“So I see.”
Shouts of “Happy New Year!” burst out, rolled over them.
“Well,” she said. “Happy New Year.”
“Yeah. Happy New Year.” He lifted his brows when she started to offer her hand. “Seriously? The hearty handshake again?” He shook his head, stepped to her. “Let’s do it right.”
He set his hands on her hips, cocked those eyebrows again, waited.
“Sure.” With a half shrug, she laid her hands on his shoulders.
Casually, on both sides, they touched lips.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders; his arm slid around her waist. Something broke, like light, through the simple contact, and left her breathless.
He jerked away, stepped back—and so did she. For one long moment, they simply stared at each other.
“Okay,” he said.
“Yes, okay.”
He nodded, strode out.
She let out the breath she’d barely gotten back, picked up the open bottle with a hand that wasn’t as steady as she liked.
And that, she thought, had been a very stupid way to start the New Year.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THOUGH MIDNIGHT USHERED in the New Year, it was nearly three in the morning before Owen ushered out the last stragglers.
He closed the door, turned to Avery. “Nobody’s passed out anywhere, right? That was the last of the last?”
Signaling to wait, she peeked out the window and watched taillights blink up the lane.
“And so we say good night to the last designated driver and his haul. I think we’re clear. Whew,” she added as she stepped back from the window. “The earmark of a good party is people don’t want to leave. It’s also the downside of a good party.”
“Then we can safely say, good party. Planned and executed in just over a week.”
“Don’t think one time makes you Mr. Spontaneity, but well done.”
“You made most of the food.”
“True.” She reached around, patted herself on the back. “So. Do you want to have some coffee—there’s some fresh left—and have the post-party analysis?”
“Yeah. Over breakfast.”
She grinned at him. “My thoughts exactly.”
He held out a hand, took hers so they walked through the house together, switching off lights.
“This doesn’t feel weird,” he decided.
“Not yet.”
Hand in hand, they walked up the steps. “Anyway, I’ve already seen you naked.”
“A naked five-year-old doesn’t count.”
“Actually, you were more like thirteen. Yeah, right about thirteen.”
She stopped at the bedroom door. “And just how did you see me naked when I was thirteen?”
“Remember that summer we all rented that house up in Pennsylvania for a couple weeks? In the Laurel Highlands, on the lake?”
“Yeah.” The summer after her mother had walked out. She remembered it very well.
“You snuck out of the house a few times, to go skinny-dipping in the middle of the night.”
“I . . . did. You spied on me?”
“It’s not my fault I happened to be sitting at the window, star-gazing through that little telescope I had when you did your Lady of the Lake deal.
“Telescope?”
“Yeah. I charged Ry and Beck a buck a minute to use it.” Now, that was a fond memory. “I seem to recall I made about twenty-eight dollars.”
“You charged them by the minute so you could all spy on me.”
“Spy’s a hard word. Let’s say observe.”
“Enterprising.”
“I’ve got a head for business. Plus, it was nice. The moonlight, the water. Your hair was long back then.” He combed his hand through it. “What color’s this?”
“Red Alert, and don’t change the subject.”
“It was romantic, though I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time it was wow, naked girl. That’s how it is with a teenage boy.”
Her mind toggled back to that hot, hazy interlude on the lake. “You bought me ice cream that week. Twice.”
“Maybe I was marginally guilty and felt you deserved part of my profit.”
“And I thought you had a little thing for me.”
“I did. I saw you naked. I was even going to ask you to the movies.”
“You were not. Really?”
“Then you started talking about Jason Wexel—remember him?—and how you were going out for pizza when we got back. I clutched.”
She remembered she’d had a minor crush on Jason Wexel, though she couldn’t quite bring his face into focus now. “I did have pizza with Jason, and about fifteen other kids. It was somebody’s birthday. I don’t even remember whose. I made it sound like a date, because that’s how it is with a teenage girl.”
“Opportunity lost.”
“Until now.”
“Until now.” He framed her face in his hands, laid his lips on hers.
Slow and easy, not impulsive or rushed as it might have been at any other time between them. Relaxed, she slid into the kiss, without nerves, without doubts. When his hands roamed down, over her shoulders, the sides of her breasts, the thrill gathered and beat, a strong, steady pulse.
Like a dance, they circled toward the bed.
“I really want to see you naked again.”
Her lips curved against his. “It’ll cost you twenty-eight dollars.”
She felt the laugh rumble through him as he eased down the zipper at her back. “Worth every penny.”
“Better make sure,” she said and wiggled out of the dress.
She stepped out of it, scooped it up, tossed it toward a chair.
He didn’t even notice the dress slip off the arm of the chair to the floor. “I think my heart just stopped. Look at you.”
And he was, she thought, for just a moment looking at her as if he’d never seen her before. Then his gaze lifted to hers again, and there was that click, that connection, the recognition before he drew her against him again.
And the feel of his hands on her skin, warm against warm, layered thrill over thrill.
She brought hers up, unbuttoning his shirt as their lips clung.
Here was Owen, tall and gorgeous. Here was his heartbeat, racing fast under her fingers, her palms. Her Owen, because on some level he’d always been her Owen, with his heart beating against her hands.
Here was the new.
He lowered to the bed with her, with Avery—compact, curvy Avery. Bright hair, bright eyes, smooth skin white as moonlight. Sensations tumbled inside him—her scent, her taste, the rustle of the sheets as she moved with him. Everything about her so familiar, and still somehow unexpected.
He linked fingers with her, pressed his face to her breast. Soft, scented, smooth.
With that hum in her throat, she arched toward him, assent and invitation. His lips brushed the curve over the lace edge, then his tongue swept under, and her fingers tightened on his.
He ranged himself over her, center to center, and again she rose to him as he kissed her, as he filled himself with the taste of her until her fingers went lax in his.
He released her hands to take his over her, over skin and silk and lace, enraptured by the surprise of her, b
y each new discovery.
Nuzzling at her throat, he flicked open the catch of her bra and, once again linking their fingers, he lowered his lips to her breast.
Thorough. She should have known he’d be thorough, with his lips, his hands gliding and sliding over her skin. He fired her system with that slow, focused attention to her body, with the endless patience that was so much a part of him.
Her blood swam, driving her pulse to a gallop, as he stroked her into sweet, soaking pleasure. Her breath ragged, she let herself rise, let herself open until there were no restraints, no barriers.
Just Owen.
She filled him, surrounded him with what she was, what she offered. Boundless, he thought, her energy, that quick response, that quick demand. Everything with her, so fresh, so new, yet so wonderfully familiar.
Her breath caught, released with a moan when he slid into her, when he, in turn, filled her.
Once again, it seemed his heart stopped—a stunning, breathless moment. He held here, staring down at her in a kind of wonder.
She levered up, wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. Her head fell back, and his dropped to her shoulder.