Seduction on the Sand (The Billionaires of Barefoot Bay #2)(35)

He lowered his head, loving that she guided him and pulled his hair just enough to show how much she wanted this, letting him kiss her hip and that wisp of material.

“Let me test it here.”

“O...kay.” She could barely talk, so he stole a peek at her face, eyes closed, mouth slack, her expression rapture and anticipation.

He could do this, right? This wasn’t everything. They would do everything after he...after this.

He inched the tiny triangle of white to the side, revealing her sex-slick womanhood. He lowered his head, then dabbed her with the oil-scented cotton ball.

She sucked in a breath and let go of his hair, clutching the comforter instead.

Closer, he inhaled a mix of woman and lavender, of sex and spice. Very carefully, he kissed her and then slid his tongue around and around.

“Becker.” She rocked up to meet his mouth. “Oh, God, don’t stop.”

Dividing his gaze between her heavy-lidded eyes and the visual of beautiful woman, he licked warm skin, curling his tongue then stroking her with feathery brushes of cotton, teasing her closer to abandon.

She gripped his shoulder, called out his name, and bucked against his mouth with the first full shudder of release. He pulled it from her, sucking and licking and holding her hips until she exploded with an orgasm.

She whispered his name, the sound of satisfaction and delight while her whole body quivered. She tried to pull him up, but barely had the strength, so he kissed his way back to her mouth.

“Becker, what do you call that fragrance?”

He laughed. “Well, I call it...” He couldn’t even think of a word good enough to giving Frankie that kind of pleasure. “Where I belong.”

She finally opened her eyes enough to let him see her surprise. “Not a very...soapy name from my marketing guru.”

“What would you call it?”

“Amazing. Perfection. A prelude to...something.”

They both knew exactly what something that was a prelude to.

“How about a prelude to a promise?” he suggested. “Too corny?”

“Well, it’s for weddings planners. They love corny.”

They both laughed, and she reached her hand to stroke his cheek. “I like you, Becker. So much it scares the hell out of me.”

“What are you scared of, Francesca?”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “Everyone I love leaves me.”

The admission was so simple and true, it hit like a punch between the eyes. He didn’t even know how to respond, so he just lay down next to her, ignoring his body’s needs to take this moment to connect.

“What are you scared of, Elliott?”

He thought for a long time, holding her hand, letting their heart rates settle back to normal.

“You are going to tell me the truth and be real, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.” But not yet. He couldn’t tell her yet. He’d have to tell her another kind of truth. A different revelation. “I’m scared that no matter what I do or where I go or how much I spend or make or accumulate, I will never be...” Where I belong. “Home.”

She sat up slowly, leaning on her elbow to look at him. “Tell me why.”

And for the first time ever, he wanted to tell someone everything. All his pain, all his missing parts, all the reasons why he had a hard time being real.

Because with this woman, being real was easy. Too easy. He’d never even thought there was such a thing.



* * *

Yes, Frankie wanted to have sex with Elliott Becker. More sex. Real sex. But something was stopping him, and Frankie suspected he just wanted one last wall to come down between them. He wanted to tell her something. That had been clear for a while now. And she wanted to tell him something, too. So sex could wait. She had a feeling there’d be plenty, and often. This sharing was far more important.

They were both still fully clothed, but he nestled her into him, sliding a powerful leg over hers. He gently eased her head into the space right over his heart, his chin against her hair.

For a long time, neither spoke. Their breaths slipped into an easy unison, the afternoon sunlight slipping through plantation shutters to stream warmth on them. Frankie felt everything tense and scary and unhappy lift from her heart for the first time in a long time.

“Home,” he finally said. He nodded, as though that sounded right to him. “I’d like a home.”

She pushed up on her elbows again, certain she’d misunderstood the whispered words. “Didn’t you say you have a few already?”

“I’ve got an apartment in New York and I keep a place in Paris, just because, I don’t know. It’s pretty there. My parents retired to San Diego, so I have a place there, and I like to ski so I bought a house in Aspen. And, of course, my gold mine in Massachusetts, but I don’t live there. My place in Boston is in Beacon Hill.”

She laughed softly. “Okay. What’s wrong with this picture? You just told me of, what, five, maybe six different places you own and none of them are home? You live there, right? And something tells me that ‘apartment’ in New York isn’t a walk-up.”

“It’s nine thousand square feet, three stories, with five different balconies and a three-sixty-degree view of New York City.”

“Holy crap,” she muttered.