Sun-Kissed Read online

  It turned her delicate, too. It made her feel like a snowflake resting on a human palm, struggling not to lose her shape.

  And then the shape of her was gone. She was only water. And that, it turned out, was the essence of who she was. The rest of it—the snowflakes, the ice—were just ways she manifested herself, sometimes, to a cold world.

  “What about this?” he whispered.

  She twisted around to bury herself in him. “Mack.” Her voice felt strangled and desperate. She kissed his collarbone, the hollow of his strong throat.

  Pleasure rumbled through him. Why did pleasure always strengthen him while it weakened her?

  He arched his throat to her willingly, showing how much he liked it, and so she kissed her way to his jaw. His afternoon shadow made her lips prickle, and she drew back a little to lick them.

  He drew a breath. She had risen a little above him, and now he looked up at her face, his gaze focusing on her lips. Funny, even with the night and moonlight to hide lines, he still didn’t look like the man she had met twenty years ago, when she bought the house next door. He’d already had a few lines at the corners of his eyes and a fair amount of gray hair back then, even though he’d only been thirty-three. But he’d been smoother, everywhere, more arrogance than substance. Now that arrogance had proven itself. It was arrogance like a rock, grown rugged with experience.

  His voice had changed, too. That smooth, powerful voice he had had, that could control the meetings of the mighty—Julie’s death had roughed it up. Anne’s own throat tightened still in sympathy at the thought of the grief that had strained his throat so badly. Then more recently, Jaime. And her. His voice grown so raw and strained with fury during her trial that she’d half expected him to lose it entirely in some height of rage.

  But it had kept going, that voice. That man. Roughed up, but determined.

  “Kiss me,” that voice whispered now.

  She smiled, her hand tracing oh-so-gently over the face that bad-tempered time was starting to batter. What was he always telling her? “Mack. Shhh.”

  She kissed him.

  The sweetest, truest kiss. It started out so gentle, but it grew, and then it grew, until it felt as endless as the waves of the sea. It even fell into the waves’ rhythm—kiss and breath, kiss and breath, lips and tongue sliding against each other, in and out as if they were the edge of sea and land.

  “Anne,” he managed so much later she had no idea how many waves had hit that beach, “I think this hammock is driving me crazy.”

  He’d been in her bedroom before, but he’d fought his way in. If she pointed to it now, she would be well and truly raising the portcullis. Saying, You are trusted here.

  And even though it was Mack—even though he was the one person in whose safe she would keep the key to her castle—it was still so hard to do. She wouldn’t ever have thought to keep that key in his hands. They were too warm for the key to her castle. To her heart.

  She took a deep breath, and then another.

  And then she found his hand and squeezed it tight and lifted their joined hands together to indicate her bedroom.

  Chapter 13

  But they didn’t quite make it. Nerves and awkwardness built in her again as they climbed the outside stairs to the upper porch, until she flinched a little when Mack, below her on the stairs, let his hand glide down her spine and brush over her bottom.

  He caught her back to him suddenly as they stepped onto the porch. “Dance with me?”

  The light she’d left on because she hated coming home to a dark house spilled gently over them, and the moonlight gilded the sea below. “Really?” If Prince Charming had just taken her hand at the ball, she would have been less surprised. Because, after all, who wanted to lower herself to some prince? No matter how handsome and charming he was, his asking her to dance would have been less perfect.

  Mack found her remote on the old farmhouse craft table just inside the glass doors and turned on her music system. Anne started to smile, even as her eyes felt all shimmering like the sea.

  It made her smile even more that he didn’t choose a slow dance. No, this was real dance music. Not too fast, but a song to which he could spin her out and bring her back in.

  “I would love to,” she said.

  “I’ve always loved to dance with you,” he said as he brought her into him with a firm arm.

  Her heart brightened. All this time, she’d assumed he danced so willingly with her for her sake and not his. As one of his easy gestures to make her happy.

  “It always seemed like a special gift. That you would let me control you. That you’d trust me, when I did this.” A swirl into a dip, easy and strong. His eyes held hers, serious but alight. Moonlight-on-deep-ocean happy.

  “Well.” Her breath caught in her throat and then released in slow pleasure as he righted her smoothly and spun her away. “You wouldn’t let me fall.”

  “No, I wouldn’t, Anne. Not if there was anything in this world I could do to help it.” He wound her into him backwards, so that their arms crossed over her middle and her back was to his chest. His mouth brushed her temple.

  A little smile ran through her, a curl of sweetness. “And you can do most things in this world,” she allowed.

  “I’ve never been able to do enough.” He kissed her nape and lifted their arms, twisting her back around to face him. “The world’s gotten through me three times now. It got to you.”

  “Fuck it,” she said, and tried to make a fist to punch it in the nose, but of course her fingers were curled around his.

  “God, I love how strong you are.” He bent her back again, a long, slow tango dip. “You have no idea how erotic and gorgeous you are, when you’re being strong.” He kissed her throat, arched for him by the dip, and lingered there a moment, as if the position took no strength to hold at all. She gripped his shoulder, pulling herself up into him a little, giving him more access to her throat.

  “What—what about when I’m being weak?” she gasped, because she felt all pliant right now.

  “Then I want to be your strength.” He pulled her upright and into him, this constant, flowing flex of power controlling her body. “And suck away your tears. And know that you’ll be strong again one day. You’ve been my strength.”

  He spun her out and wound her in with a tug of his hand, until she was wrapped up tight against his body again, back to chest.

  “We all have bad dreams in the night sometimes, Anne,” he murmured to her ear. “I’d love to be here when you wake from yours.”

  Her hands shifted to clasp both of his to her, holding herself in tight in his arms. “Me, too.” She realized it so suddenly. “Me, too. I want to be here for yours.”

  She never, ever wanted him to wake in the night alone when the experiences of his life tore at him again.

  God. She could be there for him the next time something hurt him. Not waiting anxiously for her walk on the beach to see if he was getting through okay. She could be there in the dark. She could reach out and touch his face, his hand. She only had to let down her walls.

  Only.

  But they were her walls. She could do this. She could let him in. She could.

  “Well, we’re all right here, then.” Mack’s deep voice sounded so gentle and exultant both at once. “All the rest, learning how to sleep together, learning to feel comfortable with someone else seeing us at our silliest—drooling on a pillow, hair sticking up—that’s all just habit, sweetheart. You can make me a new habit.”

  She twisted into him, breaking his control of the dance, to which he immediately adjusted, to yield to her way. He always did adapt when she sought control. “I want to.” She held their hands tightly between them. “I really want to.” I still might need help. But I want this, too.

  “Then I’ve got everything I need, right here,” he said, and snugged her in close. “Because what you want to do, you find a way to do.”

  “Not always,” she said, with that bittersweet twist. Just as
it had with him, the world had beaten her a time or four. Two miscarriages. A divorce. Trial and prison. The three little grandkids that had never come to be had hurt her terribly, too, this defeated grief. Damn you, God. Not even granddaughters?

  Damn you. How dare you hurt my son?

  “Yeah, but this time you’ve got me to help.” Mack nudged her backwards into the house, still dancing, but closer in now, putting some dirty into it.

  He turned out the lights she had left on inside as they went, leaving them in the glow of the nightlight peeking from the door of the bathroom and the moonlight from the veiled window. Funny how much sweeter it was to come home to a dark house with another person than to a lit house by herself.

  It was chilly now, with the windows still open. But he held her in close, like a man who planned to keep her warm.

  “You know what I’d like, right now?” he asked, in that ground-up voice close to her ear, a brush of warmth. And lower still, all the way down to a secret, just for her: “I’d like to feel you orgasm, under my hand. You have no idea how freaking beautiful that is.” The bed brushed the backs of her knees. He lowered her, tango-slow and steady, as if it was just another dip in a dance. His voice was hushed as he repeated his words from just a moment ago: “It seems like a special gift. That you would let me control you. That you’d trust me, when I do this.”

  As her weight rested against the mattress, his hand trailed lightly over one breast, down her stomach, to rest—just rest, no pressure—against the juncture of her thighs.

  She drew a slow breath in and out, controlling the instinct to cross her thigh over, to knock his hand away before he could make her that vulnerable.

  She was already vulnerable to him. He had her. He’d had her forever. She just had to accept it.

  “Or when I do this.” He stretched out beside and above her, braced on one elbow, his other hand starting to rub oh-so-lightly at that point between her thighs. Not invasive. Barely enough pressure to be felt through her skirt. “Look at you,” he said wonderingly. “Under me. Right here. Mine. I don’t think I ever had enough trust in us for this fantasy, Anne. And I have to say—it’s gorgeous.”

  She licked her lips and lifted herself a little to his hand. Just—that pressure. That warmth. Her skirt was too thick. Damn quality fabric and pencil form. She wanted it to be flimsy and flower-child swirly, something he could bunch up, something that didn’t even stop his hand if he wanted to slide it between her thighs, and cup, and press.

  His shirt had come half unbuttoned in the hammock. She pulled at it, sliding her hands to get at his chest, his body hard and warm and alive under her hands.

  “I should have done this so long ago, Anne. I just—I never thought you’d let me. And I didn’t want to break what we had.”

  “You said that was unbreakable,” she reminded him. A little anxiety wanted to curl in her, at even the hint that it might be, but that anxiety couldn’t manage the curl, because—well, it wasn’t breakable. Even now, if they put an end to this deeper intimacy, they’d find their balance again and still have their friendship.

  “It took me a long time to believe that, though,” Mack said. “Most things in the world can be broken.”

  And that was when she realized something. “Me going to prison taught you some things, too, didn’t it?” About her strength. About their strength.

  “God, yes.” He kissed her, urgent and angry, a hint of rage from just the mention of her going to prison. “It taught me how much I loved you, for one. It taught me that you could break my goddamn heart just as much as Julie or Jaime could. And it taught me that I’d damn well better grab you. Shit.” He twisted his head away from her mouth to bite at her shoulder, as if the fierceness of his emotions had surged too high for her tender lips.

  Then he nipped it again. And then he pushed her shirt aside, popping buttons again, and just ran his hand over her shoulder a moment, absorbed, tender, thorough. As if her shoulder was an amazing thing. “It taught me how strong you were.” The one lesson she had guessed. “It taught me how much you matter. And I always thought I knew how much you mattered. But you mattered even more than that.”

  “I think I’ve always known how much you matter,” Anne said. “And I think, at the same time, I’m still learning it more and more right now.”

  A flicker across his face of pleasure, of something more intense than both, and then he kissed her again.

  Kissed down the line of her throat, over her shoulder, down the swell of her breast, pulling aside her shirt, undoing some buttons and popping others. “I love your taste in lingerie,” he breathed against the golden-beige silk and subtle lace. “It’s like kissing champagne.”

  She had this vision of herself going to his head, bubbling through him, making him giddy. It made her—sparkle. All through her, everywhere inside. It made her stretch to let all those sparkles slide freely from her fingertips to the roots of her hair to her toes. To her nipples and those surprisingly erogenous insides of her elbows, and dance its way on down, lower, deeper, more pleased with itself the lower and deeper it got.

  “I like your taste in—nothing.” She spread his shirt and stretched her fingers over the broad planes of his chest, with the curls of gray hair. “In just you.”

  “Yeah?” He leaned over her, lapping up the compliments and the stroking.

  “Yeah,” she whispered, tracing his muscles down over his ribs, hooking her thumbs possessively in his waistband as she curled her hands over his butt. “Yeah.” Mine.

  “I like your taste in nothing, too, but let me enjoy this pretty bra for a while. I didn’t give it enough attention last time.” He tongued her through the fine lace, sucking her into his mouth. That veiled intimacy worked so well on her. Instead of flinching back from her nakedness, she wanted it, wanted to have that veil fall away, so she could feel his mouth.

  “Yeah,” Mack breathed, scraping his jaw gently against her skin as he sought the other breast. “Like champagne.”

  Desire mounted in her, this hungry, confused thing. Desire could be tender? Could be starved and tender both? Her hands climbed up his back, under his shirt, the soft cotton panels falling to either side of her body.

  “I must be getting drunk for real this time,” Mack said. “Because I’m losing track of important things.” One of his hands slid back down to that juncture between her thighs. “Like this.”

  She went still, breath coming in sips, as his heat soaked through her skirt again, so hot she could feel it through the layers of cloth. Such a frustrating protection, that cloth.

  “You like that, don’t you?” he breathed, deepening the rub of his hand just barely. Still the barrier was too thick, too much.

  She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on that elusive heat.

  “Want to tell me what you want?” His thumb rubbed precisely, as if he knew exactly what she wanted, but those layers of cloth still blocked him.

  She shook her head, her eyes still closed, chasing after that feeling.

  “Want me to guess?” He found the edge of her skirt and stroked his hand under it, up her thigh, sure and warm and determined to reach his goal.

  She nodded, eyes still closed. Her fingers kneaded into his shoulders and slid over his back, chasing sensations everywhere, as if she could drag them all in through her fingertips alone.

  “I think you want me here.” His hand pressed hot over her panties, and she shivered in relief at how much thinner they were than that skirt. Now she could feel him. Really feel him. She rocked herself against his hand involuntarily.

  “I think you might even want me here.” All the gravel was back in his voice, as his fingers dipped under the elastic of her panties and found her wetness. He made a low hum of approval, deep in his throat. “Oh, yes. Yes, I like how much you want me here.”

  She kept her eyes closed, focusing on him utterly. “I love your scent,” she whispered. “I love the warmth of you. I love the expression in your eyes right now when I can’t even see
it. I love the way the panels of your shirt brush against my skin.”

  “Anne.” His voice was wondering. His fingers dipped gently between the lips of her sex and stroked silk moisture upwards, finding her clitoris. “I have to get drunk on you more often. You say the damnedest things when I lose all inhibitions.”

  “Mack Corey.” She twisted toward his fingers and shivered with pleasure, then shivered again when he responded to the first shiver by repeating the movement exactly. “You don’t have inhibitions.”

  “You haven’t been listening to what I’ve been saying, Anne. I’ve been holding back my fantasies about you for a long time. Just to make sure I kept what was most important.”

  She bit her own smile. “Me?” She kept her eyes closed, because she could see him better that way. See years and years of him, layered over each other, all compacted into the way he was looking at her right now. Such an intense way she had to veil it with her own eyelids.

  “Exactly. Shh, now, sweetheart, you need to concentrate.”

  She did. He was so right, she did. All of her was focusing more and more on the sensation building under his fingers. That leisurely, steady rhythm, no hurry to get where he was going, no hurry to let her get there either. He was watching her. She knew he was watching her as he stretched it out, as he took his sweet time, watching every sigh and stretch of her body, every arch of her neck, every flicker of her eyebrows and working of her lips as she chased that feeling he kept drawing out.

  “Mack.” She grabbed at his hand.

  “Well, you did tell me to guess.” Another slow, savoring move of his thumb. “I like guessing. I like watching you and guessing every thing you want. Sometimes, in my fantasies, I like not giving it to you, so I can stretch it out.” His fingers trailed away from her clitoris, playing with the lushness of her sex.