She clamped her eyes shut as her heart started to pound.
The wine. It had to be the wine.
She’d never been much of a drinker, which was why the bottle had lasted her over a year. She’d used it primarily for cooking and had indulged in the occasional glass with dinner. But never right before bed. And with a Twinkie chaser.
Sugared and sloshed. That was the problem. No wonder she was imagining things. The sheet. The T-shirt. The man framed in the doorway—
Wait a second.
She blinked and for a split second, she saw the familiar green eyes and sensuous mouth, but then the image blurred and faded.
Uh, yeah. Because he’s not real. No way is Dillon Cash standing on your balcony. You’re sloshed and hallucinating, end of story.
No more wine, she vowed, tugging her shirt down and yanking the sheet back up. She clamped her eyes shut. A dream. That’s all it had been. A crazy, bizarre dream brought on by too much sugar and alcohol.
A crazy, bizarre, semi-pleasant dream, she admitted several minutes later, her body still buzzing from the sensation of fabric gliding this way and that. She drew a deep breath. Her nipples rubbed against the cotton of her T-shirt and her breasts tingled.
Okay, so maybe there was something to be said for a good Chardonnay and a couple of Twinkies right before bed.
On that stirring thought, she drifted into a deep sleep, not the least bit alarmed when the sheet started to glide down and her T-shirt started to inch its way up.
Again.
HE COULDN’T ACTUALLY touch her.
The truth crystallized as he stood in the open doorway and tried to step over the threshold. An invisible wall barred his way and refused to give him access to the tempting woman stretched out on the bed. Her T-shirt was up under her arms, her luscious breasts full and flushed, the sheet bunched down at her feet. Her skin was pale and soft looking against the pastel green sheets. His gaze went to the skimpy panties she wore. Not even a wisp of hair pushed through the scant lace and he knew the skin beneath was as smooth and as bare as the rest of her.
His mouth watered and his hands trembled. He could feel the need vibrating from her lush body. It called to him, begging him forward, tempting him until he shook with the force of it.
Wake her up, a voice whispered. She’ll invite you in.
If she were every other women in town.
She wasn’t. She was the one woman, the only woman who’d managed to resist him. That was why tonight wasn’t about sating his own hunger.
It was about stirring hers.
He held tight to the thought and stiffened against his own urges.
Focusing his attention on the nearly empty wine bottle, he narrowed his gaze and sent a mental command. The bottle lifted, floating from the nightstand until it hovered over her full breasts. He gave the slightest motion of his head and the bottle tilted. A trickle of wine splashed over one nipple and her eyes popped open.
Panic chased confusion across her expression as her gaze darted between the wine bottle and the open doorway where he stood. Her gaze collided with his.
Relax. He sent the mental command and hoped that she would be too exhausted, too half-asleep to refuse. Her eyes widened, her lips parted and he had the fleeting thought that she was going to scream.
It’s just a dream. He sent the silent thought and she caught her bottom lip. Her eyes glazed with need. A fantasy, he added. So sit back and enjoy yourself.
Her eyelids fluttered closed and her body relaxed.
He shifted his attention back to the wine bottle and watched as the glass tilted again. Another trickle splashed over her nipple and dribbled down the side of her breast to dampen the sheet beneath her.
The tip pebbled, responding to the sensation, begging for more. Her body arched, seeming to strain for more of the sensation, but she didn’t open her eyes this time.
Because it was just a fantasy to her.
A very vivid, very erotic figment of her imagination.
The realization sent a rush of relief through him—he wasn’t in a hurry to blow his cover and dodge a lynch mob—followed by a wave of irritation. Because as much as he liked being the star of her erotic musings, he wanted her fully awake and conscious when she gave herself to him.
The thought plagued him a full second before she drank in a deep breath and her chest lifted. Her nipple quivered and his gaze went to the faint blue vein barely visible beneath the translucent skin near one areola. Pain splintered his head and he felt the sharpness of his teeth against his tongue. His cock throbbed.
From the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection and saw the deep purple glow of his gaze. He stiffened, fighting against the emotion whirling inside of him until his eyes brightened into a rich vivid green.
Easy.
The command whispered through his head and he held tight to his control. He shifted his attention back to the wine bottle. The glass dipped until the edge grazed one of her ripe nipples. She gasped. The sound sizzled across the open space between them and slid into his ears, stirring what lived and breathed inside of him. A rush of longing pulsed from her flushed body and suddenly he knew beyond a doubt that she hadn’t been with a man in one hell of a long time.
The realization sent a strange rush of satisfaction through him and made him all the more determined to resist his own damned hunger and satisfy hers.
The bottle tilted, drip-dropping wine over her bare stomach. The rosy liquid pooled in her navel, slid decadently toward her lace panties and turned the white edge a pale pink.
She moaned and he moved lower, dribbling a little more here, a little more there, until the bottle was completely empty and her panties were damp with wine and her own need.
He trailed the cool edge of the bottle down the outside of one bare leg, up the inside of her knee, her thigh, building the anticipation until he reached the lacy barrier between her legs. He rubbed the mouth of the container up and down against the already drenched material. She gasped and wiggled her hips for more.
He felt his own gaze burn as he willed the scrap of lace down her legs until it tugged free of her ankles and feet and collapsed on the bed beside her.
Her thighs fell open, giving him an unobstructed view of the slick, pouty folds that begged for his attention.
At the first touch of the cool glass against her soft, tender slit, her eyelids fluttered open again.
She gazed first at the bottle between her legs and then at him. There was an instant of confusion and panic, and then the feelings eased into a glaze of passion as she smiled and mumbled, “No wonder Babe likes Twinkies.”
He rubbed her with the bottle as her heavy gaze drank in his face, burning a path over his shoulders, his chest, down to the prominent erection that threatened to bust out of his jeans. Her attention lingered and the urge to step inside the room, shove his zipper down, spread her legs and sink into her wet body nearly overwhelmed him.
He couldn’t and so he stared at her, into her, willing her eyes shut again. Finally, she complied, leaning her head back into the softness of the pillow as she gave in to the rush of sensation.
He continued the stroking, up and down, side to side until a drop of warmth spilled from her slick folds and slid down the neck of the dark glass. Her back arched and she came up off the bed. A breathy moan sailed past her lips as a wave of ecstasy crashed over her.
Watching her body tighten and pulse was almost as satisfying as relishing it firsthand. He could practically feel the rush of warmth as she milked him.
His erection throbbed and he felt the bubbling warmth that pulsed along its length, along with something else. A prickling awareness at the base of his spine that told him his time was nearly up.
Gathering his last shred of control, he drank in one last look at her and forced himself away from the doorway. Without a sound, he scaled the waist-high rail and dropped to the ground. In the blink of an eye, he covered the distance to his bike.
A faint glow tinged the horiz
on as he straddled the seat and gunned the engine. A few minutes later, he sped through town and hit the county road that led to the ranch.
He reached his destination just as the first rays of sunlight topped the surrounding trees. His boots started to smoke as he strode toward the house. Heat sizzled through the soles of his feet and sent spurts of pain up his calves.
He hit the front porch and stumbled inside. While he was out of the direct sunlight, there was still light filtering in through the windows, sucking at his strength as he wobbled toward the back hallway and the door that led to the wine cellar. He fumbled for the handle, tugged open the door and fell down the first few steps. The wood creaked shut behind him and the darkness quickly swallowed him up. He found his footing and took the steps two at a time until he reached the bottom of the staircase and another hallway.
Garret had spent an entire month breaking the cellar down into two large living areas. A single hallway divided the two sections. The door to the left was shut solid. A powerful presence emanated from inside and Dillon knew Garret had been wise enough to get his ass in bed at a decent hour.
Dillon reached for the second doorknob. A few seconds later, he yanked off his smoldering boots, stretched out the king-size bed that sat in one corner of the massive room and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart.
In the two months since he’d turned, he’d never stayed out past daybreak. He knew better. He closed his eyes and tried to welcome the all-encompassing blackness, but he was too worked up.
Not because he’d nearly gotten himself roasted.
Rather than the sharp odor of melted rubber and blistered skin, he smelled the intoxicating aroma of sweet wine and warm, aroused woman.
His nostrils flared and the scent magnified, along with the image of Meg, her body flushed and panting and eager for more.
Bobby’s record didn’t stand a chance in hell.
IT HAD BEEN THE MOST incredible sex ever.
That is, it would have been the most incredible sex if it had been real.
That’s what Meg told herself when she opened her eyes the next morning, her T-shirt still bunched up under her arms, her undies laying next to her feet. Sunlight streamed through the open French doors, illuminating the stained sheets and empty wine bottle.
Heat rushed to her cheeks as she forced herself upright. She set the bottle on the nightstand, tossed the leftover Twinkie wrappers into a nearby trash can and tried to ignore the telltale ache between her legs as she climbed from the bed. She had nothing to be embarrassed about. She’d masturbated dozens of times before.
But never with Dillon Cash watching her.
A fantasy Dillon, she reminded herself as she headed for the bathroom and a cold shower. While last night’s orgasm had been very real, the circumstances surrounding it had been anything but.
Dillon had not been standing in her doorway.
The wine bottle had not moved on its own.
N-o-t.
Her mind made up, she spent the next half hour getting ready for work.
When she finally walked out her front door, coffee in hand, she’d managed to dismiss all of her crazy thoughts and face the truth—she was horny. So much so, that she was cooking up hot, sizzling fantasies and trying to turn them into reality.
She tossed her briefcase onto the passenger’s seat, set her mug in the cup holder and turned to retrieve the newspaper that sat near the curb.
She didn’t have time to waste entertaining the impossible. She had a business to run. She had a new ad running today, complete with a coupon, and she hoped with all of her heart that Glenda, the owner of Skull Creek’s one and only newspaper, had gotten it right. Last time Meg had wanted to run a twenty-percent-off coupon, Glenda—who was seventy-six and extremely hard of hearing—had printed it as sixty. Meg had felt obliged to honor the coupon rather than piss off any customers, and so she’d lost a ton of money.
Instead of calling in the ad this time, she’d typed it out and handed it to the old woman herself.
She leaned over and reached for the paper. Just an inch shy, her gaze snagged on the black marks near the curb.
Her memory stirred and suddenly she was back in her bed, her breathing ragged and her body convulsing. Through the pleasure beating at her temples and the pounding of her heart, she heard the grumble of an engine and the squeal of tires and—
She abandoned the crazy thought, ignored the strange tingling in her gut and grabbed her newspaper. Climbing into her car, she shoved the key into the ignition and backed out. Shifting into Drive, she hit the gas and didn’t look back.
Not even a peek.
Because no way in hell, heaven or the in-between had Dillon Cash shown up at her house last night, climbed onto her balcony and watched her have the best orgasm of her entire life.
At least that’s what Meg told herself.
The trouble was, deep down, she wasn’t so sure she believed it.
7
“GET. OUT.”
The incredulous voice slid into Meg’s ears. She glanced from her computer screen to the young woman who sat at a small table in the far corner of the stockroom, a newspaper spread out in front of her.
Terry Lynn Hargrove was Meg’s one and only full-time employee. Unlike Meg’s three part-time employees, she wasn’t a local. She’d been born and raised in nearby Junction. They’d met nearly ten years ago at a community college in San Antonio when they’d both been fashion merchandising majors. Meg had gone on to graduate from SACC while Terry had quit to marry the man of her dreams.
Said man was now her ex-husband and the star of her revenge fantasies—she’d caught him cheating. Terry now lived in Skull Creek, worked for Meg during the day and went to school via several online study courses at night.
She had long brown hair, a centerfold figure, perfect teeth and brown eyes so wide and innocent they would make Bambi envious. She could also spot a couture knockoff at fifty paces. She wore the latest wraparound skirt with rhinestone rocker tee and knee-high cowboy boots. Back in Junction, she’d been Junction High’s Best-Dressed Senior, as well as head cheerleader and homecoming queen. Last year, she’d earned the honor of being the first out-of-towner to make Tilly’s coveted list. A huge honor she’d celebrated by going an extra five miles on her treadmill.
Terry was also a serious health nut since she’d packed on a whopping twenty pounds while married to The Loser. She’d lost the weight along with the man, and was now determined to steer clear of both.
She sipped a soy protein shake and held up the newspaper. “Did you see this?”
“What?”
“The picture on the front page of last week’s Lifestyle section?” Terry waved several sheets of newsprint.
“I haven’t had time.” Meg turned her attention back to the computer and finished ordering the prom dresses for the Weatherby twins—they’d settled on floor-length, bubblegum colored taffeta with rhinestones. A fitting that had gone surprisingly fast since the girls had come prepared with a copy of teen Vogue and a clear idea of what they wanted. “Why are we reading last week’s paper?” she asked Terry.
“To catch up on the soaps. I’m here all day, so I don’t get a chance to watch my favorites anymore, and I had a lot of homework last week so I couldn’t read Marge’s Titillating TV column. Claire told Darius she was pregnant.”
“And Darius is…?”
“Only the hottest hunk on daytime TV. Claire says it’s his, but she’s a skank. I bet it’s Juan’s.”
“Why don’t you just record the shows?”
“Because then I would have to buy a DVD player that’s made in China. I refuse to support an industry that’s neck-deep in child labor.”
Terry was also a humanitarian, a member of PETA and just last year she’d participated in a walk to free the lobsters.
“You could always get Tivo.”
“And contribute to corporate world domination?”
“You can record multiple shows.”
She seeme
d to think about it. “I could write an explicit letter of disapproval when I sign up. Just to make my position clear. Then it wouldn’t be as if I were compromising my principles.”
“Just bending them a little.”
“Exactly.” Terry’s attention shifted back to the newspaper and she shook her head. “Dillon Cash and Ava Laraby. Can you believe that?”
Meg’s fingers stalled on the keyboard. Obviously she wasn’t the only one who hadn’t bought his startling transformation.
She remembered last night and awareness rippled through her.
You bought it, sister, and it’s just a matter of time until you’re falling all over him just like every other woman in town.
She ignored the sudden zing of excitement that spiraled through her and summoned her initial disbelief. “It is pretty wild, isn’t it?” Ava Laraby had been the dance captain for the Skull Creek Stars way back when. She’d been beautiful and outgoing and Dillon would have sold his soul to the devil for even a smile from her. “Not that people can’t change,” she heard herself add. “They most definitely can and we shouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“I’ll try, but it just isn’t that easy. I mean, Dillon and Ava. They don’t blend. They’re like water and oil. Fish and red wine. Gucci and Donna Karan.”
“I wouldn’t say they’re so different. Dillon’s not that far out of her league.”
“Are you kidding?” She gave Meg a get real look. “She’s way out of his. Her hotness has definitely fizzled even since I’ve known her. Look at that outfit? There’s a reason they call them skinny jeans. They’re for skinny people, otherwise they make your ass look like a billboard and I speak from experience.” She took another drink of her shake. “And that shirt. Somebody needs to tell this girl that floral is over.” She squinted. “And is that a spiral perm? Do they even do those anymore?”
“I happen to know for a fact that To Dye For does at least five spirals a month.” When Terry arched an eyebrow, Meg shrugged. “Nikki mentioned it the last time I was in. She said it’s still one of her hottest dos.”
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