He groaned again.
“Come inside me.”
His hand withdrew to be replaced with the blunt head, pushing to part her soft, wet tissue. He was big, no doubt, and she breathed in and deliberately relaxed to allow him entry. He pressed his face to her neck as he worked his way inside by slow degrees and she felt consumed by him and by lust and by sensation. Good.
Pleasure rolled over her skin, curling her toes and tightening her nipples to even more painful points. The edge of his thumb found one and she cried out, her body opening to him for full, flagrant penetration.
Groin to groin, they both stilled, breathing hard. Then he was moving, driving, diving into her heat without restraint. Her head fell back and she thought that pleasure was too tame a word, too long a word, because this feeling was sharp and strong and deep. It built in layers, steps, and she climbed them, all the while urging Eli on with her fingers digging into his shoulders.
He whispered to her, now it was his praise in her ears. You feel so right, yes, like that, you are so slick, so hot. And finally, oh, God, unbelievable.
On that, his thumb found her clit again, providing sweet, welcome friction, and he was pumping heavily, thrust after thrust, his breath harsh in her ears and she took that last step, climbed to orgasm, and flung herself over. Dimly aware, she heard his low groan and felt his final lunge, then he stilled, well-planted, their connection unbroken.
Endless.
Until he moved. His head lifted and he took her face between his palms, his expression still lust-drunk yet sated at the same time. She could look no better, as she felt blissfully ruined. She swallowed and then her gaze dropped, snagging on raw scratches marring the skin covering his broad shoulders.
“I did that,” she said, aghast, and then, more aghast, felt tears begin to leak from the outside corners of her eyes. Her gaze lifted, and she looked at him through a watery haze. “I’m sorry.”
“Love,” he said again, and kissed away her tears. “They’re nothing.” A gentle kiss was pressed to her mouth. “I don’t mind feeling you.”
I want to feel you tomorrow.
She’d said that, dangerous words, because this act was supposed to be one for the immediate moment only. They were about now and now alone.
“Don’t look so stricken,” he said, and kissed her again. His head lifted and the tender expression on his face made her scoot away in alarm. He took the hint and pulled back, moving to dispose of the condom.
Sloane used the opportunity to slip off the countertop and land on her feet, ignoring the wobble of her knees. As she glanced around for her clothes, feeling clumsy and vulnerable and impatient to be covered, Eli gathered her close, subduing her immediate protest by closing his arms around her.
“Shh,” he said. “Let me hold you.” His embrace was easy, practiced, steady, not the least bit panicked like her frightened and rollicking heart.
He encouraged her to lean against him and the act was so novel that she allowed it, letting him support her as she strove to find some calm. But it was certainty she discovered instead. A knowledge that dropped upon her like a shroud or perhaps an anvil, something weighty and dire.
She’d fallen in love, she thought, on another sudden jolt of fear.
That had to be what caused this queasy, unbalanced, and yet undeniably giddy sensation.
She’d fallen in love with Eli.
With his every tender look and passionate touch. With his easy grins and his ingrained sense of responsibility. Squeezing shut her eyes, she called herself every kind of fool.
And yet she didn’t move.
“Now that’s better,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hair.
Now.
And forever.
Chapter 11
Eli awoke alone in bed and stared at the ceiling, awaiting a regret that didn’t come. The empty pillow next to his told him that Sloane had once again escaped sometime in the night. The fact she didn’t linger beside him into the morning told him she wasn’t nurturing expectations or making assumptions.
What they’d shared last night hadn’t been a mistake then, he thought, relieved.
Still, throwing back the covers, he decided to proceed with caution. He’d tread carefully, take her pulse, and try to walk back the situation if it seemed necessary.
That they’d spent two nights together didn’t have to mean he’d sent the wrong message, and he very much hoped he had not, but for four years she’d gone without sex…and been without someone in her corner.
He hated that for her.
Climbing into the shower and then getting ready for work, he reminded himself that he wasn’t the man to commit to the kind of relationship a mother and child deserved long-term.
In that regard he’d given and given and given and now was his time to break free of those fetters.
Pushing open his bedroom door, he smelled coffee in the air. Resolved to making sure all was understood between him and Sloane, he headed for the kitchen, then heard Paige calling his name.
He looked up to see the little girl and Boo on the staircase landing. She beckoned him. “This way! A party!”
Stronger men than he had been unable to resist a cute kid and a shaggy dog. So he mounted the steps then allowed himself to be led into the playroom. Tea party-sized cups and plates sat on the small plastic table. Baby Sally perched on a stack of books on the seat of a molded green plastic chair. She wore what appeared to be a mummy gown made of toilet paper and familiar barrettes in a messy updo.
Paige gestured to a place across from the doll. “You there.”
He moved aside the chair and sat cross-legged on the floor. Boo joined him with a rattle of his collar and a doggy groan.
The little girl chose the yellow chair. “This is not my birthday party.”
“Right.”
“That’s Saturday. Are you coming?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
She eyed him with doubt as she picked up a small plastic teapot.
“I promise.” When she continued to look at him, he added, “I have a present.”
That seemed to mollify her. Mental note: buy a present.
She pretended to pour into the little cups. “This is a breakfast party.”
“It’s very nice.” He waited until all were “full” before he picked up his own.
Paige mimicked him. “Mommy says you have four little girls.”
Looking around the playroom, he could see why she’d think his sisters were still small. Beyond the books and dolls and blocks and tea sets, there was also a stack of board games taller than Paige, including Chutes & Ladders and Candyland, which he could have sworn he burned years ago, following the torturous monotony of yet another evening playing them.
Like the garage, everything in the space was going to have to go too, he realized. No one would want the house with all these shabby childhood artifacts left behind.
All these memories.
He shook himself. “The little girls you’re talking about are almost grown up. And remember, you know two of them—they’ve watched you when your mom was out. Lynnie and Molly.”
“Oh,” Paige said, and set down her cup to fuss with Baby Sally who was staring at Eli like she hungered for a man-sized snack with her tea. “But you don’t want any more little girls.”
He averted his gaze from the doll, then took a moment to wonder if Paige’s comment meant she’d asked Sloane about that, about him wanting kids. A little girl. Shit.
Casting his gaze back to the child, he watched her move the doll’s cup closer to her plastic hand. Being in this room reminded him of the bustle and chaos of a four-girl household, their screeches and shrieks, the fights over clothes, the drama over stolen diaries.
The triumphant grins as they shared good news and stellar report cards.
The tears he’d blotted over bad news and lousy grades.
Exhausting.
But that didn’t stop a traitorous fondness warming his heart as he looked upon the t
owhead, with her pillow-mussed hair and button nose. You don’t want any more little girls.
He didn’t, he reminded himself, but still his mouth opened. “Paige—”
A voice from downstairs interrupted whatever unwary admission he might have made. Sloane called up the stairs. “Breakfast!”
Man, dog, and child rattled down the steps together.
In the kitchen, Sloane gave him a quick scan, her expression betraying nothing. “Sausage and French toast?”
He crossed to the coffee maker. “You don’t owe me—”
“I know,” she said, sounding testy. “But I made enough for three.”
“Well, sure, great then.” Feeling like an ass, he slipped his phone from his pocket and checked the screen, as if it might provide unprompted hints about how to handle an awkward morning-after when apparently the awkward-feeling partner in this situation was him. Shit.
Setting his cell on the counter, with his other hand he opened the cabinet for a mug. His sidelong look at Sloane didn’t give away her state of mind. Perhaps she should sit in for him at the next poker night, because whether she held four aces or a fistful of junk, no one would guess.
He topped off his mug and then, annoyed with himself, paused beside her on his way to the table. Despite how collected she appeared, he couldn’t help asking, “Are you okay?”
Just after midnight he’d swum out of sleep to find her kissing a path from his chest to his rising cock. For an instant he’d thought it a sweet dream, but the warmth and wet of her mouth had been real, as well as her whispering she’d always wanted to wake a man in just that way. He’d had his own similar fantasies, and he’d managed to rearrange her soft skin and heated limbs until they could both be pleasured by each other’s mouth at the same time.
“I’m fine,” she said now, and moved quickly away, quick enough that it stirred the air and when he breathed in, her scent came too, bringing him back to his bed, her body, her sighs and moans.
He sure as hell didn’t regret any of that.
At the table, he applied himself to the food, and paused without thinking when Paige asked him to pour syrup and cut her piece of toast. Looking up from that task, he caught Sloane standing by the sink and staring at him with wide eyes that communicated…what? Alarm?
“Love,” he called to her with soft concern, beginning to rise.
“No.” She flapped her hand and turned away.
“Sloane—” The chime of an incoming call interrupted and his hand went to his pocket. No phone. He glanced around.
“Here,” Sloane said, scooping the device from the counter where he’d left it by the coffee, and walking it over. Her face was blank when she said, “Alanna is calling.”
The ring died before he had a chance to accept or decline the call. Seconds later, the voicemail icon appeared on the screen. He stared at it.
“One of your dates?” Sloane asked, her tone pleasant.
“Tonight,” he replied, terse.
She seemed perfectly at ease with the idea. “That should be fun.”
Then why did it feel like a mistake, he asked himself, and asked himself that same question again hours later when he walked into the new Sawyer Beach food hall located in what had once been the town drugstore. The sizeable building dated back to the early 1900s and they’d saved the original soda fountain, complete with counter and stools, which was now run by a local creamery. Sectioned off into separate spaces, six other eateries prepared and sold food ranging from artisan pizza to sushi to deli. A center bar offered spirits and local brew and there was also a coffee cart in one corner. Tables were plentiful, four-tops and six-tops and long ones flanked by benches that would seat dozens.
The hall had been opened for about a month and obviously still drew a curious crowd. Though a weeknight, it was jam-packed, the noise nearly deafening. Eli didn’t know how he’d pick out his date from the quick glimpse of a photo on Sophie Daggett’s phone. He scanned the crowd and his eye caught on an attractive woman who was waving an arm.
Her free hand held that of a boy who appeared to be six or seven.
So he looked onward.
But he couldn’t miss that the woman who’d been waving was on the move. She came forward, towing the child until she stopped in front of Eli, a friendly smile on her face. “Alanna?” he ventured to guess.
“Yes. You’re Eli?”
At his nod, they exchanged friendly handshakes. Then she drew the boy forward. “This is Brandon. His dad and I share custody, but we had our wires crossed. I discovered at the last minute you and I will have a chaperone for the evening.”
“Ah.” Holding out his hand again, Eli greeted the boy. “Nice to meet you.”
He wanted to turn right around and go home. Not because of pretty Alanna. Not because of the kid. And not because of the food hall either, though the sound of echoing voices was drilling into his brain like an auger bit. The truth was, it had been a long day at work preceded by a night of less than stellar sleep. Sure, there’d been stellar other things during the dark hours, but not shut-eye.
He was running low on geniality, even for a pleasant stranger and her little boy.
So maybe sleeping with Sloane had been a mistake after all.
But dwelling on that wouldn’t improve the current situation, so he placed a casual arm around Alanna and a hand on the boy’s shoulder to usher them toward the drinks station. “What can I get you, Alanna? A glass of wine? Brandon, would you like a soda? Juice?”
They probably answered, but their voices and all the other sounds faded away as he caught sight of Sloane standing in line at the pizza station, wearing a formfitting dress and a pair of beige high heels. At her side, Paige hopped from foot to foot, a pink bow in her hair matching the pink sneakers on her feet. At her mother’s other elbow hovered a man.
A man Eli’s age, or thereabouts. His suit looked well-tailored, well-pressed, and he wore his black hair close-cropped. As Eli watched, the guy leaned close to whisper something in Sloane’s ear. Laughing, she put her hand on his arm.
A searing heat burned in Eli’s gut and began to crawl through his bloodstream. A sudden sickness, he tried telling himself. A belated reaction to the lunch he’d consumed hours ago, a quesadilla and an iced tea one of the front office staff had brought back from their favorite taco truck.
He’d come to the food hall straight from the office, freshening up in the locker room and changing into clean clothes before leaving the nursery. At breakfast, he’d not taken the opportunity to ask Sloane about her plans for the day.
They were none of his business, of course.
But it meant he had no clue about the identity of her companion.
And the truth was, he’d not considered she might be looking for something—someone—who offered more than Eli…who had made sure he offered her nothing but string-less fun or whatever the fuck he’d termed it.
So why was he taken aback that she was making nice with a man who wore a suit, a tie, and polished dress shoes that Eli would scuff the first time he looked at them? So why was he on his heels that she was dating someone while living in his house? That she was with some other guy when she’d so recently been in his bed?
Because, after all, he was doing the very same thing.
A tug on his shirtsleeve had him blinking. He glanced down, saw the boy with the inquiring look on his face and drew a complete blank. “Uh…Blake?”
“Brandon,” his mother said. Alanna. Alanna of the dark wavy hair and the warm brown eyes. She and her son didn’t deserve to have dinner with an uncaring asshole any more than Sloane and Paige had deserved to have breakfast with one.
“Yes. Right,” he said, and worked on a smile. Raising his voice to be heard over the din, he asked what they were thinking to have for their meal.
Pizza, of course.
He didn’t let his dismay show on his face. He didn’t let his gaze shoot toward his housemates now waiting for their own order of wood-fired dough, sauce, and cheese baked in
the brick oven shipped straight from Sicily.
On a deep breath, he focused on his current companions. “Have you been to the food hall before? This is my first time.”
Conversation began easily enough. The piercing din lessened to a reasonable level and he learned that Alanna was in real estate and Brandon the second grade. The boy had a cat and a hamster. Eli shared his sisters once had a rabbit that they sneaked into their beds at night.
Still, it all felt like a mistake.
Like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Or maybe just with the wrong people.
* * *
Sloane’s coworker Will Mooney shuffled forward in the line to order pizza and she followed, one hand on the back of Paige’s head to steer her in the same direction. The child took a skip and a jump, her attention preoccupied with the art project she’d brought home from daycare—a little figure made of a cork and a glued-on scrap of gingham fabric as clothes, along with silly googly eyes.
“We should have ordered ahead from the office,” Will said, his grimace doing nothing to mar his model-quality good looks.
“Mmm,” she said, barely listening.
He glanced down. “A few minutes’ wait isn’t that bad, is it?” he asked, jostling her arm with a friendly elbow. “You look like somebody stole your precious pencil sharpener.”
It was an office joke that Sloane needed her sharpened pencils to function and that only the electric device she kept secure on a corner of her desk could provide the perfect points. “I’m good, fine.”
Will turned and looked at her more closely. “Earth to Sloane.”
She blinked, shook herself a little, and met his eyes. “I’m sorry. What?”
“You did think the meeting went well, didn’t you?” The dark brown skin of Will’s forehead wrinkled in concern.
“I did, really.” The two of them had consulted with a prospective client that afternoon, a task usually taken on by Alice and Joe, their accounting firm’s owners. But the head pair had allocated the job to she and Will this time, expressing confidence in their abilities to represent them well. “I was just lost in my own thoughts for a minute.”
NO LIMIT (7-Stud Club Book 2) Page 16
