Sarah Morgan - Brides of Penhally Bay - Vol 1

‘Have I told you how lovely you look today?’ he said a little unevenly.

She let her breath out in a little rush that could have been a laugh but might just have been a sigh. ‘No. No, you haven’t.’

‘Remiss of me. You look fabulous.’ He ran his eyes over her, over the soft gauzy dress that was cut on the cross and clung gently to those slender curves. It was sea-blue, not one colour but many, flowing into each other, and with the surf lapping at her ankles, she could have risen from the water.

‘You look like a siren,’ he said gruffly, and then without stopping to think, he leant forward, just a fraction, and lowered his mouth to hover over hers. ‘Luring me onto the rocks,’ he added, his words a sigh.

And then he touched his lips to hers.

For a moment, she just stood there, her eyes staring up into his, and then her lids fluttered down and she shut out everything except the feel of his lips and the sound of the sea and the warmth of his hands on her shoulders, urging her closer.

She didn’t need urging. She was ready for this—had been ready for it for ever—and with a tiny cry, muffled by his lips, she leant into him and slipped her arms around his waist, resting her palms against the strong, broad columns of muscle that bracketed his spine.

He shifted, just a fraction, but it brought their bodies into intimate alignment, and heat flared in her everywhere they touched. She felt the hot, urgent sweep of his tongue against her lips and she parted them for him, welcoming him in, her own tongue reaching out to his in greeting.

He groaned, his fingers tunnelling through her hair, and steadying her head with his broad, strong hands, he plundered her mouth, his body rocking against hers, taut and urgent and, oh, so welcome. She heard herself whimper, felt him harden, felt his chest heave in response, and she thought, We can’t do this. Not here. But she couldn’t stop, couldn’t drag herself out of his arms, couldn’t walk away…

‘Lucy.’

He’d lifted his head, resting his forehead against hers, his breath sawing in and out rapidly. ‘What the hell are we doing?’ he rasped softly.

What we should have done years ago, she thought. She lifted her hand and cradled his jaw. ‘Your place or mine?’ she murmured, knowing it was stupid, knowing it was the last thing she ought to be doing but unable to stop herself.

He lifted his head and stared down into her eyes, his own smouldering with a heat so intense she thought she’d burn up.

Then the ghost of a smile flickered over his taut features. ‘Mine,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s not in Penhally. And it’s closer. Come on.’

And freeing her, he slid his hand down her arm, threaded his fingers through hers and led her back to the steps, pausing only to hand her his shoes before scooping her up and carrying her up the steps and across the stones to his car.

‘Ouch,’ he muttered, limping, and she laughed breathlessly.

‘That’ll teach you to behave like a caveman,’ she teased, and he dumped her over the door into her seat, vaulted past her and slid down behind the wheel.

‘I’ll give you caveman,’ he growled, and she felt a delicious shiver of anticipation.

‘Want your shoes?’

‘No. The only thing I want is you,’ he said tautly, gunning the engine and shooting backwards out of the space, then hitting the coast road in a spray of granite chips while she grappled for her seat belt and wondered if it had been quite wise to wake this sleeping tiger…

‘Lucy?’

She opened her eyes and stared up at him, reaching up a hand to rub it lightly over the stubble on his jaw. That siren’s smile hovered on her lips, rosy and swollen from his kisses, and he wanted to kiss her all over again. ‘Well, if it isn’t my very own caveman,’ she said softly.

He laughed, then bent his head and touched his lips to hers, tasting her smile. ‘Good morning,’ he murmured, his mouth still on hers, and he felt her lips curve again.

‘Absolutely,’ she replied, and opened her mouth to his, drawing him in, her arms sliding round him and cradling him closer. He felt the heat flare between them, felt her pelvis rock, felt the soft, moist heat of her against his thigh as she parted her legs to the urging of his knee.

Hell. He hadn’t been going to do this again. He’d been going to talk to her, to tell her all the reasons why this was such a lousy idea, but her body was hot and naked against his, her soft, welcoming flesh too much for him to resist. He’d wanted her for years, ever since they’d worked together, and if it hadn’t been for her mother’s death…

Damn.

He shifted, pulling away, but she followed him, her hands holding him to her, rolling after him and taking over, her body hot and sweet and so, so lovely, and as she lowered herself and took him inside her, he lost rational thought.

He groaned her name, arching up as she rocked against him, taking him deeper, and then, grasping her hips, he drove into her again and again, feeling her passion build, feeling the tension spiral in her until her breathing grew ragged and she sobbed his name. He felt her body contract around him, felt the incredible power of her climax, and followed her headlong over the edge.

It was her phone that woke them, ringing from somewhere downstairs in the depths of her handbag.

‘I’ll let it ring,’ she said, but then it rang again, and again, and finally she got up. ran downstairs naked and answered it.

He followed her slowly, pulling on his dressing-gown and going into the kitchen to put on the kettle, the shirt he’d worn the previous day flung over his shoulder.

‘Dad, I’m fine. No, I’m not at home,’ she was saying as he threaded her arms one at a time into the shirt. ‘I’m twenty-nine years old, for heaven’s sake! I don’t need your permission to leave my house on my day off!’

She rolled her eyes at Ben, and he smiled faintly and turned back to the kettle, listening by default to her side of the conversation as he made them tea.

‘Yes, I’m sorry, too. Yes, I think you do. Yes, I’ll tell him if I speak to him. OK. I’ll see you on Tuesday, after the bank holiday.’

He heard her cut the connection, heard the soft sound of her bare feet on the floor and turned with a smile. ‘You looked a little underdressed,’ he said, glad now that he’d covered her because she looked sexier in his shirt than he could have imagined in his wildest fantasies.

‘Thanks.’ She threw him a fleeting smile and pulled the shirt closed, buttoning it and running her hands round the neck and lifting her hair out in a soft, gleaming tumble of curls that made him want to gather them in his hand and tug her gently back to his arms. Or bed. Whatever. Closer, anyway.

He turned back, poured the tea and handed her a mug instead. ‘What did your father want?’

‘To apologise for being rude to you yesterday. He said he owed you an apology, too. He asked me to tell you if I saw you.’

Ben grunted. Nick Tremayne probably did owe him an apology after yesterday, and if he hadn’t just spent the night with the man’s daughter Ben might have been less forgiving. As it was, he just felt sick at heart and deeply sorry for everything that had happened, even though it hadn’t been his fault.

He wondered if Lucy really believed that he wasn’t to blame, or if somewhere deep inside there was a bit of her that wasn’t quite sure. He must have been crazy to bring her back here last night and complicate things like this…

‘Ben?’

He glanced up at her, his face sombre, and she felt her heart sink.

‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’

‘Us?’ He shook his head and sighed softly. ‘No.’

She felt tears sting her eyes and blinked them away. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t. ‘Too much baggage.’