All That Jazz (Butler Cove #1)(70)

STANDING IN THE entrance hall of the Butler house, a home I’ve practically grown up in, suddenly feels foreign. The dark wood floors, the grey walls, the high ceilings with dentil molding, it’s all familiar. But this is different.

In this reality, I’ve willingly come here to spend the night with the one man who is uniquely equipped to snap my heart clean in half. Actually, what am I saying? There’ll be nothing clean about it. It will probably be a jagged ripping and shredding, leaving two unusable parts. So painful, I may never recover.

Yet, here I stand.

I’ve gone ahead into the house without him. Joey is still grabbing the groceries as if we are some domesticated couple who buys groceries together. I want to hang up my beach towel and change out of my bikini. But I’m paralyzed, having not gone farther than a few steps into the house. What are we going to do? Make dinner? Watch a movie? When we go up to bed, will he just assume I’m coming to bed with him? Will I just assume I am? I’m starting to panic.

His footsteps are coming up the porch steps. He opens the door behind me. “Hey—”

I turn to face him, and something flickers across his face. He uses his foot to close the door behind him and carefully sets each grocery bag down on the floor not breaking eye contact.

I think he’s trying to figure out what’s going through my head. If I’ve changed my mind.

Have I changed my mind?

He looks as if he’s about to approach a spooked horse. His dark blond hair is tousled, windblown from the boat.

I must look the same. My skin feels tight from sun and salt.

“Jazz,” he says softly.

Words are stuck in my throat. I want to tell him I’ve changed my mind. Spend the night with him? I must have taken leave of my senses. I have been thinking after all, I’d say. That this is a very, very bad idea.

He walks toward me.

I take a step back, careful to put my hands behind me to check how close the wall is. Close.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits. I want to be thinking this through, but his nearness makes my mind blank.

And, like taking my jump off the top of the boat today, I act before I can talk myself out of it. I reach my hands up and tug his face toward me.

He lets out a breath that sounds like relief and steps into me. Our mouths meet. It’s been too long.

His lips open within seconds, and I groan at the feel of his tongue.

The hunger is immediate. Lips bruise and teeth clash accidentally. Three long years, and I never forgot the taste of his mouth. Something uniquely him, mixed with the faint taste of his mint gum. My hand tightens in his hair so I can have his mouth at my mercy. I’m not letting him up. I’m overwhelmed with him, the smell of his body, salt and sweat, and the taste of him, and the feel of his hands roaming over me.

He’s got me around the waist, then he’s in my wind-tangled hair before his hands are holding my face. God, Joseph did always do that so well—take control of the kiss. I let him. I give in to the kiss. To him. Completely.

The heat rises, the pumping of my blood feels thicker, more urgent.

His breath grows shallow.

Our mouths become violent in their assault. His greedy tongue skates down my neck before finding my lips again like he can’t stop drinking from me.

He’s pressing closer, and God, the feel of him. He’s hard. The loose fitting board shorts do nothing to keep his arousal discreet. His hand pulls at the spaghetti straps of my dress until the fabric is only caught on the swell of my bikini top. Then his fingers are following. They close over my breast, kneading, his thumb flicking my nipple that’s straining to get free.

A sound climbs out of my throat, and my hands are under his shirt raking at his hot skin, my lower body pressing back to meet him.

“Shit,” he groans out the word against my mouth

My fingers fist in the fabric, and I pull it up his back.

He pulls away from our kiss to grab his t-shirt behind his neck and wrenches it up and over his head. His hips are pinning me to the wall. He uses this new leverage to lean his upper body back and rock against me, his hands back on my breasts.

“Please,” I whimper. I want him inside me so badly, the need is almost suffocating. Then he’s lifting my dress, his hands running up my leg. No, not just my dress, he’s lifting me. I hang on, my legs coming around his waist.

“I need to be inside you,” he growls. “Pill?”

“Yes, and condoms.” I make no sense. I mean I’ve always used condoms so I’m safe. But my tongue can’t form more words.

“I’m clean,” he grits out. “Please.”

I’m helpless. I nod. It happens so fast. He’s clumsily freed himself from his shorts, and my legs are around his waist, my long dress falling either side. His hands are tugging my bikini bottoms.

Frantic.

Sinning.

Epically sinning. For some reason Pastor McDaniel flashes through my mind.

It’s almost comical except that my skin is so hot it’s burning me alive.

And then he thrusts inside me.

Oh God.

My head drops back against the wall, every part of me focused on the feel of him between my legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters into my neck and draws out, thrusting into me again. So hard. As if he can get deeper. Take more of me.

I cry out.