Runaway Bridesmaid (22 page)

This was home,
Sarah
was home, and nothing or no one was ever gonna make him leave again.

 

She let herself drift, as if in a dream, drugged with the joy of a moment she'd thought she'd never have, knew she'd never
have again. Dean's kisses were unhurried, sensuous, excruciatingly gentle, his tongue inviting hers to dance with his as she felt his hands roam over her arms and shoulders, teasing the top of the zipper, raising goose bumps of anticipation along her skin. Giggles drowned in gasps when the next kiss upped the ante, his mouth now possessing hers—possessing
her
—in a manner that brooked no argument.

Not that arguing was on her agenda.

Desire, sweet and achey and just this side of salacious, exploded in tiny, brilliant starbursts in her heart, her head, in places so secret and deep, she barely remembered their existence. Oh,
mama
—she was already so aroused, just from his kisses, she wanted to scream
Just get on with it, already!
His leg wrapped around her thighs, trapping her, drawing her closer with each kiss, clearly showing her he was every bit as ready as she was. And heaven knew, he could have entered her right then and there and they both would have been grateful for the release, she was sure. But she was determined to make it last.

Or die trying.

Her breath coming in short, frenzied pants, she pushed on his shoulders, shoving him onto his back on the bed, and straddled him, delighting in his startled expression.

“What
are
you doing?”

“What I've been wanting to do for the last week,” she replied, unbuttoning his shirt with fingers surprisingly deft, considering both her nervousness and lack of experience at undressing men. She wrenched the shirt free of his pants, shoved it aside, claimed her territory. Now the heat burned brighter, hotter at the sensation of chest hair snagging her fingertips, at the way his breath caught when she skimmed his flat nipples. At his lazy, crooked, wonderful smile. She leaned over, placing a leisurely, lazy kiss on a boyhood scar along his collarbone.

“I was right,” she whispered against his skin. “You
are
more developed than you used to be.”

A second later, she heard the rasp of a zipper, then sighed in relief as her breasts tumbled free of the boned bodice. Another breeze found its way into her room, the sensation of the
moist air caressing her exposed flesh absolutely delicious. Almost hesitantly, Dean touched one nipple, which instantly sprang erect and hard and wanting. She sucked in her breath at the piercing sensation, which trickled like a swallow of brandy from the tip of her breast down her belly, settling into a coiled, blazing knot at her core.

“So are you.” He smiled back, cupping both breasts in his palms, thumbing her nipples until she couldn't catch her breath.

But it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. She had no idea her desire could be this great, that she could ever ache for a man's touch this much.

He knew, lowering his hands to her ribs and pulling her forward in one motion to court her with his mouth. His tongue was so soft and warm, so incredibly wonderful. She felt her skin warm, smelled her own scent of perfume and dusting powder and female heat and wanted to be bare before him, completely open to him so that he could perform such magic on other parts of her body. Tonight, she was completely hedonistic. Tonight, she would not withhold anything from the man she loved.

Impatiently, frantically, she leaned back, yanked the dress over her head, then stood in her childhood room—the room whose walls had heard her whispered fantasies as well as her soul-wrenching sobs of betrayal, disappointment, sorrow—naked except for her cotton bikinis, and wordlessly offered solace.

Never let it be said that Dean Parrish was slow on the up-take.

His gaze never leaving her face, his expression an almost frightening mixture of tenderness and craving, Dean quickly shed the rest of his clothes, then pulled himself upright to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for her.

And with a silent
fiddle-de-dee,
she went.

Incredibly, he still seemed to be in no hurry, taking his sweet time exploring, kissing, stroking every inch of her bare skin, from her arms to her ribs, her thighs…belly…breasts…
oh!
She cried out at the sensation he managed to stir with the lightest touch, his fingers so gentle, so adept, circling and skimming and dancing… And she thought, on a soft laugh, how there just was no lighting a fire under a Southern boy, now was there? even though he sure enough was lighting
hers.

Then he knelt before her, his dawdling kisses tracing a southern route from her navel. She heard herself humming, almost keening, as she let herself float beyond reality, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush when she felt his thumbs hook underneath the elastic waistband of the panties and slide them slowly, oh, so slowly down.

She thought her heart might stop.

“You are one gorgeous woman, you know that?” he whispered between kisses, his breath hot now, torturing, promising, as his palms whisked over her hips, her thighs.

She choked down the laugh at the line. “It's a little late for flattery, don't you think?”

“Oh, baby…believe me, this isn't flattery.” He stroked her backside, tugged her closer. “This is a revelation.” The kisses became softer, if possible, each one a little lower than the last, then lower still…

With a little cry, she threaded her fingers in his hair.

Again, he knew.

And so did she. She momentarily wondered why she felt no embarrassment at the prospect, decided she was having far too much fun to care. And when he finally—finally!—kissed her
there,
all rational thought shattered into a million incoherent shards.

On a startled sigh, her eyes closed, shutting out everything but the exquisite sensation she had thought pure fantasy until this moment. She may have moaned his name as his hands began to massage her buttocks, his attention becoming even more intimate. From someplace else, she heard her breathing become edgy and high, felt him hold her more tightly as her knees began to buckle.

He coaxed her around and lay her back on the bed, deepening his loving, sweet torment. Emotions spun, dipped, leapt,
not just inside her, but around her, as if a flock of birds had somehow gotten inside her room. And all the while, heat licked at the insides of her thighs, at her core, spreading upward, ever upward, until, deep, deep inside, pleasure exploded in a series of short, sharp bursts.

“Oooh…!” she cried out in delighted surprise, emotions and sensation blending for one white-hot second before shattering to kingdom come and back again, as she gripped Dean's shoulders, her short nails digging into his skin. She didn't want it to ever end, didn't think she'd survive if it didn't.

But eventually, it did. And seconds after that, still trembling but completely limp, she found herself fiercely, possessively pressed to Dean's chest.

And completely stunned. Somehow, she knew what they'd just shared wasn't the norm, that few lovers could—or would—care enough to bring such euphoric pleasure to their partners, be unselfish enough to put their own needs on hold like that. She shifted, then nestled his head against her breasts and blew out a long, fulfilled sigh.

Never mind the horde of guilt demons who'd just barged on in.

“No complaints, I take it?” Dean gently teased, brushing his lips over the top of her breast.

“Uh-uh.” Then she frowned. “Well…maybe just one.”

“Oh? And what could that
possibly
be?”

She let her fingers sift through his hair. “I thought this was supposed to be a team sport.”

His laugh was as dark and rich as hot fudge. “I think it's safe to say I was more than just a spectator, don't you?”

“Yes, but—”

He pulled back to look into her eyes, the crooked smile at odds with the crease between his brows. “I didn't miss out on anything, if that's what you're thinking. I did exactly what I wanted to do, okay? I had a good time, it sure as heck sounded like
you
had a good time, so I don't want to hear any more about it. Besides, I guarantee I'll catch up. Which reminds me…”

He pulled away and leaned over the side of the bed, retrieving several foil packets from his pants pocket, which he then tossed nonchalantly on the nightstand.

Turning her back on those various and assorted little demons, Sarah propped her head on her hand and watched this procedure with great interest, just as glad she hadn't had to be the one to supply…things. Then she chuckled. “Mmm…just a little optimistic, aren't we?”

The bed squeaked as Dean gathered her in his arms again, and she noticed wryly that everything—in both camps—had perked right up again. Then she caught his eyes twinkling into hers, love shining from them so clearly it almost made her wince. She mentally tossed those damn demons into a jar and screwed the lid on tight. “Just wanted to be prepared, that's all.”

“Prepared?” She let out a sharp laugh. “Shoot—if we use all those tonight, we'll make the
Guinness Book of World Records.
”

“If we use all those tonight, they'll have to sandblast the smiles off our faces.”

“If we don't kill ourselves in the process.” She heard Dean mutter something about not being able to think of a better way to go as she reached over him and picked up one of the packets, inspecting it as if she'd never seen one before. Which, in fact, she hadn't, since she hadn't bothered to open the box Jen had left. For some reason, perhaps due to there being only one purpose for such an item, she found the whole idea a sudden and inexplicable turn-on.

She could feel his eyes on her as she removed the condom from its wrapper, then handed it to him. His brows lifted. “You sure?”

“Why don't you put on your little friend, there, and I'll show you how sure I am, 'kay?”

He leaned back, arms crossed underneath his head, and grinned. “Why don't you?”

She blushed, and she fumbled a bit, but she did it, and then they began to tease each other all over again with merciless
abandon. Sometimes with words, the gentle murmurings of best friends who have crossed the line to lovers; then, increasingly, with their bodies, with hands and mouths and limbs, until she ached, again, for release, was mad for it, but, oh, how much she wanted to pretend a little longer…

But not as much as she wanted to take him inside her most secret place, to bind him to her, even if only for a precious few minutes, to prove to him that she trusted him, forgave him.

Loved him with everything she had.

She rolled onto her back, lifting her knees, the time-honored signal from a woman to a man when she's ready.

He positioned himself over her, stroking her hip. “How long has it been?”

Confusion nudged her off track, for a second. He damn well knew how long it had been—

Oh.

“A while,” she said noncommittally, and he kissed her, gently opened her, began easing himself inside… “Oh, Dean,” she whispered, arching toward him, gasping at the sweetness of those agonizingly slow, deliberate, loving thrusts. Wonder almost immediately extinguished the momentary discomfort as her muscles stretched to receive him, welcome him…

Well now, y'all just come right on in and make yourself at home, y'hear?

Suffocating her laughter in the salty dampness of his neck, she wrapped her legs around his back, drawing him deeper, still deeper into her, desperate to banish the emptiness, to capture another memory she'd never thought to have. And yet, even filled with him as she was, it still wasn't enough: clamping her hands on either side of his head, she directed his mouth to her breast.

Taking his cue as if they'd been lovers for years, he first circled her nipple with his tongue, then suckled her, timing the exquisite, gentle tugs with his movements, so amazing, so delicious inside her, and yet still not enough, never enough.

And what made you think this would
ever
be enough?

The thought, unbidden, unexpected, knifed through her, slashing her joy to ribbons. She clung to him then, claiming his mouth, hot tears slipping from behind her eyelids to sear her cheeks as anguish, huge and black and opaque, threatened to eclipse the pleasure spiraling through her… No!
No!
she clenched her jaw, scrabbling to preserve the preciousness of the moment as one might grab for a falling child, only to hear, at Dean's final plunge, a cry torn from her throat that was as much from grief as fulfillment.

She floated slowly back to earth with Dean still inside her, savoring a dozen, more, of those hard, sweet kisses even as she began gathering the tattered remnants of the fantasy, tugging them around her so he wouldn't see, wouldn't know. She could barely feel Dean's weight on her body; but the weight of her sorrow nearly suffocated her.

He braced himself on his forearms, smiling into her eyes. “I don't know about you, honey, but I'm thinking nine years is longer than I care to wait for the next time, don't you?”

Even as she laughed, she felt her heart break all over again.

 

Dean couldn't bring himself to withdraw from her. Not yet. Not when he'd waited so long for this moment.

He wanted her again, already. He wanted her forever. He wanted to make love to her every night, and to wake up every morning to find her beside him in his bed. He wanted to marry her, to make love without a damn condom and make babies and watch her swell with his child inside of her, to see her face on his children. It had been the only thing he'd ever really wanted since he was eighteen, the only desire that had haunted him all these years, even when he'd pushed it so far back in his brain it no longer had a face or a name but had just become a permanent feeling of emptiness in his gut. He had thought he was already as much in love with her as he could possibly be.