She frowned at him.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked.
Candy snorted, thinking that a sheriff should be able to figure that one out. “I wanted some ice cream.”
“Ah, just as I suspected,” he said, and then … oh, damn … right there under the historic streetlight, Turner let his gaze drop to the now stretched neckline of her shirt, and his mouth began to turn up at the corners in that sultry, sexy, oh-so-slow way that it did, the way that made Candy lose her ability to think straight.
“Did you have a particular flavor in mind this evening, Miss Carmichael?” he asked, his eyes not straying from her ice-cream-coated breasts.
Candy felt her heart pound and her breath go shallow. Why didn’t she have the presence of mind to smack him? Why didn’t she bring the two-inch heel of her gladiator sandal down on his instep? Why didn’t she simply spin around and march down the sidewalk to her car in protest against the completely over-the-top way that Turner enjoyed hitting on her.
Because she’d lost her damn mind—that was the only possible answer—and all she managed to do was stand there and let him eat her up with his eyes. In fact, she had the urge to take off her shirt completely, followed by her bra, then her jeans and panties, all so this beautiful man could continue his visual feeding unencumbered.
“Mocha latte,” she whispered, her voice all breathy and sexual.
Well, that did it. Suddenly, he was up against her, his face inches from hers, close enough that she could feel the heat pulsing off his body. She felt a fistful of napkins at the small of her back as she was directed down the sidewalk toward the Lutheran church. By the time Turner unlatched the wrought-iron gate of the courtyard and gently nudged her forward, Candy’s vision was swimming. His hand returned to her lower back, and he must have ditched the napkins somewhere because she felt the flat of his palm and the wide spread of his fingers against her body. And suddenly, his hand slid up under her T-shirt, pressing hot and firm against her bare skin as it traveled up, up … then quickly back down, down … into the waistband of her jeans and panties and right smack onto the naked flesh of her ass.
In a single motion, he scooped her close, spun her around, and pressed her tight up against the front of his body, all the while pulling her farther into the shadows of a large beech tree.
Turner’s lips were so close they were nearly touching hers. “Sorry for getting you all sticky,” he whispered, gripping her ass tighter and making sure she could feel what she was up against. Candy counted three noticeable bulges poking against her body, and figured one had to be his gun, one was probably the wad of napkins, and the other was nothin’ but Turner. The fun part was going to be figuring out which was which.
Candy leaned her head back and looked up into his face. She melted at the sight of his heavy-lidded hazel eyes, dark lashes, and that overtly sexual mouth, pulled into a wicked smile. Right at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to feel that mouth on her. Somewhere. Anywhere.
“You made the mess,” she said. “You should clean it up.”
Turner’s eyes flashed in the shadows. “You sure about that, girl?”
Am I? Of course she wasn’t sure. In fact, she was sure she shouldn’t want that. So why was she allowing this to happen? Honestly, sometimes she wished she were a stronger human being. “Just hurry up before I change—”
His lips touched down on her breastbone, and the sensation was so achingly wonderful that Candy leaned her head back to offer her throat and chest to him. She felt her hair swing down her back.
“Oh, Gaaaawwwwwd,” she groaned. Turner began tenderly licking and kissing and removing every trace of ice cream on Candy’s chest, his lips and tongue making soft smacking noises as he worked. The moans of pleasure escaping from his mouth vibrated against her wet skin.
“I haven’t been able to think straight since you came back to town,” he mumbled in between kisses, slurps, and licks. “I can’t work. I can’t sleep. I can’t relax. I gotta have you, Candy. You make me fuckin’ crazy.”
She gasped. She hadn’t been this turned on since, well, since the last time Turner had his hands and lips on her. “Wait,” she managed to say. “Maybe you should … please … oh, Lord, don’t stop! Thatfeelssodamngood!”
Candy brought her hands to his head, and as he continued to feast on the delicate flesh at the top of her breasts, she let her hands roam over the contours of his perfectly shaped head and close-shorn hair. She memorized the feel of him—the smallish ears, the strong ridge of muscle at the nape of his neck, the lovely round curve of his skull. There was something quite tender about the feel of Turner’s head in her hands as his mouth made love to her skin, and Candy suddenly felt a warm tug in her belly and a pulling in her heart. She felt tears forming in her eyes. Her lips began to quiver.
Of course she couldn’t be doing this. She had real feelings for Turner. He was her friend and she cared for him. He was a man who’d lost a wife who’d cherished him, who’d likely held his head in her hands just like this, and that’s what he wanted and deserved again—love. Committed and tender love that was right here in Bigler for him to come home to every night.
She wasn’t the girl for that job and they both knew it.
But he’d just nibbled at her breast with his teeth. It hurt a little—and it turned her on a lot. His mouth was now dragging across the fabric of her T-shirt, searching for a nipple, finding it, and latching on. It felt as if a tiny fiber-optic cable connected her hard nipple to her clitoris, and as soon as Turner sucked, she jumped.
“You like that, don’t you?” he asked, not moving his mouth from her nipple. “What else do you like?”
“Oh, God,” she breathed.
“I bet you like this.” Turner took his free hand—the one that wasn’t cupping her ass and pushing her close to him—and began to unzip her jeans. In no time at all his fingers had insinuated themselves inside and were playing with her through her underwear, pinching at her pussy lips, teasing them, burrowing up into the fabric between them. “You’re already so wet, Candy. So wet, baby.”
Well, duh! It wasn’t every day she got fingered in the Lutheran church meditation garden by the sexiest man on earth.
“Turner?” she whispered, trying to push herself away. Just then his fingers slipped inside the crotch of her panties, and her knees collapsed. He managed to hold her up, but a finger had found its way up inside her in the melee. Then two fingers. And now they both moved slowly in and out of her, two big fingers, slowly, so slowly, out and in again …
“Fuck,” Turner whispered, dragging his mouth from her nipple to her ear. He bit down on her earlobe. “Are you always this wet, baby?”
“Oh, God, no. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t remember it ever being an issue.”
He chuckled, then pushed his fingers up in her harder and back out, steady, deep, his knuckles now bumping against her clit. Candy’s leg muscles started to shake.
“Are you going to come all over me?” Turner asked, dragging his lips from her ear to her mouth. He kissed her then, his tongue pushing apart her lips the way his fingers pushed open her pussy. In the back of Candy’s mind, she knew something wasn’t right about this. Maybe it was the church setting. Or the fact that Turner was in uniform. Or maybe it was just that she was about to have a screaming, soul-shattering orgasm within a hundred feet of her hometown ice cream parlor, which struck her as irresponsible.
“Please! Stop!” She pressed her palms to his chest. “We shouldn’t do this.”
Turner stopped. “All right,” he said. He pulled his lips away. He straightened. He removed his fingers from her swollen pussy, and the sudden pullout made a sucking sound Candy found a little embarrassing. It only made him smile.
Then he zipped her up. He slid his other hand up and off her ass. And he gazed down at her with those intensely beautiful eyes while he licked his wet fingers. “This is better than any flavor they got next door,” he said, smacking his lips.
Ca
ndy panted.
“Sorry. I got carried away.”
She whimpered.
“You do this to me.”
“You do it to me, too.”
“I think we should just do each other and get it over with.”
Turner shoved a hand up into her hair, and pulled her mouth to his once more. He kissed Candy until she couldn’t stand up, until whatever clear and rational conclusion she’d reached only seconds before had vanished, flattened by the rush of desire in her, lost to the demands Turner made on her lips and tongue and her spirit. How could it be wrong to kiss Turner Halliday like this when it felt so right?
“Come home with me,” he said, pulling his lips from hers, gazing into her face.
“I—” Candy blinked. “What? I can’t.”
Turner’s police radio crackled to life, shooting a loud volley of static into the quiet garden, followed by the clipped voice of a dispatcher. As Turner used his cell phone to call in, Candy stepped away. She fixed her shirt the best she could, straightened her jeans, and ran her fingers through her hair. When she wiped her lips she discovered that Turner’s licking and kissing might have felt incredibly good, but it was a lousy substitute for soap and water—the sweet stickiness from the ice cream had only been smeared around.
She probably looked a mess.
“You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” Turner said, once again standing so close to her that she could feel his energy and heat. “Candy, I gotta go.”
“Me, too.”
He placed his hands on her upper arms and held her steady in front of him. She looked up, unapologetic as she let him study her hair, her eyes, her mouth …
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. Then he lowered his mouth and gave her a warm but restrained kiss. “Where are you parked? Let me drive you to your car.”
Candy shook her head and took his hand. “I’m just down at the Piggly Wiggly. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll make certain of it,” Turner said, his voice suddenly all business.
They walked out of the church garden, hand in hand. Candy kissed his cheek and began to turn down the sidewalk when Turner tugged her back.
“I thought you wanted ice cream,” he said, his eyes wrinkling up in a smile. “It’s still open.”
Candy laughed. “I think I’ve had enough for one night.”
The humor left Turner’s expression, to be replaced by something hungry and serious. He shook his head and opened the door of the big SUV. “That’s a damn lie, Candy Carmichael. Neither of us got enough tonight and you know it.”
She walked, and though she didn’t look behind her, she was well aware that Turner was driving along at about two miles per hour. The thought that he was worried about her made her smile, and suddenly, she realized she couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared enough to worry about her.
Or was it that she never let anyone?
She reached her car, started the engine, and pulled toward the Piggly Wiggly exit. Only then did Turner wave good-bye and speed off down Main Street, lights flashing.
The whole way back to Cherokee Pines, Candy told herself she could handle whatever it was that had just happened to her. Because something most definitely had. She’d let Turner in. Once again, she’d reveled in the feel of his lips and hands on her body. But this time, there’d been more to it than just the physical. She’d allowed a rush of affection and compassion to course through her—all directed at and because of Turner—and the newness of it felt reckless. The intensity of it was terrifying. And she knew damn well that there was no happy ending here but it didn’t even matter—it was as if she were powerless to prevent any of it from happening.
As Candy reached the entrance foyer to Cherokee Pines, she realized she’d never before felt this out of control of her own life—professionally, financially, or emotionally. Even when she’d lived under Jonesy Carmichael’s roof and according to his rules, she’d not felt this powerless. That’s because she’d had a solid plan back then, and she was sure that nothing and nobody was going to keep her from it.
A dozen years had passed. Where had that brave, bold, confident girl gone? she wondered.
“Good evening, Candy.”
She’d been so lost in her thoughts that she’d almost walked right past Gerrall without a word. “Oh!” she said, startled, not just because he had spoken but because of the way his voice sounded. And the expression on his face.
Oh, boy, he was pissed at her.
Gerrall let his eyes roam up and down her body and back again, his lips pulled tight. “Where have you been?”
There were a lot of things she didn’t like about that question, and the biggest was the way Gerrall had asked it—with a sense of ownership, as if he had every right to know where she’d been. Which, obviously, he didn’t. Candy tried to make light of the situation, and held up her grocery bag. “Been to the Piggly Wiggly,” she said. “Pretty dang exciting down there, let me tell ya.”
He wasn’t buying it. He glared at her. “What happened to your shirt? You look like you were attacked or something.”
“What?” She looked down and almost cursed at herself for forgetting all about how she must appear. “Oh. It’s nothing,” she said. “I spilled ice cream down my front and tried to clean it up and my shirt got all stretched out.”
“Hmm,” Gerrall said, leaning forward in the desk chair. “Well, I’m afraid if there’s food in there I’m not going to be able to let you bring it in.”
“Food?” Candy started to laugh, then realized Gerrall must have been drinking some of Mr. Miller’s “unauthorized food item” Kool-Aid. “Right,” she said with a sigh. “No food. Just shampoo and stuff.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
Hell, yes, she minded! Candy was just about to tell him he could kiss her ass when she realized now would not be the best time for that kind of thing, since she needed to ask Gerrall for a really big favor.
“Of course. I know you’re just doing your job,” she said, nearly choking on her own words. She held out the plastic bag by the handles and opened it so he could peer inside. She saw him frown, reach in, and snatch the small bag of caramel corn. “What’s this?”
“Oh, shee-it,” she mumbled. She’d forgotten all about her spontaneous purchase. “Whoops,” Candy said, deflated, exhausted, and thoroughly sick of living in senior-citizen lockdown. “Just throw it away.”
Gerrall peered into the shopping bag again, then began to riffle through her items. That was all she could take. Candy yanked the bag back. “So, Gerrall, listen. I have a really huge favor to ask.”
He smiled smugly, tossing the caramel corn onto his desk, which Candy took as a sign that he’d be enjoying the confiscated treat once she was gone. “What can I do for you?”
“I need a few more days to figure out where I’m moving. I thought I had a nice place lined up, but, well, it fell through this afternoon.”
Gerrall raised his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking for.”
This was so demoralizing that Candy wanted to scream. “Look, Gerrall, I know I’m supposed to move out on Monday but I don’t have a place yet. I need a couple more days. Do you think you could let me in at night without saying anything to anybody? I’ll leave super-early in the morning, before Miller gets here. I’ll skip breakfast. Please? I need your help. I don’t have anywhere to go.”
Gerrall just loved this shit. She could tell by the way he puffed out his chest and grinned. “You could come stay with me for a while,” he said.
“Uh, gee. No. But thanks.”
“I can’t make any promises,” he said, suddenly quite serious.
“Oh, thank you, Gerrall!” For a split second she had an urge to hug him, but it passed quickly, thank God. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me!”
He looked around the foyer, as if checking for spies. “You can’t come in until after ten every night, and you’d have to be gone by six-thirty in the morning. Yo
u know you already almost got me fired because I let you bring in that cake, right? So you know I’m putting my ass on the line to do this for you.”
“I won’t let that happen. Thank you!” She pressed her palms together in thanks and started to walk away.
“But it’s gonna cost you,” he added.
Candy stopped. She slowly turned around to see Gerrall staring at her ass. She wasn’t sure how much of this she could take. “What do you want?”
“A date.”
“No.”
Gerrall sighed heavily. “All right then. A cake. I want you to bring me a cake every night you need to stay here.”
“But I’m not allowed to bring any more cakes!”
“Oh, they’ll be just for me,” he said. “Miller will never know.”
Candy rolled her eyes. She felt as if she were starring in a horribly scripted reality show where she was being forced to bake for everyone in town. It would be called Hillbilly Cake Slut.
“Fine. Whatever,” Candy said. “I’m tired and have to get some sleep. Thanks for your help, Gerrall,”
“I want a lemon cake first. From scratch. No artificial colorings or flavorings or anything. That stuff’s bad for my skin.”
“Right,” she said, staggering down the hallway to Jacinta’s door. It was locked. Of course it was locked. If it were open, that would make things far too simple, and today’s theme had been bedlam, not simplicity.
Candy tapped on the door. No answer. She knocked a little harder. Still no answer. It was well after ten! Those two couldn’t still be going at it, could they?
“Such a tramp,” said a sharp female voice.
Candy closed her eyes for an instant to gather her strength, and when she was ready, she turned to face the harpy in pink sponge rollers from next door. “Fuck off, Lorraine,” she said, the weariness obvious in her voice.
Jacinta’s door flew open as Lorraine’s slammed shut, and Candy stepped back in surprise when Hugo tiptoed through. “Fell asleep,” he whispered, with an apologetic shrug. Candy then noticed he was holding his shoes in his hands, along with his shirt and pants. Which meant …
I Want Candy Page 14
