Shane watched her until she looked over at him.
“Thanks,” he said.
Her eyebrows pinched. “For?”
“For all your help, for letting me drag you down here. For…being you.”
She blinked twice in quick succession, her blue eyes filling with emotion. Hope, if he wasn’t mistaken. So damn much of it, fear coiled in his gut. He looked down at her lips, considering a host of things he shouldn’t.
Kiss her. Tell her you want her. You know you want to.
He did. Badly. The realization made him dizzy, like he was teetering dangerously close to a ledge he never should have ventured onto to begin with. Before he slipped off, he shifted his attention from her face to the tree-lined street in front of them and tried to gather his wits.
The Townsend issue was resolved. It’d be a good time to back off, let things between him and Crickitt return to normal.
“We should go out to dinner, celebrate,” he said, evidently content to ignore his own advice.
“Oh. No, thanks.”
At least one of them was thinking clearly.
But before he felt the sting of rejection, she added, “Restaurants are nice, but I need a home-cooked meal.”
“I know just the place.” It was a small battle, but he couldn’t escape the idea that he’d won. “Great kitchen,” he said, “but no cook.”
“You cook,” she teased, elbowing him.
“I bake,” he corrected. “Unless you want cake or cookies”—he swallowed, remembering the afternoon by the waterfall, intense chocolate chip kisses, her lips pink and swollen from his whiskers. His next words sounded like they were coated in gravel—“then I’m afraid I’m not much help.”
* * *
Shane underestimated his culinary abilities, in Crickitt’s opinion. He helped pull together a perfectly respectable spaghetti dinner, knew what the term “al dente” meant, and she’d even found a fresh block of Parmigiano-Reggiano in the fridge.
She leaned back in her chair at the kitchen table and placed a hand on her stomach. “Not bad if I do say so myself.”
“You’re a regular Chef Boyardee,” he said over the rim of his wineglass. Then he frowned and pulled it away without taking a drink. “Dishes.”
“You’re rich,” she said, waving a hand. “Don’t you have people who do that for you?”
“I don’t have a house staff at home, let alone here.”
“Is that really true?”
“Surprised?”
“Your house is so clean.” The image of Shane on his hands and knees scrubbing a bathroom floor, a slightly damp T-shirt clinging to his hard back muscles, thrust itself into her imagination.
“One of my first clients when I started my company was Maid in Waiting,” he said, pulling her out of the fantasy. “They come out twice a month to do the big stuff.”
An image of her wearing a French maid costume popped into her brain.
“But”—he held up a finger to defend himself, probably thinking her smirk had to do with judgment rather than her ill-behaved hormones—“I do all my own laundry.”
She tipped her head toward the mess on the stovetop. “And dishes?”
“And dishes.”
Crickitt’s domestic fantasy of Shane became a reality as she stood at his side at the sink. She watched through her lashes as he scrubbed a pot, elbow-deep in suds, his bare biceps contracting and rippling while he worked. Water dripping from his hands, he handed the pot to her, tugging the handle as she grasped it and dragging her a few inches closer to his face.
“I never asked you how dinner went,” he said, relinquishing the pot. “Apart from the food poisoning, of course.”
Concentrating too hard on drying the cookware, Crickitt debated her answer. She saw no reason not to be up front. “Terrible,” she said.
“Really,” Shane said, sounding intrigued.
She placed the pot in the cabinet over her head. “Yes. Really. Would you have expected a dinner with a former spouse to be anything other than terrible?”
He concentrated on washing a cutting board. “Maybe. You have a lot of history with…” He waited for her to fill in the blank.
She was reluctant to allow her ex-husband to intrude on their near-perfect moment, but because she didn’t want to make it a big deal, she answered him. “Ronald.”
“Ronald?” he said with mock alarm.
She swatted him with the dish towel. “Be nice.”
“What went so terribly?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you. You’re far too giddy about my plight.”
He cleared his throat and affected a stern expression. “Is this better?”
Crickitt smiled. Even scowling he was attractive. She may as well acknowledge the fact that they were getting closer. Close enough that she felt safe trusting him with the truth. More than that, she wanted to trust him.
“He told me he loved me.” Crickitt spoke the words quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. She didn’t have to look at Shane long to determine his frown was genuine. “I was stunned,” she admitted. “We split up because he fell out of love with me. And after what he said the night he called me at work…” She trailed off. She hadn’t meant to bring that up.
“The night you were crying.”
The same night Shane held her, his arms shaking so much she’d worried for a moment she’d end up consoling him. But as soon as she leaned into him, they both calmed. As if he’d found as much comfort in her arms as she had in his. Then she swallowed, remembering every second of what happened after. “Yes.”
“What did he say?” he asked.
She shook her head, not wanting to relive the hellish moments before the heavenly ones that followed.
Shane waited and said nothing.
“He just…he said his love for me was…” The words stuck in her throat like briars.
“Was what?” Shane pressed.
It was so embarrassing, so debasing. She didn’t want to believe she’d cast her twenties into the wind. That she’d spent nearly a third of her life futilely, in a marriage where her husband was never more attracted to her than—
“Crickitt.” Shane’s voice dipped, gently scolding her. He pulled out of the soapy water and took the towel from her, drying his hands. “Was what?”
She steeled herself, then blew the words out in a huff. “He said he loved me like a sister.”
Shane laughed.
She winced, the sound lancing her heart. She’d expected sympathy, a heartfelt apology.
“I’m sorry,” he said, grinning.
Not the kind of apology I was looking for.
Crickitt pulled back her shoulders. Heated tears pricked the backs of her eyes and she blinked them back, refusing to make a bigger fool of herself than she already had.
His hands landed on her shoulders. She shook them off, unable to meet his eyes.
“It’s not funny. I’m sorry,” Shane insisted.
“Then why are you laughing?” She choked through the lump of raw humiliation. It hadn’t been easy for her to leave her shell, to show her barely healed underbelly.
“Because…because…”
She blew out an exasperated growl and started to step away from him.
Shane bent, meeting her eyes. “Because I’m relieved, okay? I thought you slept with him the night you had dinner.”
She blinked. Then laughed. He was wrong. It was funny. “You thought I slept with Ronald that night?” she said. Shane looked chagrined. She was more amused. That explained his bad mood yesterday. “I was wondering why you were so angry—” She stopped, her jaw dropping slowly as she comprehended exactly why he was angry. She moved to meet his shifting gaze. “Shane, why were you angry?”
He turned back to the sink instead of answering. But he didn’t need to. She remembered Lori LaRouche and Shane laughing together and the feelings of jealousy that pricked her like a thousand tiny needles.
He was jealous.
Her world flippe
d on its axis, taking her stomach with it. Had Shane been pacing the floors that night, worried she was being lured into another man’s arms? Had he been worried he’d lost her, regretful that he hadn’t stopped her?
Did Shane want her for himself?
He turned toward her, propping a hip against the sink. She sought his eyes for the truth.
“Remember when I said it would pass?” he asked.
She nodded as she crossed her arms over her stomach, a literal attempt to hold herself together if he said what she hoped to hear.
He gave her a sheepish half grin. “I was wrong.”
Fingers tightening around her arms, she tried to contain her heart as it beat relentlessly against her rib cage. “Yeah, me, too,” she whispered.
Shane stood. “Really?”
A thin laugh escaped her lips. Was he kidding? How could he not see how much she desired him, how much she cared for him? How much she needed him? Even now, when she should be guarding her heart, all she could think about was leaping into his arms and telling him to go for it. But she’d done that already. What she needed to see was that Shane was as desperate for her as she was him.
“So,” she croaked, her throat Sahara dry. “What do we do?”
Shane raked a hand through his hair, shaking his head as if he didn’t know.
She saw only two options. Retreat to neutral corners, or… “We could try.”
He reached her in two steps, his eyes locked on hers like a pair of heat-seeking missiles. Crickitt lifted her hands, catching his face as he speared his fingers into her curls and dove into her mouth. His brief, rough kiss brimmed with promise and tasted like raw desire. He pulled back so suddenly, a tiny whimper escaped her throat.
He pulled her hands into his, searching her face. Doubt clouded over the passion in his eyes. “I can’t give you what you want, Crickitt.”
Afraid of losing this moment the way they’d lost so many others, she put a finger over his mouth and shook her head. She didn’t want to talk about the future, commitment, or promises. Those were things stretching into the beyond in a big gray blur. Once upon a time she wanted the fairy tale romance and, arrogantly, assumed she’d found it with Ronald. Now she saw that the path between now and forever had several forks, each veering off into unknown directions. The only way to find out where she’d end up was to commit to a course.
And right now, she wanted Shane. She needed him. No matter how short-lived. Regardless of the consequences.
Sliding her finger away from his lips, she whispered, “Then give me what you can.”
Shane took her mouth captive, his lips firm and urgent. Crickitt echoed his response, opening her mouth to his exploring tongue, pawing at his clothes with greedy hands. A chair scraped the floor as Shane backed her across the room, his mouth sealed with hers. Her hip collided with the edge of the kitchen table.
“Sorry,” he said against her lips.
“It’s okay,” she answered around his kisses.
He navigated her through the living room, either not willing or able to come apart for the seconds it would take to cross the room safely. The back of her knee hit the recliner and she lost her balance, clutching Shane’s collar and tugging him with her. He caught them both, bracing an arm on the chair and locking his other arm around her waist to keep her from falling.
He helped her to her feet, his breaths shaky, and pierced her with a desperate look. “I don’t think I can make it to the bedroom.”
“Then don’t,” she said.
His mouth hit hers hard as he bypassed the couch and tumbled them to the floor. She lost sight of him briefly when he yanked her shirt over her head and tossed it aside. Then he was staring down at her, dark hunger in his eyes.
“I was hoping you’d wear this one,” he said, cupping her black lace bra in both hands.
She gave him a curious smile before recalling the day she’d lost a button, the day she bent over him and massaged his assumedly aching head. “You faker,” she breathed.
Shane mumbled something, but since it was between her breasts, she opted to let it go.
He let her roll him onto his back where she stripped him of his shirt. She paid equal attention to his chest, exploring his tight abdomen and tapered waist. Straddling him, she fingered the cool metal button on his jeans. Purposefully slowing her movements, she flicked the stud from its denim enclosure and drew the zipper down, hearing only her shallow breaths and the raspy snick-snick of metal tines. She parted the material, her own personal peep show as she revealed inch by delicious inch the man beneath her. Dark hair peppered his belly button, his lower abdomen, his…
She drew in a sharp breath, mouth agape as she stared.
Shane August was not wearing underwear.
Mesmerized by her newfound discovery, she reached for him.
Shane made a strangled noise, moving her hand and rolling her onto her back.
“You’re killing me,” he said, gently pinning her wrists above her head.
Desire trickled molasses slow into her belly as a smile spread across her mouth. She’d weakened Shane’s knees, and that made her feel downright…powerful.
He must have noticed the bold look on her face because next, he cocked an eyebrow and released her hands. “I’ll be right back.” He lifted off of her, making quick work of shucking his jeans and relieving her of her skirt and her panties.
He returned a millisecond later. “I’m back,” he said, swallowing her laughter in a blistering kiss. He pulled away, his eyes roving over her like twin heat lamps, making her feel hot everywhere they touched. “I promise to take my time with you later, but, Crickitt…”
She clamped on to his arms, hauling him toward her, giving her permission. He came willingly, positioning himself atop her, kissing her slower, deeper, than before. When he pulled away, their gazes locked. Once she’d looked into his amber eyes and found distant warmth, but now she saw familiarity, friendship.
Love.
Her throat constricted, choking the words that threatened to rise. So she swept a shock of damp hair from his forehead, cradled his face in her hands, and silenced them with his mouth.
He sank into her, consuming her in the fire that had been burning between them since the moment they met. She clung to him as he moved inside her, crossing her ankles over the rough hair on his thighs. She grasped his rounded, muscular shoulders, savoring all of his male hardness, before sweeping down to mold her palms over his perfectly taut butt.
Shane worshipped her body as well, his talented fingers dancing over her skin, leaving sparks in their wake. And she let him do his worst, writhing beneath him while he lavished attention to her most sensitive spots.
“You’re gorgeous.” He brushed the tip of his nose over hers. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
She reached up and weakly clapped a hand over his mouth.
He shook it off. “And sexy.” He dodged her incoming hand this time. “Don’t muzzle me while you’re having the best sex of your life.”
She let her hand fall away. After all, he was right.
Everything was right. The way their bodies lined up and fit together, how easily she’d met and matched his rhythm. He glided over her, winding her tighter and tighter and tighter until she all but burst, unfurling like a cresting wave, Shane’s name on her lips as she bucked against him.
Palms tensing around her hips, Shane followed her over, his sounds of completion primal, guttural. He collapsed in a heap, pressing Crickitt into the carpeted floor. She welcomed his weight, feathering his hair with her fingers as his breathing grew heavier.
She didn’t know how long they laid there, their bodies cooling, heartbeats slowing. But finally, Shane pressed a kiss to her neck.
Crickitt flattened her palms and pressed against his shoulders. Shane pushed himself up but didn’t move away, hovering over her, a curious smile on his face. “Going somewhere?”
She had to think about that. Her body had sort of moved of its own accord. Then it hit her. She w
as about to gather her clothes and get dressed. Ronald never liked lying skin to skin, and for the past decade, she’d dutifully complied.
Old habits die hard.
“I was…um, I thought you might need a minute.” She gestured to the protection Shane had the foresight to put on.
He assessed her for a moment before rolling to his side and tromping to the kitchen. Crickitt watched his bare backside flex in the subdued light coming from the range hood. He extended one arm to point a finger at her, the muscles in his shoulder bunching. “Don’t move,” he instructed.
After the briefest moment over the trash can he returned, catching her reaching for her shirt.
He snatched it away and tossed it behind the couch. “No,” he said, pulling her flush against him.
Her breasts brushed against the hair on his chest, and she decided skin to skin with Shane was nice. Very nice.
Shane loosened his grasp on her to run a hand down her rib cage, over the swell of her hip and back up again. “We should have done this a long time ago.” He lightened his touch, dragging the tips of his fingers down her side again. Gooseflesh popped up on her skin and she shivered. “Cold?”
“Yes. Someone wouldn’t let me have my shirt.”
He crushed her against him. “No shirt,” he mumbled into her throat, flicking his tongue out to taste her neck. She angled it toward him, giving him room to stray. Soon a surge of heat headed south.
Shane maneuvered himself between her thighs and braced himself on his arms when Crickitt pushed against his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said truthfully. “I just—don’t you need a minute before…?”
He lowered himself, his arousal brushing against her belly. Breathing in through flared nostrils, he brushed the curls away from her forehead with both hands. “No,” he murmured. “Do you?”
She darted her eyes to one side, unable to meet his heated gaze. Shane was a caliber of lover she wasn’t used to, and now they both knew it. The remark only fueled his confidence. He kissed her, his roaming hands precise and perfect.
Tempting the Billionaire (Love in the Balance) Page 16
