Love on Lavender Island (A Lavender Island Novel Book 2) (20 page)

At five o’clock sharp, Paige was puttering back up the hillside, Amanda in her passenger seat, with a nervous feeling in her stomach about seeing Adam again. As soon as they safely passed the wooden sign for Nowhere Ranch, Paige pulled the sun hat off her head and handed it to Amanda.

“You’ll come over and watch another movie tonight?” Amanda asked.

“Oh no.” Paige waved her hand in false nonchalance. “I’ve got so much to do around Gram’s house. I have to keep up a schedule.”

“Didn’t you have fun last night?”

Paige’s mind went from zero to sixty about how much fun she’d had—especially the part where Adam was running his hand up the inside of her thigh—but she refrained from saying that and tried to concentrate on the parts Amanda was talking about.

The movie.

Yes.

“I did have fun. But I have a lot of work to do. We can’t just have fun all the time, you know, I . . .” She was about to go into a litany of protests, but she sounded so much like her mother right now she couldn’t see straight. She might as well add “young lady” to her lecture and call life a wrap. “I just mean—”

“C’mon, Paige. I know you want to.” Amanda gave her a sly smile that could have had numerous meanings to it.

Paige wasn’t sure how much she wanted to investigate, or how much Amanda might know about her and Adam, so she simply concentrated on making the next few turns.

“And I thought about what you said earlier,” Amanda said. “I see now that Adam’s trying. And I want us all to spend some time together. I’ll watch the movies with him if you come.”

Ah, guilt.

That’s what Paige needed to top things off this week.

“I’ll see,” she said to buy herself some time. But how could she deny that request? She knew she was being manipulated—being a wily fifteen-year-old girl herself under Ginger’s thumb had trained her well—but she would still feel guilty if she didn’t go.

When they got to the house’s driveway, Amanda’s cell phone buzzed. After reading the message, she pointed around the back. “Can you take me by the hangar?”

“Why do you want to go to the hangar?”

“I want to see if I can find that movie you were talking about—
Last Road to Nowhere
. I really want to see it.”

“I don’t know if your dad wants you looking around those precariously stacked boxes. The whole thing looks dangerous.” Paige wondered when she was going to stop sounding like her mother. She sighed and tried again. “Let’s just wait until he finds the movie.”

“He’s there already.”

“What?”

Amanda held up her phone. There was a text there from Adam, which Paige squinted at, but couldn’t make out the details.

“You guys are texting each other?”

“We just started. He asked me to come help him.”

Paige nodded and puttered across the meadow. That was sweet that Adam was texting with Amanda. But now Paige would have to ignore the butterflies in her stomach about seeing him again. She was glad she’d changed clothes before heading out to get Amanda. She tugged her ponytail back in place and tried to ignore the girl staring at her.

When they pulled up to the hangar, Paige waited for her to jump out.

Amanda turned and waited for her.

“Aren’t you coming?” Amanda asked.

“I don’t know, Amanda, I—” Her words stalled when she saw Adam step out into the hangar entrance. A cloud of dust came up around his boots as he stopped abruptly. He looked surprised to see her, lifting his hat in a nervous gesture, wiping his brow, then placing it back on his head. But then he hung his hands on his hips in his customary show of exasperation and threw a long look at Amanda.

“I brought a helper,” Amanda said cheerfully.

Apparently that detail hadn’t been part of the text.

But something like a magnet drew Paige in. Or maybe it was the pull Adam had had on her for sixteen years. Or maybe it was the sight of those strong hands that had been in her hair last night, or those forearms that she knew could lift her against a wall until he did whatever he wanted to her, or . . .

Get a grip, girl.

She took a deep breath that had a bit of a shudder to it, and found herself getting out of the cart, smoothing her hand over her shorts, and stepping toward him.

“Wait,” Amanda said, staring at her phone. “I just got another text. It’s from Bob and Gert. Can I go over there?”

Adam frowned. “Bob and Gert know how to text?”

“They got a new phone the other night, and I’ve been showing them how to use it. They said they’d make me dinner again if I go over there and give them their last lesson. Can I take your cart?” She turned to Paige.

Caught unaware, Paige glanced at Adam, who shrugged. “She’s been learning to drive mine. She’s pretty good.”

Well, this hadn’t gone according to plan. Paige didn’t mean to be stuck out here with all these pheromones floating around and an uncertain feeling about where they’d left off. But Adam looked less annoyed, almost encouraging. She wished he’d smile or something to give her a clue about what he wished she’d do.

“Sure,” she finally said.

They watched Amanda putter away at twenty miles an hour, and Paige had the strange thought that she was letting the getaway car get away.

When she turned back toward Adam, he was still standing there with his hands on his hips, staring at her.

“C’mere, Paige,” he said thickly.

CHAPTER 19

His mouth came down hard on hers. Paige thought at first he might be angry—perhaps for succumbing to this, to the inevitable, which was how she felt, too—but he pulled her into the hangar, into the doorway, out of sight of Amanda’s rearview mirror, and drew her closer to his body by her waist, even though he couldn’t possibly get any closer. He wrapped his biceps around her, drawing her toward him at the small of her back, almost lifting her off the ground.

He suddenly broke the kiss.

Breathing heavily, he leaned back for one second, then scooped her over his shoulder and carried her like a sack of potatoes deep into the hangar.

“Adam!” Paige squealed. She laughed as he carried her across the sawdust-strewn floor to the worktable along the wall. “This is crazy.”

“Crazy doesn’t even begin to describe what this is.”

He plopped her on the table and moved between her legs, drawing her mouth down to his, kissing her hard, paying extra attention to her bottom lip until her toes curled. He reached around to the back of her body and ran his hands down, where his hand span covered her entire bottom, and he squeezed while he attended to her mouth.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” he mumbled, moving his kisses down her neck and between her breasts.

Chills ran down her arms. She gripped his hair and tried to move him closer. She wanted more of him—more kisses, more words, more affirmation, more attention—but she wondered if they should talk first. “Adam,” she whispered.

He pulled away for a second—looking as if it took every effort he had. His eyes were hooded, stormy blue. His gaze dropped to her lips.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

“You just stopped me.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Because you have a very small window here where I’ll be able to.”

“I’m sure.”

His lips were on hers again, and his hands traced the shape of her bottom and hips and waist as if he were memorizing every curve. She tugged at her blouse to give him better access, then reached for the hem and swept the entire thing over her head.

“Should we talk first?” she whispered.

“I don’t feel like talking right now,” he murmured against her cleavage. “Do you?”

His mouth moved down and nipped at her breast through her bra.

She gasped. “No.”

She clutched his head and brought his lips closer. They were warm and smooth, and his tongue was expert at teasing, sweeping beneath her bra to hint at what was to come. His fingers came up to undo the clasp, and she held her breath. She was ready to be open for him, naked for him, but she felt bad that they hadn’t talked yet.

“I should warn you,” she whispered.

He backed away again.

“Warn me of what?” He seemed distracted—not really listening—as his eyes drank in her body, her bra, her cleavage, then grew hooded with reverence.

“I’ve been known to have calamities with this, too.”

“With sex?”

“Yes.” She kissed him again so he wouldn’t stare at her, but he backed away again.

“What kind of calamities?”

“Broken beds, broken tables, falling off couches, that kind of thing.”

He glanced up at her and slowly smiled as his fingers unsnapped her bra. “I think I can handle that.”

His hands went to work exploring again while the warmth of his tongue was turning her bones to liquid.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured into her left breast.

She chose not to think about the fact that this was the first line her mom had predicted. She chose, instead, to lean back on the heels of her hands and lift her body toward him. She chose to simply enjoy the fact that this gorgeous man, whom she’d loved since the day she first saw him, was calling her beautiful and kissing her cleavage and not caring at all that she was Calamity June. Whether out of joy or defiance—it really didn’t matter anymore—she arched her back into him.

His hands traced the shape of her waist and hips again, moving down slowly to her bottom and thighs, moving his mouth across her stomach. Her breath caught as his tongue got to her low waistband. He undid her shorts, and she gasped as he slipped her shorts to the floor with no problem. She sat up, now in only her panties, and pulled his face toward hers, this time taking
his
lower lip between her teeth. His kisses grew more feverish as his hands slid down again, his thumbs hooking the waistband of her panties, pulling them down.

“This is going to be uncomfortable, baby,” he said huskily.

Her pulse raced at the sexual promise of that: What was going to be uncomfortable? This table? His hands? What he was going to do to her once they were both undressed? Her breath caught, and she gripped his shoulders while he moved her awkwardly to get her panties off and kicked them aside with his boot. But then she wondered if he meant something altogether different—uncomfortable emotionally, between them, because of their histories and their parents and their land predicaments. But then she felt his hands again coming up her thighs and lost all train of thought. She truly didn’t care right now.

The table was rough under her bottom—it was covered in peeling paint—and Adam reached under her and let her sit in the palms of his hands.

“Rock forward,” he demanded, kissing her shoulder and encouraging her to the edge of the table. He lifted her just enough to get her to the edge, his shoulder keeping her balanced, and the effect was intoxicating: the cool air swirling up off the cement floor between her legs, the rough table against skin so rarely exposed, the tingling between her thighs, waiting for his touch, feeling his jeans brush up against her.

She leaned forward with excruciating need, but his fingers were now at his zipper, frenzied, pulling. Having Adam this out of control was beyond thrilling: listening to his strained breaths, watching that war rage in his head and his muscles, watching that play between strength of mind and strength of body. She knew he was trying not to think too far ahead, same as she was. She knew he was still warring with whether this was a good idea or not. But right now they both didn’t care. It was exhilarating.

He brought a foil packet to his mouth and tore it with his teeth. She loved his frenzy, loved his fumbling, loved that he was shaking as he moved to get the condom on with one hand while he used the other to keep her positioned. His mouth came down to her shoulder in a kiss that was half bite, half possession, then moved to her neck, sending a row of goose bumps along her arms and chest.

“Open for me, Paige,” he murmured.

She cried out the first time he thrust, and he moved one hand under her bottom, as if to protect her from the table; then he lifted her off the table completely, onto him, and her legs went around his waist. He grabbed the table behind them to steady them both, holding on to her with his other arm—his biceps pressed against her breast. He used the force of the table and the pressure of his hand to bring her all the way onto him. Energy reverberated. Paige hugged his neck. His arms now encircled her. He pumped again, hard.

Her body bumped against the table, and he cursed an apology and moved them away, but Paige felt very little except the sensation of straining against his body, to get him to reach that spot,
there
. She kept crying out as he got it, again and again, until she thought she was going to come apart, straining for that tease of pleasure. It was like a point of sky she was trying to reach, and he helped her get it
again
,
right
there—oh holy, glory, sweet opening sky—
and she called out his name and arched her back while the sky filled her fingertips. It raced down her arms and into her bloodstream and burned her to her toes.

God . . .

She fell, limp, against him, and Adam paused to let her enjoy the aftershock, then pulled her once more, tight, and braced himself against the table. She felt him stiffen and shudder and say a few things that sounded like they might be blasphemous . . . then he buried his face into her shoulder.

Damn.

Adam finally managed to resume breathing. His triceps shook. He gripped the edge of the table. He was going to collapse in about twenty seconds, so he gently rested Paige on the table and tucked her head under his chin.

What was that?

He knew he’d left teeth marks along her collarbone, and had probably allowed her bottom to be scratched up from this table. He attempted to cushion her thighs from the peeling paint, then continued to stroke her hair.

Damn, but damn.

He’d gone from zero to 180 in about twenty seconds, and he couldn’t even control his own release on that one. Thank God Paige came over the edge as fast as he did. That probably took a total of four minutes. If he’d had to renew his license on that, the way he had to renew his pilot’s medical one, he’d be in some serious shit right now.
How is your vision, son? Just fine. Maybe too fine. Any trouble taking off? Not at all. Any trouble releasing? Well, uh . . . Any trouble controlling your aircraft? Uh . . .
He’d have his license ripped from under him in a flash.

He pulled back and tried to look at her. Her hair was in a sexy disarray around her face, and she hid behind it as she turned to look for her shorts. He could see red marks along her cheek where his facial hair had chafed her. He kept vacillating between exhilaration at finally having this beautiful woman and embarrassment that he’d behaved like a teenager in doing so.

He took care of the condom and fixed his jeans. Normally at this point he didn’t care what happened next. Or what his partner thought. They were usually done, satiated, having both their needs met. But this felt different. He wanted Paige to have enjoyed herself. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to
like
him.

But he didn’t know how to express that. He didn’t even know how to process the emotions swirling through him. He hadn’t ever wanted to scoop up a woman right after sex and hold her in his arms and stroke her face and make sure her skin wasn’t chafed.

He also had never been so nervous that his partner wasn’t meeting his eyes.

Confused, he simply stepped back and ran his hand through his hair and handed her the shorts she was trying to reach.

“I’ll let you get dressed,” he said, charging back out of the hangar, where the sun assaulted his eyes.

He bent to pick his sunglasses out of the gravel and started polishing them with his shirt. With his back to the hangar entrance, he squinted at the sun, waited for Paige to get dressed, calculated when he should bring up MacGregor, and wondered how out of his depth he really was.

Paige dressed slowly, carefully. When she was reassembled, she leaned back against the worktable and hugged her torso. She glanced out the door at Adam’s silhouette and rubbed her elbows to wait out the thrumming. She willed her breaths to come slower, to normalize her heartbeat.

God, that man was overwhelming.

He was hot. He was passionate. That intensity that lay in his eyes ran heatedly through his muscles, too. And, apparently, though his veins.

She knew this was lust. And she was glad it was over with. It was powerful, and it was exactly what she needed. What she wanted to avoid was letting it breach into territory that felt like too much emotion, where, like her mom said, she would be in serious trouble. She already loved his voice, his work ethic, his arms, his protectiveness, his hands, his generosity, his sense of responsibility, his muscles, and the power that pulsed through his veins. If she met his eyes, and he said one more sweet thing, she was going to fall straight over the precipice of love. She needed to protect her heart.

She glanced at him standing silhouetted in the hangar opening, his eyes on the horizon. He looked dismissive. That might help. Maybe he was done now. Maybe he turned into a jerk at this point to drive his partners away. Maybe she could walk away now.

It was better than falling in love with him.

It was better than feeling guilty she hadn’t told him the whole truth about her involvement in his teenage troubles.