Bungalow Nights (Beach House No. 9)

by Christie Ridgway

  “It’s my ranch,” his father replied, his voice tight. “My decision.”

  “That’s right.” Vance worked hard to hold back any flicker of reaction. “It’s always been up to you.”

  Then he turned to the truck, his chest feeling as if it was wrapped by a belt fastened even more tightly than his father’s. Breathe, he told himself. Be calm.

  “You’ve hurt your mother,” his father called out.

  Old news, Vance thought, suddenly as weary as the other man claimed to be. “I’m sorry for it,” he said. “When I go back, I’ll try to send a few more emails.”

  “Emails.” His father made a sound of disgust. “Is nothing serious with you?”

  Vance hung on to his calm with everything he had, even as he spun to face his father again. “War is pretty serious. I take it that way.”

  The older man’s mouth set in a harsh line of disapproval. “You’re determined to go back, then?”

  Vance hesitated. Under the circumstances, he could request a medical discharge, dispensing with the remainder of his service obligation. But then what? Right now it was a question he didn’t have an answer for. “I’m going back.”

  “What about your girl?”

  What about her? he almost asked. Layla had no place in his future. “It’ll give her a chance to dump me,” he said, pissed at how bitter he sounded. “There’s a precedent for that, as we both know.”

  His father winced, then his voice took on an almost conciliatory tone. “Vance, your brother...”

  “No.” Just like that, the calm was gone, a spike of rising anger in its place. And all the bitterness he’d kept at bay flooded him, his fingers curling into fists. He couldn’t listen to his dad defend Fucking Perfect Fitz. Not now.

  Not ever. God, Vance thought, he never should have returned here for Picnic Day.

  His father appeared pained. “Look—”

  “I don’t want to talk about Fitz.” Vance’s chest was tightening again, but now the pressure was all from the inside. His temper was lava-hot and ready to blow. “Or about that.”

  “But you landed on your feet, son, like you always do. You’re with Layla.”

  Layla. Thinking of her did nothing to reduce that suffocating heat building inside him. Just admit to it, he urged himself, because you’ve always been a lousy liar. Tell him she’s nothing to you. Clear up this stupid charade. “Layla is—”

  “I hope you’re about to say something really nice,” the woman herself put in, emerging from the gloom into the circle of light surrounding the cupcake truck.

  Surprised by her sudden appearance, Vance stared at her. All day, even when he’d held her in his arms on the dance floor, he’d avoided really looking at her. Now here she was, in a little dress the color of fertile earth and decorated with swirls of gold and bronze. Her shoulders were bare, her long legs revealed from an inch above the knee down to her gold-strapped sandals. Her skin gleamed with a light tan. You have to know how pretty you are, he’d told her when they’d arrived.

  “So damn pretty,” he murmured now.

  She smiled at him. “That will do.” Then she turned to his father. “Your wife said you might enjoy an avocado cupcake. We ran out earlier in the evening, but I managed to set aside a couple for you.”

  Before his father had a chance to answer, she ducked into the truck, and then was out again, a square of pink cardboard in hand. “I hope you like them,” she said with another smile.

  William Smith looked down at the box, then up at Layla. Vance almost laughed. Clearly he wasn’t the only Smith whom she could disarm. “I...uh, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Vance’s father hesitated, glanced at Vance. “I should get back. Help your mother.” He stepped toward the shadows, then turned around. “Son...” Words seemed to fail him.

  “Yeah?”

  “If I—” He stopped, started again. “If I don’t see you before you...return, stay safe.”

  Vance gave a curt nod.

  His dad now turned to Layla with a ghost of a smile. “And you, young lady. Word of caution. Be careful with this one.”

  Hearing it as an insult, Vance bristled. “That’s right. My father never could bring himself to trust me not to do the wrong thing.”

  The other man shot him a look, his own temper clearly kindling. “You never gave me much—”

  “I trust him,” Layla said, her voice emphatic. “You should know why.”

  His father blinked. “What?”

  Vance stared at her. What? “Don’t—”

  “He was wounded trying to save my father’s life,” Layla said. “You should know that. Your son’s a hero.”

  “I...” The older man glanced between Vance and Layla.

  “But before that, my dad wrote me letters. He was a colonel, and he told me about the men under his command. ‘There’s something special about his hands.’ He wrote that to me about Vance. ‘Or maybe it’s his heart that makes the difference,’ my father said. ‘He’s saved soldiers I thought would never survive.’”

  Jesus. More emotion roiled in Vance’s belly. Saved. That was all gone now, wasn’t it? He’d lost his fucking battlefield luck like he’d lost so much else. The ranch, his family, the fiancée he’d been sure would meet with their approval. A right move, for once. His body vibrated with the tension of holding back the urge to punch the daylights out of something. He’d take off running, he would, if he thought he had a hope of escaping the mess that was inside him.

  His father was staring at Layla now, clearly nonplussed. “Well. I’m sorry to hear about your loss.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  With a quick glance at Vance, he grabbed the tied-off bag of garbage. “Good night.”

  She smiled up at him, guileless. “Goodbye. I won’t forget meeting you, Mr. Smith.”

  And at that—a kind word regarding Layla’s dad, but nothing nearly as nice for his son—Vance’s father left. Left them alone.

  Left Vance with the war that was raging inside him. Left Layla, who looked as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  In seething silence, Vance climbed into the food truck. She followed suit. In the driver’s seat he sat for a moment, the fingers of his right hand tight on the steering wheel as he tried to separate the tangle of feelings coursing through him.

  A skirmish with his father. Fitz and Blythe. Layla in his arms, slow dancing to “Love Gone Wrong.”

  He’s saved soldiers I thought would never survive.

  Glancing down at his “healing” hands, he tightened his fingers on the wheel. “When we get back to the beach house,” he told Layla, his voice thick, “you stay clear.” He was ready to blow, past the point where he could extinguish flames.

  “Why?”

  He didn’t dare look at her. They might not make it as far as Crescent Cove if he did. “I’m on the edge of control. You get too close and it’s going to be the green flash, baby. Our very own unique natural phenomenon.”

  She sucked in a quick breath.

  “Yeah,” he said, answering the unspoken question. “We’ll both burn.”

  * * *

  VANCE DROVE AWAY FROM the ranch without waiting for Layla’s response. His muscles were tense, his mind whirling, a maelstrom kicked up by the day. His companion stayed silent, but that didn’t mean she was quiet. In the darkness the sound of her breathing brushed down his spine like a touch. She squirmed in her seat, moving restlessly and, Jesus, he swore he could detect the soft swish of smooth flesh on smooth flesh when she crossed her legs.

  It made him sweat.

  Instead of driving the truck to the parking lot of Captain Crow’s, he took it straight to No. 9, bumping along the crushed-shell track, then braking in the driveway. He jumped out and on fast feet headed around the side of the house toward the surf line, churning up the soft sand.

  He didn’t stop when he reached the hard-packed stuff. Nor when the first wave washed over the toes of his running shoes. Ignoring the
icy wetness, he kept wading forward, drenching his calves, his knees, his thighs.

  “Are you crazy?” a voice yelled from the beach.

  He ignored Layla, going deep enough to baptize his private parts. His feet were steady on the bottom of the ocean, tonight’s surf rolling in without any real force.

  “I said, are you crazy?”

  She sounded closer now, and he glanced back. The moonlight revealed the woman. Her sandals were discarded on the sand and she was up to her ankles in the water. A striped beach towel lay over one arm. “C’mon out. You’re going to freeze.”

  It’s what he wanted. To put his feelings on ice. To numb every emotion the day had wrought, from lust to hurt. “Leave me alone.”

  “As soon as you get into the house.”

  Didn’t she understand? Inside those walls, he’d be dangerous to her. Addy had said she’d be out for the night, which left just him and Layla. Alone. Alone with his temper that was as reckless as he’d once been and poised to find a convenient outlet.

  “Vance.”

  He gritted his teeth, fighting the need to turn to her. To take her in his arms and use her to forget the events of the day. The feelings had to go somewhere, and it was either freeze them into submission out here in the ocean, or drag her back to a bed and bury them—and himself—inside Layla.

  Fingers touched the small of his back. He whirled, shocked to find she’d waded this far, too. Ocean water swirled around her midriff, and the skirt of her dress rose up, floating around her. “Let’s go inside,” she said, her teeth already chattering. “Please, Vance.”

  And it was as if his brain thought she was pleading for something else. Because suddenly he moved in on her, his uncasted arm at her waist, bringing her close. His fingers tangled in her hair and he yanked back her head. Took the kiss he’d been wanting all night.

  All day.

  Every day since meeting her.

  It wasn’t gentle or seductive or kind. He thrust his tongue deep, tasting Layla, that trademark sugary tartness of her, as if she’d just sucked a fingerful of lemon icing. She pressed herself against him, not fighting for her freedom, only fighting to get closer to him, he realized. One of her legs wrapped around the back of his.

  Then another wave slapped at them, this one stronger than the others. He stumbled a little. She lost her footing and slipped lower into the water, only saving herself from total immersion by latching both legs around his waist and hanging on.

  Neither of them broke the kiss.

  But instinct had him moving toward the beach, even as he feasted on her. She was wide-open for him, her own tongue stroking inside his mouth, and he no longer felt the cold. When he reached the shoreline, the wet sand sucked at his shoes, but he didn’t let it slow him. Finally on firm ground, he lengthened his stride, making for the deck steps.

  He halted, though, outside the sliding glass door. They’d neglected to leave any lights on, but even in the darkness he knew salt water was streaming from them. Breaking their kiss, he looked down into her dazed eyes. “I’m wet,” he said. “You’re wet.”

  “God, yes,” she said, her voice fervent.

  Wait. Did she mean...? Then she pulled on the back of his neck and brought his mouth to hers for another deep, hungry kiss. Her urgency was contagious. This was just what he’d been waiting for, what he needed, and his pulse started double-timing as he took in harsh breaths through his nose. Yes, yes, yes. Sex would be the vehicle in which he drove away all that troubled him.

  Layla’s fingers were at the hem of his sodden T-shirt. He let her draw it up and off, even as he toed out of his shoes. She muttered as she worked at his wet jeans. Finally, he had to push her hands away because her touch was only causing them to fit that much tighter. Between the damn cast and drenched denim it was awkward to get them off, but he managed, and even purloined the beach towel that she’d brought and wrapped it around his naked waist.

  Now he turned his attention to the beautiful woman who stood before him.

  Her big eyes on him, she was leaning against the door, her palms pressed to the glass. He thought about giving her yet another chance to back out. He thought about all the promises that should be standing between them. Between this.

  But then he ran his forefinger along the slope of her bare shoulder and she shuddered, her lashes drifting low. Yeah, she was wet.

  Screw second thoughts, his or hers. He couldn’t wait to have her. It would suck the wildness out of him, purge him of the old betrayals and the new pain. He’d lose himself in her, thus lifting the heavy weight that being home had put on his soul.

  His slow finger reversed, then moved around to the nape of her neck and the halter tie of her dress. He toyed with it a minute, giving himself a chance to appreciate how the soaked cotton material was plastered to her braless breasts. The tips were beaded to hard points and he imagined taking the cold nipples in his mouth. Warming them with his tongue.

  She made an impatient sound, a husky little moan that came from the back of her throat.

  “Shh, shh, shh,” he murmured. “Easy.”

  “Vance, you should... We should... I think—”

  “No thinking, Layla,” he said, still playing with the bow. He’d be damned if she thought ahead this time. Plotted things out. No, not going to happen that way with him. “Close your eyes, baby. Just feel.” Then, bending his head, he sucked her nipple into his mouth, rubbing his tongue over the fabric.

  She made another sweet sound of urgency, and he tightened on that nub of flesh, then pulled on the tie. He lifted his mouth long enough to allow the fabric to fall and then he latched onto her again, her bare flesh now, more strong sucks that had her fingers clutching at his hair, holding him to her.

  Her skin was cold and he rubbed his face against the fullness of her lush breast, then moved to the other, breathing on the chilled surface to warm her up. He was on fire already, that burn that she could spark in him roaring. He found the zipper at the back of her dress, and still caressing her with his whiskered cheeks, drew it down.

  The dress dropped to her feet and he straightened.

  Sweet Lord. Layla, with her long wavy hair, her big eyes. Slim limbs, heaving breasts, teeny tiny white panties that gleamed like an oyster shell in the moonlight.

  His cock jerked against the terry of the towel. He rubbed his fingers there, calming it down, and she watched him touch himself, those eyes of hers wide again. Intrigued. Another shot of fire ran through him and he saw her lick her lips, her fingers curling into her palms as if to stop herself from reaching out.

  She glanced up at him. “Vance?”

  “You can touch me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Is that what you want?”

  With a nod, she moved her right hand. It seemed to take an aeon, but then her small fingers circled him, her palm cupping his shaft. He groaned, his head falling back as she moved it up and down. The damn arm injuries had prevented him from easing himself like this, and he’d needed it, so often, since meeting this brown-eyed girl.

  He heard himself start to pant, the thrumming urgency turning to emergency as she continued to rub. His hips moved, bucking into her touch, and it was so good. So, so good...

  Groaning again, Vance snatched at her wrist and held it away from him. Another second and he’d be making love to a towel instead of to the woman who drove him mad.

  “Bedroom,” he said, his voice guttural, and he spun her around by the shoulders. They made it inside and he flicked on a low light to guide their way to the hall and his downstairs bedroom. He kept one set of fingers on her shoulder, but then his gaze fell to her panty-covered ass. It wasn’t a thong she was wearing, but French-cut panties that revealed the under-curves of her sweet bottom’s rounded lobes.

  Vance almost tripped on his tongue at the sight, and he inserted the fingers of his free hand under the elastic on the right side, holding it between thumb and fingers, allowing his knuckles to stroke the full softness with each of her steps. She glanced over her shoulder
at him, wide-eyed again, and he hoped the baring of his teeth looked friendly. But oh, hell, did he want to take a bite out of her.

  The room was dark and he flipped on the small lamp on the dresser, adding a soft glow to the interior. He thought, condoms, and hurried to grab some from the bathroom drawer. They’d been an autobuy during a toiletries run when he’d first returned, though he’d had little expectation of using them. Back by the bed, he ditched the towel, but she remained where he’d left her, wearing only that little scrap of Frenchified satin and her long hair hanging over her bare breasts.

  He tossed the condoms onto the bedside table and moved close to kiss her again. Her taste should have made him mindless, but that mix of emotions inside him started boiling once more with the heat of her tongue against his. In his mind’s eye he saw her going into Fitz’s arms, he saw her handing his father cupcakes, he saw his father warning Layla about him.

  Word of caution. Be careful with this one.

  Vance didn’t want her any less, but he wanted all the memories and conflicts and anger brought on by the day smothered, too. He pushed her onto the mattress and she scrambled back toward the pillows. He crawled after her, catching the side of her panties with his right hand so that the material slid down her legs as she moved toward the headboard.

  Yeah. This was what he wanted. This was what he had to have, he thought, as he glimpsed the wetness between the pink, plump petals of her sex. He’d taste her, touch her, penetrate her, and he’d use his tongue and his fingers and his cock to banish the anger he felt toward his family.

  Vance froze, startled by that last thought.

  “What the hell are we doing?” he asked, a wash of guilt making him feel a little sick. “I don’t want this.”

  She lifted a brow, her gaze sliding down to his eager erection.

  “Okay,” he conceded. “I want this. God, I really want this. But I shouldn’t be acting on it because of what happened today with them.” He shifted to sit on the side of the bed and closed his eyes, his cock throbbing like a toothache.