Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel (26 page)

She hummed and wiggled her hips. He took his time, trailing his fingers along the strings. When he finally pulled the scrap of fabric to the side, he found her smooth and wet.

He pressed his erection into her hip, the contact satisfying him enough to keep his focus on her. For long moments, he stroked and explored, discovering what she enjoyed and what drove her crazy.

He eased his middle finger partway inside of her, trying not to let his mind imagine what the tight hold would feel like around his erection. His thumb rubbed her slicked apex while he sucked her nipple into his mouth.

Without warning, she went off in his arms like fireworks. Her movements forced his finger deep, her walls pulsing in rhythm to her circling hips. He raised his head to watch her in her climax. Her breasts and cheeks flushed pink.

The blue of her eyes lasered into him. He wanted to look away but couldn’t. Her vulnerability rocked something deep inside him. He removed his finger as her body went lax.

The intensity turned to tenderness. She stroked fingers down his cheek and across his lower lip. He kissed the tips. He broke eye contact first, gathering her close and hiding his face in the hair at her nape.

Her hands moved down his back and over his buttocks. “Your turn,” she whispered in a dazed, husky voice.

He wanted his turn, but more than that, he wanted tonight to be about her. He wanted her to trust him with her body and her soul and her dreams … with everything. Her earlier accusation pealed in his head. He wasn’t staying in Cottonbloom. Was it fair to ask for everything and walk away? “Not right now. Later maybe.”

He turned them on their sides and held her close, his hands caressing up and down her back, one shoulder of her dress still down, the skirt bunched around her upper thighs.

He didn’t know how much time passed before her body went limp and her breathing deepened. Sleep eluded him. Eventually, he slipped out of her embrace and off the couch, looking down on her. Her dress only half-covered her, the curve of her bare thigh and one perfect breast exposed. She was the picture of innocent and sensual, guarded and open, strong and vulnerable.

He lifted her into a cradle hold, and she emitted a throaty hum but didn’t wake. After laying her on her girlish twin bed he pulled the pink flowered comforter over her body, but the devil in him left her dress in disarray.

He hoped she’d wake in the morning with no regrets, but in case she did harbor them, he didn’t want to be around to see them cloud her blue eyes.

Monroe’s mother was asleep and snoring and not likely to wake anytime soon. He retreated to the den to put on his shoes and shut everything off. Taking the rusty key, he let himself out and relocked the door. The rain had stopped, leaving everything washed clean and the air cool. He stared back at the house wishing he had X-ray vision.

Since he’d left Cottonbloom, he hadn’t invited complications into his life. He didn’t do complicated. He’d kept things simple. Nothing about Monroe was simple. Nothing about the feelings roiling in his chest was simple. Cottonbloom seemed to inspire complications.

Chapter Nineteen

Cade spent Sunday morning searching for a distraction in the intricate, logical workings of an engine. His thoughts stole to Monroe so many times, he was lucky the motor’s fix was simple. With Sawyer at church—a necessity when you were an elected official—he had the house to himself, which meant no awkward currents to navigate. Tensions between them had only seemed to grow after their disastrous trip upriver.

After a quick, cool shower, he pulled on a pair of cargo shorts and grabbed a Coke out of the frig. The crunch of wheels on gravel drew him to the front window. Monroe. She climbed out in Sunday summer garb—a yellow sundress and strappy high-heeled sandals that did something spectacular to her legs. He flashed to the evening before and the feel of those legs clamped around his hips.

A long drag on the icy Coke did little to stem his sudden arousal. He had a feeling only one thing would alleviate his need and that was to bury himself inside of her.

His tuxedo jacket was draped over one of her arms, and he reined in his more primal urges. She was circling to the back and he met her at the kitchen door. She wasn’t here to finish what they’d started last night.

“Hi.” Her voice was probing, her smile tentative, and her gaze on his chest. A sharp pain twisted in his gut. She was uncomfortable.

“Hey yourself.” Shifting on his feet, he wanted to force her to look at him, wanted to ask hard questions about regret, but he didn’t, afraid of the answers.

“Do you think maybe” she swallowed hard, and he tensed as if expecting a blow “you could put a shirt on? This is all very, very distracting.” She waved toward his chest, her gaze finally rising. Instead of regret or awkwardness, amusement lit her, and like the sun banishing the clouds a warmth flooded through him that had nothing to do with sex.

“I think I like you distracted.” He took a step closer, and she pushed the tip of her index finger between his breastbones.

“Cade Fournette, if you come one inch closer I might throw you over the kitchen table and take wild advantage of you.”

His breath got caught somewhere in his windpipe, making his words come out hoarse. “Yep, distracting you is the best.” He tried to move closer, but she spun around him, the skirt of her dress brushing his knees.

“Nope. Not in your brother’s house with him due home any minute.”

“All right, fine.” He retreated for a T-shirt but didn’t pull it on until he was back in the kitchen. Her gaze seemed to devour him and he couldn’t recall a woman who had ever been so blatant in her desire. Although there were undiscovered depths to Monroe, she didn’t play games, and he appreciated that about her. Along with about a hundred other things.

“How’s your mama?” he asked once his shirt was on.

“Feeling about as crappy as you’d imagine. Full of apologies and promises as usual.” Her worry cleared quickly. “You left your jacket last night.”

“Thanks.” He took it from her outstretched arms and hung it over a kitchen chair. Only a ticking clock and the faint tap of her heels as she shuffled her feet broke the silence. She was right, Sawyer would be home soon, and Cade wanted her to himself. “You got plans for lunch?”

“None.”

“How do you feel about a picnic on the river?”

“The river?” She spoke the words cautiously.

“You scared of the water?”

“Of course not.” Her gaze skated away from his, and hidden meaning lurked behind her denial. Was she afraid of the river? The thought was somehow unbearable, as if he and the river were somehow joined and fear of one would lead to fear of the other.

“Would you go out on the river with me?” It was a question of trust and grew in importance. He stilled.

“I’m not really dressed to go tramping through marshes.” She gestured down her dress.

“No tramping necessary, scout’s honor. I’ll bet Tally even has a pair of water shoes you could borrow.”

“Were you even a Boy Scout?” She glanced at him under her lashes, the gesture flirty, already slipping her strappy heels off.

“I was a Cub Scout for three months. Quit once I figured out they weren’t going to teach me how to start a fire or survive a zombie apocalypse.” Her laughter relaxed him. “I’ll pack some sandwiches. There’s sunblock in the medicine cabinet, and Tally keeps some things in the middle bedroom.”

She walked past him muttering about poison ivy and snakes and sunstroke but with a smile on her face. He packed the cooler with BLTs, chips, a Baggie full of Oreos, and two grape Nehis. A meal worthy of the most elite elementary-school lunch box.

She came out of the back wearing a pair of flip-flops with big, plastic daisies between her toes and stopped in a patch of sunlight from the window. He stared. She was sweet and wholesome and sexy as hell.

“I’m assuming these are Tally’s unless Sawyer’s cross-dressing these days,” she said.

“Definitely Tally’s. Let’s hit it.” He zipped the cooler closed and led the way outside. “We’re going to take a boat with one of my first engine designs.”

“What will it do?”

“Nothing exciting like fly or hover. It’s quieter. Will save on gas.”

“Sounds perfect.” She slipped her hand in his and the sensation of plugging into something electric coursed through him.

As they took the pine needle–strewn path together a numbing realization washed over him. Was this a date? An honest-to-God date? He glanced over at her. She was concentrating on where to put her feet. The yellow of the dress made her skin glow and her hair shine.

It was. He should have taken her to a fancy restaurant on the Mississippi side. Put his signature on the claim he’d staked last night on the dance floor.

The river peeked through the trees, the soft cadence of running water like an old, familiar song he knew by heart. The river. A sense of inevitability unknotted his stomach. It had all started on the river so many years ago. The circle was complete.

The flat-bottomed two-person skiff was pulled up the bank. It was perfect for maneuvering through the narrow channels extruding from the main river like capillaries.

He stowed the cooler and pushed the boat out into the water. He kept one foot in the bow of the boat, one foot on ground, and held out a hand. She stepped over his foot and stood in the middle of the boat.

To get to the stern, he wrapped his hands around her upper arms and shuffled by her. The scent of sunscreen mixed with the river reminded him of summers before his parents died when he and Sawyer would tie themselves to the bank to drift and pretend to fish for hours, the sun stealing all their energy.

She darted her tongue over her bottom lip, and he nearly kissed her. Before he could act on the compulsion, he sat down on the sun-warmed metal seat. He didn’t want her to think this was about getting her in bed—although he wanted in her bed in the worst possible way, especially after getting a taste of her last night.

He wanted more. For as long as he was home.

A melancholy wove through his sense of possession. Temporary. This was all temporary. The river, home, Monroe. Why did he have to keep reminding himself of that?

Reluctantly, he transferred his attention from her to getting them going. Turning away from him, she settled onto her seat, crossing her feet at the ankles and knitting her hands together in her lap like she was sitting in a church pew.

He cranked the boat engine; the whisper-soft technology he’d created meant he didn’t even need to raise his voice to be heard. “You ready?”

She looked over her shoulder and nodded as the engine worked them slowly backward. He idled in the heart of the river. Where should he take her? A hundred childhood destinations scrolled. Only one held any significance. A slight jerk as he shifted forward had her hands curling around the sides.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the river until he came home. The pulse of his blood seemed to match the flow of the current. In all the times he’d climbed a rock face or hang glided or heli-skied, he’d never felt the same connection to nature he had when he was on the river. He’d done all that other stuff for the rush and to conquer his fear, not to appreciate the majesty of the world.

“It’s so quiet.” She cocked a leg up and shifted to be able to see him, her hair streaming around her neck.

“It also handles shallow, reedy water better than anything else on the market. Nothing worse than having to get all wet and untangle your motor. Especially in an area thick with gators.”

“Seems like a pretty specific market.”

“You’d be surprised. Recreational fishing is a huge industry.” He veered onto a wider stream. The breeze coming off the water was enough to keep the bugs and heat at bay.

“Do you fish?” She turned around to face him and tucked her fluttering hair behind her ears.

“When I was a kid Sawyer and I used to take a boat out, but we threw back what we caught because we were both too lazy to fillet them. Mama always lamented our lack of fishing prowess.” He laughed, but it trailed into nothing as he added softly, “We never got the chance to tell her the truth.”

“I’ll bet she knew exactly what you two were up to.” Her soft smile did funny things to his organs.

“Maybe. I hope so. After they died, fishing was no longer recreational; it was a necessity.”

“I used to…” She glanced toward the bank.

“Used to what?”

“Lie in bed at night and wonder if you were out looking for food. Worry if you had enough. Don’t laugh, but … I prayed for you every night.”

He didn’t feel like laughing. It had been a long time since he believed in some higher power. A long time since harsh reality had destroyed the fantasy of a benevolent god who would provide for them.

Whether her prayers reached heaven or not, the knowledge someone had worried about him, had thought about him, had understood him, lightened a weight that he’d dragged for too many years.

They stared into each other’s eyes, the few feet separating them too far. The river narrowed, the trees on either bank reaching for one another and forming a tunnel of green-filtered sunlight and shadows. He slowed them, the boat puttering against the swifter current and keeping them still. The beauty surrounding them was his church, the flow of the water his hymn, the peace his prayer.

Words were beyond him.

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice was reverent. “I know where we’re going.”

“How do you know?”

“You told me about this stretch of the river once. Do you remember?”

He didn’t, but they’d talked about nothing and everything their nights together.

“After you left, I waited for you. Every full moon.” A thread of heartache weaved her words.

“Why?” His voice croaked like a bullfrog.

“You were the only one who knew everything. Who understood. I was … so alone. So lonely.”

No one would have guessed a rich Mississippi girl with a big house and a pool and a multitude of friends was as lonely and alone as a poor Louisiana boy trying to survive.

Her slight laugh was full of self-deprecation. “Anyway, you never came back.”