Mine.
I’ll kill Luke if he so much as looks at her again.
God, her hair smells good.
Naked. I have to see her naked. Now. I need her clothes scattered on the floor and her soft ass balanced on my thighs. I need my lips between—
“Uncle Ian?”
A dousing with a bucket of ice water might have yielded the same result. Ian and Chloe broke apart with comic speed, both breathing hard and studying the kitchen floor as though fascinated by the pattern in the linoleum.
“Hey, buddy,” Ian finally managed. “How’s the movie?”
“It’s over.”
Startled, Ian glanced into the living room. Already? Sure enough, the boisterous soundtrack was blaring, the credits were rolling. “Oh. Okay. How’d you like—”
“You were kissing.”
“What? Oh, that. Yeah. We were kissing.”
Preston cocked his head, frowning. “Why?”
“Well… Because we wanted to.”
“Are you going to marry her?”
“Marry?!” “What?!” and “No!” His response and Chloe’s response were stamped on top of each other, their expressions fixed in nearly identical versions of horrified, laughing denial.
Even though their reactions had been the same, Ian recognized his mistake the instant the words left his mouth. Chloe folded her arm across her chest and regarded him steadily, one brow arched in silent question: Oh, really? Is that right?
Shit. Real smooth. He turned to Preston.
“The fact is, I don’t think she’d marry me, even if I did ask her.”
“She wouldn’t? Why not?”
“Well, that’s a pretty big step. I don’t think she knows us well enough yet for that.”
“Us? You mean you’d still keep me, even if you did get married?”
Ian swallowed past the sudden knot in his throat. He glanced at Chloe, and then squatted down, bringing himself eye level with his nephew. “Yeah, buddy. That’s right. You’re stuck with me, no matter what happens.” He lightly tugged the hem of Preston’s t-shirt. “And I guess I’m stuck with you.”
“You promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
Preston studied him with sleepy solemnity. “Good.” He yawned. “Is it bedtime yet?”
“Bedtime?” He pulled out his phone and glanced at the time. “Whoa—it’s way past bedtime.” Ian hoisted him up onto one hip and stood. “Hey, did I tell you what came in the mail today? A pair of brand new Aquaman pajamas.”
“Good.” Preston rested his small head against Ian’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Don’t forget Prince,” he murmured. “Chloe said he could sleep in my room tonight.”
“I won’t forget him.”
Ian accepted the leash she handed him and moved to the door. His gaze locked on hers. Everything had seemed so straightforward moments ago. So simple. Heat, lust, desire. A base attraction between two unattached people. But with Preston’s weight caught in his arms, his head lolling sleepily against his shoulder, he realized that nothing in his life was simple. He had responsibilities. Obligations.
Preston had to come first. He had to.
The moment stretched as he searched for something to say that would meaningfully convey his gratitude for her help earlier that evening, as well as assure her that what had passed between them was more than just a fleeting distraction, even if it wasn’t something he could pursue. Chloe deserved more than he could possibly offer. But the longer he debated what to say, the more inadequate his words felt. Finally he settled on, “Thanks for dinner.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bright and early.”
“All right, then.” Ian studied her for a beat longer, taking in her tousled hair, darkened gaze, flushed cheeks, (had he really not noticed how beautiful she was the moment they’d met?) then turned and walked away. He’d done the right thing, he told himself. The honorable thing. Ten minutes from now, he’d be alone in his cabin. Chloe would be alone in hers.
Christ, he was an idiot.
He stopped on the gravel path, reconsidering his options. A light film of clouds crossed the moon and the darkness of the countryside abruptly swallowed him. If he’d been home, back in Brooklyn, there would have been flashing lights, blaring horns, shouts. The relief of constant noise and perpetual movement. Here the inky stillness felt like a weight pressing against him.
It was early still—barely nine. A long, empty night lay ahead.
Like the pendulum of a clock, his thoughts swayed back and forth. True and false. Past and present. Everything blurred. So many choices. Why did he always seem to be making the wrong ones?
Prince heeled and swiveled his head to study him quizzically. Preston, caught in the deep, rhythmic sleep of the very young, snored softly in his ear. The porch light glowed softly above Chloe’s door. He caught a glimpse of her crossing her living room. She stopped before the bookshelf where her TV and electronics were located. Probably popping out Preston’s DVD and restoring it to its case, he thought.
He was wrong. A few seconds later the opening bars of Adore, a soulful, slow jam by Prince, softly filled the night air. It wasn’t one of the artist’s mainstream hits, but it was among Ian’s favorites. A quintessential song of love, lust, and yearning.
So. Choices. Maybe it wasn’t too late to rethink this one.
Chapter Twelve
Chloe had already kicked off her sneakers and was in the process of stripping off her socks when a muffled noise caught her attention. She cocked her head to listen. A knock—someone was knocking at her door. At this hour? As the facility’s only on-site RN, that usually meant that a client needed medical assistance. She quickly made her way from her bedroom into the living room, grabbing her trauma kit as she went. She tugged open the front door.
Ian. Standing on her stoop with his nephew sound asleep in his arms, Prince leashed and sitting obediently at his side.
Her worried gaze flew to Preston. “Hey. Is everything all right? Was there another seizure, or—”
“What? Oh—no. He’s fine. Sound asleep.”
“Oh. Good.” Confused, she blinked up at him. “Did you forget—”
“No, I—” He broke off abruptly, gave a choked laugh. “Hard to believe, but just two seconds ago, this actually seemed like a good idea.”
His expression, or maybe his tone, caught her attention—the unexpected mixture of self-conscious humor and vulnerability. So unlike him. She felt something tight and brittle loosen in her chest. Emotions shifted. “What seemed like a good idea?” she asked.
“Coming back for you.”
Interesting phrasing. As though she’d been stranded, left behind. Deserted on a remote island. The melodrama was unnecessary. Really, all that had happened was that they had shared a meal, a conversation, a kiss, and Ian had walked away.
When she had deeply, almost desperately, wanted him to stay.
Dozens of responses flitted through her mind, but she stuck to the basics. Her clinical training was simply too ingrained to be ignored. First things first. “It’s getting cold out. Why don’t you bring Preston inside.”
She moved aside and beckoned for him to follow her. The cabins were small, but efficient. She led him into a spare room that served as both office and guest room. Ian gently laid Preston on the twin bed, pulled off his shoes, and then tucked him under the covers. Chloe noticed the boy was still wearing the cotton t-shirt and sweat pants Ian had changed him into after his seizure earlier that evening. No Aquaman pajamas, so they hadn’t made it back to his cabin after all. She put Prince into a Down beside the bed, and then switched on a nightlight as they left the guest room and returned to the living room.
“He’s a deep sleeper,” she commented.
“Yeah. A real sack of potatoes.”
“Pardon?”
“That’s what Barb used to say. Sometimes her regular babysitter would flake out on her and she�
�d have to bring Preston along to her night classes. Once he fell asleep it was impossible to wake him. She said it was like lugging a sack of potatoes home with her on the subway.”
Chloe had begun to recognize the tone he used when discussing his sister, that distinctive combination of reminiscence and regret. There was actually a clinical term for it. Survivor’s guilt. Eventually his burden of grief would be easier to bear. Time would help. Watching Prince grow into his role as Preston’s service dog would help. She knew that from dealing with other patients, both back at St. Mark’s and here at the canine assistance program. The ability of human beings to adapt to tragedy and move forward was nothing short of astounding.
But she didn’t say any of that. Ian hadn’t returned to her cabin to be counseled. That wasn’t her role tonight. His need (and hers as well, if she was honest), was far more base, yet every bit as profound.
“Ian?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you came back.”
To erase any uncertainty, she reached for the buttons on his shirt and eased them open one by one. He wore a smoky blue chambray. The fabric still held the coolness of the night air, a sharp contrast to the heat emanating from his skin. His chest was deliciously broad and muscular, covered with a light smattering of dark male hair. His stomach was obscenely flat, made up of ridged abs that narrowed into the waistband of his khakis.
Unable to stop herself, she brushed her palms experimentally over his torso, delighting in the velvety-rough, male texture of his skin. The effect on Ian was instantaneous. He sucked in a sharp breath and tilted his head slightly back, as though to allow her greater access to his skin. After a beat, he groaned and lightly captured her wrists, arresting her exploratory touch.
A spark lit his hazel eyes. Doubt warred with desire as he stepped closer. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Chloe, I can’t make any promises…”
“I didn’t ask for any. I understand what this is.”
“’What this is’? A little sex to pass the time?” He gave a hoarse laugh and tucked his forefinger beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. “No. That’s not what’s happening here. Not between us.”
Chloe was absurdly flattered by his response. By the acknowledgement that this was more than just a fleeting hook-up, even if there were no explicit promises made. (And really, how could there be, when in three short weeks Ian would pack up Preston and Prince and return to Brooklyn?) Nevertheless, this thing—however she defined what was between them—had gravitas. So, yes, coming together physically would have consequences, meaning.
Or maybe the correct word was ramifications. She pictured one of those wild, fanciful Rube Goldberg contraptions. She and Ian putting something in motion that once done, couldn’t be undone. A kick that would overturn the bucket, that would pour out the marbles, that would fill the dish, that would strike the match, that would burn the string, that would cause the hammer to drop… And so on and so forth.
No telling where this would end.
Ian reached for her. He found the elastic band that held back her hair and gently pried it free. Her chestnut locks tumbled loosely around her shoulders. Satisfaction shone in his gaze as he combed his fingers through her hair.
She leaned forward. An anticipatory tremor raced down her spine. God, he smelled good. Intoxicating, really. More potent than the wine she’d sipped earlier. So earthy and male. A hint of the frosty night air still clung to him, crisp and clean. And his body—yeah, definitely a bouncer. Six-foot-three-inches of solidly packed muscle and over-the-top masculine strength. She let out a breathy sigh and closed her eyes, almost swaying with need.
God, she wanted this. Wanted Ian Dowling, body and mind, heart and soul. Hard to believe that just a week ago she had seriously considered Luke’s friends-with-benefits offer. That might have been the safer route, it might even have been sexually satisfying, but it couldn’t possibly compare to this.
Ian brushed aside her hair and lightly pressed his lips against the sensitive skin below her earlobe. A shiver tore through her as he worked his way lower, kissing her throat, her collarbone, the rounded tops of her breasts. He gave an impatient growl and tugged at her clothing to allow himself greater access to her skin. A tiny, pearlescent button popped off her blouse and skittered across the floor.
Chloe laughed, sighed, shook. It was all too much. Her body couldn’t seem to decide how to respond to the sweet, sensual assault. Her heart beat faster, her limbs grew weaker. She clutched his biceps (holy hell—each one hard as rock and nearly thick as her thigh) for support. He caught her around the middle—his hands so large they nearly spanned her waist entirely—and effortlessly lifted her so that her back was pressed against the bookshelf. The spines of her books pressed into her back as she stabilized her position by wrapping her legs around Ian’s hips.
She was vaguely aware that under different circumstances, this position might be a bit uncomfortable. A lot uncomfortable. But not now. Now it was nothing short of exhilarating. Wild and abandoned. Ian’s mouth found hers. He coaxed her lips apart and swept his tongue into her mouth. He kissed her without the awkward, tender hesitation she might have expected when new lovers come together for the first time.
Ian Dowling’s kiss was raw and real, rife with hunger, passion, longing. Possession. Even better than the kiss he’d given her earlier that evening. And she thought she’d just imagined how good that kiss had been. Not so. That had been nothing compared to this. She melted into him, lost in a dizzying vortex of heat and desire.
This was a kiss that made her toes tingle and her blood roar. A kiss that robbed her of all breath and rational thought. She answered in kind, kissing Ian with a fierceness and intensity that left her agonizingly aroused, aching for more. He brushed his hands hungrily down her sides, as though memorizing her every curve. Following his lead, she wantonly explored his body, caressing his shoulders, his back, his chest; all while locked in their deep, sensual kiss.
Having done away with the buttons on her blouse, he pulled the garment free and let it tumble to the floor. Her bra unhooked in the front, thank God. No fumbling with the clasp, no wrestling it off her shoulders. Ian nimbly flipped apart the dainty catch and freed her from the confinement of the lacy lavender cups. Molten heat filled his eyes as his gaze traveled over her breasts. Her stomach fluttered and heat built between her legs.
Like most women, Chloe had issues with her body. She’d never been able to achieve a perfectly flat stomach, no matter how many sit-ups she performed or Pilates classes she attended. She worried her hips were a bit too wide. Her hair? Plain nut brown. But her breasts… well, she’d been told her breasts were lovely. Surprisingly lush and generous for her slim ribcage. Firm, creamy globes tipped with tight, berry-colored nipples that seemed to invite a man to draw them into his mouth.
And maybe because she was so confident in the beauty of her breasts, she found they were highly sensitive to the touch. She could be aroused as easily by stroking her breasts as she could by stroking the juncture between her thighs. Ian seemed to instinctively know this. Pinning her in place with his hips, he massaged her breasts with his hands, tenderly kneading and stroking them with his calloused palms, teasing her nipples with his thumb and forefinger until they were stiff as thimbles.
He lowered his head, nuzzling the shadowy cleft between her breasts. As his jaw moved across her flesh, the light stubble on his chin tickled and teased her skin. She drank in each dizzying sensation: the firm male grip of his hands as he cupped her breasts, the surprising softness of his lips, the prickly tease of his five o’clock shadow.
He drew one taut, dark pink nipple into his mouth and lightly grazed it with his teeth. A wave of intense pleasure coursed through her body. Chloe threw back her head, gasped. She arched her back, dragging her fingers through his dark hair as he sucked and nibbled and twirled his tongue around the supremely sensitive nub. Desire heaved within her and became an aching, hungry
thing.
She writhed beneath him, panting and whimpering, holding nothing back. Made noises she’d never heard herself make before. Ridiculous, nonsense words, but she couldn’t seem to stop them.
Her responses were entirely innate. And beyond that, she sensed that a large part of Ian’s enjoyment was the knowledge that he was driving her wild. Her uncensored passion fueled his. They stoked the flames—an erotic fire that raged out of control. She nibbled at his earlobe, raked her nails down his back, pried open his belt buckle and unzipped his fly. Cupped his balls in her palm and lightly squeezed.
Ian moaned and pressed himself between her legs, his khakis rubbing against her jeans. The teasing friction so intense and delicious she could barely stand it. His erection announced itself against her thigh, thick and throbbing and stiff. An anticipatory thrill shot through her.
Yes. That’s it. Exactly what I want.
Amazing the power, the satisfaction, of just letting go. Not rushing, but not holding anything back, either. It was primal—beyond exciting. Kissing, licking, sucking, begging. This was the kind of sex that elevated one’s soul. Daring, messy, transformational sex. First time together sex. Everything slick and hot and oh-so-urgent. Fornication at its finest.
She clawed at his shirt, tugging it off his body. Slid his khakis past his slim male hips. He tugged at her jeans, yanked down her lace panties. Nothing came off completely—their awkward standing position prevented them from getting totally naked—but a pause to undress entirely simply couldn’t be borne. They were naked enough. She bucked beneath him, urging him on.
Ian caught her wrists and trapped them above her head. Chloe’s need swelled. She needed him inside her. Now.
Courting Chloe (Hudson Valley Heroes Book 1) Page 12
