Beautiful Sinner Page 7

  Suddenly he felt too hot. The weight of her radiated heat against him. He gently pushed at her shoulder, hoping to dislodge her from him. She muttered in her sleep and only turned to snuggle deeper against him like he was some damn teddy bear. She burrowed in closer, her breath fanning hotly on his neck.

  One of her legs curled up on his thigh, her knee brushing his cock. A hissed breath escaped him. Okay. Maybe he needed that. A knee in contact with his dick was one way to cool his ardor. His hand flew to protect himself while he shoved her leg off him.

  He’d taken a hit in the junk before, but not by an unconscious woman. This unconscious woman, however, clung like a monkey. He’d have to wake her up fully if he wanted to disentangle her, and he really didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to endure all her talking again. The woman talked nonstop . . . and she was a fucking reporter. Hell. Nothing he said was safe around her.

  He let loose a sigh. He should try to sleep. He slouched a little lower against the wall and closed his eyes with resolve.

  His movements, however, disrupted her.

  With a soft little mewl, she stirred again, resettling herself even heavier against him, one hand looping around his arm like he was a lifeline.

  He was pinned.

  She was draped fully over him, her head shoved directly under his chin. Soft tits pressed into his chest. They were a nice size. More than a handful and his hands weren’t small.

  Damn it. What was he doing noticing her tits?

  Being a man with a functioning libido. Those breasts would require two hands to cup. Of course he was going to notice them. He’d always noticed them.

  At the image of tits overflowing in his hands, he went hard, the blood rushing to his dick.

  This time the air hissing out from his teeth had nothing to do with pain. Or it did, but rather pain of a different sort. The pain of self-denial.

  He needed to get his lust under control. He was going to be stuck with her for another forty-eight-plus hours and he didn’t need to walk around with a full erection the whole time. Yeah. That wouldn’t terrify her or anything.

  He might have been in prison for seven years, but he didn’t walk around with a perpetual hard-on. He wasn’t some randy kid anymore. He had better self-control.

  Sure. He’d gotten laid a few times since he’d gotten out. He was a man, after all—and he’d been locked up a long time. But it was uncomplicated sex. No strings attached. It worked for him. He didn’t need anything else.

  A fresh-faced freckled good girl like Gabriella Rossi who said whatever popped into her head was not for him. She came with strings attached. Sex with her would be complicated as hell.

  She started snoring then, jarring him from his thoughts.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  At least she wasn’t loud. He remembered his old man’s snore. He’d sounded like a freight train. Especially after one of his benders.

  Her soft, slow snoring reminded him of when Malia was a toddler. Innocent and sweet. He snorted. Not descriptors he would apply to Gabriella Rossi. Their interaction tonight had been illuminating. She was the same and yet different. She asked way too many questions. Which was annoying as hell to a non-talker like him.

  But he could endure it. He’d have to.

  They were stuck with each other until Monday.

  Seven

  She woke with a start, disorientated in the darkness. Her bedroom was never this dark. Nana Betty kept her outside front porch lights on all night. She claimed it scared away the raccoons. Even with the house blinds drawn, a modicum of light crept into Gabriella’s bedroom and saved her from total darkness.

  Her hands groped at her sides, gripping fistfuls of fabric. It was somewhat scratchy and not entirely comfortable. Definitely not her sheets or her down comforter.

  Her head, however, was cushioned against a much softer material. She released her grip on the rougher fabric and stroked the softer stuff beneath her with a contented sigh. She snuggled closer, her fingers smoothing over the soft cotton, splaying wide. She noted that something was firm and unyielding under the material. She inhaled, turning her nose into the fabric. It smelled good. Clean. Like laundry sheets. And there was something more underlying that aroma. Something without a name. Masculinity. A faint whiff of deodorant.

  A body. God. She was draped over a body. She inhaled sharply. She definitely wasn’t in her bed.

  She frowned and assessed a bit more, her fingers gently drumming, as though she were playing an instrument.

  A man’s very built body.

  Cruz’s body.

  This was a familiar dream.

  Except it was no dream. This wasn’t the boathouse and she wasn’t eighteen. She was thirty and boring and stuck in a closet with Cruz. Where nothing would happen between them despite her overactive imagination.

  She registered that and yet her hand was still moving, touching him, roaming over his chest in appreciation. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. He didn’t so much as stir.

  It was wrong, she knew it. She should not be petting him in his sleep.

  She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him, her vision acclimating to the gloom.

  They may have started out leaning against the wall, but they ended up on the floor, spread out like they were in a king-sized bed, the drop cloth rumpled under them.

  Her hand rested directly over his heart. It thudded strong and even.

  Giddy flutters erupted in her belly. She was touching Cruz. Not dreaming it. Not remembering. Actually doing.

  She. Was. Touching. Cruz.

  Her hand continued its exploration, drifting up his neck to his cheek. She remembered touching that cheek. The scrape of his beard tickled her palm.

  She touched him but still he slept on like Sleeping Beauty. She forced down a snort of derision. She knew it was a silly comparison. This big burly scarred-up guy straight out of prison was no fairy-tale princess. He wouldn’t appreciate the comparison . . . and he was not waiting for any kiss either. Especially from her.

  Still, she hovered over him.

  Sitting up on her knees, she leaned closer. It was a powerful sensation, floating above him, looking down at his bigger body spread beneath her, splayed like some kind of sacrificial offering.

  His breathing was a light, slow rasp. Soft as a moth’s wings. Her fingertips brushed his mouth before she returned to her senses.

  She snatched her hand away from him and rubbed her fingertips together, still feeling his lips there, on her skin. Years might have passed but his mouth was as soft as she remembered. Her hand drifted to her lips as though she could transfer the sensation of his lips to her own in that way.

  A flash of guilt washed over her. She shouldn’t be doing this. It couldn’t be good. She didn’t need to be getting any ideas. She might long to dive into him like he was a vat of chocolate, but she couldn’t. She had more restraint than that.

  A deep, masculine chuckle welled up on the air beneath her. “How long have you been wanting to do that?”

  She dropped her hand from her lips. “What? You’re awake!” Heat slapped her cheeks. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Since you woke up.”

  Her mouth worked to get words out, her outrage a dangerous fire in her belly. All that time he was awake? When she was rubbing her hands over him? What must he think of her? “You’ve been awake that long?”

  “Hard to sleep when someone’s hands are running all over my body.”

  Oh. God. She was going to be sick. She had to get away from him. She scurried back, pushing off the ground with her hands and rising to her feet. “I did not—”

  “Come on. You don’t have to lie.” He rose to his feet, his movements unhurried, leisurely even.

  She wished he had stayed on the ground. Now he loomed over her. She was forced to glare up at him. “You should have let me know you were awake!”

  “And interrupt your exploration of my body? But I was so interested to see what you woul
d do next.”

  “I wasn’t exploring your body!”

  One corner of his mouth twitched, and that was when she noticed that the darkness was fading into dawn. The air wasn’t quite so dense now. She could make out his features in the smoky blue, and she could see well enough to detect his amusement.

  “No? What would you call it?”

  Her mind leapt feverishly to an explanation. “I just woke up. It was dark. I was merely checking for . . . signs of life.” Yes, those words just came out of her mouth.

  “You thought I might be dead?” He was definitely amused . . . and she was definitely embarrassed. “That’s a good one.”

  She shrugged defensively. “You never know.”

  “So you’ve heard of a lot of men my age who die in their sleep?”

  “It happens.” Okay, maybe it wasn’t the best explanation. He was a thirty-year-old man in the prime of his life. A perfect male specimen, as her hands had been compelled to verify.

  “You’re being ridiculous. What’s wrong? Too embarrassed to admit you were copping a feel while I was asleep?”

  “I was not!” Okay. Maybe she was doing that . . . and hearing him say it in those terms only made her feel all the more embarrassed.

  “How long have you been wanting to kiss me?” he asked mildly, sounding almost bored.

  Oh! Shaking her head, she made a sound of disgust. “Arrogant, much?”

  It was tempting to fling the truth at him—the truth that they had already kissed. It would feel good to catch him off guard and watch him absorb that fact.

  She couldn’t do it, of course. After the satisfaction of shocking him wore off, she’d be left with the awkwardness of him knowing she was the idiot who had kissed him in the boathouse while he thought she was someone else.

  “You were stroking my lips,” he reminded.

  “I was checking to see if you were breathing.”

  He ignored her absurd defense and continued, “Is it something you’ve always thought about? Left over from high school? Or is it something you felt like doing all of a sudden? Thought you might like a taste of the bad boy who’s been in prison? Something you can tell the girls about in your book club?”

  “Oh! You . . . j-jerk!” She shoved him hard in the chest and charged past him as though she had somewhere to go. Like there was anywhere to go. Like she could escape him.

  He snatched hold of her arm and whirled her around, sending her colliding into his chest.

  “Oh!” Her hands came up to his chest, palms flattening on the very body she had only moments ago felt at her leisure. Now it felt different. Now he was awake. Alert . . . his eyes as sharp as a hawk’s gaze on her. Now his heart pounded swift and hard beneath her touch.

  She lifted her gaze to his even as she felt her outrage ebb into something else. Something visceral. Something that throbbed deep in the half-dark between them.

  He cradled her there, against him, one arm slipping around her waist to keep her close. “Might as well do it,” he replied, his voice a low rumble between them.

  She gulped. “It?”

  He nodded once, the motion curt. “Since you’re so curious, why not?” His face inched closer. “We’re stuck in here, after all. It would give us something to do.”

  Something to do? Well, wasn’t that flattering?

  She sucked in an indignant gust of air. “I don’t—”

  His mouth smothered the rest of her words. She blew out a startled breath and he took that inside himself, drinking in her air, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth.

  She didn’t react. She was too stunned.

  He crouched in one quick motion, wrapping an arm around her waist and lifting her off her feet so that their fused mouths were level.

  He coaxed and nibbled at her lips. It worked. She couldn’t resist.

  She could never resist him. Not in her dreams. Not in reality.

  Apparently not ever.

  She would worry about the implications of that later. For now, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders, hanging on to him like he was the only thing keeping her from flying away.

  She opened her mouth to him and he deepened the kiss. This wasn’t just a kiss. It was more than that. This was sex with lips. He ravished her mouth. Kissed her with lips and tongue and faintly scraping teeth.

  Their bodies were moving. He guided them. He had that ease about him. Even as her world flew off its axis, he was in control.

  She didn’t open her eyes to look where they were going in the small space. She put her trust in him . . . surrendering, reveling in his tongue in her mouth, in the strong fingers diving into her hair.

  He backed them against a wall, the edges of shelves digging into her body, but that small discomfort didn’t make her want to stop. No. The kiss went on and on. It was dizzying. Her hands fluttered all around them, unsure where to touch, where to land.

  He paused every now and then to look down at her. It was disconcerting . . . the way he would look at her—peering at her in the steadily increasing light with his dark, fathomless eyes. As though he wasn’t certain of her. As though she was some puzzle with pieces missing.

  At one point, she demanded in a hushed voice, “What? What is it?” Why was he looking at her that way?

  He gave a small, distracted shake of his head and reclaimed her lips in a searing kiss. His mouth was hot and aggressive. She had never been kissed so fiercely. Not even before by him. Oh, that kiss had been thorough. She had felt it everywhere, in every nerve ending all the way to her toes. But this? Cruz all grown up—Cruz the man—was more than she had ever imagined.

  “Is this what you wanted?” He pushed his hips against her and she moaned, shifting slightly so that the juncture of her thighs lined up more accurately with his. Yeah. The man was more aggressive. He was more . . . more.

  The rasp of his voice continued: “Admit it. You weren’t checking for signs of life.”

  Was he still referring to that stupid story she made up? “Shut up,” she snapped and tugged his mouth back to hers, ready for his seeking tongue.

  God. It had been too long. Forever, really, since it had been like this. Since it felt like this. Since she ached for it.

  Since never.

  Or at least since him.

  Somehow they ended up on the ground, tangled up in the drop cloth. It was a nuisance. Her shoe caught in the fabric, preventing her from sliding her knee between his thighs where it wanted to go. She tried to kick her foot free and it somehow only made it worse, catching and bending her knee at an odd angle. “Argh!” Great. Other women did this thing all the time without pulling a muscle or straining themselves. She was hopeless. Desperate for him, but hopeless.

  He broke away for a second and bent down to free her with a quick yank of the drop cloth.

  “Oh,” she breathed. “Thank y—” He cut her off, coming back up and seizing her lips again as though they were the answer to life. She’d never felt that way. No man ever made her feel that way. With other guys, there had always been that sense that she was dispensable. They could take a good baseball game, a hotter girl, or a juicy cheeseburger over her.

  She touched his face and that action struck a familiar chord. That time in the boathouse when she had held his face while they kissed. As she did then, she slid both hands along his cheeks, cupping his face, reveling in the sensation of his skin, the bristly scratch of his incoming beard against her palms.

  His lips slowed until they went motionless against hers. He pulled back and looked down at her in that strange, impossible-to-read way again.

  The air around them thickened and stilled. Tiny dust motes hung suspended in beams of light trickling in from the window, as if they too were waiting for something. “Cruz?” she prompted.

  She leaned up and feathered several kisses against his lips, still holding his face, her fingers stroking his cheeks, trying to coax him back to passion.

  It didn’t work. What she was doing didn’t work. He wasn’t enticed.

&
nbsp; His dark eyes pinned her to the spot, burning with heat, and yet she felt cold. So cold. As though someone had opened a window and let in a chilly draft.

  “Cruz?” she whispered, her chest tightening with a fear that she had never felt before. She didn’t know where the fear came from, but it was there, simmering within as he continued to stare at her in that strange way. “What is it?”

  Recognition flared in his eyes. “It’s you.”

  Eight

  She was the one.

  The girl from the boathouse.

  He’d given up on ever knowing her identity, ever knowing whose memory he clung to all these years. Fury warred with excitement. He didn’t know what he wanted more: to shake her or kiss her. Both, he supposed.

  He’d tried running after her when Natalie interrupted them in the boathouse, but Natalie had gotten in the way. Natalie, whom he wanted nothing to do with after one taste of his mystery girl.

  By the time he’d gotten outside, there was no sign of her. Just all the other kids up the hill at the house, drinking and acting like general jackasses. Still, he had followed, diving into the mob of his fellow classmates. He’d ignored the friends who clapped him on the back and tried to talk to him . . . searching among the girls as though he would somehow know her at a glance.

  Of course, he didn’t spot her. Or if he did he didn’t know it. He couldn’t even remember if he had seen Gabriella Rossi among them.

  He’d resigned himself to never knowing who she was, telling himself she would be one of the great mysteries of his life and that he had to move on. Still, as the years passed and he floated through life, she’d hovered on the fringes of his mind. He’d worked as many shifts as he could get and did the best he could to care for his sisters . . . often still wondering why the girl from the boathouse hadn’t revealed herself to him. Why did she run away before he could see her face?

  Was it because he was Cruz Walsh and not good enough for her? It seemed the most likely scenario. He wasn’t good. He knew this because all his life everyone had been telling him that.

  Then prison happened.