Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9) (30 page)

He sucked harder on her, ravenous for her taste. But when her wetness slid over him again, his mind clicked. “Condom,” he said, releasing her nipple. “We need a condom.”

His hand reached blindly for the bedside table. Now it was his turn to curse as the drawer’s knob eluded him. Every moment of delay aggravated the raging appetite inside of him. His cock was throbbing, his pulse was pounding, the blood racing around his body was scalding and he was primed to go off. So ready to shoot.

Sweet Lord,
he tried telling himself as the drawer squeaked open.
Take it easy
. The beast was on a short chain and despite the warnings he’d given Layla, he didn’t want to scare her. But then his fingers found a foil square. When he lost it again he almost screamed.

“Can you reach into the drawer, honey?” he asked, his voice tight. “I’m a little desperate here.”

“You’re desperate?” Layla said, the edge to her voice making him laugh despite his urgency. “Let me get it.”

She was more efficient than he. A triumphant sound and the tearing of foil. He meant to protest but from his mouth came only inarticulate sounds meant to represent words—
I can put it on oh my God your touch is going to send me over sweet baby what are you doing now oh yeah oh yeah like that
.
Just like that
. What she was doing now was sinking down on him.

His head pressed back into the pillow. “You’re so slick inside,” he muttered. “So damn tight.”

And then she had taken all of him in. He was rooted deep and they both stilled, absorbing the sensation. His hands were on her hips, the sleek insides of her thighs on either side of his.

She shivered and then he felt her muscles gather. His fingers tightened on her. “Don’t move,” he said. “Give me a minute.”

Another shiver ran over her skin. “Have to move,” she said, her husky voice breathy. “Have. To. Move.”

Then she did, rising off his cock. The beast inside him groaned, but Vance managed to let Layla set the rhythm. Her hips rolled as she rode, her sweet bottom high in the air as she came down on her elbows in order to kiss him. Vance went full crazy on that kiss, the meeting of their mouths and tongues carnal and wicked.

He caught her nipples between his fingers as her plunging hips became more frenzied. She broke their kiss, her breath frantic as he pushed into her wet warmth and said, “Touch your clit, naughty girl. Touch yourself and come for me.”

The dirty words put a hitch in her pace.

“Lick your fingertips,” Vance encouraged, his voice low and deeper than the dark. “Get them nice and wet and then circle yourself, honey. You know what to do.”

And she did it. He could make out the gleam of her arm in the dark, imagined the swipe of her tongue against skin. Her hand moved low and she hesitated. “Ride me,” he said, and he reached to the place where they were joined, farther spreading the soft layers to expose the small bud above. “Touch yourself right here and ride me. I want to feel you come all over me.”

With a little sound of surrender, Layla obeyed. Her body moved on his, her hand touched her clitoris, and Vance gritted his teeth at the absolute pleasure of her hot center surrounding him, sliding wetly on him, up and down, up and down, up and down.

There was no tenderness, no gentle sweetness, just the slap of their bodies and the harsh rasp of their breaths, and that animal hunger that rose and rose and rose. His body strained, desperately holding the beast at bay until Layla cried out and her internal muscles clamped on his cock, telling him she was at the precipice. He grabbed her hips then and jerked up into her in short, urgent jabs. Her moan was low, ratcheting his need for her body, for her response. He grunted, grinding up and into her one last time.

“Now,” he said, riding the edge.
“Now.”

His need shattered as she did, fragmenting into a thousand points of sharp bliss that hurt so good. Groaning, Vance squeezed shut his eyes and let the delicious ecstasy of violent release pulse through his body.

Minutes later, he came to awareness as she rolled off of him. His head was spinning and he felt half-drunk and whole-certain. The beast was a possessive bastard that was no longer willing to be caged. “Don’t go far,” he said in its devilish voice. “This is your bed until the end of the month.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
T WAS NEARING MIDNIGHT
when Baxter walked along the sand toward Beach House No. 9. As promised, he’d waited for the police, listened while Skye reported the incident then stuck around a little longer to help gather up the papers on the floor. Now he could collect his car from No. 9’s driveway and go straight home.

But instead of walking between the cove’s last cottage and its neighbor in order to reach his Beemer, he climbed up the deck steps. Addy had left the archives room before him, anxious to check on Layla. Baxter, in turn, found himself anxious to check on Addy.

It looked like everybody inside the cottage was already asleep, though. The windows were dark and—no, there were two small, odd glows coming from the living room. Curious, he strode toward it and peered through the glass of the sliding door.

A smile curved his lips. Addy. Curled up on the sofa. He knocked lightly.

Her head jerked up and she pressed the book she’d been reading to her chest. Damn. He’d scared her. He waved, hoping to ease her fear.

It worked. In seconds she was on her feet and at the door. She unlocked the thing and slid it back. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice low.

Without waiting for permission, he slipped into the room. “Making sure you’re okay.”

“Apparently,” she grumbled, “I survived the heart attack you just gave me.”

He grimaced. “Sorry about that. I peeked in to see if anyone was awake and was a little startled myself by your twin points of light.”

“Oh.” She put her hand up, touching the glasses she wore. A beam emitted from each side of the frame. “I was reading.”

“In the dark?” He sat near her spot on the cushions and patted her place. “Come sit down.”

“Why?” There was a frown in her voice. Suspicion.

“So we can have a conversation.”

“I was into my book.”

Ouch,
Baxter thought. Hostile. “We can start with that.” He patted the cushion again. “Come on, sit with me.”

She took the bait, approaching the sofa and dropping down. He noticed she still wore the zipped hoodie and formfitting jeans she’d had on at Captain Crow’s. It struck him again how petite she was, her waist tiny, her bottom appealingly round.

“So,” he said, as she drew her bare feet up beneath her. “What’s your book’s title and why are you reading it in the dark?”

“I always read in the dark.”

Baxter blinked. “Always?”

“I mean when it’s night. A habit I started as a kid. I’d hide under the covers with a flashlight so I didn’t get caught staying up past bedtime.”

“Ah.” This was what he was after. More Addy information. “Strict parents?”

She hooked her finger in the glasses, removing them and switching off their beams. The room was very dark now, except, he saw, some barely glowing embers in the fireplace across the room. “They wanted me tucked away so they could hold rabid arguments without worrying about a witness.”

The bald way she said the words didn’t hide the pain behind them. And he’d been right, he thought, back there in the Sunrise archives room. He’d said it from instinct, but he knew it was true now. She wanted to believe that love could survive. “I’m sorry,” he began. “That must have been—”

“What’s the point of you being here, Baxter?”

Jeez. She didn’t give a guy an inch. “I don’t know. I just like talking with you. Being with you.”

Leaning toward the coffee table in front of the sofa, she grabbed up a plate. Then she sat back and picked something from it, taking the object to her mouth. Before she bit down, she paused, releasing a little sigh. “Would you like some of my snack?”

In the dark, it looked like pretzels—or worms. “What is it?”

“Green beans. Steamed, blanched, drizzled with a little low-calorie Italian dressing.”

“You call that a snack?” He remembered what she’d carried on her hike. Water and a handful of raw nuts. “Woman, do you need an introduction to ice cream? Can’t Layla hook you up with some cupcakes?”

Her green bean was still crunchy enough to snap when she bit into it. “If you don’t like vegetables, just say so.”

“I actually do. Even Brussels sprouts.”

“Figures,” she said, sounding disgusted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You need a flaw, Baxter,” she muttered. “Your bathroom appeared sterilized. I noticed that your pantry was organized alphabetically.”

“I’ve shared my self-diagnosis. Slight case of obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

“Yeah, and when it manifests as tidiness and cleanliness, it’s only another asset.”

“I think you just said you like me,” Baxter replied, smiling. “Which is convenient because I’m serious about the two of us dating.”

“I told you—”

“I remember. France.” The knowledge of her impending departure had walloped him when she’d first shared it, but he’d decided not to give up so easily. “We still have time, though.”

She bit into another bean. “Time for what?”

God, Addy the Obstinate. “There are things I’d like to know about you. I remembered something interesting you said the other day. I want to understand what it means.”

“Not a good idea,” she said, putting the plate aside.

His gut tightened. Was she going to kick him out? Because he could tell she was shoring up her defenses like mad and if he walked out that door without her softening a little, he’d never find a way back in. He reached over, took her hand.

Of course, she tried tugging it away, but he held firm. “Two people, here in the dark. A perfect time for secrets.”

She jerked a shoulder.

“The other day you said, ‘I pretended I was pretend people. I could pretend I was pretend people for days on end.’”

“So?”

Belligerence, thy name is Addison March
. He threaded his fingers through hers, and they were as delicate as the rest of her. A perfect match for his pixie in the yellow dress. “I should have asked you why, Addy. I should have asked why you needed so much to pretend.”

Her shoulder jerked again. He rubbed his thumb over hers, soothing her. “Can you explain that, Addy?”

“I told you about my parents. They vacillated between icy disdain for each other and red-hot rage. Unfortunately, they didn’t divorce until I was almost out of high school. So I found ways to comfort myself...and to escape. I read books. I watched TV. I became mad for the movies.”

All of which she could do in the dark, he thought. Meaning she must feel comfortable in the shadows, so he took a chance and scooted closer, slipping his hand from hers to draw her against him with an arm around her shoulder. “I wish it hadn’t been that way for you.”

Though she didn’t pull back, her body refused to relax against his. Stifling his frustration, he toyed with the ends of her feathery hair, twisting a piece around his finger then letting the curl spring away before doing it again with another lock. Finally, she broke the silence between them. “Look. I really, really, really don’t want to date you, see you, whatever you want to call it, before I go to France.”

Three
really
s, but he continued playing with her hair. God, she was killing him. “Why?”

Another beat of reluctant, weighty silence. Then she finally said, “I don’t want goodbye to hurt.”

Now, Baxter thought, relieved. Now they were getting somewhere. He turned his head and placed a kiss on her temple. “Addy.”

Her face turned toward him and then the kiss was lip-to-lip, sweet. He thought he tasted a yearning inside her. It couldn’t be all on his side. He touched his tongue to the seam of her mouth and she opened, her own tongue brushing his. With a little moan, she broke away.

“Baxter, no.” Her voice sounded strained. “I told you, I don’t want goodbye to hurt.”

He captured her hand again. “Won’t it already?”

“No,” she said, pulling free again and swinging around on the cushions in order to face him. “Because I’m still certain, here—” she thumped her fist on her chest “—that I don’t get to have you.”

“Wha—”

“An Addy March doesn’t get a Baxter Smith.”

He stared at her, trying to decipher the puzzle of her words. This close, even without any light, he could see she was serious. Determined. Near furious.

“Honey, I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

She huffed out an impatient, irritated breath. “How many ways do I have to say this?” she asked, lifting her arms. “Here’s how it is— You’re the golden guy. I’m the plain fat girl.”

His brain couldn’t keep up. What? What, what, what? She could fit in a thimble. “I’m having trouble here.”

Her feet thumped on the hardwood as she jumped up. “You don’t remember me as a kid.”

“Uh...” Not really. He remembered her as a concept—until That Night. As a kid he’d known the couple down the road had a girl, younger than himself and his cousins. Just with that, she had been dismissed from his consciousness. “Maybe I saw you passing in a car, or...?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She was pacing. “I told you, I developed ways to deal with the ugly atmosphere at my house. Stories in every form. Pretend. Food. I’ve burned every picture of myself between the ages of eight and nineteen.”

Oh, Addy.

“Home was hell. School was hell. Then, for a high school graduation present my dad offered me a summer at fat camp.”

Baxter couldn’t think of one thing to say. But his heart was giving him grief, squeezing so hard that it seemed to constrict the beat. “That...that couldn’t have been the gift you wanted.”

“Are you kidding?” She rounded on him. “It was a great gift.”

He should keep his mouth shut. He really, really, really should. “Okay.”

“I had a chance to get away from my toxic household. I had a chance to think about me and what I wanted. I deferred college a year—I told you that—and I found new ways to cope. I learned some healthier habits.”