Treasure on Lilac Lane (Jewell Cove 2)

“Jess,” he murmured, sliding his lips down her jaw. “What are we doing, Jess?”

Neither of them really expected her to answer. Instead she just gloried in the liberating feeling of kissing him. Of being in his arms.

And the awesome realization that Rick—equally damaged and complicated Rick—was the one person who could finally make her feel this way. Charged. Excited. Yearning.

His left hand was against her lower back, holding her firmly against him while his right slid down over her ribs and over, just a little, so that his thumb caressed her nipple through her sweater. “Did you really ask me up here for dinner?” he whispered in her ear, making her shiver deliciously.

“Are you questioning my motives?” She might have sounded serious except the last word came out on a breathy sigh as his thumb flicked again.

“I’m absolutely questioning them,” he answered. “You say stop, I’ll stop. But Jess … God, I don’t want to.”

Brown eyes met blue. This was the moment, then. They could stop it right now and that would be the end of it. He was leaving it in her hands. She could walk away and not risk embarrassment or getting hurt or the million other things she was sure could go wrong. That was exactly what they’d agreed, wasn’t it?

Or she could put herself in the hands of the only person she’d come close to trusting. From the way his heart was beating against her palm and his zipper was pressed against her hip, she knew exactly where this was heading.

“I’m nervous,” she confessed. “There’s something different about what we have, you and me. I don’t want to mess that up…”

He lifted his left hand. “I don’t even know if I can brace myself up on this thing or not.” His lips thinned and he shook his head. “I’m nervous, too, you know.”

“You haven’t since…?”

“No,” he confirmed, “I haven’t.”

She let that thought settle. Dangerous, wild-card Rick Sullivan had been celibate for months. But he wanted to make love with her. To her. And she’d always wondered what it might have been like if they’d gone all the way on the beach that night. Now was her opportunity to find out. She meant it when she said the “what if” game was pointless. But how often did you get a second chance? What if she never got a third?

Jess slid her hand down the center of his chest, stood on her tiptoes just a little, and kissed him, a sweet, slow kiss that she hoped left him in no doubt of her answer. Then she took him by the hand and led him through to her bedroom, closing them in a cocoon of privacy where they could shut out the world.

Rick grabbed the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head, leaving her standing in the semidarkness wearing nothing but her lace bra. More kisses followed after that; hot ones that he trailed over her cheeks, down her neck, along the tender skin of her collarbone, his tongue dipping to trace the line of lace as her breath accelerated.

“Tell me if it’s too fast,” he said, his voice a husky rasp as he reached for the button of her jeans. “God, you are so beautiful, Jess. So beautiful.”

That he thought so sent a wave of pleasure over her. He pushed her jeans over her hips and she stepped out of them, stunningly aware that she was in front of Rick in her underwear. Maybe it was because she’d known him for years. Maybe it was the gentle heart she saw in his art that he kept hidden behind his tough-guy façade. Either way, Jess was beyond ready. It was time.

His fingers touched the scar on her belly and he pulled away, surprised.

“It’s a long story,” she whispered, chagrined that she’d forgotten about it. “Just ignore it, okay?” She reached out for the buttons on his shirt and undid them, one by one, hoping it was sufficient distraction.

“Jess,” he said quietly, putting his hand on her wrist before she could push the fabric off his shoulders. “There are scars.”

She kissed the side of his mouth. “We all have scars.”

But she wasn’t prepared for what she saw when she spread his shirt wide and slid it over his shoulders. It was far worse than the four-inch pink line on her abdomen. At least half a dozen jagged scars marked his torso from navel to shoulder, healed but uneven and seemingly random.

Her throat swelled. “What happened?”

“Shrapnel,” he answered briefly.

He’d told her once that he’d been in the hospital for more than his hand. Dear God, how much had he suffered?

She traced each mark with her finger, then leaned forward and kissed one gently. When she looked back up at him, his jaw was tense and his eyes were closed.

“You okay?”

His lashes fluttered. “I’m okay. Your fingers feel good.”

So she ran her fingertips over the skin of his chest, his shoulders, his strong back. It was so warm, so firm and their bodies brushed together, making all her nerve endings come alive. His lips grazed the curve of her neck and she gasped. She wasn’t just ready emotionally to take this step. Her body was speaking loud and clear.

She unbuttoned his jeans and within seconds they were both standing beside her bed dressed in nothing more than their underwear, breathing hard.