It amused the heck outta me seeing the two dogs yipping and nipping
at each other, hackles raised, teeth bared and fur flying whenever that yellow fuzz-covered
ball bounced.
Kind of reminded me . . . of Shay and me.
I petted and praised the pups, poured extra food for them on the porch, and entered
my empty house.
The kitchen sparkled thanks to Sophie’s efforts. She’d left a note on the table about
laundry.
Although Sophie had been doing domestic chores for our family since my mother had
died, she was more than a housekeeper. She’d helped raise Hope and me. She’d taken
care of the household and my father. This house seemed as much her home as mine.
Dawson understood my reason for keeping Sophie on the payroll, but he refused to let
her do his laundry. I understood where he was coming from. It’d taken me a couple
of months after I’d returned from Iraq to hand over my dirty clothes to her.
I figured he’d cave in. He hadn’t. So it made no sense to me whyDawson was perfectly content to let Sophie cook for us. Probably because she kept
him well supplied with his favorite cookies.
But according to the note, she had to leave early to take her daughter Penny to the
doctor, so no tasty supper awaited me. If Dawson didn’t show up, I’d probably just
eat yogurt.
I changed, rolled out my mat, and practiced yoga until sweat stuck my clothes to my
skin.
As I stood under the tepid shower spray, I wondered how my life had become so mundane.
I went to work. Came home and played with the dogs. Worked out. Showered. Ate supper.
Watched TV, looking at the clock every ten minutes and wondering when Dawson would
show up. Then I’d hit the hay.
I’d always been fairly solitary, but tonight it almost seemed . . . forced. By the
time I’d dried off, combed out my wet hair, and slipped on a robe, I’d decided to
partake of a little nightlife at Clementine’s. I wandered into the kitchen for a pregame
beer when the dogs started barking. Dawson’s deep voice soothed them, and I could
practically hear their tails thumping against the boards on the porch.
God, I knew the feeling. I was tempted to give a little yip of excitement myself.
The door opened. Dawson didn’t notice me at first, as he was too busy taking off his
butt-ugly hat, hanging up his coat, and toeing off his boots. When he lifted his head
and looked at me, my belly jumped like I was a teenage girl with a crush.
Dawson smiled. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” I took a sip of beer. “You done for the night? Or just stopping to
get something to eat before you head back out?”
“I’m done.” His gaze started at my forehead and leisurely traveled the length of my
body, down to my bare toes, and then back up.
By the time his eyes met mine, they held that look. The look I’d been missing for
the last week.
Then he stalked me until my spine hit the counter. “Whatcha got on under that robe,
Sergeant Major?”
“Just my skin, Sheriff.”
Dawson made a noise that resembled a growl before his mouth covered mine. I fell into
him, fell into the kiss, blanking my mind to everything except the happy fact that
he was here.
His hands cradled my face then slid down my neck to the gap in my robe. Then his hands
were on my bare skin, cruising down my chest over my rib cage to circle my waist.
The way the ragged pads of his fingertips stroked my breasts made me arch into him
harder. Kiss him harder.
Then he dropped to his knees.
He chuckled against my lower belly at my moan of delight. Then his hard-skinned hands
were on the inside of my thighs, pushing them apart so he could settle his mouth on
the damp flesh within.
I held on to his head with one hand, the edge of the counter with the other, and gave
myself over to his intimate kiss. He had me panting, begging, and quivering in record
time—a feat that might’ve been embarrassing for me if I hadn’t already known this
man
at each other, hackles raised, teeth bared and fur flying whenever that yellow fuzz-covered
ball bounced.
Kind of reminded me . . . of Shay and me.
I petted and praised the pups, poured extra food for them on the porch, and entered
my empty house.
The kitchen sparkled thanks to Sophie’s efforts. She’d left a note on the table about
laundry.
Although Sophie had been doing domestic chores for our family since my mother had
died, she was more than a housekeeper. She’d helped raise Hope and me. She’d taken
care of the household and my father. This house seemed as much her home as mine.
Dawson understood my reason for keeping Sophie on the payroll, but he refused to let
her do his laundry. I understood where he was coming from. It’d taken me a couple
of months after I’d returned from Iraq to hand over my dirty clothes to her.
I figured he’d cave in. He hadn’t. So it made no sense to me whyDawson was perfectly content to let Sophie cook for us. Probably because she kept
him well supplied with his favorite cookies.
But according to the note, she had to leave early to take her daughter Penny to the
doctor, so no tasty supper awaited me. If Dawson didn’t show up, I’d probably just
eat yogurt.
I changed, rolled out my mat, and practiced yoga until sweat stuck my clothes to my
skin.
As I stood under the tepid shower spray, I wondered how my life had become so mundane.
I went to work. Came home and played with the dogs. Worked out. Showered. Ate supper.
Watched TV, looking at the clock every ten minutes and wondering when Dawson would
show up. Then I’d hit the hay.
I’d always been fairly solitary, but tonight it almost seemed . . . forced. By the
time I’d dried off, combed out my wet hair, and slipped on a robe, I’d decided to
partake of a little nightlife at Clementine’s. I wandered into the kitchen for a pregame
beer when the dogs started barking. Dawson’s deep voice soothed them, and I could
practically hear their tails thumping against the boards on the porch.
God, I knew the feeling. I was tempted to give a little yip of excitement myself.
The door opened. Dawson didn’t notice me at first, as he was too busy taking off his
butt-ugly hat, hanging up his coat, and toeing off his boots. When he lifted his head
and looked at me, my belly jumped like I was a teenage girl with a crush.
Dawson smiled. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” I took a sip of beer. “You done for the night? Or just stopping to
get something to eat before you head back out?”
“I’m done.” His gaze started at my forehead and leisurely traveled the length of my
body, down to my bare toes, and then back up.
By the time his eyes met mine, they held that look. The look I’d been missing for
the last week.
Then he stalked me until my spine hit the counter. “Whatcha got on under that robe,
Sergeant Major?”
“Just my skin, Sheriff.”
Dawson made a noise that resembled a growl before his mouth covered mine. I fell into
him, fell into the kiss, blanking my mind to everything except the happy fact that
he was here.
His hands cradled my face then slid down my neck to the gap in my robe. Then his hands
were on my bare skin, cruising down my chest over my rib cage to circle my waist.
The way the ragged pads of his fingertips stroked my breasts made me arch into him
harder. Kiss him harder.
Then he dropped to his knees.
He chuckled against my lower belly at my moan of delight. Then his hard-skinned hands
were on the inside of my thighs, pushing them apart so he could settle his mouth on
the damp flesh within.
I held on to his head with one hand, the edge of the counter with the other, and gave
myself over to his intimate kiss. He had me panting, begging, and quivering in record
time—a feat that might’ve been embarrassing for me if I hadn’t already known this
man
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