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because that’s all I’m offering.”
He stepped between her thighs, sliding his hands into her hair, beneath her bandana. The pulse in her throat leaped against the heel of his hand. “Then I won’t wait for you to offer,” he said and took her scowling mouth.
64
She tasted sharp and earthy, like sun-warmed tomatoes and olives and garlic. She smelled like apricots. She flooded his senses, filled his head, good, yes, this, now. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her mouth was warm and eager. He felt the tension in her tight little body as she pressed against him, slight breasts, narrow waist, slim thighs, all fine, all feminine, all his, and the hunger in him developed claws that raked his gut.
He wanted . . . something. The release of sex, yes. More. He wanted to feel her tremble and come apart again, wanted her wet and soft and under him. Craved her tenderness. Her touch.
He hitched her up on the counter. She hooked her legs around his waist. He pictured himself stripping the jeans from her and pushing his way inside, now. He fumbled for her waistband.
Her hands came up between them, flattened against his chest. Good, yes, touch me, he thought.
She pushed, hard.
He raised his head, confused.
Her lips were full and wet, her eyes dark. The tiny gold cross on her chest moved up and down with her breath.
“So, what’s the deal with you and Margred?” she asked.
“What?”
“You were talking to her when I came in.”
His blood roared in his head. “That has nothing to do with you. With this.”
“Yeah?” She attempted to close her legs. He didn’t move. “Because I won’t be used to make her jealous. Or to cover whatever thing you two have going on from Caleb. What do you want, Dylan?”
“I’d think that was obvious.”
“Not to me.”
65
He took her hand and pressed it to his crotch, where he was hard and aching for her. “You,” he said. “I want you.”
Her lips trembled; firmed into a sneer. “Very nice. Excuse me if I’m not flattered. Or convinced.”
He pulsed against her. “What would it take to convince you?”
Blushing, she tugged her hand away. “I don’t know. More than being groped against the kitchen counter. Been there, done that.”
“I did not grope you,” he said, irritated. She’d pushed him away before he’d had the chance.
“It’s not always about you, handsome.”
Some other man, then.
He narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought him up. Who was he?”
“Like you really want to know.” Her head came up, almost connecting with his jaw. “It’s not me you care about; it’s who else had what you want. Well, fuck you.”
“You ruled that out. So talk to me.”
Her snort of laughter took them both by surprise. “It was Nick’s father, all right? I worked in his kitchen.”
“In Boston.”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Nick told me. That first day, on the beach.”
Her hand went to the chain around her neck, to the totem of her murdered Christ. Dylan had noticed the gesture before. Did she call on Him for help? Or was the gesture merely nervous habit?
66
“Nick talked to you about his father?” she asked.
He was still looking at her chest, the gold chain, all that smooth skin above the scooped neckline of her tank top. “He said you left him.”
“Yeah. After Alain made it really clear he didn’t want anything to do with me or the baby.”
Babies, well . . . Babies were a serious commitment. No wonder the guy was scared off. Dylan raised his gaze from the slight slope of her breasts to her mouth, sensitive and a little sad.
“There are worse things than growing up without a father,” he offered.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Dylan raised his brows.
“Mine took off when I was three years
He stepped between her thighs, sliding his hands into her hair, beneath her bandana. The pulse in her throat leaped against the heel of his hand. “Then I won’t wait for you to offer,” he said and took her scowling mouth.
64
She tasted sharp and earthy, like sun-warmed tomatoes and olives and garlic. She smelled like apricots. She flooded his senses, filled his head, good, yes, this, now. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her mouth was warm and eager. He felt the tension in her tight little body as she pressed against him, slight breasts, narrow waist, slim thighs, all fine, all feminine, all his, and the hunger in him developed claws that raked his gut.
He wanted . . . something. The release of sex, yes. More. He wanted to feel her tremble and come apart again, wanted her wet and soft and under him. Craved her tenderness. Her touch.
He hitched her up on the counter. She hooked her legs around his waist. He pictured himself stripping the jeans from her and pushing his way inside, now. He fumbled for her waistband.
Her hands came up between them, flattened against his chest. Good, yes, touch me, he thought.
She pushed, hard.
He raised his head, confused.
Her lips were full and wet, her eyes dark. The tiny gold cross on her chest moved up and down with her breath.
“So, what’s the deal with you and Margred?” she asked.
“What?”
“You were talking to her when I came in.”
His blood roared in his head. “That has nothing to do with you. With this.”
“Yeah?” She attempted to close her legs. He didn’t move. “Because I won’t be used to make her jealous. Or to cover whatever thing you two have going on from Caleb. What do you want, Dylan?”
“I’d think that was obvious.”
“Not to me.”
65
He took her hand and pressed it to his crotch, where he was hard and aching for her. “You,” he said. “I want you.”
Her lips trembled; firmed into a sneer. “Very nice. Excuse me if I’m not flattered. Or convinced.”
He pulsed against her. “What would it take to convince you?”
Blushing, she tugged her hand away. “I don’t know. More than being groped against the kitchen counter. Been there, done that.”
“I did not grope you,” he said, irritated. She’d pushed him away before he’d had the chance.
“It’s not always about you, handsome.”
Some other man, then.
He narrowed his eyes. “Who?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought him up. Who was he?”
“Like you really want to know.” Her head came up, almost connecting with his jaw. “It’s not me you care about; it’s who else had what you want. Well, fuck you.”
“You ruled that out. So talk to me.”
Her snort of laughter took them both by surprise. “It was Nick’s father, all right? I worked in his kitchen.”
“In Boston.”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“Nick told me. That first day, on the beach.”
Her hand went to the chain around her neck, to the totem of her murdered Christ. Dylan had noticed the gesture before. Did she call on Him for help? Or was the gesture merely nervous habit?
66
“Nick talked to you about his father?” she asked.
He was still looking at her chest, the gold chain, all that smooth skin above the scooped neckline of her tank top. “He said you left him.”
“Yeah. After Alain made it really clear he didn’t want anything to do with me or the baby.”
Babies, well . . . Babies were a serious commitment. No wonder the guy was scared off. Dylan raised his gaze from the slight slope of her breasts to her mouth, sensitive and a little sad.
“There are worse things than growing up without a father,” he offered.
“I wouldn’t know.”
Dylan raised his brows.
“Mine took off when I was three years
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