The Perfect Hope Part 56

"Some of us handle tools, others handle office s.p.a.ce. I can say, proudly, I'm reasonably adept with the first and a genius with the second. I could help you with this."

"I-"

"Know where everything is," she finished. "That's what they all say."

She stepped out onto a wide deck, breathed deep. His mother, she had no doubt, had spearheaded the charming country-cheer garden, the planters spilling with color. It all flowed into the green spread of woods and the rise of hill.

"This is wonderful. I'd want my coffee out here every morning."

"There's never much time for that in the morning." He opened an enormous, s.h.i.+ny silver grill that struck her as intimidating. "I wouldn't think the house in the woods would be your style."

"I don't know, maybe I've never had a chance to find out. From the 'burbs to the city, from the city to small town. I've liked all of it. I think I'd like the house in the woods, too. Which way is Clare? And which way is Avery?"

After he'd switched on the grill, he walked to her, stepped behind her. Lifting her arm with his, he pointed in one direction. "Avery." Then angled her arm again. "Clare. And." He turned her, pointed again. "My mother."

"It's nice to be close. But not too close."

"I can see their house lights when the leaves fall. It's close enough."

She looked over her shoulder to smile, and found herself turned into him, pressed again him. His mouth took hers, hot and urgent. A surprise, as he'd seemed so casual. A wonderful surprise, she thought, as his need stirred her own.

He took her wine, set it aside. "We'll eat after." And grabbing her hand pulled her back into the house.

She scrambled to keep up. "All right."

He made it to the stairs before he pushed her against the wall, tortured himself with her lips, her body. "Just let me ..."

He found the short zipper that started halfway down her back, yanked it down. She barely had time to gasp before she was naked but for a thong, her heels, and a pair of dangling earrings.

"Christ. d.a.m.n it." He'd sworn he'd keep his hands off her until after dinner-until after the movie, or at least until during. But the way she looked, smelled, sounded ... It was too much. Just too much.

He filled his hands with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, ravaged her mouth.

And she gave back-as eager, as desperate as he. She tugged his s.h.i.+rt up and off, tossed it away, sc.r.a.ped her nails up his bare back, and tied his guts into knots.

When he lifted her off her feet, she melted against him, hot, fragrant wax.

She felt weightless. He carried her up the stairs as if she were. She'd never been carried up the stairs before, and certainly not with her dress in a heap behind her.

Glorious.

She fed herself on his neck, his face, feasted on his mouth as he moved through the bedroom door.

"I can't keep my hands off you."

"Don't." She wrapped tight as they fell on the bed. "Don't keep your hands off me."

He wanted that warm, smooth flesh, the long, slim lines and curves. And the taste of her filling him as he worked his way down her body. She arched up, crying out.

He knew he was rough, tried to slow, tried to gentle, even a little. Tried to remember her delicacy and the hardness of his own hands. He brought his mouth back to hers, softer now, deep and lingering. The revving engine of her body went to purr.

Something turned inside her, a slow, liquid spin, and another, another, that left her dizzy, left her weak.

She breathed out his name as his lips slid over her, featherlight now. A drug seeping into her blood.

She reached for him again, her own hands stroking lightly, dreaming as sensations fell over her like tissue paper.

Now to savor rather than devour, to seduce rather than ravish, they moved together in the quieting light.

When she cupped his face in her hands, when their eyes met, she felt joy merged with desire.

He saw her lips curve before he lowered his to brush them. Felt her fingers thread through his hair. And now when she arched to him, when she opened, welcomed, he slid into her, into velvet heat.

Her breath caught, released, caught again. And those eyes held his as they rose and fell together. Deep, dazzled eyes that went dark and blind as he urged her up and up, and over.

Her body held, taut as a bow, and held quivering until it went slack with release.

He pressed his face into the curve of her throat, and took his own.

Dreaming still, she turned her head, brushed her lips over his hair as her hand trailed up and down his back, while they lay quiet. When he s.h.i.+fted, she curled against his side. His arm came around to wrap. Drifting, he didn't make the connection that affection had tangled with heat, on both sides.

"I guess I should put those steaks on."

"I could eat. But I think I'll need my dress."

"You look good without it, but it's a nice dress. I'll get it."

"And my purse?"

"What for?"

"I need to make a few repairs."

He frowned at her. "What for?" he repeated. "You look good."

"It'll take me five minutes to look better."

She could already wring every beat out of a man's heart, but he shrugged and went downstairs. The dress smelled like her, he thought, sniffing at it as he hunted down her bag in the kitchen.

D.A., the rawhide-worse for wear-still clamped in his teeth, gave him a look that said: I know what you've been doing.

"You're just jealous." He carted the dress and purse upstairs where she sat on the bed, knees drawn in. When she smiled, he wanted to jump her again.

"Thanks. I'll be right down, give you a hand."

"Okay, but it's no big deal."

He left her alone before he broke and climbed on her again.