Heat drenched her from head to toe. “Yeah. That’s it. Have for years. Now take her out. And not the front. She’s afraid of the boxer across the street.”
While he was gone, Lucy gathered up all of Eller’s belonging and put them by the front door. With any luck, she would have him out of here in less than five minutes.
But there was no luck. When Brantley strolled back into the living room, he had two open beers. “I couldn’t help but notice there was some beer left from our barbecue and football night.” He handed her one.
Oh, what the hell. It had been a hard day. She sat on the sofa and took a sip. She would let him drink his beer and then he was out of here.
He wandered over to the gong, picked up the hammer, and struck it three times.
“Attention! This is the portion of the evening where the very repentant bad, bad Brantley Kincaid atones for his appalling manners when he left his dog on the sainted and beautiful Lucy Mead’s porch without obtaining her permission.” And he gave her that unfair smile.
She felt a little grin playing with the corner of her mouth. Words were cheap and easy but she doubted if there was a former fat girl alive who could keep from smiling when she heard the word beautiful applied to her.
Encouraged, Brantley rang the gong one more time and picked up a large brown shopping bag that she hadn’t noticed until now. He joined her on the sofa and set the bag at her feet.
“All for you, Lucy!” He gestured to the bag.
She let herself smile full on. “Is there a Jack-O-Lantern in there?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Open it up and see.”
The bag was full of things. The first thing she pulled out was a t-shirt—purple and pretty gaudy from what she could tell. This was fun.
But when she went to unfold it, the fun stopped. There was a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge on the front with hot pink letters that said San Francisco. Ugly as it was, that wasn’t what horrified her. The shirt was huge. A glace at the tag in the back proclaimed it to be a triple extra large. Is this how Brantley saw her? Was she that big?
There was nothing to do but say thank you. She opened her mouth and met his eyes—which looked wide with surprise. His mouth was a perfect O.
He laughed and took the shirt from her. “That’s not yours. That’s for Evelyn. I forgot there was other stuff in there.”
Relief washed over her as he took the bag and rummaged around, pulling things out. “Let’s see. Cable car magnet for Evelyn. Toy cable cars for Beau and Emma. Bib for baby Lulu.” He rummaged around some more. “Uh oh. Nothing for Missy. Meant to get something at the airport. I’ll have to buy her something and pass it off as coming from San Francisco or I will never hear the last of it.” He thrust the bag back at Lucy. “I promise the rest is yours. The finest, classiest souvenirs that San Francisco has to offer. Don’t look too hard at where they were made.”
With some trepidation, she pulled out item after item, but there was nothing else alarming, and each item funnier and tackier than the last. There was a plastic back scratcher from Chinatown, a plate with scenes from the city, a shot glass, a picture frame that played “I left my Heart in San Francisco,” and an Alcatraz snow globe.
“That right there, baby,” Brantley said pointing to the snow globe, “I thought was the cream of the crop, but it’s hard to beat what’s in that little box there.”
Lucy opened the box and burst out laughing. “I have been needing cable car earrings.”
Brantley ran his hand down her cheek and said, “There it is. There’s that laugh, the one I ditched a fancy cocktail party to come back early for.” He looked in the bag. “There’s just one more thing. Couldn’t come back without a shirt for you.”
Her stomach tightened as she reached in the bottom of the bag to pull out a plastic sack. It was hot pink with green writing and a gold lame bridge. If a more garish shirt had ever been made, Lucy had never seen it.
But it was a spandex cropped tank top, size small.
Warmth was already spreading through her when Brantley leaned into her and said, “I thought that would be a very attractive look for you. Maybe you’ll model it for me some time.”
Knowing it was a mistake and not caring, she grabbed his cheeks and brought his mouth to her own.
“Lucy Mead,” Brantley said and snatched her into his arms, laid her back, and devoured her mouth all in one forceful, sweet, tender motion. He broke the kiss and said, “I was a little too quick on the draw with that laying you down. Raise up.” And he proceeded to unzip her dress and pull it down in front.
Then he was busy with her bra and she ought to stop him. But she didn’t want to.
He gasped. “Oh, Lucy.” Her bra was on the floor now and he looked at her in wonder. Or it seemed that way. Could it be? He ran his hands over her breasts, almost worshipfully. “You are beautiful. So lush.”
She might have thought about what he said and analyzed it like she did everything, but he settled in to feast on her breasts and there could be no thoughts—only feelings. He took his time, sweet, sweet time. She had not had very many lovers, and never had she known a man who knew how to so thoroughly make love to breasts. Even he had not known all those years ago in Savannah. But now he seemed to have a sixth sense that told him when to lick and swirl, when to nuzzle, and when to increase pressure and lightly bite, almost to the point of pain. And he knew when to stop and start all over again.
She was lost.
She pulled his shirt out of his pants and slid her hands along the muscles on either side of his spine. They shuddered together, totally in sync. Fearful that she would pass out, Lucy took a deep breath. This was special, powerful, and defied comparison. It probably always would.
He shifted until he was lying between her thighs, throbbing, hot, and wanting. It was when he raised up and reached for his zipper that she stiffened.
“Shh, Lucy.” He covered her mouth with his and then worked around to her ear. “You said you were not going to have sex and that’s what I know until I’m told different. But that zipper—it can be a little rough on the man parts when they’re in the shape mine are in.”
It was then she discovered there was something better than how he was making her feel—it was these feelings mixed with laughter.
“And what a shape it is,” she whispered back, raised her pelvis to meet his, and they both laughed. This time she did not protest when he unzipped his pants and slipped them over his hips.
Then his mouth was on her breasts again and he was pressing, pressing, pressing against the sofa arm so they could feel each other better through the thin fabric of their underwear, because her dress was now around her waist. This was so perfect that she needed to savor it.
But she needed to stop. And stop him. If she didn’t, she was going to come, right here like a teenager in the backseat of a car. And if she came, she would owe him, wouldn’t feel right if he didn’t.
He sensed her hesitation.
“Lucy, I want you. But I meant what I said. I act on my last directive. But I wouldn’t mind if you changed that directive.”
And what if she did? What if they went upstairs, got into bed, and finished what they had started in Savannah? It could be wonderful.
But what if she repulsed him, like she had that night? What if he rejected her and ran again?
Unthinkable.
He looked at her with a question in his eyes.
“I can’t,” she said.
He nodded. “I understand. Not this time.”
She couldn’t speak to that. How could she lie there and tell him never when her dress was wadded up around her waist from both directions, her panties soaking wet, and her bra was on the floor?