Till I Kissed You (10 page)

A hand pressed against her mouth as an arm circled her waist. Panic whooshed through her. The man's hand muffled her scream. She bucked against a big body and chomped down on the fleshy part of his palm.

“For the love of—”

Sawyer's voice was loud at her ear. She eased up on her bite, but didn't release him. “What are you doing here?” Her words were indistinct around his flesh.

He hesitated before saying, “Same thing you are. Acting about as smart as a sack of nails. Could you drop my hand?”

He wiggled his fingers, and she opened her mouth. They were pressed together back to front, his arm catching her close.

“Sorry, thought for a minute you were my man,” she whispered.

“Your man?” The words were sharp.

“The one I chased.”

“Him. Yeah, well. I'm not your man.”

“We established you weren't.” She pushed his arm away and dropped to her hands and knees, patting down the sparse weeds pushing through the gravel. “I dropped the key.”

“You have a key?”

She hummed. “How were you planning to get in?”

“I was … performing reconnaissance. I hadn't planned on actually breaking in.”

“Reconnaissance is for sissies.”

He squatted and moved a dandelion aside. “Here it is.”

The bridge clacked as another vehicle passed over. Sawyer fit the key into the lock without a fumble. The vehicle hadn't passed them yet, and the hairs on her nape stood up. “Hurry.”

He had to jiggle the handle before the dead bolt disengaged. Headlights flashed at the end of the alley as a car turned in their direction. Sawyer opened the door, they fell inside together, and he shut it. The darkness was like being trapped in a sleeping bag, oppressive and anxiety inducing. If she hadn't heard Sawyer breathing and rustling around, panic would have had her throwing herself back outside, jail be damned.

The sound of gravel crunching under tires grew louder and stopped outside of the door.

Sawyer mumbled a curse. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the storeroom. While his steps were sure, she stumbled over various objects strewn in her path.

Car doors slammed outside as Sawyer quickened their pace. They passed through the big storeroom and into the main shop. Light was more plentiful here and she took the lead, tugging him toward the narrow walk-in closet. The smell of cloth puffed out but it appeared there was enough room for them both. The sound of voices wavered from the back.

“Damn, I should have thrown the bolt,” he whispered.

She backed into the closet and he followed, closing them in. A sliver of light shone from the bottom of the door; otherwise the room was black and small. All she could think about was the lack of space and her need for air.

Her breathing sped up as though she were running, and a fine sweat broke on her brow. It didn't help that she'd dressed in black yoga pants and a long-sleeved black shirt. The voices in the shop grew louder, and Regan couldn't stem her mounting panic.

“Sawyer.” She croaked his name and grabbed the back of his T-shirt with both hands.

He shushed her, but turned and wrapped both his arms around her as if sensing her need. Her arms found their way around his shoulders, her face pressed into his neck. Instead of making her even more uncomfortable, the feel of him against her cooled the heat of her panic. She concentrated on the pulse of his heart against her lips. The beat was steady and calm, and her heart sought the same.

Her panic ebbed away and was replaced by something else entirely. The darkness, the intimacy, the comfort all worked to lower her inhibitions. It was as if they were caught in another dimension, one where they hadn't broken each other's hearts.

She lifted her head, her nose brushing against his. His lips were close, very close. She wasn't sure which one of them moved, but their lips grazed. The slight touch shouldn't have started her body throbbing for his—but it did.

Like an addict, she needed more, even knowing the consequences. She touched her lips to his again and sighed. Later perhaps the shame and self-flagellation would come, the questions of what was she thinking and why had she instigated the touch, but the darkness snuffed out any inconvenient thoughts.

So long. It had been so long. If he pushed her away and gave them up because of her foolishness, it had all been worth it for the single blazing memory of his lips on hers once more.

He didn't push her away, though. He skimmed his hand up her spine to cup the back of her head, his fingers winding in her hair. His lips moved against hers, parting and sucking her bottom lip between his teeth and nipping.

She slid her tongue along his upper lip. He released her bottom lip and dabbed his tongue against hers. She was aware enough of the voices still outside the closet door to still the moan that threatened to overtake her.

The kiss was sensual and intimate. It wasn't like any kiss she'd ever experienced, even in her past life with him. Pent-up need and lust had her tightening her arms. The hand in her hair fisted and tugged, the prickles along her scalp registering as pleasure and speeding through her body. She pressed closer to give her aching breasts an outlet. He curved his other hand over her backside and squeezed. The heat from his palm felt like it could incinerate her thin cotton yoga pants.

He shifted them around until she was against the door. The hinges creaked slightly and they stilled, tongues touching, his leg pressed between hers. She fisted a hand in his soft hair, longer than it had ever been when they'd been together. After a few beats when nothing momentous happened, they resumed the mind-numbing tumble into pleasure.

His hips bucked into her, and her pelvis tilted to cradle his hardness. She squirmed, raising her leg to hook around his thigh, opening herself further. Her head lolled against the door and his lips glided down, gently biting the tender flesh. His hands trekked up from her hips to circle her torso, his thumbs close to the undersides of her breasts. She arched, her body begging for more.

An outer door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the empty store. Reality crashed down. He lifted his head, but kept his body against her. His expression was a mystery in the dark, and she wasn't sure if she was grateful or not.

What were they doing? The same question seemed to occur to him because he took a step back and braced his hands on the door, caging her in. Not that there was anywhere to escape to inside the closet. She didn't want to leave anyway.

“They're gone.” His whisper sounded strained, and relief made her knees wobble more than his kiss had. At least she hadn't been the only one affected. One thing he couldn't fake was his hard-on.

“Was it the police?”

“Looked like Deputy Preston's cruiser. Let's be thankful he didn't find us. There would be no talking ourselves out of getting arrested. The man is a total hard-ass.”

“How in the world could you see? And how did you navigate the storage area with no light?”

“I have good eyes. All the Fournettes do. We were born night hunters, I guess.” She felt more than saw his shrug. While her eyes had adjusted as well as they could, there wasn't much light to draw on.

“How did I never know that?”

His chuckle helped to dissipate the sexual currents. “Didn't want you to know I was eyeballing you in the dark back in the day when we hooked up.”

“You are so bad.” No heat was behind her words. His confession made her feel more nostalgic than anything.

“You were so sweet and shy with me back then. Didn't want to scare you.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, and not expecting it, she startled slightly at his touch. She barely stopped herself from nuzzling into his hand.

She needed to get back on solid ground. “We'd better get out of here in case they come back. Those orange prison jumpsuits would not look good on me.”

“I don't know, you could make just about anything look good.” He opened the door and she stumbled backward, out of the closet. His compliment was just as unbalancing.

“Since we're here we might as well take a gander. It's not like we're going to set the place on fire or steal anything.”

The smile he aimed at her made her press a hand over her heart. The damn thing actually fluttered. It had been a long time since he'd turned the force of his charm on her, and it seemed the years hadn't tempered her girlish reaction. If anything, the years without his smile made her aware of how much she'd missed it. Missed him.

She tried to cover her discomfiture with tease. “Well, if they come back and we get arrested, get ready for some good old boy named Bubba to make you his bitch in prison.”

He laughed, and the sound coasted through her body, soothing the raw nerve endings. She wanted to record his laugh, put it on repeat, and wallow in the sound. She touched her kiss-swollen lips to find them upturned. Not a pageant-style smile but an eye-squinching grin that would earn her mother's disapproval.

She cleared her throat and firmed her traitorous mouth into a line. “I'll show you where I saw the can.”

The meager light from the front window bled only a few feet into the storeroom, but it was enough. The tarp was where she remembered, against the near wall. She lifted it to find … nothing. She ruffled the canvas as if to summon the can with magic.

“I swear it was right here.” She pointed at the empty spot where not even a ring of dust or moisture remained.

He hummed and sniffed the heavy canvas. “It smells a bit like gas, but it's hard to say.”

“I'm not making this up, Sawyer.” Her tone veered defensive.

“You are many things, but delusional is not one of them.”

“Thanks. I think.” She rolled her eyes knowing he could probably see her in the dark. Sure enough, the white of his smile flashed. “I'll bet she moved it. Can't you use your super-power eyesight and search for it?”

He scanned the room. “I'm good, but not that good, and it's too risky to turn on a light. I'm sure they'll be upping the patrols tonight. You still parked out front of your shop?”

“I am.”

“Good. They'll assume you're working late. Let's hit it.”

He led the way to the back door, and she kept hold of the back of his shirt. He turned the dead bolt, cracked the door open, and checked outside. With a chuck of his head, she slipped by him and pressed herself against the brick wall, trying to make herself invisible. The night teemed with noise in comparison with the pall of the shop.

He locked the door and grabbed her hand. He helped her up and over the hip-high wall that marked the far side of the alley. Behind it was a gravel lot she hoped would turn into more businesses. She'd pushed the zoning changes through the previous year. A line of crepe myrtles formed the boundary of the back of her street.

The dark line of the building that housed her shop along with three other businesses was a stark line. She didn't have a storage area at the back of her shop or the room to pull her truck around to load anything from her office, so she rarely used the back door.

He hesitated under the drooping pink blossoms. “Which one?”

She dropped his hand to fish out her key. The lock turned and the door opened with a loud squeak of disuse. Once they were inside, the adrenaline coursing through her eased, leaving her spent. She flipped on her office light and plopped into the chair behind her desk. Sawyer sat across from her and rested his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

Would he mention their impromptu seven minutes in heaven? She blinked, seeing him clearly for the first time. His T-shirt was black, his jeans so worn, the knee was fraying into a rip. His hair was tousled and his shirt was halfway untucked. She had done that. She ran her tongue over her lips in remembrance.

“What a night. I wouldn't turn down a shot of that whiskey you have stashed.” He let his hands dangle between his knees and looked up with a half-smile.

“Of course, of course.” She blew out a steadying breath and turned to pour them both a shot. If he planned to ignore their epic make-out session, then so would she.

He raised his glass. “Here's to breaking the law.”

“Here's to not getting caught.”

A knock reverberated. She bobbled her glass, managing to spill most of the whiskey down her shirt. Rising, she brushed at her shirt and shifted back and forth.

“Ohmigoodness, what if it's the deputy? What if he knows?” The sense of safety was shattered and the meteoric rise to panic was steeper with this adrenaline rush.

Sawyer put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed until she stopped shuffling and looked from her wet shirt to him. “Settle down. The police are probably checking on things. That's all. Go answer the door and tell them you were working late and you appreciate their kindness in checking on you.”

She nodded like a bobblehead, but his sense of calm spread outward and brought her down a notch. Pageants had taught her to control her nerves, and on the walk to the front door, the trembles in her body subsided. Although nothing could get her heart out of her throat, no one would be able to tell through her smile.

She glanced through the shade. Sawyer was right. Deputy Preston stood like a bear on the other side, feet braced apart and an answering scowl to her smile. He might have been handsome if it wasn't for his air of surliness.

She opened the door, but didn't invite him inside. He peered over her head into her shop. “Evening, Deputy. Did you finally catch wind of the man who was in Mother's garden?”

She hoped to put him on the defensive, but his voice held no hint he was chagrinned. “No, ma'am, and without a description, we're not likely to find him. You haven't seen anyone prowling around, have you?'

“No.” She pursed her lips and drew the word out as if really considering the matter. “But I've been back in the office.”

His eyes narrowed and coasted down her shirt. He wasn't the ogling type, which meant he was probably making note of her wet shirt and the fact she smelled like a distillery. “I came by earlier and knocked, but you didn't answer.”