But she wasn’t going to throw herself at him. She wasn’t going to do anything until she was sure.
She had no idea what that certainty would look like, however.
He let her pull back, but he didn’t let her go. Instead, he clutched her to his chest, breathing hard. She curled into him, unwilling to break the contact.
“We should...” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “We should do the dishes.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moved.
He stroked her hair. “I’ll need to head back tonight. I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
That was a good thing. Because if she knew Oliver was asleep right down the hall, she might do something stupid, like slip into his bed in the middle of the night and pick up where they’d just left off.
Funny how him leaving didn’t feel like a good thing.
“You can’t miss your meetings,” she said, her voice wavering just a little. “Not for me.”
He made a snorting noise. “I might be able to come back out tomorrow night. Just to see how you’re doing. But I can’t make any promises.”
She smiled and hugged him tighter. “I’m going to try cookies again.”
“Maybe this time, you could follow the recipe?”
“Maybe,” she agreed.
They laughed and, as if by silent agreement, pulled away from each other. “Then we better wash the dishes.”
She grinned. The ways she’d messed up those cookies... “And find the baking soda.”
Six
He really didn’t have time for yet another three hours in the car, round-trip, plus however long it took to make sure Renee was doing okay and hadn’t set the oven on fire. He’d cut out of work an hour early today in an unsuccessful attempt to beat rush-hour traffic, which meant yet another meeting with Ritter had been pushed back. That wasn’t going to make his father happy.
Oliver needed to be focusing on his job. His jobs—he needed to check in on Chloe and see how the negotiations with ESPN were going.
Funny how that to-do list wasn’t stopping him from making the long drive out to Red Oak Hill again.
He pulled up in front of the house, grabbed the groceries out of the trunk and bounded—bounded!—up the front steps and into the house.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. Instead of burning, something that smelled suspiciously like chocolate chip cookies wafted through the house.
Oliver grinned as he hurried back to the kitchen. Hopefully, she’d followed the recipe this time. But he made up his mind—he was going to eat the damned cookies and tell her they were great, no matter what.
Well, almost no matter what. He wasn’t eating charcoal.
He pulled up short when he walked into the kitchen. The place was an utter disaster. Flour coated almost every surface and the sink was overflowing with mixing bowls. Ah—she’d found the stand mixer, as well. Cookies covered every square inch of countertop that wasn’t taken up with baking supplies.
Racks and racks of cookies. There had to be eight, maybe ten dozen in all. Some were noticeably darker and some were almost flat and a few looked like they hadn’t spread at all.
That was a hell of a lot of cookies.
“If we eat all those cookies at once,” he said, trying to find a place to set his bags, “we’ll get sick.”
“Oliver!” Renee popped up from where she’d been bent over the oven. “You’re here!”
He grinned at her. “I am. You’ve been busy, I see.”
She glanced around at all the cookies, her cheeks coloring prettily. “You’re out of chocolate chips. Sorry about that.”
For a moment, all he could do was stare at her. The longer she was at Red Oak, the better she looked. The shadows under her eyes were a distant memory now and the lines of worry at the corners and across her forehead had faded away. True, she had a smear of flour across her forehead, but that just made her look even more adorable. She was wearing yet another pair of soft leggings and a loose turquoise T-shirt that made her eyes shine. Her hair had been pulled back into a messy braid and all he wanted to do was mess it up further.
He didn’t. All he did was look. Because for the first time, Renee looked like she was meant to be—a young, beautiful woman enjoying herself.
God, she took his breath away.
To hell with his restraint. The grocery bags hit the ground and the next thing he knew, she was in his arms and he was kissing her like she was the very air he needed and he’d been holding his breath for the last twenty-four hours.
“I brought more chocolate,” he murmured against her mouth before he plundered it ruthlessly with his own.
He hesitated, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, her body molded itself to his, her lips parting for his tongue, her fingers sinking into his hair as she tilted his head for better access.
“More chips are good,” she agreed, but Oliver had already forgotten what they were talking about.
All he could remember was that this was why he had come. To hold Renee and discover her secrets one long, leisurely kiss at a time.
“Tell me to stop,” he muttered as her hands slid down from his hair, over his back and down to his butt. She squeezed and what was left of his self-control began to fray. Badly. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
She pulled away, her eyes closed, and he damn near fell to his knees to beg for her. Him! Oliver Lawrence!
But if she wanted him to beg, by God he would, because at some point, his best friend’s irritating little sister had become a gorgeous young woman he couldn’t walk away from.
He wasn’t going to walk away from her.
“Oliver.” His name on her lips was soft but he didn’t miss the undercurrent of need in her voice. God, he hoped it was need.
“Yeah, darling?”
She opened her eyes and the force of the desire reflected back at him threatened to unman him right then and there. “Don’t stop.”
* * *
This was crazy. Worse than crazy. Dangerous, even.
She couldn’t let Oliver sweep her off her feet and carry her up the stairs—again.
She shouldn’t let him kick open the door to his bedroom and set her down on her feet. And under no circumstances should she let him kiss her as if she were his last chance at redemption.
There would be no redemption. Not for her anyway. It was selfish and shallow but she just wanted to feel good again. Even if it were just for an evening in Oliver’s arms. Nothing permanent. She wasn’t looking for another ’til-death-do-us-part. She’d done that already.
But was it so wrong to want to feel desirable? Was it bad to want a man to look at her with naked want in his eyes, to need her so badly that he kept driving halfway across Texas to see her?
Was it an awful thing to take what he was offering?
“Renee,” he murmured against her lips as his hands slid underneath her loose tunic. The touch of his bare fingers to the skin at the small of her back made her groan.
How was he doing this to her? She was no innocent—she was almost five months pregnant, for heaven’s sake. She’d known desire and want in her time.
But nothing had prepared her for this, she realized as Oliver pulled her shirt over her head and cast it aside.
“Oh, dear God in heaven,” he said, his voice revenant as he stared down at her bare chest. Because she hadn’t been able to bring herself to put a too-small underwire bra on again if she were going to be alone in the house all day.
She’d planned to put the blasted thing on before he got here. She’d had the best of intentions. But Oliver had shown up earlier than she’d expected and it was rapidly becoming apparent that the bra was pointless in more ways than one.
“They’re not always this big,” she told him. “In the interest of full disclosure.” Because no matter w
hat, she didn’t want anything that happened in this bedroom to be a lie.
Then she waited. Really, she wasn’t afraid of what he might think about her new and improved breasts. Men liked big breasts, after all. Chet certainly had.
But it was the rest of her that had her worried. Her belly had started rounding out by the time she was three months pregnant and, aside from her loose tunics and leggings, nothing fitted. Not even close.
“I’ve put on a lot of weight.” She managed to say it in a level voice, without any of the hurt bleeding into that statement. But if he were going to say something...less than perfect, she wanted to be braced for the worst. She wouldn’t let it hurt.
“Hmm.” The noise rumbled out of his chest as his fingers trailed over her ribs, their destination unmistakable. “It suits you.”
What the heck did he mean by that? But before the words got off the tip of her tongue, his fingers were skimming over the sides of her breasts, circling around her nipples.
Which were, of course, tightening to hard points. Of course they were.
His thumbs swept over the tips and Renee stopped thinking about her weight, about Chet Willoughby and how perfectly average he’d been in bed. Instead, her head dropped back and she had to steady herself as the sensation of being touched—tenderly, sweetly and oh-so-hotly—overwhelmed her.
Then something warm and wet swept over her right nipple and her eyes flew open just in time to see Oliver lick it again. “Okay to suck or not?” he murmured against her flesh.
Heat flooded her body, making her shift anxiously. The pressure between her legs was so intense that she could barely think. All she could imagine was his mouth on her. “I... Gently, I think?” Was she more sensitive because she was pregnant? Or just because this was Oliver and he was seducing her like she’d never been seduced before?
She watched in fascination as he fell to his knees before her, his hands around her waist to hold her steady. Then he looked up at her and, holding her gaze with his own, he took her right nipple in his mouth.
She couldn’t have held back the moan if she tried—and she did try. But it was a pointless exercise because sensations crashed over her like waves breaking over a jagged shore.
And this was Oliver being gentle. In control. Cautious. She had a sudden urge to see him beyond all reason, wild with need and crazed with desire. For her.
As his mouth drew down on her, his thumb continued to flick over her other nipple and that pressure between her legs crested and then crested again. She dug her hands into his hair and held on tight.
She didn’t want to think about all the times she’d faked this kind of reaction, nor did she want to think about all the times Chet had skipped the foreplay to get right to the sex.
So she didn’t. She made a conscious effort to put those unpleasant disappointments into a box inside her mind and shut the lid tight. Chet was dead and she wasn’t. She was here and she was coming back to life under Oliver’s skilled touch.
“You taste like vanilla and chocolate,” he murmured as he kissed the space between her breasts before moving to the other one. “God, Renee, you taste so damn good.”
She sighed and gave herself over to him. It wasn’t selfish if he was giving himself freely, right? He wanted her. She wanted him. They were both consenting adults. There wasn’t anything wrong with any of this.
A thought in the very back of her mind tried to remind her that, if anyone put her and Oliver in bed together—or even near the bed—there would be many things wrong with this. Her toxic reputation might very well damage his own, which might affect his business and his family.
All those lovely feelings threatened to turn sour in a heartbeat and she almost pulled away from him. She couldn’t risk hurting the Lawrence family and, selfish as it was, she couldn’t risk tainting all those wonderful memories from her childhood with loathing and recrimination.
But that was the exact moment that Oliver relinquished her breast and began kissing down her stomach. Renee froze, torn between the need to do the right thing, the urge to hide her belly or the marks on her legs from him and the unleashed desire still crashing through her system. “Oliver...”
He kissed the top of her belly, where it rounded out. And as much as Renee detested it, she was powerless to stop her mother’s voice echoing through her thoughts.
Look at you. It’s disgusting, how you’ve already let yourself go. It’s embarrassing to be seen in public with you when you’re this fat and ugly.
She moved to cover herself but Oliver caught her hands in his. “Don’t hide from me, Renee,” he said, his mouth moving lower. “You have no idea how gorgeous you are right now, do you?”
“I’m not.” Her whisper was shaky, even to her own ears.
“You are.” He looked up at her, that intensity shining through the lust. “Let me show you how much I want you.” Then, before she could stop him, he hooked his fingers into the stretchy waistband of her leggings and her panties and pulled down.
He had to work the fabric over her hips but he was making that humming noise that seemed to come straight from his chest as he bared her. She balanced herself on his shoulders as she stepped out of her clothes and then she was completely nude before him.
He stared at her in what she desperately hoped was wonder and not something less...savory. He hadn’t noticed the scars yet, so she fought the urge to slap her hands over the tops of her thighs. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. Chet never had, after all.
God, why was she like this? Why couldn’t she let go? Why couldn’t she get lost in Oliver’s eyes, Oliver’s touch? Why was her mother’s sneering voice cutting through this moment? Why were memories of Chet lurking just behind that?
Why couldn’t this be perfect? No, that wasn’t the right question, she realized as she blinked back tears.
Why couldn’t she be perfect?
Then Oliver leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her belly button, his hands stroking up and down her thighs before moving back to cup her bottom. He squeezed as his mouth moved lower and his teeth skimmed over the space just above the hair that covered her sex. Because she hadn’t been able to bring herself to keep up with her waxing. Being naked on a table before a near stranger? That was a gossip disaster waiting to happen, and besides, who was going to see her like this?
Oliver.
He crouched down a little more and nudged her legs apart. She should let go of his hair, tell him to stop. At the very least, she should insist they pull the drapes and turn off the lights. Then she would be able to hide her belly and her thighs from him and she might be able to let go.
Because she needed to let go. She needed to prove those voices in her head wrong.
She needed this. She needed him.
“Beautiful,” he whispered and he seemed so damn sincere that she had to believe he meant it, had to believe this was real. That was when his hand slid between her legs, brushing over her core with such tenderness that she wanted to cry. Stupid hormones. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss right there and, miracle of miracles, her mind emptied of all the hurt and criticism and pain and there was only Oliver and his mouth and his hands and her. He wasn’t in Dallas with anyone else. He was here because he chose her.
His tongue moved over her sensitive flesh and it was the same and it was different and it was everything all at once. Because she didn’t remember all these sensations crashing over her in a flood that couldn’t be held back. She didn’t remember making these noises without being able to control them. And she sure as hell didn’t remember being so swept away by the rising tide that her legs shook and she suddenly was in danger of falling over.
“Oliver,” she begged, pulling on his hair. “I can’t stand.”
He looked up at her, one arm locked around her legs and that was when she saw it—the raw hunger in his eyes. It took her breath away.
Then he surg
ed to his feet, catching her in his arms. When he kissed her again, she didn’t taste vanilla or chocolate, but instead she was on his tongue and he was marking her as his own.
She couldn’t think. All she could do was act. So she yanked at the buttons on his shirt and jerked at the zipper of his pants because if she was naked, she wanted him naked, too.
He kicked out of his pants as she hauled his undershirt over his head and then there was nothing between them. She stepped back to see what he looked like underneath his button-up shirts and suit jackets. She got the impression of broad and lean and muscled with a smattering of chest hair. But she barely had time to say, “Oh, Oliver,” before he was kissing her again, his hands pulling her hair from her braid as he backed her up.
So she let her hands explore. His chest was hard and warm and he hissed against her lips when she caught his nipples with her fingernails. His stomach rippled with muscles as she moved her hands lower and then...
“Oh, Oliver,” she moaned against the skin of his neck as she gripped his erection. He was rock hard under her touch and she could feel his muscles shake as her hand moved up his impressive length and back down to his base.
He stilled against her, his head on her shoulder, his breath coming hard. “Woman,” he growled, skimming his teeth over the delicate skin where her neck met her shoulders, “if you don’t stop that right now, you’ll have to wait at least five minutes before I can be inside of you.”
She did that. She made him react like that. It was powerful, knowing that she could bring him to the edge, just like he’d done to her. God, it felt good to be in control of something again.
She smiled and stroked him again. “Five whole minutes?”
He groaned against her skin and then he bit her. Not too hard, but it was primal in its own way. “Maybe only three.” He grabbed her hand when she squeezed. “Renee.”
Then he picked her up. But instead of throwing her down on the bed, he spun and sat hard on a sofa. Renee blinked. She’d been so caught up in her own thoughts and in Oliver that she hadn’t even realized that his room was set up similarly to hers. There was a large—and inviting—bed done up in deep blues and a sitting area with two love seats and a simple coffee table between them.
His Best Friend's Sister Page 7
