In Your Dreams

Page 27

“I remember.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. You were moving in, and I helped you carry some boxes.”
“No, I remember. I just didn’t think you did. I bet you were an Eagle Scout.”
“As a matter of fact, I was. We’re trained to help damsels in distress.”
“If you ever call me that again, I’ll kick you in the soft parts.”
She had no idea how appealing she was.
He poured her some more wine. She might have said she didn’t know anything about wine, but she knew how to taste it, holding it in her mouth a second before swallowing, then licking her lips afterward. Even the way she held the glass said so, close to her breast, the red a deep contrast to the white of her—
Ah. She was speaking.
“Old Kevin...he was a peach. He was so nice, Jack. You have no idea. But that guy is gone, and I’m the only one who seemed to notice or care, and for some reason, that makes me feel really, really sad.”
“Sure,” he murmured, making sure he was looking at her face.
“All the things I loved about him...they seem dead now.”
“So this was something of a funeral,” Jack said.
Something flickered through her eyes. “Yes.”
His hand slid up to her ankle and rested there. “I’m sorry, then.”
She cleared her throat. “You know what sucks?” she asked. “I bought into the whole looks thing. I wore high heels and bought Spanx and I tried to look like them. The beautiful people. And the thing is, I like myself just fine. I’m tough, I’m strong, but get me next to someone like Naomi, and I stick raw chicken under my boobs and hope that Kevin will say something nice to me. And, of course, he didn’t. So I sold my soul a little, and for nothing.”
She looked at the painting on the wall and, very subtly, ran a finger under her eye.
Because she was crying. Not a lot, but, yep, those were tears.
Which was intolerable.
She took another bite of cake and didn’t look at him.
“You know,” he said gently, “we men don’t really pick you women because of your looks.”
“What does that mean?” she snapped. “Are you saying that Naomi has a stupendous body and a better personality?”
“Calm down, Simba. I’m saying that looks aren’t as important as you seem to think.”
“Said the Greek god.”
Jack smiled. “Besides, you’re very pretty.”
“Don’t make me shoot you, Jack. Go back to ‘You have a great sense of humor.’”
“I never said that. Let’s not get carried away.” She didn’t smile back.
Jack stood up and reached out for her hand. “Come on. Let me show you something.”
He tugged her up and led her to the mirror. Turned on the light.
Emmaline flinched. “Damn. How did I get chocolate there?” She looked down at her shirt and rubbed a spot of chocolate over her heart.
“Look,” he said.
“At the stain?”
“No, Emmaline. Look at yourself.”
“I’d rather not do this, Jack.”
“Don’t be such a baby. Look. See what everyone else sees.”
He stood behind her and pulled her hair back from her face.
“You probably do have a great sense of humor,” he murmured, breathing in the sweet smell of her shampoo. “And you’re very competent at handcuffing people, I’m sure. But you’re also beautiful.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Except when you do that,” he added. “Stop being so grumpy and take a compliment.”
“Where’s that Taser when I need it?”
“Shush. Look at yourself.”
His hands were on her shoulders now, and her skin was as smooth as silk. Women and their secret weapons. Yes, the br**sts and lips and earlobes were all ridiculously appealing, and then they went and threw in silky skin and the smell of oranges and honey.
Without quite meaning to, Jack slid his hands down her arms to her hands, and back up again to her neck. Her long dark hair was sweet and damp between his fingers.
“Are you putting the moves on me, Jack Holland?” she asked, her voice brisk. She didn’t move, he noted.
He could see the pulse beating in her throat. “Your eyes are—”
“Normal.”
“Stop interrupting. Your eyes are very pretty.”
She shut them. “What color are they, Jack?”
“Dark blue.”
She scowled and opened them.
“Your nose is perfect and adorable.”
“Yeah. Perfect noses. So hot.”
“Shush.” Her ass was pressed right against his pelvis, and if he leaned in a little closer, he could—“Beautiful mouth. Made for kissing.”
“Does that line work?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.” He smiled at her in the mirror, and her cheeks flushed. “You have perfect skin.”
“Talk to me in two weeks when I have my—”
“You know, you suck at taking a compliment. Say thank you.”
“Thank you, Jack, for slinging the bullshit. Is there any more cake?”
She was beautiful, and the longer he looked, the more beautiful she became. Her neck was long and smooth, her shoulders were strong and firm, her br**sts were, well, br**sts, and a very nice set at that, and there was a very appealing fullness to her hips.
He folded his arms over her chest and pulled her a little closer. Her eyes widened, and her pink lips parted.
He turned his head to breathe in her smell and felt her shiver. She didn’t pull away.
That skin smelled so sweet. He dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. Smooth as water.
Emmaline inhaled, her breath shaky.
Another kiss, this one closer to her neck.
What are you doing? a small voice asked, but it was faint, drowned out by the hard, deep pulse that was thudding through his body. She tasted as good as she smelled.
“You should... I should... We probably shouldn’t...” she breathed, but then his hand was wandering over her ribs to the fullness of her breast, which was soft and perfect, no push-up bra or raw chicken required.
A small sound came from Emmaline’s throat, and Jack took that as invitation to turn her to face him. “I think we should,” he said, and he kissed her, that sweet, full mouth, opening beneath his. He pushed his tongue against hers, tasting chocolate, and that thudding pulse surged hard and fast.
He backed her against the wall and leaned in hard against her, all that softness and good smells, that mouth. He didn’t want to stop kissing her, because she was a drug and he was addicted, and he was throbbing now. He pulled her hands over her head and held them there, still kissing her mouth, her neck, the softness of her br**sts against his chest making him drunk. She wasn’t protesting. In fact, little sweet sounds were coming from her throat, and he could swear he felt her skin get hotter under his mouth, because he was kissing his way down her neck, scraping her skin with his teeth, because Emmaline Neal was edibly delicious.
Then suddenly, she pulled her hands free and grabbed his shirt in her fists and yanked, sliding her hands up his ribs, then unbuttoning his shirt in hard, jerky movements as he worshipped her neck, one hand covering the firm weight of her breast. Then he pulled her shirt off and, God, he was so greedy for her, urgent and hungry. And damn, he wanted to erase everything else from her mind except him, and them. The two of them.
She was fumbling at his belt, and, without breaking the kiss, he turned her and pushed her onto the bed, falling with her, on top of her. A few more tugs, and their clothes were off.
She was soft and strong and Jack wasn’t even thinking anymore. There was only Emmaline and the taste of chocolate, and her beautiful, solid, silken body underneath his.
* * *
EMMALINE WOKE UP at 2:16 a.m.; Jack sprawled on top of her. From the slow, steady sound of his breathing, he was asleep. Slowly, she extricated herself and tiptoed into the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the light.
And there she was, wanton woman.
Holy shit.
Her hair was tangled, her lips puffy. Her legs felt weak and shaky, and certain parts were quite pleased at having had some attention, the first in a very, very long time.
Oh, and she was stark naked—had she mentioned that? Also, nearly dead. Cause of death: orgasm.
Not a bad way to go. No, sir, not bad at all.
And looky here. Her reflection showed a shit-eating grin, she believed it was called, and it lightened her face, which she knew was usually serious.
Kinda sorta forgot how great shagging could feel.
There was a mass of thoughts waiting to be unleashed—protests and winces and admonitions and some serious lecturing, but at the moment, she seemed to be quite taken with her reflection.
She felt beautiful. Jack had said it, a few times. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like how she looked. She had a good enough face. She liked being strong. She never really thought about beautiful.
Until now.
“Emmaline?”
She jumped. “Coming.” She pulled on the Rancho de la Luna bathrobe and tied it closed, then got a glass of water and went back into the room.
He was gorgeous. The moonlight, which had been specially ordered for the wedding, flooded the room with white light, casting Jack’s face in shadows and angles. His mouth was proof of a higher power, it was so perfectly shaped, and when he smiled, God was just showing off. The blue, blue eyes. His hands. Had she mentioned his big, strong hands, slightly rough from the farming work he did? Had she mentioned just what kinds of squeaky sounds those hands could get from her?
Ah. She seemed to be in the throes of sappy gazing. Clearing her throat, she looked down at the rumpled sheets. “Hungry?” she asked.
“Starving.” He reached out and, very slowly, pulled the tie of her robe.
“There’s still some cake,” she whispered.
“I wasn’t talking about cake,” he said, his voice deep and rumbly, and her girl parts gave a hot, sudden throb. “But now that you mention it...” And with one quick move, he had her on his lap, robe open, and proceeded to feed her bites of cake in exchange for kisses. He took his time, sliding his hands over her as if he’d never touched a woman before, licking chocolate off her lips, and damn if it didn’t work.
Very well.
Very well indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
YOU KNOW THAT expression, the cold light of day?
Yeah.
For the first few seconds that Emmaline pried her left eye open, she wasn’t sure why she was suddenly filled with dread. Hangover? No, no, she didn’t feel terrible at all. In fact, she felt pretty...
And then she remembered, and regret and ruination rained down around her.
Shit and grilled cheese.
She’d slept with Jack. Slept with in all connotations, because not only had they had sex, he was dead asleep next to her.
She bolted out of bed, then, abruptly aware that she was naked, grabbed the bedspread and wrapped it around her.
“What’s the matter? What’s wrong? Who’s dead?” Jack blurted, lurching upright. His hair was adorably mussed, and the muscles of his arms slid and bunched and—
“Nothing’s wrong. Nothing.” She looked away from the golden glory that was her bedmate. “It’s—I have to pack. It’s late. We have to leave in half an hour. We overslept.”
“Emmaline—”
“Move it, Jack. Go pack.”
Nice, said her brain. Very tender.
“I’m already packed,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her.
“Well, I have to pack, so git.”
“You can’t pack in front of me?”
“No, I can’t. So go shower and shave and eat something. Get out. I—I have to brush my teeth.” And put on clothes. Fast.