Trouble When You Walked In (Contemporary Romance) Page 17

  And she was scared.

  * * *

  Boone knew he shouldn’t have grabbed Cissie’s hand like that. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a gentleman. He paid attention to the women he slept with. He was thoughtful. He’d held many a woman’s hand before.

  But never like that.

  Never so protectively.

  Never so tenderly.

  There was an awkward silence between them while he navigated the driveway. And then he shut down the engine in front of the house instead of pulling into the side garage. “Here we are. We’ve got a couple hours. Hungry?”

  He’d reverted to proper host.

  “Yes. Very.” A patch of red crept up her neck. She opened her door and paused. “I’m going to run up and shower first. Then maybe we can meet in the kitchen.”

  “Sounds good.” He was rattled by that hand thing. Best to slow things down. They still had a TV crew to face tonight anyway.

  He watched her butt while she went up the front steps, locked into wanting her despite his best intentions. Keys in hand, he caught up with her to open the door. But the massive oak slab swung open when she turned the knob.

  The television was on. Savory aromas came from the kitchen. A slow-burning anger tightened his jaw. “Mom? Dad?”

  “In here, son!” called his mother from the media room.

  He exchanged a look with Cissie. Her eyes were guarded.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “No, no. It’s fine.” She tried to smile. “I’ll say a quick hello and go on up.”

  “Great.”

  It sucked to have parents who didn’t respect boundaries, who basically thought they owned you.

  It was his fault. He’d felt sorry for them. He’d enabled them. Up until now, he’d been able to work around the problem, but not anymore.

  He’d tell them right now.

  Go. Go home.

  He rounded the corner with Cissie. She could say hi, and then when she left, he’d kick them out.

  “Oh. My.” Janelle stood next to his dad. “Look at you two!”

  She looked the part of wealthy, cosmopolitan girlfriend off to watch a polo match or something equally highbrow. His mother and father were smiling their fake country club smiles.

  Boone threw his keys on a low cocktail table. “Hello,” he said abruptly, disgusted by the whole dynamic and mad at himself for not coming right out and saying so.

  But the old-fashioned boy in him would not allow his parents to be humiliated in front of outsiders. When he talked to them in private, yes, he’d be blunt. But he’d also try to inflict as little pain on them as possible.

  How he’d accomplish both things—putting them in their proper place, and not hurting them deeply—he had no idea. But it was something he could no longer avoid acting upon.

  “We wanted to have a nice supper ready for you.” His mother had retreated to her cool tone, which she employed with him when she was hurt or disappointed. “Janelle’s going to tell us about her upcoming golfing trip to Bermuda, and we want to hear about your adventure with Morning Coffee.”

  “It’s not over yet.” He sent a steely look his father’s way. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Son.” His chin was set at a stubborn angle.

  Oh, yes, Frank was definitely glad Janelle was there as a buffer. He knew damned well Boone didn’t want them around.

  “Janelle.” Boone greeted her with a neutral expression.

  He refused to say he was glad to see them. In Southern talk, that was tantamount to being seriously rebuffed, but did any of them actually hear him?

  No.

  “You’ve had quite a day, it appears.” His dad rocked back on his tasseled Italian loafers.

  “We’ve been on pins and needles waiting for some deets,” Janelle chimed in as if she were a member of the family. Her pouty lips parted in a pearly white smile.

  “It was long, and it’s not over,” he said. “We need to shower and get to The Log Cabin. They want us to hear some bluegrass.” He wouldn’t say they had a whole couple of hours before then.

  Cissie stood slightly behind him, to his right. He wished she’d take a step forward.

  “What time do you need to get back?” asked his shrewd mother. “The casserole will be ready in forty-five minutes.”

  He should lie, but they probably already knew. He could see Janelle or his dad prying the information out of someone on the Morning Coffee crew left behind in town. “We need to leave here by eight. The band’s not playing until ten. But it takes a while, apparently, to make the place, and probably us, camera ready.”

  “Sounds fun,” said Janelle in a fake cheerful tone. She was obviously annoyed he was the mayor getting so much attention—not her. And he had no doubt she was jealous of Cissie. “Maybe I’ll go,” she added as if she’d just now thought of it.

  “That’s your prerogative,” Boone said. Again, damning words for anyone truly interested in listening. But Janelle was not one of those people. She had her agenda, and she was going for it.

  “I’m heading up for a shower.” Cissie was the only quiet, sincere one in the room.

  The rest of them—including him—were playing a big game.

  “I’m heading to the shower, too,” he said. “And it’s going to be a long one.”

  “We’ll be waiting.” His mother was as unyielding as his father.

  When Boone turned around to go, Cissie was already gone, slipped out like a shadow. Who could blame her?

  He had a brief vision of her stripping down and washing all those mud flecks off her body. And then he had a dastardly, brilliant idea. “Mom, why don’t you all watch Jeopardy! with Janelle and compete against one another while I’m in the shower. You know that DVD you gave me for Christmas?”

  “Great idea!” Becky Lee clasped her hands together.

  A flicker of total horror crossed Janelle’s face.

  “You can answer,” said his dad to Janelle, “but only if you put it in the form of a question. Or it won’t count.”

  “I see.” Janelle’s smile had a tinge of sulk in it.

  “I’ll keep score,” said Becky Lee.

  Boone had to fight not to chuckle. Janelle deserved to be slightly tortured for being so presumptuous as to show up uninvited with his parents.

  He checked off the first part of his idea.

  Now on to the second.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  She didn’t belong here, Cissie thought as she ascended the wide staircase at Boone’s house, her thigh and butt muscles sore from the ATV, her back a little strained from the raft. She didn’t belong with these people. They were all polished and perfect, and their interests were different from hers: country club parties, fancy shoes that probably cost a month’s salary, and golfing trips to Bermuda.

  And not one of them ever came to the library.

  She had nothing in common with them.

  She peeled off her muddy shirt and shimmied out of her jeans, which were soaked in ditch water and snug on her skin. She knew she didn’t belong, so why was she so wrapped around the axle about Boone? Was it just because he was good-looking and sexy?

  No. If that were all she cared about, she wouldn’t be feeling so miserable now. Her heart actually ached.

  She turned on the shower, stuck her palm under the needles of water, and waited for it to warm. The problem, as she saw it, was that she’d built him up in her mind all these years to be something like her romance-novel heroes.

  That was it. She’d set herself up for a big fall. That was why her heart was sore.

  The water heated almost immediately, and she stepped inside the vast space. At home she had to turn around in her shower with her elbows drawn in. Here, jets sprayed at her from everywhere. And there was a stone bench—not some measly little alcove in the wall, but an entire lounging area at one end where she put her shampoo, conditioner, razors, and loofah. She sat there every night to shave her legs.

  Such luxury.

  She could easil
y get used to it.

  She soaped up her loofah and got busy. She wished she could scrub away all the vague insecurities she had around people like Janelle and Boone’s parents. By the age of thirty-two, she should feel confident in her intelligence, her talent as a librarian. She should be proud that she was a loyal friend, daughter, and granddaughter.

  Yet it didn’t seem enough just a few minutes ago in Boone’s media room.

  She closed her eyes, let the spray hit her face hard.

  Life was moving on. She had to stop second-guessing herself. She needed to grab it—

  The door to the bathroom opened.

  “It’s just me,” a male voice said softly.

  She froze. A whisper of hope penetrated her gloomy thoughts.

  Boone stood right outside the shower’s glass enclosure. “Sorry about my parents and Janelle. Can I come in?”

  Billows of steam rose around her. She blinked several times, kind of laughed and cried all at once, then swallowed it right back down.

  He waited.

  She cracked the glass door. It was funny that she didn’t feel insecure being naked around him, considering all her other issues. But she didn’t. She wanted him to see her.

  To touch her.

  He kept his eyes on her face, which was the only part of her not shielded by the glass door. Instantly, their lips locked, and he kissed her as if she were his last hope. She kissed him back the same way, their tongues colliding, playing, exploring—

  Things were already so hot between them, what would happen when she opened the glass door and let him in?

  It was inevitable.

  “Come on in,” she whispered, and crooked her finger to make double sure that this vision of masculinity understood—

  She wanted him.

  He was already naked, a towel from his own bathroom wrapped around his waist. He let it drop, she held the door wide, and next thing their two bodies met inside the shower space, beneath the spray, and his hardened length thrust up against her belly. The water beat down like a million teasing fingers—Hey, you two, don’t think you won’t be caught—which was thrilling in its own way. Cissie’s small breasts, crushed against Boone’s slick chest, ached with pleasure. He held her tight between hard, muscular arms, and his mouth sought and found—ravished—hers over and over.

  Finally, air must be had.

  “How did you get up here?” The water might not totally drown out her voice, so she kept it low.

  He looked amazing dripping wet. “Easy. The back stairs.”

  “Really?” She grinned. “I was hoping it would be harder to get to me than that.”

  “Well, considering that I had to go out on the back porch, run around the side of the house, get into the garage, sneak into the kitchen, and open the door there to get up the stairs, it was hard.”

  “Oh, my!” She rewarded him with a lavish kiss.

  He grabbed her butt, kneaded it while he kissed her back, and she tilted her lower belly into him, making him groan. But what was she going to do? Here she had the man she wanted to sleep with. They were both ready, but they were in the shower, and his parents—and Janelle—were downstairs.

  It was hardly the ideal situation, yet somehow it couldn’t be more perfect. She was already tingling all over, and the water made the sensation more exquisite, like sweet torture.

  But the best part was his nakedness, the beauty of his form, combined with the surety and elegance of his movements. He knew what he was doing, in other words, and when his mouth plucked and nibbled the nipple of her left breast …

  Something had to give.

  She whimpered.

  “We have to keep going with this,” he said, and sucked hard, murmuring his delight.

  “What if they hear?” She could barely speak, she was so blissed out.

  He glanced up at her with an arched eyebrow. “Then that’s their problem. They shouldn’t have come to my house.”

  His annoyance was plain. Yet she knew she needed to mollify him. Now wasn’t the time for him to confront his parents about anything. “But if you felt that way,” she said carefully, while he kissed her neck, “you would have walked up the front stairs, right? You don’t want to make your mother uncomfortable, and I don’t blame you.”

  “I guess you’re right.” He ran a hand down her back and over her rear, pulling her even closer up against him. “But they deserve to be uncomfortable.”

  “Maybe so. But today’s not the day.” She finally had the courage to reach low and cup him, then explore with tentative fingers.

  The wonder of it!

  He closed his eyes and released a slow breath. “You’re killing me.”

  The water pelted them.

  “Sorry.” Reluctantly, she pulled her hand away.

  He steered it back. “Don’t be.” This time he wrapped her fingers around him and squeezed.

  “Oh.” She smiled and continued her ministrations. His head fell back. It made her so happy to see him that way. She was disappointed when he grabbed her hand and made her stop.

  “Later for me.” He shot her a sweet grin, and she knew he was trying very hard not to scare her or make her feel inadequate, which made her feel cared for.

  And that was the most lovely feeling in the world—

  Almost.

  His skin on hers was the loveliest.

  Their mouths met again.

  Hunger, need, surged through her. Now it was her turn to let her head fall back while he explored her collarbone, the tender part of her neck behind her ears, and once again, her breasts—which he seemed to think were treasures from heaven—with his mouth. Inch by inch, he nudged her back in the cavernous space until her calves were pressed against the stone bench. With a small tug on her hand, he got her to sit.

  She looked up at him, her hand in his. What was next?

  “This,” he said out loud, and knelt before her, water pelting his back, running down his temples.

  Heat shot from her belly, slowed in her chest, spread, and flowed up to her face. She knew what was about to happen, and she was excited, but it was all so intimate.

  He’s seen you in the hot tub.

  But not like this.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said lightly, and kissed her, their mouths releasing, coming together. Tongues twirling. Sucking.

  His fingers splayed on her upper thighs, he applied just enough light pressure to encourage her to spread them wide. They kissed as he caressed the tender flesh on her inner thighs. She found herself spreading farther apart, wanting him there.

  Finally. She inhaled a sharp breath as his thumb traveled softly back and forth across her sheath, grazing the pearl where all her desire lay pent up, desperate for release. She lifted her bottom, wanting more.

  The rough pad of his thumb stopped exactly where she wanted it to, and he used it to nudge, circle, pulse. She was about to lose it right there, but he stopped.

  Wicked man!

  “Please keep going,” she whispered.

  His pupils were small diamonds, possessive and sure in the way a tiger is of its prey. There was no turning back, his expression said. She was his at this moment.

  His.

  Yet she felt like a queen on her throne with her own adoring cicisbeo when he dropped his head to kiss her lower belly. She smoothed his wet hair back, basked in watching him lick, bite, and kiss lower and lower until his lips discovered her very center. She almost slid off the bench.

  No one had ever done this to her before.

  “Heaven,” she said aloud, and had the strangest longing to let all her book heroines of old know that she was living a compelling story herself—compelling only to her, perhaps, but it was enough. More than enough. She was rich with sensation, glutted on glory, this godlike being showing her what her body was meant for, something so beyond what she knew and could reason out.

  There was magic in this mingling.

  He nuzzled between her legs at a leisurely pace. Still, she watched him, her
hands kneading his shoulders, clasping his neck, raking into his hair. “I can’t bear much more,” she said, but she couldn’t let him go.

  He had to stay. He had to stay there and never move.

  He laughed against her sweet spot, and that was enough to make her arch and emit a cry.

  He looked up. “Do you really think you can be quiet?” His tone was teasing.

  “No, you evil man,” she whispered, and didn’t bother to hide a silly grin. “But I’m going to try.”

  “I don’t think you can.” His expression—eyes lit with humor, his mouth open and curved upward—was so sexy and adorable in that moment, her crush deepened an almost painful degree. He was everything. She wouldn’t be able to think of anything else. Ever. It was he. All the time. In her thoughts, in her soul …

  “Let’s bet,” she said, wriggling on the bench. They needed to stop talking. And she needed to stop pining, spiraling deeper.

  Pleasure would be the antidote. Simple brute pleasure. He’d brought her to that in the hot tub, and she wanted it again.

  “What does the winner get?” His finger penetrated her—Oh!—her upper back curved inward—and then, miracle of miracles, two fingers, probing, circling.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, and squeezed reflexively against him. She wanted hard. She wanted thrust. She was getting impatient.

  He chuckled again. “The winner gets whatever he or she wants.” There—one good thrust. “But whatever he or she wants”—he moved steadily in and out, and she hung with him, grabbing those fingers, clenching them back in—“has to take place in a certain gazebo in the middle of the night.”

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “I can do it. I can stay silent. I want to win.”

  “Why?” His fingers kept up their work.

  “Because I want you again. I-I do—”

  “Sssh.” He took advantage of her lack of attention, grabbed her bottom, lifted her high while she held to the edge of the bench, and thrust his tongue inside.

  She let out a little cry. “How silent is silent? I have to win.”

  “Not a peep.” His face was serious and loveable all at once, and then he got back to business, adoring her with a passion that she still couldn’t believe was meant for her.