Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(41)

Last night was incredible, and I’m just getting started. I know what it’s like to please a woman, but f*ck, I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like that wild, animal lust before. It was intoxicating, such a primal need to possess her, every last inch. And when she was begging for me, moaning as I thrust inside her until she shattered in my arms . . . Lord, I’ve never felt so invincible.

Delilah looks over. “What?” she asks, catching my stare.

“Nothing.” I gaze back, satisfied. I’ve got that morning-after feeling like sweet molasses in my limbs, the kind of satisfaction you only get after a good workout.

A real good workout.

“I’m just planning all the ways I’m going to make you come.”

She laughs. “I’m going to hold you to that,” she warns, giving up and scooping her hair into a topknot.

“You can bet on it.”



I drive her home, as she anxiously checks the time and sends half a dozen texts, already thinking about work again. “I’ll be done around four, see you after?” she asks as I walk her to the door. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek then reaches for her keys.

“No you don’t,” I grab her hand and pull her back, laughing. “That’s not a goodbye kiss,” I correct her. “This is.”

I back her up against the door and claim her lips again, kissing her slow and deep this time, until she’s melting back in my arms. Every lush curve, every gasp; I run my hands over her body and damn if she doesn’t arch against my hands, wanting more. It doesn’t matter that we’re standing on her front step in broad daylight, for anyone to see, suddenly I’m gripped with that primal need to take her all over again.

Shielding her body from view, I slide one hand over her breast, cupping and squeezing until the nipple peaks, stiff in my palm. Delilah moans into my mouth, pressing eagerly against the hardness already rock-solid in my jeans. I slide my hand lower, slipping it between her thighs to press and stroke, right there. She tears her lips from mine in surprise.

“Will . . .” she gasps, but it’s not a protest, it’s more of a plea. Her face is glazed, cheeks flushed with desire. She bites down on her lower lip, as if to keep from making a sound.

“What?” I tease, stroking slowly through the thin fabric of her dress.

“We’re . . . someone could see.” Delilah sinks back against the doorframe.

“There’s nothing to see,” I grin, loving how her body is tensing, shuddering under my hands. “We’re just standing here, having a casual conversation. Aren’t we?”

“You’re a wicked, wicked man,” Delilah grins, her eyes bright, desire clear to see.

“But you want it anyway.” I lean closer, whispering in her ear. “You want me to take you inside and f*ck you, right up against the wall. Maybe even leave the door open, just a little, just enough for someone to see you come your brains out.”

It takes every measure of self-control not to deliver on that right now, but I give one last caress and release her. I want her thinking about me all afternoon, wet and aching for my touch.

“You have a great day now,” I wink, turning to go.

“What?” Delilah’s voice is ragged. “Wait, you’re leaving? Now?!”

She’s standing there, breathless and flushed, and looking so damn f*ckable, I deserve a medal for leaving her be. “You have work, remember?” I grin, enjoying the frustration on her face.

Delilah’s jaw sets. “OK then.” She smiles sweetly. “I guess I’ll just have to take care of myself. See you later.”

Now I’m the one left speechless as she unlocks the door, and heads inside, closing it behind her with a click.

She wouldn’t . . .

Oh, but she would.

Damn.

I laugh, heading back to the truck. That girl is dynamite, and today can’t go fast enough until I can get her in my bed again. Or out on my porch. Up against the wall. Over the backseat of my truck. I’m not picky, just as long as she’s naked and screaming my name, I’ll be just fine.

I stop by the bakery and grab some breakfast and a coffee, a real one this time. Then I head back home and get down to business, out in the workshop that has become my second home. Clean and light, I’ve been working here all week, and now I’ve got all my tools set up, and a gorgeous cord of reclaimed wood just waiting to be transformed.

Life is pretty damn great right now. Or at least it would be, without those voicemails cluttering up my phone.

I turn my attention to the table I’ve been building, a huge seven-foot slab of oak with rustic, wrought iron fixtures I want gleaming and polished by the time I’m through. My phone rings, and I pause at the unfamiliar number, automatically tensing. “Hello?”

“Hey, Will, it’s me Declan.”

I relax. He’s an old college buddy of mine I haven’t seen in years, but I dropped him a line the other week. “Declan, man, how’ve you been?”

“I’m great, but what about you?” Declan asks. “What’s this I hear about you going country?”

I laugh.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he continues. “I had to find out for myself. What’s the deal?”

“No deal.” I look around at the woods and backyard, content. “Time for a change, that’s all.”