spy steak, mushrooms, onion, a bit of carrot and flecks of green things that I assume are herbs.”

“Yep, sounds like a steak pie alright.” I laughed. “The herbs are for flavor,” I whispered loudly.

“You know, I’ve heard the chefs these days are fond of the things.”

“Yeah,” I said. Leaning my elbows on the counter, I rested my chin in my hands. “It’s a new trend, adding flavor to the food. Not sure it’ll catch on, though.”

“Probably just a fad,” he said, biting back a smile. He snatched the corkscrew from the counter, flipped open the knife, pared the foil from a bottle, then twisted the screw deeply into the cork, pulling the length of it from the bottle’s neck with one fluid movement.

“That. Was fucking sexy. Do it again,” I said. “I like when you get all James Bond-y.”

“At your service,” he said, bowing slightly. He nodded at the bottles. “Choose your victims.”

I swept the three bottles closest to me forward and lined them up for him.

“Have a care! There’s enough alcohol there to numb a monk.”


Oh, I’m not going to drink it all. I just like to watch your hands. We can pour the extra in the ocean for all I care.”

“That’s alcohol abuse.” He gasped with mock offense.

“Oh, my apologies. Far be it from me to be unkind to this,” I said. Reaching for the bottle he’d just opened, I turned it to read the label. My breath hitched and I swallowed hard. “Tom…”

“Yes, darling?”

“This is a 2009 Château Petrus.”

“It is.”

“This wine is like four thousand dollars a bottle.”

“Right again.”

“We can’t drink this!”

“You don’t like it? I’ll open something else. Be a love and toss it out the window, would you?”

I set the bottle down with a clatter and scrambled around the counter, crashing my body into his with all the force that I felt in my heart, my arms tightening around him like a vice.

“Hey, what’s this?” he said, gathering me into him. I shook against his chest, hot tears welling in my eyes. “Darling, what is it? Really, if you don’t like it that’s alright. I think I saw something in a box in the refrigerator, we could have that instead.”

“Shut up,” I said, laughing as fat wet drops tumbled from my eyes. “I’m not drinking that pink piss, and I won’t let you either.”

“Oh,” he said. Lifting my chin, he wiped the tears from my cheeks. “No need to cry, no one’s drinking piss tonight. I’m not that kinky.”

“Oh my god!” I said, pushing at his chest. “Gross, seriously gross.”

He pulled me back against him and kissed my nose, my cheek, my lips. I melted into his arms and let him hold me, caress me, cherish me.

“You’re so romantic,” I said, sighing when he released me. “So sweet and thoughtful, and just wonderful.”

He squinted at me, and grimaced. “I’m talking about piss and you’re calling me romantic. I’m starting to suspect you are just very easy to please.”

“No.” I laughed. “You know what I mean. Besides, I brought up piss first.”

“You did, you deviant. That’s true.”

“I just mean, all of this.” I gestured to the room. “The food, the fire, the wine. And you, just you. It’s like something out of a fairy tale. You make me feel special,” I said, suddenly feeling foolish. My fingers found the sash of my robe and knotted the fabric tightly.

“That’s because you are,” he said. His hands caught mine, pulling my fingers from the sash. He brought them to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the tips.

“See,” I said. “That’s it. Right there. You’re like Prince Charming or something.”

“From James Bond to Prince Charming in less than five minutes.” He let go of my hands and leaned over me to coax a wine glass from the rack above my head, then filled it with Château Petrus and handed me the glass. “You flatter me.”

“No, it’s the truth,” I said, taking the glass from him. “If I’m special then you are too. None of my friends’ boyfriends know anything about books or food or wine. And their idea of a great date is a round of shots and a double order of everything nachos down at the sports bar…” I took a sip of the wine. “And oh my god this is amazing,” I said, taking another sip. The wine exploded in my mouth, layers of fruit and spice and dark chocolate. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the counter, letting the flavors dance over my tongue.

My eyes flew open and I jolted upright. “I just called you my boyfriend.” I slapped a hand over my mouth as wine dribbled down my chin. I’d forgotten to swallow before I spoke.
Well that’s a promising start to the evening, buttercup. Woo him with your dainty manners and your clingy labels.

He stepped into me, peeled my hand from my face and brought it to his lips. Slurping my fingers into his mouth, he sucked the wine from my skin. I quivered at the contact. His mouth was warm. His tongue slid like silk over my fingertips and they tingled in response. “An excellent vintage,” he said, returning my hand and smacking his lips loudly. “Well worth the expense.” He sat back against the counter opposite me and picked up his glass. “I’m not offended at the endearment, although I find it a bit lacking.” He smirked and took a sip of his wine.

I stared at him, speechless, my mouth making little ‘o’ shapes in the air. I was mortified.

“Drink up,” he said, pushing up at the base of my wine glass.

I lifted the glass and drained it.

“Boyfriend,” he said. “It’s just so pedestrian, isn’t it? No pizzazz. Lover is better, although not appropriate in every social situation. Sweetheart is nice, but it’s also something my mother calls me, so that’s out.” He reached for the wine bottle and filled my glass again. “I know!” he said, topping off his own glass. “Inamorato. It means all those other things, and it’s Italian, so it sounds fancy. And there’s a female version, inamorata, because those Italians are clever with words. But here, in the States,” he mused, “that might be confusing. Best to keep it simple. Boyfriend it is, then.” He clinked his glass against mine. “Cheers!”

“I’m so embarrassed,” I said, lifting a hand to my forehead.

“Oh don’t be, it’s just us here. Boyfriend and girlfriend.” He smirked at me.

“You are not helping.” I laughed, peering at him from under my hand. “My face feels like it’s about to catch on fire.”

“Oh,” he said, pulling my hand away from my face. “Let me see—your pink cheeks are my new addiction.”

“Oh my god, Tom.” I squirmed out of his grasp, put down my glass and turned towards the wall to hide my embarrassment. I looked up and sighed when I realized he could still see my face. The entire back wall of the bar was covered in mirror. “Goddammit.”

“You can’t escape me, inamorata.” He stepped forward and folded his body over mine, his arms caging me against the countertop, his eyes finding mine in the mirror’s reflection. “I’m Prince James Charming Bond.” One hand ran over my waist and down over my backside, cupping my ass where it met the top of my thigh, liquid heat washing over my skin as he massaged my flesh. “I’ll find…um…cheeks are my…um.” He glanced at me sidelong in the mirror, his brow pinched with concentration. He was so cute, I burst out laughing.

“No, no,” he said, holding up a hand, while the other still cupped my bottom, kneading and caressing. “I had something unbelievably romantic to say just now.”

“Really? You sure about that? ’Cause, it sounded more like a Disney Prince creeping on a girl in a bar.”

“Thpppt,” he stuck out his tongue and scowled at me in the mirror. “Nonsense. I’m an English professor; every word that passes these lips is poetry.”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” he said. “And honestly, it’s your fault. You’re distracting me with your womanly curves and I can’t think straight.” He waved a hand in the air. “The words are misbehaving in my head.”

I wiggled my ass against his hands.

“Oh, that’s just mean.”

I caught his eye in the mirror again, slicked my tongue across my lips and leaned very deliberately over the counter until the front of my robe fell open, my cleavage clearly visible in the mirror.

He gaped at me. “This is one of those naughty fairy tales, isn’t it?”

I laughed and covered my face with my hands again. My fingers tingled and my body felt deliciously loose and warm. “Oh my god,” I said, giggling. “We never had our picnic. We haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. I think we’re a little drunk.”

“Huzzah! Too right, princess!” he jumped away from me and grabbed the bottle of wine from the counter, kissing the label before lifting it over his head. “Thank you, Monsieur Petrus. Best four thousand dollars I ever spent!”

“I still can’t believe you opened that,” I said, laughing at his antics and shaking my head as I sipped more wine. “Way too much money to spend on me.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, setting the bottle on the counter. “That’s ridiculous. Nothing’s too good for you.”

“See,” I said, “That’s the Prince Charming stuff. You keep saying things like that, I’m likely to have sex with you again.”

“Falling right into my trap,” he said, smirking at me, “Come, princess, let us sit by the fire.” He extended his hand and I took it, letting him lead me across the room to the great stone fireplace. We placed our wine glasses on the hearth, and settled down beside each other on the rug in front of the fire, pulling overstuffed cushions from the sofa for comfort.

I arranged two pillows behind me and leaned back, stretching my arms and legs and snuggling into the plush carpet with a contented sigh.

“You called me Tom,” he said, a soft smile playing over his lips.

“I did?”

“Yes, just a moment ago.”

“Oh, I guess I did. Do you like it?”

“I do. Every boyfriend deserves a nickname.”

“Oh jeez,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Well, do I get one too?”

“Of course,” he said, lifting his wine glass.

“Don’t say ‘Janie’. I hate that.”

“I’ve already picked it out, and it’s not Janie.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“Oh no—”

“I shall call you pinky,” he said with a smirk. “It suits you perfectly.”

“Oh my god,” I said, forcing a chuckle, hoping to disguise my anxiety. “This afternoon. Jeez, what a complete mess.”

“Nonsense.” He set down his wine glass, his expression growing serious. “Just ‘getting-to-know-you pains’. I thought we handled it well.”

“You handled it well,” I said. My stomach knotted, and I rubbed my hands over my belly to settle it, pretending that I was merely re-arranging the robe over my legs. I smoothed the pile back and forth with my palm and took a deep breath.
This is it,
I thought.
Time to ruin our weekend.
“Thank you,” I said, reaching for his hand.

He threaded his fingers through mine and smiled softly. “It’s alright, you know.”

“What is?” I asked, my eyes following the slow journey of his thumb over the back of my hand.

“Everything. I’m not expecting anything from you. I want you to know that. You needn’t tell me anything. Unless you want to. Do, or don’t. It won’t change how I feel about you.”

My heart fisted in my chest, a flash of emotion flooding my eyes and throat. Once again he’d read my mind, sensed the truth, and he’d given me a reprieve. And somehow, that permission strengthened me. It was time. I closed my eyes and gripped his hand tightly.

“High school was hard for me,” I said. “It was after our parents’ divorce and money was scarce for a while. Charlotte and I went from private dance lessons and designer clothes to shopping at thrift stores and getting free breakfasts at school. Mom was amazing, though. She got us back on track as fast as she could, and god knows plenty of people were far worse off than we were…”

“Still,” he said.

“Yeah, still. It’s a tough thing to go through at that time in your life. Kids are cruel and pretty much all of my old friends not only abandoned me, they basically decided it was their new mission in life to make mine a living hell.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I survived,” I said, shrugging. “It’s over now, and having less of social life meant I had more free time for books.” I laughed softly.

“Smart girl,” he said.

“In my junior year everything changed. Mom’s practice took off and people started talking to us again, the kids at school lightened up and…” I took a deep breath. “I met Brian Forrestor.” I glanced up at Tom, and then kept going, determined to get to the point before I lost my nerve. “Brian’s family is really wealthy and very snobby—one of those New England families that traces their roots back to the Pilgrims and think they’re better than everybody for it.”

BOOK: Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3)
12.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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