Bungalow Nights(37)

Vance froze, startled by that last thought.

“What the hell are we doing?” he asked, a wash of guilt making him feel a little sick. “I don’t want this.”

She lifted a brow, her gaze sliding down to his eager erection.

“Okay,” he conceded. “I want this. God, I really want this. But I shouldn’t be acting on it because of what happened today with them.” He shifted to sit on the side of the bed and closed his eyes, his cock throbbing like a toothache.

“Them?”

He made a slashing gesture. “You know. My family. God, I’m pissed. And I shouldn’t take that out on you. Like this.”

The mattress dipped as she moved toward him. “They’ve disappointed you.” Her voice was soft. “Today, they hurt you.”

He didn’t want to admit it.

“It’s okay. I understand.” Her hand touched his back, smoothed down. “My mother walked away from me when I was two years old. My father left me for good two months ago. I can get a little mad about those things.”

“Ah, sweetheart...” Half turning, he gazed at her face. Her eyes were big, vulnerable pools in the darkness. He cupped her cheek with his hand.

She nudged her chin into his palm so her mouth could press a kiss to his flesh. “And lonely.”

God, didn’t that just hit him square in the chest? In a quick move, Vance pulled her into his lap, her nakedness against his. He was still angry and frustrated, not to mention stirred up by lust, but now tenderness infused him, too. Layla was lonely. Of course she was. And though it only added to his already-crowded emotional landscape, he didn’t seem to have a choice.

Her arms went around him. “You know what, Vance?” she whispered.

“What?” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Sometimes...sometimes a person just needs to be held.”

And like that, he took another blow. But the pain turned into a pulsing sexual ache as his mouth found hers and their tongues tangled and their skin heated. The decision was done, the die cast, the outcome destined. And it was okay now because he no longer was doing this only for himself.

Sometimes a person just needs to be held.

So he held her in a dozen ways. Her body against him. Her tongue in his mouth. Her pearling nipples between his lips. She took him in, as well. Arching when he slid a finger inside the wet clasp of her core. Crying out when he made it two, then three. He thumbed her clit until she was making those sweet, urgent sounds again, and then he turned her to her belly and used his tongue to paint the long valley of her spine and the sweet curve of her bottom cheeks.

The frantic clamor of need quieted the longer he had her under his hands and his mouth. The desire was still insistent, but he found finesse, and used it to nudge her in small increments toward the edge. Putting her once again on her back, he bent to her breasts, tonguing and sucking as his fingers moved to toy with the hard little knot between her thighs. He listened to her breathing, paid attention to the coiling tension in her body and, when he felt her rise up to his hand, her hips tilting toward him, he replaced his fingers with his sheathed cock. They both groaned as he began to thrust.

As his hips moved, he lifted onto his elbows and cradled her face in his good hand. “Lonely now, baby?”

Her low husky laugh sent heat up his spine and her knees bent so the silky insides of her thighs clasped him. “No, Vance.”

He kissed each cheek, her nose, her chin. “This is good,” he said.

“So good,” she agreed, and then she smiled.

He smiled back, but then turned serious as her internal muscles tightened on his cock. “Oh, God,” he muttered.

She lifted into his next thrust. “Oh, now,” she said.

He drew back, then pressed deeper, pushing into the melting, yielding, pulsing heat. “Now?”

“Now.”

Reaching between them, he brushed the wet, upstanding knot of nerves and Layla jolted, her body jerking into his. She came around him, her muscles clenching his cock, her moans sweet music as he felt the new flush of heat crossing her skin and entering his.

He took her mouth then, pushing his tongue inside, penetrating her there, too, in a rhythm matching the carnal beat of his heart and the erotic demand of his desire. She surrendered to him, her arms and legs holding him against her as he groaned in climax.

Breath still moving fast in his chest, he rose up to look at her pretty, pretty face. Everything he’d felt all day was still inside him, but it was frosted with the sweetness of Layla’s fine-grained skin and her swollen mouth. He’d gotten rid of nothing in the bedding of her, he acknowledged, but only added her flavor, her voice, the miracle of her coming around his cock to his memory. Filling him up instead of purging anything.

And at that moment it all felt too damn good to regret.





CHAPTER ELEVEN



LAYLA WOKE UP LIKE SHE never did anymore, in a room warmed by sunshine. Usually, dawn’s gray fingers tickled her into wakefulness, the need to get to the cupcake truck and get to work foremost in her mind. But because she’d not known how late her Picnic Day duties would go, she and Uncle Phil had decided to take the day off, their first, and she stretched her toes along the sleek sheets and—

Shot upright in bed.

Vance’s bed.

The place beside her was empty now. He’d been there all night long, though, his muscled male warmth, his even breathing. Sinking back onto the pillow, Layla let herself remember what that was like. The sex beforehand had been scary-wondrous, an experience that later she’d break down layer by layer, detail by detail in order to marvel over each and every one. But, oh, how sweet was the companionship in sleep, she mused, closing her eyes against their sudden sting.

While she’d never intended to get physically involved with Vance, last night seemed as right to her now as it had been when she’d been pulled, naked, into his lap. She had wanted to be held, he’d needed the skin-to-skin contact, too, and the results...well, who could complain about the results?

Not Layla. What’s done was done and regrets were for women who didn’t know how transient life could be.

The smell of coffee lured her from the covers a short while later. She dashed for her own room, showered quickly then pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. At the last moment she grabbed a baseball cap and tugged it low over her forehead, threading her long hair out the back gap. It would provide a shield of sorts.

Sure, she had no regrets, but she did have a healthy sense of self-preservation. Which meant she didn’t want to give Vance a clear shot at reading her emotions on her face—not until she had a chance to assess his.

The kitchen was empty. Was he avoiding her like he’d avoided his famiily the day before? Trying to ignore the disappointing thought, she filled a mug from the coffee carafe and added a splash of half-and-half. Cocking her head, she listened for any sign of Vance, but though the toaster was still warm and a loaf of bread lay on the counter, the house was silent.

Her bare feet quiet on the hardwood floors, she drifted across the living room, drawn by the view of blue sky, gold-dappled ocean and the small waves flouncing against the sand like sassy little girls with white-edged petticoats. Then she saw Vance. Pleasured relief filled her as she took in his relaxed figure. In jeans and a T-shirt, he sat on the deck by the stairs that led to the beach. His back was propped against one newel and an empty mug rested beside his hip. As she watched, he broke off pieces of toasted bread and tossed them into the air.

Greedy seagulls had figured out his game and wheeled for them, somehow just managing to avoid midair collisions. Pigeons gathered, too, hoping for a missed crumb or two. Their tubby, sooty-feathered bodies waddled around the sand at the bottom of the steps, looking as out of place in the beach setting as the tourists who showed up wearing their dress socks with sandals.

She pushed open the sliding glass door, and the outside air washed over her, warm and salty and welcoming. Vance had yet to notice her arrival and she indulged in another moment of observation. He tossed another piece of toast into the air, his face lifted, and she saw the small smile on his face. It made her own lips curve.

He looked at ease, she thought, a rare state for him. Even when he was still, there was an alertness about him, as if he was waiting. Something like a runner braced for the starting gun at a race, she decided. Or, considering where he’d been and what he did, waiting for the sound of a real gun.

Her hand went to her belly as it suddenly jittered. Vance, at war. Her fingers curled and she moved the fist to the space between her breasts, cursing her hard-thumping heart. After the many times she’d waved goodbye to her father, she thought she’d learned how to manage these sudden bouts of anxiety.

Vance, at war.

Did she make a sound? Because his head swiftly turned and his gaze landed on her. He raised his half-casted arm and waved two fingers. “Hey.” Layla held her breath, then released it as he followed that up with an easy smile. Happy to see you, it said.