Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(34)

She tasted like lavender sugar. Sweet, dark-flowering kisses, opening in a way that focused all his senses on this one moment, this one blinding perception of pleasure.

Too late, he realized that she wasn’t the one playing with fire.

He was.

He reached down to gather her in, all the deep curves and persimmon-smooth skin and silky heat. The feel of her was so lush, so unlike his ex-wife’s spareness, that he kept adjusting his hold, trying to fit her more closely against him, and the voluptuous friction aroused him unbearably.

Once, when he was still a teen, he’d been bodysurfing on a trip to Westport with friends, and he’d timed a six-foot wave badly. He’d been tossed and turned like a load of laundry until he’d finally been deposited on the beach, so disoriented that for a few minutes he couldn’t remember his own name. He felt like that now, only this time he wanted to dive back in and never come up for air.

His hands went to the inward arc of her waist and moved blindly upward. Reaching the sides of her br**sts, he encountered the edges of a bra with sturdy straps designed to support substantial curves. His fingertips followed the straps in restless strokes, up to the tops of her shoulders, back down again.

Her mouth broke from his. Alex stood there panting with fractured breaths. Zoë held his gaze, her eyes pure blue and drowsy and intent. She had no understanding of how close to the edge he was. She reached behind her waist to untie her apron, and then the straps behind her neck. The garment dropped limply to the floor. Rising on her toes, she kissed him again, her fingers touching the sides of his face, stroking tenderly. This moment would haunt him for the rest of his life, the sweet bloom of her mouth, the overpowering heat of his response to her, the way the moments drifted like sparks from a fire and vanished before he could catch them.

He felt her reaching awkwardly for his hands, trying to pull them to her. She wanted him to touch her. God help him, if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. But his will eroded in the rush of pure feeling, and resisting her was no more possible than stopping his own heart from beating. Zoë took his stiff wrist and shyly urged his hand to the front of her shirt. The backs of his fingers brushed against her breast, the tip jutting distinctly against the elastic webbing of the bra. For a second he couldn’t breathe. His hand opened to cup the luxurious weight, his thumb rubbing the peak in savoring circles, until she gasped against his lips.

Alex took his hand from her, having to secure his balance by gripping the edge of the sink behind her. His equilibrium was gone. It didn’t help that Zoë began to nuzzle into his neck with erotic delicacy, nibbling and kissing, the tugs of her lips siphoning up pleasure. His body was nothing but drive and sensation. He reached down to grip her bottom with both hands, pulling her high and tight. Zoë’s eyes opened as she felt the searing pressure, blatant even through the layers of their clothing. He urged her closer, letting her feel how much he wanted her, letting the hardest part of him slide with intimate exactness against the softest part of her. She quivered, a vibrant hum in her throat … and then she flinched with a cry that had nothing to do with pleasure.

They had both forgotten about the burn on her arm. She had accidently brushed it against his shoulder. It must have hurt like hell. The realization shocked Alex’s mind into clarity. He pulled back from her and carefully gripped her arm to look at it. The quarter-sized blotch on her arm was purple, the skin slick and puffy.

Zoë stared up at him, her cheeks fever-colored, her mouth kiss-bruised. Her hand went to the taut plane of his cheek, and he felt the vibration of her palm. She was shaking. Or maybe it was him.

She began to say something, but an unearthly yowl interrupted her.

“What the hell was that?” Alex asked hoarsely, infuriated to be pulled out of the erotic dream, his heart pounding in heavy blows.

They both looked to the source of the noise near their feet. Baleful green eyes stared out from a huge mass of white fur, a thick neck cinched by a glittering band of crystals.

“That’s Byron,” Zoë said. “My cat.”

It was an enormous, weird-looking cat, with a flat face and enough fur to create at least three more of itself.

“What does it want?” Alex asked, revolted.

Zoë bent to pet the cat. “Attention,” she said ruefully. “He gets jealous.”

Byron began to purr as she stroked him, the sound rivaling a Cessna single-prop engine.

“He can have your attention after I leave.” Alex reached over to shut off the water, and picked up the first-aid kit. Grateful for the distraction, he brought the kit to the table and sat down, gesturing to a nearby chair. “Sit there.”

Zoë obeyed, giving him a bemused glance.

Alex arranged her arm on the table with the burn facing upward. Finding a tube of antibiotic cream, he applied it in a thick layer, his head bent over the task. His hands weren’t steady.

Zoë reached down to pet the massive cat, which was pacing through and around the legs of her chair. “Alex,” she asked in a low voice, “are we going to—”

“No.”

He knew she wanted to talk about it. But denial was a skill that had been honed over generations of Nolans, and it was going to work just fine in this situation.

In the silence, Alex heard the ghost’s sardonic voice. “Is it safe to come back in now?”

Although Alex would have loved to give a scathing reply, he kept silent.