50 Hidden Desires Page 5

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice edged with hurt.

  Well, she could be hurt. He couldn’t let her just…just…Man, that visual really wasn’t going anywhere. It was like it’d been singed onto his cerebral cortex.

  “Dalton, don’t be nervous. You’re the only one I can talk to about this. I want to be good at it, and having never done it before, well…I’m not sure I am.”

  “You are,” he grunted, tossing the cans and one of the pizza boxes into the trash. Flattening both palms on the counter, he kept his eyes on her as she approached from the other side. Sliding toward him in that sinful red dress, her blond hair cascading down to tempting swells of her breasts. “Trust me, Holly.” His voice held a reverent tone. “It’s impossible for you to be any less than amazing at that.”

  His gaze wandered toward her mouth and stayed there for a beat too long. She licked her lips and he had to stomp on his own foot to keep from rounding the bar and grabbing hold of her.

  “You have to. You promised.”

  “I did not promise to let you—” He moved his hand in the air, at a complete loss.

  He’d had plenty of blowjobs. He liked blowjobs. Hell, half the time they were better than sex. But the idea of Holly on her knees. No. Absolutely not.

  “Listen to me.” When he could trust himself to go to her, he did. “You don’t go to your knees in front of me, Holly. Not ever.”

  “Because I’m precious,” she muttered, clearly dissatisfied, but no less right.

  “Yes.” He smoothed his hands over her upper arms.

  “So…that’s it? Just no, and we finish watching the movie?”

  He had to smile because even when petulant she was insanely gorgeous. He’d never been in a position like this in his life. One very specific part of him still couldn’t believe he was turning her down.

  “It’s not a ‘no,’” he answered. Hope flared in her eyes but before she had the wrong impression he added, “But I’m going to be the one on my knees. Not you.”

  “Dalton—”

  “Keep practicing my name,” he said, backing her across the room. This was the way it was supposed to be. Him in the lead, Holly’s eyes wide with curiosity. “I want to hear you say it when I take you over.”

  He could imagine it, the same breathy quality to her voice like in the car last night.

  “Where are we going?” She rested her hands on his shoulders as he steered her backward across the room.

  “Here.” He cupped her butt and lifted, depositing her onto the kitchen table. Then he pulled her knees open and fit himself between them. And damn, he fit there. He sucked a quiet breath through his teeth as he slid a palm first down one of her calves and then the other, knocking her shoes to the floor.

  “Here?” She gulped. “We can’t…the windows.”

  “No one will be able to see anything except for your face.” His heart knocked mercilessly against his chest. He wanted to taste her and the part of him that wasn’t being a gentleman argued he was denying her this same privilege. She’d said she wanted to do the same to him.

  Not the point.

  Right.

  Hands on her thighs, he pushed her skirt up, up, while she rested on her elbows on the table. She watched him, lips parted, blond hair cascading over her bared shoulders. She shook with what he hoped was excitement. Her eyes were wide open. Fearless. Holly wasn’t the kind of girl to hide under her hands or look at the ceiling. No, she watched him the entire time.

  As he stripped her panties down her legs. A thong. God help him.

  As he parted her wider and tugged her to the edge of the kitchen table.

  As he sat on the chair in front of her and lowered his face…

  Moments later, her scent had enveloped him and her cries of pleasure circled him like hungry sharks. Her release hovered on the edge of a precipice and he was determined to keep her there for a moment, before he pushed her over. Against her clit, he stroked, moving insistently when she cried out at one particular spot—

  “Dalton!” She knifed up, her fingers clawing at his hair, her intimate pulse point beating against the tip of his tongue. “Please, Dalton, please.”

  Her cries filled his ears, filled his chest with pride. This was what she deserved. The best. And at this particular act, he knew what he was giving her was unparalleled.

  Finally, her shallow breaths lengthened and her fingers trickled from his hair to drop to the kitchen table. He stood and lifted her into his arms. She was sated, boneless, her eyes at half-mast.

  Precious.

  “Now what?” she mumbled, tightening her hold around his neck as she kissed the side of his mouth.

  “Now, you recover,” he answered, taking her to the couch and laying her down. He tucked a pillow under her head and sat next to her.

  “Then what?” she murmured, her eyes giving up and sliding shut. He sat and moved her feet to his lap, digging a thumb into her arch as she groaned with a different sort of satisfaction.

  “Then you let me know when you’re ready for me to do it again.”

  Chapter 12

  ITEM NUMBER TWO. Check.

  Sort of.

  Holly floated through the next few days. Despite being overbudget, despite her e-mail inbox and her wire mesh inbox overflowing with things to do. Stress slid off her like butter in a Teflon pan.

  At one point while getting screamed at on the phone by a contractor, she couldn’t even work up enough ire to argue back. She’d grabbed a stack of Post-its and doodled Dalton’s name surrounded by hearts and…blissed out. She’d crumbled them up and tossed them into the wastebasket. Then she thought better of it and shoved them into her purse.

  One never could be too safe.

  Dinner with Dalton hadn’t turned out as planned, but sex with Dalton…well, technically it wasn’t sex. He still hadn’t had an orgasm, which was the entire goal of that night. She’d wanted to service him. Instead he’d been the one to order dinner and service her.

  And whoa, was he good at servicing.

  A stab of jealousy at what she’d been missing—and what other girls had been getting—split her chest, but she rerouted her thoughts. The point was Dalton was hers for now. Their time would run out soon enough, but she was going to savor every minute with him.

  And maybe convince him to stay.

  She wasn’t ready to give up that off-chance.

  Holly pulled onto Oak Branch Lane and parked by the curb in the Brownsboro district. A pocket of houses were due to be demolished today in an open burn, the local fire department using it as a training exercise. Chief Huxley waved at her as she climbed from her Beamer. She’d met with him prior to today and had planned to watch. It wasn’t every day that Larson Land Management took down a neighborhood by engulfing it in flames.

  Her heart hit her throat the second she spotted Dalton. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a bright orange vest over his jeans and button-down shirt. Today was cloudy, but the rain was supposed to hold out and she was glad. She planned on enjoying this barbecue.

  “Hey, Thomas,” she called out and Dalton turned. He didn’t smile, his brow only furrowed deeper and, hands resting on his hips, he approached her, scowling.

  Yikes.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m here to watch the houses burn down.” Her smile fell. “I thought it’d be fun.” She gestured in the direction of three dilapidated houses. They were set apart from the others in an overgrown field marked by one sad, dead tree. It was a miracle it hadn’t fallen down.

  “It’s not fun, Holly. These were people’s homes. Families were raised here. People grew old here.”

  She hadn’t thought of it in those terms.

  “You know what I mean,” she mumbled, chagrined.

  “Do I?” His eyes flared, bright with anger as his chest expanded to pull in a full breath. “Why would I believe that a girl from the wealthiest part of Hartford would think it was anything other than ‘fun’ to watch hou
ses that could fit in her parents’ living room incinerate to ash?”

  “Dalton.” Now that wasn’t fair. “I don’t think that.”

  “No?” His eyebrows jerked skyward. “Your comment in the construction meeting was something to the effect of ‘burn, baby, burn’ wasn’t it? Got a good chuckle from everyone there.”

  “Including Jace. Did you also read him the riot act when the meeting broke, or have you been saving this litany for me?” she snapped, getting angrier.

  His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

  “Look, I don’t want you here. Go back to the office. I’ll talk to you later.” His voice had raised enough that a few of the crew from the fire department turned their heads. Which was embarrassing. And pissed her right off.

  Oh, hell no.

  Whatever had crawled up Dalton’s ass and died wasn’t her problem.

  “Are you forgetting who you’re talking to, Thomas?” she asked, her voice hard. “That vest you’re wearing”—she flicked the lapel where LARSON LAND MANAGEMENT was stitched in black thread—“has my name on it. My family’s name on it.”

  She knew he grew up here and that this was a personal, and painful, day for him, but she’d be damned if she let him lash out at her when she’d done nothing wrong. “This is my project, too. If you want to continue working with me, I expect you to show some respect.”

  His frown turned to a hard scowl, but Holly only leaned closer, pursed her lips, and finished her thought.

  “What do you say? Want to stay on this project with me or not?”

  Dalton ran a hand over his face, scrubbing his jaw and the day-old growth sitting there. Admittedly, he was being unfair, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  He’d known this day was coming when he was assigned to the Brownsboro project. Eventually the demolition team, or in this case, the Brownsboro Fire Department, would get to 212 Oak Branch Lane, otherwise known as the cramped, stifling house he grew up in.

  These three houses had been abandoned for a while, overtaken by brush and grass and local vermin. Foreclosures long forgotten, their residents had either gone bankrupt, moved to a different neighborhood, or in the case of his mother, had died. Jace was the only Larson who knew where Dalton hailed from. Dalton had never wanted Holly to know.

  The fire chief called for everyone to go to the safe zone and Dalton turned to tell Holly to go home again. Her threat was heartfelt, but she knew him well enough to know that he’d never walk away from a project.

  But her standing there, her pink skirt blowing in the breeze, her white blouse with its gold stitching down the center made her look innocent, regardless of the ire snapping in her eyes.

  Dalton sighed. He was going to have to tell her the truth. No matter how painful it was for him to admit it.

  “Do you know what’s in the backseat of my car?” she barked before he could say more. She pointed at her BMW and told him. “A picnic basket, a blanket, and lunch for us. No shrimp, escargot, or caviar, by the way.”

  “That’s sweet, Hol,” he said, putting his hand on her back and moving her away from the houses.

  “But?”

  “But I’m not having lunch with you.” Not while they watched his childhood home—the home his mother died in thanks to her heavy smoking and penchant for fast food—disintegrate in front of him.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You don’t understand.” He turned to walk away from her. “Go back to the office.”

  Before he got too far, she shouted, “I know you used to live in Brownsboro!”

  Every part of him went cold, starting with his face. It branched down his spine and radiated through his arms and legs, leaving his extremities numb. He stalked back to her, ready to say—God, he had no idea what.

  When he opened his mouth, “Keep your voice down,” came out.

  “Jace told me. A long time ago.” Her eyes perused the neighborhood and he looked away. Who knew what she was thinking? Now that she’d seen the kind of place he’d come from and figured out exactly why he’d eaten so many meals at the Larson kitchen table. His shoulders huddled and a familiar feeling of inadequacy swamped him.

  He hated that feeling.

  “Holly.”

  “Have lunch with me, Dalton. Share this with me. Even if it hurts.” One fair eyebrow raised on her porcelain-smooth forehead. “I brought M&M’s for dessert.”

  He never could’ve imagined a smile finding his face, but at that moment, amid the familiar offer of a Larson feeding him, Dalton let loose an ironic chuckle. When he shook his head at himself, Holly didn’t ask for an apology. She simply smiled back and offered him her car keys.

  “You have to get the blanket and basket out of the car.”

  He followed her swishing skirt, the sun peeking from the clouds at that moment, lighting the golden highlights of her hair.

  You need to lighten up, too, Thomas.

  Chicken salad sandwiches, coleslaw, kettle-cooked potato chips, and two bottles of Perrier later, Dalton was leaning back on the blanket, propped on his elbows. Face pinched, he watched his mom’s house go up in flames.

  Holly sat next to him, cross-legged, her skirt pooling over her lap. She fished an M&M out of the bag and ate it. “I can’t believe we’re this far away and can still feel the heat.”

  “Yeah.” But his mind was elsewhere. Picturing the band posters he’d hung on his bedroom wall curl and burn to ash. Imagining his mother’s floral sofa, black smoke emitting from the synthetic fibers. Details he’d imagined, given the house was a shell. Nothing was left in that place but nicotine-stained wallpaper, peeling from the walls. And memories. Both presently being eaten by hungry flames.

  “Which one was yours?” Holly’s question was a whisper.

  “The one currently burning.” He sneaked a look through his lashes, chin still down.

  “Oh. I didn’t realize it was one of…those.”

  Ashamed, Dalton looked away. One of “those” meaning the smallest, most dilapidated houses in the neighborhood. Where the poorest residents of Brownsboro lived. Where Dalton Thomas and his mother had lived, with nothing to show in their sad cabinets except saltines and peanut butter and off-brand everything.

  “You didn’t want me to know?” Holly rested her hand on his forearm and squeezed, and he had to admit, her reassuring touch went a long way to making him feel worthy.

  “I’ve always been embarrassed about it,” he admitted.

  “I don’t care where you’re from, Dalton. I only care about who you are.”

  She wound her fingers with his, holding his hand. He let her, stroking her soft flesh with his thumb.

  “I like who you are,” she added quietly.

  They watched as the hoses came on, soaking the remains of the home he’d longed to escape almost every minute he lived in it. As soon as he’d met Jace in his junior year, he practically started living at the Larson house, sleeping over and riding to school with Jace every chance he could.

  The flames graduated to smoke, and the firefighters closed in to finish the job. That was that.

  Dalton looked away from them to the woman he’d known for over a decade. Where she was once Jace’s younger sister down the hall, now she was grown. Holly understood where he was coming from—hell, where he’d literally come from—and had gone through the effort of sharing this with him. She cared about him as deeply as he cared for her.

  “If we weren’t at work I’d kiss you,” he told her.

  Her eyes darkened, desire evident in their depths. He was the wrong choice for her, which sucked. She deserved a man who would eat fancy food like caviar. A man who wouldn’t pick the grapes out of his chicken salad because he thought fruit and meat should never go together.

  No matter how undeserving he was, he still couldn’t deny their chemistry. It sizzled in the air between them like a live wire.

  “Rain check,” she whispered, her gaze glued to his mouth.

  He pushed himself up, then offered a hand
to help her. Holly stood gracefully, her blond hair and flowing skirt making her appear ethereal in the dappling sunlight.

  “Thanks. For lunch…” Awkward. That feeling again. He palmed the back of his neck and added, “For everything.”

  “Anytime, Thomas,” she said with a wink, not behaving the least bit awkward.

  Not being anything except the incomparable, gorgeous, understanding, amazing Holly Larson.

  Chapter 13

  HOLLY HAD JUST fed Samosa the remainder of her salmon when her phone rang. She dashed to her purse and dug out the cell, catching it on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?”

  “You can do better,” came the slightly slurred words from the other end.

  “Dalton? Are you okay?” She hadn’t seen him the rest of the afternoon, assuming he’d finished up at the Brownsboro houses and gone home. Clearly, he’d made a pit stop at the bar instead. “You sound drunk.”

  “Getting there.” She heard a crowd of voices in the background.

  “Where are you?” Because by the sounds of it, he could very well be at a rodeo.

  “Dive Bar.”

  “You’re in a dive bar?”

  “That’s the name. Dive. Bar.”

  “Oh.” She opened her laptop and pecked in Dive Bar, followed by Hartford. The top result seemed the most likely. “On Thorn and Grand?”

  “Why me, Hol?” he asked over the noise rather than answer.

  “I’m coming out. I’ll be there in”—she checked the map—“fifteen minutes.” She hung up before he could argue, dashing from her apartment to her BMW. It was dark, and she wasn’t familiar with the neighborhood. Hopefully she could safely park her Beamer there and walk in without being mugged.

  When she pulled into the crumbling lot at Dive Bar, there was no doubt this place was wildly different than the fancy martini bars she frequented. The place sat next to a small grocery store and a Perkins restaurant. Across the street were a few business buildings with FedEx boxes out front. Not the most charming neighborhood, but not the slums.