Only in My Dreams Page 17

  And with that, he went fully and completely hard. And lost the ability to speak. And pretty much lost the ability to do anything but watch her kick her jeans to the side and shimmy out of her camisole. Clad in pink lacy underwear and a pink and white bra, she went over to the shower. “How does this thing work?”

  He dragged his eyes from the tempting curve of her ass and blinked hard. “What?”

  “The shower.”

  The shower. Right. He went to the shower and leaned in beside her. With a flick of his wrist, he turned on the main spigot.

  “What about the others?” She was looking at the rain spigot on the ceiling and the other head on the opposite end of the shower.

  He turned those on as well and adjusted the temperature. Though his cock was absolutely raging and he was pretty sure if he didn’t at least jerk off he’d have blue balls for a week, he forced himself to say, “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  “Why?” She turned toward him and put her hands behind her back. Her bra dropped to the floor. “I invited you to take a shower with me; don’t you want to?”

  God, more than he wanted anything in his life, but he didn’t want to take advantage. Especially not when they’d agreed to a hands-off policy, and the last thing he needed was to further complicate their working relationship.

  Her gaze dipped to his crotch and registered the proof of his arousal, which made it extra difficult for him to string words together. “We agreed to put this . . . attraction behind us, right?”

  She stripped her underwear off and tossed them somewhere behind him. Her gaze raked him with lurid intent. “We did, but that doesn’t seem very important to me right now. Is it to you?”

  Not at all. He was probably going to regret this, but as she said, that didn’t seem particularly relevant at present. He snatched her against his chest and kissed her hard, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She clawed at his back, and he drove her into the steaming shower.

  “Your clothes,” she muttered into his mouth.

  “I don’t give a damn about my clothes.”

  Taking him literally, she ripped his shirt at the neck and tore it straight down his front. Christ, he was going to come without even doing what she asked.

  She angled her head and kissed him wildly, spearing her tongue into his mouth.

  He shrugged out of his torn shirt and frantically unbuttoned his jeans. Her fingers joined his and they both pulled the garment down his body. While he worked to free his legs, she looped her fingers inside of his boxer briefs and slid them down his thighs. Then she sank down onto the tiled bench and drew his cock into her hot mouth.

  With one hand, she kneaded his hip, while she wrapped the other around the base of his shaft. Her mouth worked the tip, sucking and licking him into a mind-crushing haze of lust. Then her mouth closed over him, taking him deep into herself until he nudged the back of her throat. Her tongue and throat muscles worked magic, sucking him off with the sweetest perfection he’d ever experienced. With extreme effort, he just managed to hold off his orgasm.

  He grasped her head and pulled her away. “You have to stop.” He was breathing heavily, like he’d done sprints up and down his stairs. “I have to get a condom.”

  He dashed out of the shower and rummaged in a drawer. He slid the sheath on as quickly as his shaking fingers would work and went back to her. With a growl, he pulled her to her feet and set her beneath the overhead spigot. Hot water streamed over her lush body. She cast her head back slightly. Water sluiced over her face and down onto her breasts. He cupped them greedily before taking one nipple deep into his mouth and pinching the other firmly.

  She gasped and held him to her breast, twisting her hands in his hair, urging him to suck and fondle her. Breathy gasps and moans rained down on his head, making him hotter than he’d ever been in his life. He couldn’t get enough of her. And if he didn’t do something about that right now, it was going to be too late.

  Shit, he hadn’t had sex in a shower since college. It had been slippery and awkward, and he’d nearly lost his dick in a freak accident.

  But his shower had a seat. He swung around and sat down, pulling her with him. She understood what he intended and straddled his lap. He slid into her quickly and easily, both of them gasping when he buried himself to his balls.

  She immediately lifted and then dropped again, impaling herself. Again, she gasped. He pulled her head down and kissed her. He wanted to devour her whole so that she was forever a part of him.

  She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she worked up and down on his shaft. He rose up with her, participating in the motion as much as the bench allowed. He was already thinking about how he’d make love to her in his bed later.

  He cupped her ass, parting her cheeks slightly as she rose and fell on him. She ground against him with renewed fervor. He moved one hand around and fingered her clit. She shouted and cast her head back in ecstasy, curling her fingers into his shoulders hard enough that it should’ve hurt.

  But he was too far gone. His orgasm rushed over him like the water crashing down on them from all sides. He held her hips and drove into her again and again until he was spent.

  “Thank you.” Her words crested over him like a caress, filling his heart and mind with their sweetness.

  Then she climbed off of him. “Where are your towels?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  SARA TRIED TO sound nonchalant, but holy crap, what had she just done? She’d never behaved like that in her life. She didn’t even know she could behave like that. Every educated part of her brain told her she should feel embarrassed, ashamed, but she couldn’t find the emotions. All she felt was satisfied. To her very soul.

  Dylan stood up from the bench. He was so amazingly gorgeous, especially wet. He looked like a magazine ad with ridiculous abs and the perfect ass, which she checked out completely.

  “Why don’t you clean up while I get the towels?” He moved past her and stepped out of the shower.

  And such a gentleman. Especially after the way she’d just barged into his home and dragged him into the shower. Not that he’d been unwilling.

  She washed her hair and body. Dylan had hung a fluffy beige towel on a hook outside the shower. There was no door, just an opening. She figured out how to turn off the water, then wrapped herself in the cozy towel. She was warm and safe. Happy, even.

  Which she’d been a million miles from an hour ago. She hadn’t come here with seduction on her mind. She’d come here because she’d been upset, and she couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. Her condo was too far away, and Dylan’s house was much closer. Plus he was in it.

  She stepped out of the shower and toweled dry. Then she caught sight of his robe, which he’d cleaned up as promised. As soon as her foot left the bath mat, she sighed in delight as heat from the tile floor caressed her foot. With a contented sigh, she donned his robe and deposited her towel in a hamper in the corner. Inspection of his counter revealed a comb, which she used to untangle her hair. The mirror reflected a face flushed with the heat of a shower—and great sex—as well as a sultry little smile that surely didn’t belong to her.

  Who was this woman?

  Dylan, dressed in athletic shorts and a T-shirt, peeked his head in the doorway. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Wine?”

  He smiled. “You got it. Make yourself at home.”

  He turned from the doorway and she followed him out into his bedroom. He left and went downstairs, but she remained and studied the room. The house was old, probably built in the twenties or thirties; however, the bathroom was straight off of HGTV with its state-of-the-art shower, gorgeous stone and tile work, and heated floor.

  And his bedroom was just as luxurious. A king-sized bed with a massive headboard of what looked like repurposed wood. The bedding—shades of gray and blue—was lush and inviting, though it was haphazardly made, which caused her to smile.

  There was enough space for a small seati
ng area on the other side of the room, but it looked as though he hadn’t bothered to finish decorating. She was surprised he’d done this much. Most guys would probably throw a Seahawks blanket over the bed and call it good. Or maybe she was just that out of the loop when it came to her experience with men.

  She cringed. Probably the latter.

  He came back in carrying a glass of red wine. “I hope pinot’s okay.”

  “Perfect, thanks.” She took the glass, careful not to touch him lest she jump on him again. Though she felt satisfied, she realized she wasn’t necessarily done. She took a hearty, fortifying drink then went to the wide windows that looked out the front of the house over the valley. “Your view is as beautiful as the wedding cottage’s.”

  “Especially when the sky isn’t falling.” He came up beside her, but kept a reasonable distance between them. She wished he’d move closer. “I’d like to build a deck out from this.”

  “That would be incredible.” She pivoted and nearly sighed like an idiot at the beauty of his profile. “Speaking of incredible . . . ”

  He looked at her, his eyes unreadable. “Do we have to talk about it? Can we just let it be for now?”

  She exhaled, relieved by his reaction. She’d totally overstepped and right now she just didn’t want to think about it or discuss any repercussions. She spent too much of her life analyzing and worrying. One night of abandon sounded heavenly. “Absolutely.”

  She sipped her wine and they stared out at the storm for a few minutes. The silence wasn’t awkward or strange. It was comfortable, pleasant, right. “I’d rather not go home just yet, if that’s okay.”

  “You can’t. Unless you want to wear my robe. Your clothes won’t be ready for a couple hours. I had to wash them.”

  She grabbed his arm. “On cold, I hope. My sweater—”

  He chuckled. “I told you before that I’m good at laundry. I’ve been doing my own since I was nine. Yes, they’re in cold.”

  “You can’t dry it though, so I’ll have to borrow a sweatshirt or something.”

  “Let’s have something to eat and then we’ll figure it out.” He peered at her, his gaze assessing. “That okay?”

  “Perfect. What’s for dinner?”

  He gave her a half-smile. “I don’t know yet. Let’s check out the pantry, shall we?” He held his arm out for her to precede him from the room.

  She went downstairs and then stepped aside so he could lead her to the kitchen. The entry hall went straight past the stairs to a back area that he’d completely renovated. Directly in front of her was a rustic farm table surrounded by a mish-mash of unmatched wooden chairs. To the right was a family room with a rich, brown leather couch pointed at a huge flat-screen. To the left was a mostly-remodeled kitchen that nearly made her jaw hit the floor. HGTV on steroids.

  “You did this?” she asked, moving into the kitchen and smoothing her palm over the speckled, buttery beige granite.

  “It’s still a work in progress.”

  “Barely.” She took in the huge stainless sink, the Subzero fridge, and the top-of-the-line gas cooktop beneath a hood that would make Kyle weep.

  Kyle.

  Damn, she didn’t want to think about him or what she’d said. Or the fact that Mom had overheard it.

  Dylan moved past her and opened the door to a generous pantry. “I don’t have a ton of stuff, but I make some pretty mean meatballs. Do you eat pasta?”

  “Love pasta. I don’t suppose you have angel hair?”

  He stuck his head out and grinned at her. “That’s all I have, in fact.”

  She smiled back, absurdly pleased they had the identical taste in noodle shape.

  “Have a seat at the bar while I get things going.” He disappeared back into the pantry.

  Sara turned and moved toward the massive island that separated the kitchen proper from the table. Four backless wooden stools, as rustic as the table, were tucked beneath the counter.

  “Would you mind grabbing my beer? It’s over on the coffee table.”

  Sara went into the great room and navigated around the couch to a low table. Issues of Sports Illustrated and Rolling Stone were stacked neatly on one side, and an architectural book about the Pacific Northwest sat on the other. She picked up his beer bottle and took it back to the bar.

  He’d assembled a variety of ingredients on the counter and was now foraging in the enormous fridge.

  “You designed this kitchen for a chef. I have a hard time believing you haven’t become a world-class cook. Didn’t you say you weren’t always successful?”

  “I thought it might inspire me to cook more.”

  “And has it?”

  “Yes, but I’m still honing my skills.” He turned from the fridge and tossed two paper-wrapped packages on the counter. He opened the first package to reveal ground meat of some kind. Italian sausage, she guessed. “You tell me how I’m coming along when you taste it.”

  Sara nodded. “Will do. What’s the other package?”

  He opened the second wrapping. “This is ground beef. I like to mix it with the sausage for a richer flavor.” He shrugged. “I really have no idea what I’m talking about. Once, years ago, I had a little bit of ground beef and a little bit of Italian sausage and a hankering for meatballs. So I mashed ’em up together and I’ve been doing it ever since.”

  “Then it must be pretty good.”

  He pulled some spices out of a cupboard and sprinkled them, seemingly at random, over the meat. “I’ve tweaked the recipe a bit, but I think I’ve got it down to a science.”

  She leaned forward to read the labels, but he stashed them away before she could see them. “What are you adding?”

  “Trade secret, sweetheart,” He winked at her and her insides melted.

  She liked flirting with him. No, she loved flirting with him, especially when he flirted back. “Is there anything I can help with?”

  He filled a large pot of water and put it on the stove to boil. “If you want salad, there’s a bagged kit in the fridge. Sorry, my culinary adventures haven’t extended to the vegetable realm yet.”

  She moved around the island to the fridge. “There’s nothing wrong with a bagged salad. Fast, easy, usually fairly good for you.” Wow, that sounded like a bad pickup line. She paused with her hand on the door. “That didn’t come out right.”

  He laughed. “I like fast and easy. And the fairly good for you part is a bonus. Though I wouldn’t call you easy and I sure as hell wouldn’t characterize you as ‘fairly’ good.”

  Her blood heated at the compliment. She found the bag and closed the door. “Bowl?”

  His hands occupied with forming meatballs, he indicated a cupboard with his foot. “Down here.” He scooted over so she could get inside the door he’d indicated.

  She squatted down and found a suitable bowl. At this level, her head came to just below his waist. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, but gave in to standing up slowly and grazing his thigh with her breast. “Sorry about that,” she breathed.

  “No, you’re not.” His voice sounded tight. “Temptress.”

  Oooh, she liked that. Moving around to the side of the island to prevent further temptation, she prepped the salad.

  He’d finished with the meatballs and set them aside while he put the angel hair in the now-boiling water. “Kyle came by this morning after you left.”

  Her hand froze in midair as she was about to dump feta cheese on the salad. “He did?”

  He dashed some salt into the pasta water. “Yeah, you didn’t see him on your way out? He said he passed you on the road.”

  She hadn’t noticed. She’d been too fixated on meeting with Craig. “I missed him somehow. What did he want?” She added the cheese and tossed in the rest of the items—some crunchy crouton-type things that weren’t croutons, cranberries, and hazelnuts.

  “Just to see the progress. He’s pretty excited about the restaurant.”

  “He is?” She’d avoided him since Wed
nesday, which had been fairly easy since he was staying in the apartment over the garage instead of his old bedroom. Which was weird. Both she and Tori were in their old rooms, why wasn’t he? Maybe Dad had told him to stay in the apartment—he’d been angry enough that she could imagine him saying that. Yuck, her muscles were starting to tighten just thinking about them.

  “What’s going on with him? He said you were all pissed at him.”

  If anyone else had asked, she would’ve shrugged the question off and changed the subject. Yet, she found herself wanting to talk to Dylan about it. He was such a good listener—whether she was talking about Alex or her SPD. Even her Mom had said he was great. “Pissed isn’t the right word. Hurt or disappointed are more accurate.”

  “What happened?”

  She took the bowl and packet of dressing to the table, intending to toss it when the pasta was ready. “He ran into some trouble or something—lost his job and his apartment in Portland. He came home for a bit, but when Dad offered him a job designing the menus and overseeing food operations for the brewpubs, he bolted to Florida.”

  His brow puckered. “That seems odd. He’s a chef, right?”

  “A really good one. What’s even more odd is that he wasn’t cooking there. He was bartending. And boating. And perfecting his tan.” She didn’t bother curbing her sarcastic tone.

  “So he bailed . . . I guess I don’t understand why that’s a big deal.”

  She could see why he might think that, but there was so much more to what had happened. Why did family have to be so complicated? “Dad was really angry with him for turning down the job. It wasn’t just a charity offer—he really needed someone in that role and Kyle refused. I think there might be more to it than that, but neither one of them has ever said. For me, it was more personal. When we were younger, Kyle was sort of my guardian. He looked out for me. While Mom regulated me from a sensory perspective, Kyle was sort of the number two guy in that respect. He kept me grounded, made sure I was okay. When he left, I felt betrayed that he didn’t even talk to me about it. He just left a stupid note saying he’d come home soon. Which he didn’t. I think he came home maybe three times in those four years.”