LIGHTNING SHOOTS FROM MAN’S FINGERTIPS
Dylan leaned a bare shoulder into the doorframe and raised his coffee mug. He took a swallow and shoved his free hand into the pocket of his Levi’s. The morning sun spilled through the blinds, striping his bed with light and picking out the gold in Hope’s hair. She lay beneath a tangle of sheets, one arm thrown above her head, her face turned slightly into his pillow. Her breath was slow and steady in sleep.
Dylan rubbed the warm mug against his chest and watched her. She’d wanted him to take her home in the wee hours of the morning. Instead, he’d taken her mind off leaving.
It had been a while since he’d had sex. Even longer since he’d slept with a soft woman draped across him, and he didn’t know which he had missed most. Waking up with her warm curves pressed against him and her silky hair in his mouth was something he’d forgotten he missed. The other… he hadn’t forgotten that, he just hadn’t remembered it feeling so good.
In his life, Dylan had been with more women than he could remember. He wasn’t proud of his past, but he couldn’t change it. As a teenager, he’d been wild. In his twenties, he’d slowed down a bit. By the age of thirty, he’d certainly become more choosy, but he’d never really thought about the full ramifications of such an intimate act. It had taken his relationship with Julie to bring it home. It had taken a broken condom and the birth of his son to make him realize the full physical consequences, but beyond that, he’d discovered there were deeper emotional consequences, too.
Hope stirred in his bed and he watched her foot peek out from beneath the sheet.
Until now, he hadn’t been willing to risk it, but there was definitely something about Hope Spencer that made him forget about the consequences of becoming involved with her. Something beyond the scent of her skin and the taste of her mouth. Something beyond her beautiful body and how she made him feel.
Dylan liked her dry humor and sarcasm and laughter. He liked that she didn’t take a lot of bullshit. He liked her pink toenail poli
sh, too.
He wanted to know more.
They’d made love three times last night. The first time fast and explosive, the second time slow and… explosive. The second time he’d taken his time, licking frosting from Hope’s nipples and munching peach slices that he’d placed on her breasts but had slid down her body to her thighs. She’d eaten cake from him, too. From his belly and lower. The third time the sex had started in the shower and ended in his bed.
And he’d do it again. He couldn’t seem to help it. He didn’t want to hurt Hope. He didn’t want to hurt himself or Adam, but he knew he’d be with Hope again. He’d thought one night would be enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. He’d have to be very careful.
Hope moved her hand and Dylan watched her slowly come awake. She blinked and her brows lowered.
“Good morning,” he said and pushed away from the doorframe.
She sat straight up as if she’d been doused by water. Her hair swung across one side of her face, and the sheet slipped to her waist. “Where am I?” she asked, her voice husky from sleep and a night spent using her mouth for something other than talking.
“If you don’t remember, then I didn’t do my job,” he answered as he moved to the side of the bed. Keeping one foot on the floor, he sat next to her and brushed her hair from her face. “Is it coming back to you now?”
She didn’t answer, but her cheeks turned pink.
“Here,” he said and held his coffee mug to her lips. “This might help.”
Hope took several deep swallows, then pushed the mug away. “You were supposed to take me home.”
Dylan lowered his gaze to her full breasts, her pink nipples beginning to pucker against the cold. “I guess I forgot.”
She scooted away from him and raised the sheet to her arm pits. “I didn’t want to wake up here.”
He lifted his gaze to her face. “Why?”
“Because I always look like crap in the morning. I don’t have clean clothes or underwear, and my eyes are puffy.”
He would have laughed, but she appeared to be very serious. To him she looked so good he wanted to pounce on her and bury his face in her neck. He wanted to make her smile and sigh his name. Instead, he stood and walked over to his closet. He took out a terrycloth robe that was too short and which he never wore. Tossing it onto the end of the bed, he moved to his dresser. “These have never been worn,” he said after he found a pair of boxer shorts. “My mom bought them for me for Christmas, but I don’t wear underwear.” He tossed them by the robe. “She hasn’t given up on trying to reform me.” He slanted her a smile, but she didn’t say another word. So much for putting her at ease. “I’ll make you breakfast,” he said as he left the room, giving her a chance to dress by herself.
His bare feet didn’t make a sound when he moved down the hall, past Adam’s room and the bathroom. In the kitchen, the cake mess was still everywhere. Earlier, while he’d waited for the coffee to perk, he’d picked up the biggest hunks, but a lot of the frosting still smeared the table and floor.
Dylan opened the refrigerator door and looked inside. Since he hadn’t expected to come home for a few weeks, he’d cleaned it out and there wasn’t much inside. A tub of margarine, a jar of mustard, and some ketchup. In the cupboards he found boxes of macaroni and cheese, instant potatoes, and canned fruit and vegetables.
Down the hall, he heard the bathroom door open and shut, and then the water run in the sink. There was nothing in his house to eat, and he couldn’t take her to breakfast. Not when she was wearing his boxer shorts, and not when the news of them together would be served up at lunch.
Dylan took the broom and dustpan from the closet and swept up as much cake as possible. If this were any other town, if he were a man other than the sheriff trying to live down his own past and Hiram Donnelly’s, no one would have cared so much, but he wasn’t just any man and Hope didn’t exactly blend in with the locals.
He threw more cake into the trash and smiled to himself. The next time Paris asked him how he’d liked her cake, and she would, she always did, he could tell her in all honesty that it was the best damn cake he’d ever eaten.
Dylan put the broom and dustpan away, and when he turned, Hope stood in the doorway. Her hair was brushed, her face scrubbed. The edges of his boxer shorts hung just below the bottom of his robe.