“What talent,” I murmured, my mouth against his neck. “You continually surprise me.”
It was his turn to taste, and he started at my breasts. A sigh whispered out of me when his tongue brushed over each nipple, when they hardened beneath his mouth. I closed my eyes when his kisses tickled their way down to my stomach. Heat and desire and want and need coursed through my blood in a wash of unbelievable bliss.
The hot flash of his tongue moved lower, pausing only long enough for Scot to tug my pants down and off my legs. My panties followed.
“No fair. I’m naked. You’re not.” I sat up and fumbled with his slacks, but my hands trembled from the overwhelming necessity of removing his pants so that I couldn’t seem to unbutton and unzip no matter how hard I tried. “Help me,” I finally said.
He did. We sat on the bed, facing each other, me in his lap with my legs wrapped around him and his hands on my back. We were skin to skin, and the feelings, the arousal of such intimacy, burned the fire hotter.
We kissed again, a slow, searching, soul-baring kiss that knocked me senseless. Scot grasped my hips and pushed me closer, and a throaty groan spilled from his lips. “I don’t have a condom with me. Please tell me you do.”
“I . . . oh. No, I don’t.” Disappointment that this night was not going to be what I wanted crashed in, but the passion—the need—remained just as hot, just as heavy. Scot’s hands stilled and our breaths came out ragged and uneven.
Scot shifted and my body slid down enough that his erection throbbed against my inner thigh. I rested my cheek on his chest, the beat of his heart echoing beneath my ear. “We don’t have to completely stop, you know,” he said softly.
“We don’t? Without a condom—”
“Think about it, sweetheart. There are plenty of things we can do without a condom. And I know exactly where I want to start.” He stroked one finger along the inside of my thigh. “Want me to show you?”
“Yes, please. I’d like that very much.”
That was all he needed to hear. He eased me down, so I was lying flat on my back, and then bent my knees and pushed my legs apart. Pressing his lips to my belly button, he kissed me softly. A tingle began there, where his mouth touched my skin, and skimmed along with each kiss, each lick. My nipples ached, begging for his touch, but he had something else in mind.
I gasped when his mouth brushed against the curls between my legs. He anchored himself by holding my thighs and he eased my legs farther apart. His tongue pushed in, pleasuring me in a way that was at once unexpected and tantalizing. I buried my hands in his hair, and with another gasp, raised my hips. He stopped and slowly lifted his head, his eyes meeting mine, and I saw so many things in his gaze.
Desire, yes. Passion, yes. But I also saw a teasing glint. He returned to kissing my thigh, licking skin that was now so sensitive, almost too sensitive. Tendrils of heat crawled through me at a breakneck pace as his kisses burned down my leg all the way to my ankle. There, he switched to my other leg and made his way slowly, excruciatingly, back up to my stomach.
I closed my eyes and let myself go, succumbing to the vibrations pulsating through my body with such ferocity. When his lips finally returned to the place I most wanted them, I thrust my hips against his tongue, matching his rhythm, and moaned again. “I . . . Please, Scot. Please.”
He could’ve continued to tease me, but he didn’t. His tongue tasted and pressed, swirled and pushed at my pulsing core over and over and over. My pleasure and need continued to build until I thought I couldn’t handle it for another second. My body tensed. My hips drove against Scot’s mouth in an increasing, desperate tempo. And then, finally, the release I needed came in a burst of all-consuming sensation and pleasure that left me limp and drained in the aftermath.
I squeezed my eyes shut and panted, waiting for my body to reconnect. When I opened my eyes again, it was to find Scot next to me, watching me, his expression intent. “Wow. Just wow. That was incredible. Thank you,” I said.
He chuckled, a warm, rolling sound that filled me with happiness. “So polite. But you’re welcome. Very welcome.”
My eyes drifted down his beautiful, naked, sexy physique and just that fast, my blood spiked in temperature, and desire returned. “Don’t get too comfortable,” I murmured. “It’s your turn.”
And then I proceeded to show him exactly what I meant.
Later, much later, we fell asleep with our arms and legs wrapped around each other. It was, in a word, incredible. And far more than I’d ever expected.
Chapter Fifteen
Blinking against the morning sunlight, I woke with the languid contentedness of a cat who’s lapped up an entire bowlful of cream. I yawned and nuzzled deeper into Scot’s embrace, reveling in the weight of his arms, the firmness of his body, and the warmth of his breath on my neck. I’d spent an incredible night with a sexy man.
It boggled my mind how natural this felt. How right. So much so, that mornings upon mornings of waking up just like this stretched out in front of me. Maybe the idea of Scot and I being soul mates wasn’t such a whacked-out thought. Maybe it was time to seriously consider if Verda—who I’d decided must be a witch—knew something that I didn’t.
The devil voice whispered in my ear then. Reminding me that the more likely truth rested in the power of the journal and the very real possibility that my passionate night with Scot was due to my spell. To magic. I silenced the voice. For now, my goal was simply to enjoy.
He stirred beside me, as if awakened by my thoughts. His hand flattened on my stomach, warmth unfurled inside, and he hooked one of his legs over both of mine, drawing me in even closer. “Morning, beautiful,” he murmured. “Sleep well?”
“Mmm,” I purred. “Very well. And you?”
“Better than I have in months.” A soft kiss landed on my shoulder.
I shivered in delight. “I could stay like this all day. Lying here with you.”
“Feeling lazy, are you?”
“Exquisitely so.” His arousal pushed against my bottom, and that—the proof of his desire—made me shiver again. “Of course, we still don’t have any condoms. So we might have to get out of bed after all. At some point.”
His breathing paused and he rested his forehead against my shoulder. When he spoke, it was with muffled hesitance. Anxiety whisked from him to me. “I think . . . I think there’s something you should know. Something I should have told you last night.”
Every part of me tensed and went on alert. If this was the morning-after, we-should-just-be-friends speech, I wasn’t ready to hear it. Not yet. Not until we got home and our weekend together was over. Hell, probably not even then. But definitely not now. I forced my muscles to relax again, and I settled my weight against Scot. “Listen to you, sounding so serious. Can’t we leave serious behind for a few days and just enjoy ourselves?”
Now it was his body that tensed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but this is important.” Scot tightened his hold on me. “This is about Leslie. I know she’s your friend, but—”
“Nice, Scot,” I interjected before he could say more. My heart raced in panic and fear. I disentangled myself and sat up, pulling the covers around me. Going for lightness in tone to soften my actual words, I said, “Are you seriously going to bring up your ex-girlfriend before we’re even out of bed?”
He huffed out a sigh. “Not that tactful, I guess. But I’ve never been great at keeping my mouth shut. And this is something you should hear.”
Emotion gathered in my chest, behind my eyes. Refusing to look at him for worry I’d burst into tears, I pivoted so my back faced him, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. “If you’re sorry about last night, just say that. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
“No, Julia. I’m not sorry. Not at all.” He trailed my spine with his finger, starting at my neck and moving down to the small of my back. Even in my distress, I relished his touch. Ached for it, even. “I . . . You know what? Maybe you’re right. This conversation can wait for a fe
w more days.”
Pure, sweet relief smoothed my panic. Yes, whatever he had to say could wait. The real world loomed around the corner, a world filled with issues and heartache and choices I didn’t want to make. But all of those could wait, too. “Okay. Good.”
“Come here. Spoon with me.” I recognized his attempt at teasing, but it came off flat. Still, I would’ve complied, because if Scot held me, the rest of my nerves would ease for a little while. But I caught sight of the clock.
“We have breakfast in forty-five minutes!” Adrenaline rushed through me. I jumped off the bed, my nudity less of a concern than arriving late. Far less. I was at the bathroom door before I thought to say, “Meet me back here in thirty minutes. Can you be ready in thirty?”
“Thirty it is. But if we’re a few minutes late, I’m sure they’ll understand.”
Ha. Not likely. I was beyond positive that no amount of magic had the ability to alter my mother’s penchant for punctuality. Plus, regardless of what Scot wanted to tell me, and regardless of what happened once Scot and I returned home, I wanted my parents to like him. In fact, I wanted them to approve of him.
So, no. We absolutely couldn’t be a few minutes late.
We actually arrived at the restaurant with ten minutes to spare, getting there two minutes before my parents. It was, in all likelihood, the first time I’d ever beaten my parents to any gathering, ever. Mom and Dad were both dressed in what I call classy casual. They looked like what they were: a well-to-do older couple on vacation.
I saw them and whispered to Scot, “Here they come. Put on your game face.”
He flashed me a grin. “Quit worrying. Parents always like me.”
Oh, God. My stomach cramped with nerves. “They can be very opinionated,” I hissed under my breath. “Don’t take anything they say to heart. Promise?”
My mother’s blue eyes gleamed with curiosity, my father’s with silent appraisal. Yeah, he’d already begun the process of determining Scot’s worth. Before breakfast was over, Dad’s opinion of Scot would be set in immoveable, impenetrable stone.
I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping for the best but expecting the worst, and wasted no time in making the introductions. “Scot, these are my parents, Gregory and Susanna Collins. Mom, Dad, this is Scot Raymond.”
Scot shook my father’s hand and lightly kissed my mother’s. I think I was as surprised as she by the old-fashioned gesture. From her smile, I’d say it also pleased her.
We took our seats. Dad sat across from Scot, which wasn’t a shocker. One of the first lessons I’d learned from my father is to always look at a person straight on when determining their worth. Mom sat on the other side of me. I tried to breathe evenly. When that didn’t work, I instructed myself to relax. That didn’t prove successful, either. But the waitress came by with coffees and menus, and the distraction helped settle my uneasiness.
“How was your flight yesterday?” I asked as a way of taking control of the conversation. It seemed to do the trick. For a few minutes, anyway. But once the hassles of air travel were covered, my father focused in on Scot.
“Tell me, Scot, how do you earn your living?” Ah. Dad’s favorite opening question. Career talk was straightforward, and tended to put people more at ease than personal questions. From here, though, he’d spiral into other topics, all of which he’d base on Scot’s responses. Within fifteen minutes, my father would likely know more about Scot than I did.
My mother tugged my sleeve.
“Construction,” Scot answered easily, already falling into the trap. I should’ve warned him to respond to all questions with a new question. That was Dad’s trick.
“Really? Isn’t that interesting. And how did you decide to go into construction as a profession?” Dad angled his body slightly forward, his complete attention on his mark.
Mom tugged at my sleeve again. I patted her hand absently, but kept my concentration centered on Scot and Dad’s conversation.
Scot smiled and humor darted into his gorgeous chocolate eyes. “Funny you should ask that, Mr. Collins. Julia and I had this same discussion last night.” Scot added several teaspoons of sugar to his coffee and stirred. “Specifically about how important it is to choose the right profession.”
Oh, no. Scot delving into his theory of how loving your job increased your chances of success was not a good idea. My headhunter, bottom-line, all-about-success father would see Scot as flighty and emotional. Which he wasn’t. But once Dad formed that opinion, it would never change.
I jumped in. “That’s right, Scot. It is important. And we ate at an amazing Mexican restaurant last night, Dad. You and Mom should check it out before you leave.”
Mom tapped my shoulder. “Julia,” she said in a low, insistent voice. “You should have told me you were bringing a man with you.”
“Yes. Right. I should have,” I said in the same low tone. “Sorry about that.”
“I agree with you one hundred percent,” Dad said to Scot. “So many kids today choose a career with about as much thought as ordering fast food.” He frowned and took a small sip of his coffee. “In my business, I come across this often. People who have settled into the wrong professions and find themselves struggling with failure without understanding why. How did you choose construction as your career, Scot?”
“Nachos!” I screeched. “This restaurant had the best nachos. Don’t you think so, Scot?”
“Um . . . sure, Julia.” Scot’s grin held equal amounts of humor and confusion. “Anyway, Mr. Collins, to answer your question—”
“None of that,” Dad said. “Call me Gregory.”
“Gregory, then. I chose construction because it makes me happy.” Scot tapped his thumb against his coffee mug. So he was nervous, even if he hid it well. “I was explaining to Julia that I believe if a person does something they love, it’s easier to create success.”
Oh, the poor, poor man. My dad was about to eat him alive.
“Julia, darling,” Mom said with another tug on my sleeve. “Can I have your attention, please?”
“Is that so? You raise a good point, Scot.” Dad’s eyes squinted in either annoyance or consideration. Hell if I knew which. “But don’t you think there’s more to it? Loving what you do is one element, but not the whole enchilada.”
“They had enchiladas, too! I bet they’re as good as the nachos,” I said desperately. “Maybe we should go there for lunch today. What do you think?”
“Your mother and I have plans, Julia,” Dad said before returning his focus once again to Scot. “If the only key to success is to love your job, then we’d have a lot more millionaires in our world.”
“That’s only if you consider millions of dollars the only definition of success,” Scot said. “Take me, for instance. I have a degree in electrical engineering, and I could have made an excellent living if I’d continued along that path, but . . .”
“Julia! Stop ignoring me,” my mother said, her tone exasperated. “The men are fine.”
“This is a difficult time for construction,” Dad said. “How has the current climate . . .?”
My mother, apparently tired of my rude behavior—and who could blame her?—pulled on a lock of my hair. Hard enough that it stung. “Ow!” I yelped. “Okay, okay. You have my attention. What?”
“Darling,” she said, all sweetness and light. “I thought you and Jameson were becoming serious. I’m quite perplexed why you’d bring another man as your guest if that’s the case.”
Oh, dear Lord. I did not want to talk about Jameson. “One date. Not nearly enough to be described as serious.” Hm. Not quite true. I had serious feelings, attraction, whatever, for Scot, and they’d been there almost from the start.
“But see, Gregory, that’s exactly why I think it’s smarter to select a profession based first on something you feel passionate about. Then find ways to turn that passion into success. That’s where these other elements come into play,” Scot said. “But I know a lot of people don’t believe . . .�
�
“Are you and Scot dating?” Mom asked. “Or is he just a friend?”
Oh. My. God. Way too much going on for my brain to take in. Scot seemed to be holding his own for now, so I tuned him out and focused on Mom. “Yes, we’re dating.” For a few more days, anyway.
“You and Scot or you and Jameson?”
“Scot. Me and Scot.” Wasn’t that what she’d asked?
“So you’re not dating Jameson?”
“Mom! Why is this so important to you? No . . . yes . . . sort of.” I counted to three. “I don’t know. Jameson and I haven’t established anything yet.”
She twisted her napkin between her fingers. “I do wish I had known that. Your father made it sound as if you two had hit it off splendidly. So, dear, we thought it would be nice—”
“We did. Hit it off, I mean. And I like him well enough. But—”
“Gregory! Susanna! How are you two lovebirds doing?” A masculine voice came from the side of me, just out of my line of vision.
My mother paled. “I’m sorry, Julia,” she whispered.
Huh? Frustration merged with curiosity. I craned my neck and turned my upper body, and saw . . . oh, dear God, no. I had to be hallucinating. I closed my eyes for a millisecond, hoping that this was some sort of a mental breakdown. But it wasn’t. I opened my eyes to see Jameson taking the chair next to my father.
Fuck, right? Jameson was here. In Las Vegas. With me, my parents, and Scot.
I groaned. Yes, an audible groan slipped from my mouth.
“Please accept my apologies for being late,” Jameson said as he unfolded his napkin and put it on his lap. “My flight was a tad behind schedule.”
Maybe if I prayed hard enough, the floor would crack open and swallow me whole? I squeezed my eyes shut again and prayed as hard as I knew how. Nothing. God, apparently, wasn’t listening.
Okay, then. I’d have to make the best of the situation. I glared at my mother before smiling at Jameson. “Wow, Jameson! This is a surprise,” I somehow managed to say. “I had no idea you were coming. How . . . uh . . . how did this happen?”
By Magic Alone Page 23
