True Confessions

Chapter Ten

Other than the opening day of hunting season, the Fourth of July celebration was the premiere event in Pearl County. The nation’s birthday was kicked off with a parade down Main Street, which continued around the lake to the grange hall. The field around the grange was mowed down and Corvase Amusements turned the area north of the building into a swell of motion and beckoning lights. The whirs of the Scrambler and the Ferris wheel collided with the plummeting screams from the Zipper, all but drowning out the enticing calls of carnies, coaxing the citizens to try their luck at such games as Slam-Dunk, Flip-a-Frog, and the Quarter Toss.

Rows of craft booths owned the area south of the carnival, where the Mountain Mama Crafters proudly displayed their latest accomplishments. Their artistry ranged from traditional quilts and flower wreaths to toilet-paper cozies and crazy-eyed, long-haired, neon-colored owls glued to hunks of driftwood. No one had the heart to tell Melba that her owls were truly ghastly.

The smells of boiled corn, fried onions, grease, and brewer’s yeast hovered like smog on the hot summer air. It was ninety-eight degrees in the shade, and the dry heat sucked moisture from the skin and toasted unprotected flesh. Next to the food stands was the first-aid tent, where two paramedics bandaged cuts, handed out Pepto, and alleviated heat exhaustion. Deputies Plummer and Williams kept their eyes on the crowd and tended drunkenness. By 6 p.m., Hayden Dean had passed out behind the Hot Dogs for Jesus booth, and at six-oh-five, one of the Hollier kids was caught trying to steal his wallet.

Across the field from the first-aid tent, Paul Aberdeen stood behind a chalk line, determination on his red face, a toilet bowl on his shoulder.

“Come on, baby, you can do it,” Shelly called out to him. “You’re a lean, mean, toilet-tossing machine!”

Hope glanced across her shoulder at her neighbor. Toilet-tossing machine? Shelly held her bandaged hand to her forehead to block out the vicious sun. Her freckles stood out against her pale skin, and her cheeks were flushed. But they were nothing compared to her husband’s. Paul’s face looked like a tomato.

For reasons Hope would never understand, and despite the heat, both Paul and Shelly wore matching Wranglers, cowboy boots, and frilly shirts with pearl snaps. In fact, almost everyone at the fair had duded up as if they were backup singers in a country-and-western band.

Hope on the other hand, had dressed for comfort in her short khaki skirt, black tank top, and leather flip-flops. “Do you think he’s going to pass out?” she asked.

Shelly shook her head. “He better not. He only has to gain two inches in this throw to move a head of everyone else.”

A hush fell over the spectators as Paul spun like a shot-put thrower and heaved the toilet. It flew about ten feet, landed on its base, then fell over onto its side.

“Yes!” Shelly raised her good fist into the air. “The big-screen TV is mine.”

Unfortunately, Shelly’s euphoria lasted only until Burley Morton hoisted the toilet onto his shoulder, moved to the line and hurled it eleven feet four inches. The crowd went wild, Burley moved into first place, and a new toilet-toss record was set.

Paul walked away with a second-place ribbon, a hunting knife, and a sore back.

“Is it over now?” Wally asked. “I want to get my face painted.”

Shelly ignored her son while she rubbed Paul’s back with her good hand. “Do you need a beer, baby?”

“I think I need some Ben-Gay,” Paul answered as he studied his new knife.

“I’ll take Wally,” Hope volunteered, secretly envious of the carnival toys he held in his hands. She’d spent most of the day chasing Wally from one booth to the next. While he had a rubber snake, a plastic tomahawk with fake hair hanging off it, and a crooked pencil, Hope had nothing to show for the appalling amount of money she’d handed over to the carnies. Not even a cheap ashtray. She’d been a failure at all the games she’d played, and after she’d accidentally beamed a young cowboy on the side of the head with a sinker, they’d banned her for life at the Fly Casting Booth. “We’ll meet you two later,” she told Shelly and headed out with Wally.

They waited in line to have a football painted on Wally’s cheek, and after some coaxing, Hope agreed to have a dagger painted on her shoulder. She’d never spent all day hanging out with a seven-year-old boy before, and she was surprised that she didn’t get bored. She supposed it had something to do with her sudden desire to be around people again. She found that the longer she lived in Gospel, the less she liked to spend time alone.

She’d turned in her second article on aliens and was working on her third. Her first alien article had come out that morning, and she’d rushed to the M & S to buy a copy of the newspaper. She’d been given the center spread, knocking Clive’s cow mutilation out of the prime space.

Lately, she’d spent quite a bit of time across the road with Shelly. She helped her neighbor clean house, do laundry, and deadhead the petunias in the window boxes. They talked a lot, about a lot of different things, but Hope still hadn’t been able to tell her new friend about the really bad times in her life. She wanted to, but she couldn’t.

They talked about Hiram Donnelly and the FBI report that had arrived the day before. Some of the text had been blacked out, and she was no closer to understanding than before. After Hope returned home tonight, she planned to go over the information again.

They talked about Dylan, too. No one had heard from him since he’d taken Adam to the airport. That had been four days ago, yet no one seemed worried. Even though Hope knew better than to expect him, she sometimes found herself walking to her front window, looking for the white-and-brown sheriff’s Blazer. Or when she went into town, her gaze would wander, searching for a certain straw cowboy hat or a faded pair of jeans. Of course she never did see him and hated the disappointment that settled on her shoulders and pulled her down.

The last time she’d seen him was that day in Hansen’s Emporium when his gaze had burned her everywhere it touched. She hadn’t imagined that his voice got a little deeper, and a bit huskier, when he talked to her. She hadn’t imagined all that sexual desire directed right at her.

Then again, maybe she had imagined it. If he’d really wanted to spend time with her, he certainly knew where she lived. Yet he hadn’t made an effort to contact her, and now, as she and Wally walked toward the game booths, she wondered if whatever she’d felt between herself and Dylan had been all in her head.

Or perhaps he was one of those guys who played with women’s emotions. Maybe the thrill for him was in the chase, and God knew she hadn’t run very fast. Okay, she hadn’t run at all. In fact, she’d stood perfectly still while he’d pulled up her shirt. She’d even moved his hands to cover her breasts.

She and Wally tried their luck at a few games, and Hope finally won a pink plastic ruler after tossing rings on pop bottles. She put her prize in her fanny pack, and by the time she found Paul and Shelly eating hot dogs and drinking beer, the sun hung low in the sky. The carnival lights kicked in and the food booths lit up. Hope’s stomach growled, and she and Wally grabbed two corn dogs with extra mustard before joining the small group that had gathered amongst the picnic tables set up behind the food stands. Wally abandoned her to eat with the other children and Shelly introduced Hope to her friends. They all seemed very nice, and while she ate her corn dog, the owner of the Buckhorn filled her in on his secrets to tossing a good toilet.

“It takes pure muscle to toss a toilet that far,” Burley said as laughter a short distance away drew her attention over his left shoulder. Like a magnet, her gaze settled on a tall, lean cowboy in a battered straw hat.

Dylan Taber leaned one shoulder against the Pound of Fries trailer, his arms folded across his chest, absorbed in conversation with several women standing in front of him. His sudden appearance at the fair was as unexpected as the warm flush spreading across Hope’s abdomen and up her chest. Her crazy heart pounded in her ears, and she pretended to listen to Burley, but in reality she didn’t hear a word.

Dylan lifted his gaze and his eyes locked with Hope’s. He looked at her across the distance, his head cocked to one side as he listened to the women speaking to him. At the sight of him, hot pleasure settled low in Hope’s stomach, and she couldn’t stop the smile that curved her lips. She waited, but Dylan didn’t acknowledge her in any way. She couldn’t tell by his expression if he felt the same pleasure or warm flush, or if he felt anything at all. He simply looked at her, his handsome face unreadable. Then he looked away.

“Stanley told me you’re writing a magazine article about Hiram Donnelly.”

She returned her attention to the man standing in front of her. “Yes, I am,” she said, her thoughts scattered, her emotions chaotic.

“Hiram and I were third cousins,” Burley told her. “When he was little, his daddy ran over him with a tractor. So we all pretty much figured he was damaged from an early age, only it took years for it to surface.”

Oh, geez, not again. A few days ago she’d been cornered at the post office by a group of Minnie’s friends. They’d wanted to assure her that Minnie had been a God-fearing Christian who would never do anything illegal. When Hope had informed them that kinky sex wasn’t necessarily illegal, and that even Christian women enjoyed a bit of kink once in a while, they’d looked at her as if she were speaking the Devil’s tongue.

“Anyway, his family would appreciate it if you’d mention that the rest of us are normal,” said the toilet-tossing champion. He sniffed and crossed his big arms over his barrel chest. “And none of us believe in spanking of any kind.”

“I’ll remember that,” Hope assured him and she excused herself. She moved to a trash can to throw away her corn-dog stick. Around her, people talked and joked, filling the tent with the kind of ease and laughter that came from knowing one another all of their lives.

Someone lobbed an empty cup into the trash, and she strolled through the crowd toward Shelly. She felt very alone, but it certainly wasn’t the first time in her life she’d felt alone while standing in a crowd of people.

A big, warm hand grabbed her from behind, and she looked at the strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm. She turned and glanced up into Dylan’s face. He still didn’t appear very happy to see her.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said.

“I didn’t expect to come.” He dropped his hand and cool air replaced the warmth of his palm. “I haven’t been in town on the Fourth for several years.”

“Did you get called into work?” she asked and watched his lips form the word “no.”

Like most everyone else at the fair, he’d gone completely native in a blue-and-white striped shirt that snapped down the front and at the cuffs. Instead of his usual Levi’s, he wore dark blue Wranglers. His belt was made of tooled leather, and the sliver buckle had two T’s in the center and must have weighed five pounds. “Then what brought you to town? Do you have an uncontrollable desire for a corn dog?”

“I have an uncontrollable desire, but not for a corn dog,” he said, then gave her an all-over perusal, starting at her feet. Slowly his gaze traveled up her legs and thighs and rested on the front of her black tank top where the logo bebe was written in white. Then his eyes did meet hers, instantly heating her. No longer indifferent, he looked like he would eat her up right where she stood.

He pointed to her shoulder. “Nice tattoo.”

“Thanks. I thought it made me look like a biker chick.”

One brow lifted and disappeared within the shadow of his hat. “You don’t look anything like a biker chick. First off, you need leather and a bad attitude.” He paused for a moment before he added, “But come to think of it, you just might have the attitude part.”

Hope didn’t have an attitude, she just didn’t put up with a lot of crap.

“If you were a biker chick, you’d have to listen to your old man and sit on the back of his hog.” He bent his head over hers. “And quite frankly, honey, you strike me as a woman who likes to drive.” From ten feet away, someone called his name and he placed his hand on the small of her back. “Come on,” he said in a low, husky voice that sent shivers up her spine. “Let’s go shoot some squirrels.”

“Squirrels?”

He led her away from the food booths, and at that moment Hope would have followed him anywhere. “You want to shoot squirrels?”

“Yep.”

She would have followed him to the moon, the end of the earth, or shooting squirrels, but she had to admit that it was weird, and not a typical date. “I suppose they taste just like chicken,” she reasoned.

“I wouldn’t know.”

They moved down the midway, past the crowded food stands to the relatively deserted game booths. Most people had taken a break to eat, and the Shoot a Squirrel game was empty except for the carnival worker. She’d seen the booth earlier but had forgotten about it, because not only didn’t she have any desire to shoot a BB gun, each game cost the exorbitant price of two bucks.

She glanced at the five happy squirrel targets, then looked up at Dylan. One side of his face was lit by the light pouring from the booth; the other was covered in shadow. “When you said you wanted to shoot squirrel, I thought…”

“I know what you thought.” He removed his hand from the small of her back and pulled his wallet from his pocket. He handed the carnival worker, named Neville, ten dollars and was given two BB guns. “We’re going to have a contest,” Dylan said as he shoved his wallet into his back pocket. “I get two games and you get two. You also get a free practice round.”

She took the gun and held it at arm’s length. “What makes you think I need practice?”

“Just a wild guess.” He smiled, a slow and sensual turn of his mouth. “We’re also going to place a little side bet.”

“You don’t think I have a chance of winning do you?”

“Nope.”

He was probably right. “What’s the side bet?”

Dylan leaned his gun against the booth. Then, without a word, he stepped behind her and positioned her gun against her shoulder. He placed his warm hand over hers and positioned his finger over the trigger. “Now squeeze the trigger,” he said next to her right ear. She did and the BB hit the tarp behind the first squirrel. He folded her within the warmth of his solid chest, and the hairs on the back of her neck tingled as she fired again. The shot hit a bushy-tailed target happily munching on an acorn. “The secret to a steady shot is knowing how to handle a loaded weapon,” he said just above a whisper as he cocked the gun for her. “It takes a smooth motion of the wrist… and a slow, firm squeeze of the trigger.” The third shot hit the third squirrel with a loud ping that sent Hope’s nerves pinging through her body. “You look like a girl who’d be good at nice, smooth strokes and a firm squeeze.” The fourth target fell, and then the last. “Are you, Hope?”

Hope glanced at the carnie standing several feet away. He was watching them, but he couldn’t hear anything. She chose to ignore Dylan’s question, but that didn’t keep her insides from heating up and her nerves getting jumpy. She looked up into Dylan’s face and asked, “What’s the side bet?”

He stared into her eyes for a moment and then lowered his mouth closer to her ear. “When I win,” he said, “I get to lick you up like you’re ice cream.”

His breath on her ear warmed the side of her throat. “What happens if I win?”

He didn’t answer right away, as if he hadn’t considered the possibility. “You won’t.”

“What if I do?”

“Whatever you want.”

She tried to think of something to lighten the sexual tension, but her words came out sounding more sensual than she’d planned. “Like I could order you to come over and mow my yard?”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“Naked,” she added.

“Naked is good. Take out the part about mowing your yard and I just might let you win.” He brushed her arm with his hot palm and thought for a moment. “Nah, I like mine better. Maybe you should admit defeat right now and save yourself some embarrassment.”

“Do I have a choice?”

He dropped his hands and took a step back. “Hope, you always have a choice. I’d never make you do anything you don’t want to do. What’s the fun in that?”

She believed him. “I get to go first.”

He picked up his BB gun and handed it to her.

She waited until Neville had reset the targets. Under Dylan’s watchful eyes, she shot two of the five squirrels. “That was pretty good,” she said, proud of herself.

Dylan laughed, three low “huh-huh-huhs.” Then he raised his BB gun, squinted down the barrel, and knocked out all five targets in less than five seconds. He had that smooth squeeze motion down real good, an obvious expert at handling loaded weapons.

“I think I’ve been set up,” she said.

“You never stood a chance, city girl. I got my first BB gun when I was about four years old.” He lowered the barrel. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. All or nothing, and in the next round, you only have to hit three, but I have to hit every shot to win.”

“You’re on.” As soon as the squirrels were once again standing, she took aim.

“Look down the sites.” Neville stepped forward to advise her.

Dylan turned a narrow gaze on the carnie, and Neville went back to his position at the side of the booth. At the end of the barrel, she noticed what Neville was talking about. She lined it up on a squirrel with a green bow tie. “Take that,” she said as the target fell. She missed the next two targets, but hit the fourth. She sited the last squirrel, wearing a pair of pink pumps. “I’m going to nail her good.”

“Now, there’s an interesting choice of words.”

She glanced over at Dylan, then back at the squirrel. “Don’t think you can distract me.”

“I’m not”-he paused to lower his voice a fraction-“but if I were trying, I’d probably just come right out and tell you I’m wondering about the color of your panties again.”

She shook her head. “Not even your juvenile attempt to distract me is going to work.” She hit the target, then blew on the end of the barrel as if there were smoke coming out. “Worried, Sheriff?”

“Honey,” he drawled as he shot and hit the first squirrel, “you’ve got me shakin‘ in my boots.”

Hope decided it was time to do a little distracting of her own. She leaned her behind against the edge of the booth and crossed her legs. Her beige skirt slid up her thighs, and she ran her gaze from his big belt buckle up his chest to his face. “Why don’t you tell me again how to handle a loaded weapon?” She licked her lips and lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “Tell me about that smooth stroke and gentle squeeze.”

He shot and the second target fell. “It was ‘firm squeeze.’” The third squirrel went down and Hope straightened. “There’s a difference.”

“Pink,” she said, loud enough for his ears only.

He cocked the gun and looked across his shoulder at her. “Pink?”

“My panties are pink.” She raised a seductive brow. “Silky pink with little red chili peppers and the words ‘Warning: Hot Stuff ’ embroidered on the front.”

His gaze dropped to her crotch. “Really?”

No, not really. “Yeah.”

Ping. Ping. Ping. The rest of the targets fell and Dylan leaned the gun against the booth. “Well, look at that. I guess I win.”

Neville offered Dylan his choice of a rubber chicken, an assorted selection of fake vomit, a Corvette mirror, or a plastic hard hat that held a beer on each side. Dylan took the hat and placed it on her head. “For your next twofer night,” he said.

It was the first time in Hope’s life a man had given her a cheap carnival prize. The gesture touched her more than it should have, which she supposed was just one more reflection on her life. It was a pretty sad commentary when a beer helmet could make a woman feel sort of weepy.

“Time to choose,” he said, placing his hand on the small of her back. They stepped away from the light of the booth and were wrapped up in the rapidly falling darkness. “No more games, Hope,” he said as they walked away the carnival booths. “I either take you to your home or take you home with me. If I take you home with me, I’m taking you to my bed.” They moved in the opposite direction of couples heading toward the edge of the lake, where the town would shoot off fireworks. “I doubt you’ll get much sleep,” he added.

“I rode here with Paul and Shelly.”

“I know.” He stopped at the entrance to the parking lot, giving her time to make her decision. “I already told them I’d take you home.”

“When did you do that?”

“When I first got here.”

She gazed into Dylan’s dark face. Could she go through with it? Could she spend a night with him and feel good about herself in the morning? “Were you that sure of yourself?”

He shook his head. “No. I was hoping you’d let me sweet-talk you out of your clothes, but I wasn’t sure of anything. I’m still not.” His hand moved from her back to her bare shoulder. “I wasn’t planning on coming here today. I wasn’t planning on coming back to town for a couple more weeks.”

Could she? Could she get past all the emotions and treat an affair like men did? Could she be a man?

“Remember when you asked me if I have an uncontrollable desire?” he asked, sliding his palm down her arm to squeeze her hand. “Well, I do. I have an uncontrollable desire for you.”

Yes, she could, and the last of her pitiful restraint melted right there in the middle of the Idaho wilderness. Right there in her fake tattoo and beer helmet. “Okay,” she whispered. “I want to go home with you.”

“Thank you, God,” he whispered back.

She thought he might kiss her. A romantic little kiss under the moon and the stars, but he didn’t. Instead, he about jerked her out of her sandals. They walked through rows of cars, station wagons, and Jeeps. He pulled her behind him until they reached the passenger side of a dark blue truck. Opening the door, he practically shoved her inside. In under a minute, he had fired up the engine, shoved the truck into drive, and they were heading away from the grange. Complete darkness filled the cab, and only the weak dash lights illuminated the bottom half of Dylan’s face. Hope looked across the bench seat at his profile. He stared straight ahead, deadly serious about something.

He had a death grip on the steering wheel, and she wondered if he was having second thoughts.

“Dylan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you staring straight ahead?”

“I’m just sitting over here trying to keep the truck on the road, but it’s damn difficult because I keep thinking about sliding my hand down your panties.” He glanced at her, then turned his attention back to the black highway. “I don’t want to pull over and jump on you before we make it home.”

She laughed and he shook his head. “It’s not funny,” he said.

“Maybe you should recite something in your head.”

“I’ve tried that. It never works.”

“I’ll help you.” Hope tossed her helmet on the floor and slid across the seat. “Let’s try something that isn’t sexual.” She rose to her knees beside him. “Like, ‘Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation.’ ” She tossed his cowboy hat next to her helmet, then tugged at the front of his shirt, popping the snaps one at a time until the shirt lay open. She slipped her hand inside, and he sucked in a breath. His muscles flexed and turned hard beneath her touch. “ ‘Conceived in liberty. Dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.’ ” She ran her finger through the short hair on his chest. Abraham Lincoln had been wrong. Not all men were created equal. Some just possessed more. More than charm and good looks, they had that certain elusive something. Whatever it was, Dylan had more than his share.

He reached for her hand, flattening it against his chest so she couldn’t move. She kissed the side of his neck and slid her open mouth to the hollow of his throat, tasting his aftershave and warm skin.

“Hope, I can barely see.”

“You don’t need to see.” She moved his hand from on top of hers and placed his palm on her breast. “You’re a big boy, feel your way,” she breathed right before she sucked his neck.

“Jesus.” His fingers closed over her and the whoosh of air he’d been holding rushed from his lungs.

Hope’s breasts grew taut, her nipples puckered, and she pulled at the ends of his shirt from his jeans. She looked down at the hair on his chest, the gold light from the dash caught in the short curls and shined across his tight skin. As the truck motored down the highway, she combed her fingers down the thin line of hair to his flat belly. “Am I helping?” She moved her hand to his zipper and, through the heavy denim, pressed her palm against the impressive length of his rock-hard erection. “You haven’t answered my question,” she said, her insides turning liquid, responding to him.

“When you touch me like that, I can’t remember what you asked.”

She kissed her way across his collarbone. “Are you still having trouble keeping the truck on the road?”

“Hell, yes.”

She had a vague sensation like the truck was turning. Then the next thing she knew, they’d stopped and she was on her back on the bench seat, staring up into Dylan’s dark face. And he kissed her. Long and hard, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. The bottom of her skirt was up around her waist and he knelt between her legs. He shoved his pelvis snug against her crotch, and he might have hurt her if she hadn’t wanted him so badly. She wrapped her legs around his waist and placed her hands on the sides of his head, kissing him like he kissed her, like neither would ever get enough. Enough mouths or tongues or the hot, liquid juices flowing through their bodies.

Dylan hit the horn with his foot, and he pulled back, gasping for air. His shirt hung open, his gaze wild within the shadowy cab. “Let’s get out of here,” he said and somehow managed to get them both out of the truck. He grabbed a box of condoms from the jockey box before heading across the driveway to the back door.

Hope looked over her shoulder at the truck, parked sideways, like it had skidded to a stop. She couldn’t remember if they’d skidded or not. She couldn’t remember much beyond the taste of Dylan’s skin beneath her tongue.

As they walked into the kitchen, Dylan hit the switch by the back door and his keys and the box of condoms slid across the counter. Hope squinted against the overhead light, catching glimpses of blue walls, white floors, and appliances. Marble counter-tops and a wooden table in the middle of the room. Seeing a white cake with slices of candied peaches on top, sitting on the table, surprised her, but then Dylan tore at his shirt and she forgot all about the cake. He balled the shirt up and tossed it on the electric stove. Without a word, he pulled Hope against him. Her hands landed flat on his bare chest, her palms covering his nipples. She looked up from his golden-brown hair curling about her fingers to the dip in his throat. She placed a kiss on the mark she’d left there earlier, and she lowered her hands to his big belt buckle.

“You could kill someone with this,” she said as she unhooked it and pulled it from his pant loops. She glanced up at him and added, “It could be considered a lethal weapon in some states.”

His green eyes looked at her from beneath lids heavy with desire. A blatantly sexual smile pushed the corners of his mouth upward. “You got that right,” he drawled, and she had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the buckle. The belt slipped through her fingers and hit the floor with a thud.

Dylan reached for her waist and grasped the edge of her tank top. “Raise your arms,” he said and slowly pulled the shirt up her stomach. The soft cotton snagged under her breasts and he gathered the material in his hands and drew it over her head. The cool ends of her hair fell about her shoulders, and she dropped her hands to her sides. Dylan tossed her shirt with his, and Hope stood before him in her black stretch bra and khaki skirt.

Suddenly she didn’t know if she could go through with it. Not like this. Not in the bright kitchen light where all of her flaws would be magnified. When she took off her panties, he’d see the thin silvery scar on her lower belly. He’d see her scar and he’d ask about it.

She looked up at him, up past the perfection of his corrugated stomach and broad chest with its swirls of fine hair and hard muscle. Up past the strong column of his throat and chin and the finely etched lines of his sensual lips. He was perfect, standing there beneath the bright light, wearing nothing but his jeans and boots. Absolutely perfect, while she had an old scar.

He reached for the button on her skirt and she grabbed his wrist. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the scar, but he would notice she wasn’t wearing pink silky panties. For a few seconds she couldn’t remember if she was wearing her good underwear or getting-close to-laundry-day underwear. Then she did remember and relaxed a bit. White. Plain white bikini panties. They were new, but they didn’t match her bra. She should have planned better. She should have worn something silky. She should have worn something to knock him off his feet, but she hadn’t even known he was in town. “Maybe we should turn off the lights,” she suggested.

“Why?”

He was going to find out soon enough. “My panties don’t match.”

He looked at her as if she weren’t speaking a language he understood. “Don’t match what?”

“My bra.”

He blinked once and his brows lowered. “You’re kidding me.”

“No, my panties are white and…”

Dylan lowered his mouth to hers. “I don’t give a goddamn about your underwear,” he whispered against her lips. “I’m more interested in what’s inside.” He kissed a warm trail across her cheek to her ear. “Inside where you’re soft and warm.” The wet tip of his tongue touched the side of her throat, and he slid his fingers between her breasts to the black rose holding the cups together. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” With a twist of his wrist the closure sprang free and he pushed the straps from her shoulders. The bra fell to the floor. “Problem solved.” His hot hands closed over her bare breasts as his mouth once again closed over hers. And suddenly Hope forgot about everything but the touch of his rough palms sliding back and forth across her hard, sensitive nipples. She drove her tongue into his mouth as he walked backward, driving her against the kitchen counter. Lust coiled low in her abdomen, pooled between her thighs, and tightened her breasts. The feelings were almost painful, they were so intense. Wonderful and overwhelming. She moaned deep, deep in her throat and ran her hands over him. His hair, the sides of his face, down his neck to his shoulders. She touched everywhere she could reach, his back, his sides, and his belly.

His hungry mouth slanted hard across her lips, and he gave her hot feeding kisses. He tasted like excited man. Like sex. She arched into him, into the warm wall of his chest and kneading hands, into his erection. Against her lower belly he was fully aroused, hard as stone, and she craved more, needing closer contact. Wanting the one thing he had, the one thing that only he could give her, she moved her hands to the front of his pants. She unsnapped the waistband, and when she pulled down the zipper, she found him naked beneath his jeans. His flesh jutted forward into her palm, and she closed her fist around the hot circumference of his erection.

A groan tore at Dylan’s chest, and Hoped pulled back to look into his face. His eyes were slits of green and his breath was uneven. She lowered her gaze to her hand, to the dark pubic curls visible between the edges of his zipper and his large penis. She slipped her palm up the smooth shaft and slid her thumb over the velvet head. She spread a bead of clear moisture over the plump cleft, learning the weight and texture of him.

“Hope,” he whispered, his voice rough as if she were torturing him. He took her hand from his body and set it on his shoulder. Then he grasped the backs of her thighs and lifted her until she sat on the counter. He took a step back and within less than a minute he stood before her completely naked. She would have preferred a moment or two to look him over, to appreciate the beauty of his body, the solid muscles and impressive proportions, but he didn’t give her the chance. He stepped between her legs and placed a soft kiss on the side of her neck.

“I want you, Hope,” he said as he kissed a trail along her collarbone. “You’ve driven me crazy wanting you.” He kissed the inside slope of her breast. She arched her back and he said, “Crazy thinking about this.”

He kissed the very tip of her nipple, then rolled it beneath his tongue. Hope’s eyes closed as a shudder ran up her spine. Dylan licked her like the ice cream he’d talked about earlier; then he sucked her taut flesh into his hot, moist mouth. He drew on her as his hand moved beneath her skirt and between her thighs. He cupped her there, pushed his palm into her crotch, and softly squeezed. He moved to her other breast and popped her nipple into his mouth. His hand slid to the inside of her thigh, and he slipped his fingers beneath the edge of her panties.

“You’re wet,” he whispered as he touched between her legs, feeling her where she wanted it most, where she was slick and where his touch made her greedy for more. “I want inside you.” With each caress, each stroke of his hand, he brought her close to orgasm. He pulled her panties down her legs, and said, “You’re wet, and I’m extremely hard.” He dropped the twisted cotton on the floor. “I think it’s time.”

As Hope wiggled out of her skirt, Dylan grabbed a condom from the box on the counter behind her. She kicked the skirt free of her feet and watched him roll the thin latex down the length of his thick shaft.

“Come here,” he said and she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He slid her off the counter and onto the warm head of his penis. He glided himself to her opening and shoved up as he pushed down on her thighs. He didn’t get far before a stitch of pain penetrated Hope’s lustful haze and she cried out in distress.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he whispered, and with her held tight against him, he moved to the kitchen table. “I’ll make it all right. I’ll make it good for you.” He laid her on the cool wooden top and her hand landed in the white cake. The cake skidded to the far side of the table, but neither cared. He leaned over her and kissed her neck and breast while he put her feet on the table and pushed her thighs wide. He rocked his hips, slowly thrusting into her, easing his way further and further until he was buried to the hilt. His groan was a deep rumble that came from the pit of his soul.

“Goddamn,” he swore and he tangled his fingers in her hair. “Are you okay?”

Hope could honestly say she didn’t know. She’d never experienced anything quite like Dylan Taber, and then he moved and it was like white-hot lightning danced across her skin. Her gasp turned into a moan as he pulled back and thrust deep. The heat gathered between her legs and spread across her belly and breasts like a flash fire. He filled her completely, touching her so deeply that she felt utterly consumed by him.

She raised her hands to the sides of his head, getting frosting on his jaw and in his hair. She lowered his face to hers. “I’m better than okay,” she said and kissed his lips.

He kissed her long and deep as he moved over her, slipping in and out with a slow, even rhythm that built up and up until neither could hardly breathe at all. He pulled back far enough to look into her eyes, and his breath became ragged with the punctuating thrust of his hips. Every nerve ending in her body was alive and tingling with warm liquid pleasure, pushing her up, up, up toward release. It built tighter, hotter, the pleasure curling her toes. And then it pulled her completely under. Wave after wave seared her from her head to the bottom of her feet and she cried his name.

She grasped his bare shoulders and clung to him as the walls of her body pulsed around him. It went on and on like nothing she’d ever experienced in her life. He moved faster, harder, pumping into her again and again until the air whooshed from his lungs as if he’d been smashed in the chest and his muscles beneath her hands turned to stone.

In the aftermath, the only sound was that of heavy, spent breathing. Their skin was glued together and neither seemed to have the energy to lift themselves off the table. Dylan’s forehead rested next to Hope’s right ear and his fingers were still tangled in her hair. A warm, fluttery afterglow settled on her flesh and she turned her head and kissed his temple.

“My God,” he moaned. “That was amazing.”

Hope smiled. She thought so, too. He’d just given her the most amazing sex of her life. It wasn’t love. Hope knew the difference between sex and making love. What he’d given her was the most incredible orgasm of her life. No, it wasn’t love, but it had been wonderful. He was wonderful, too.