All He Ever Wanted Read online

  “I never did get a chance to give you that dinner. Why don’t you stay and eat? I’ve got a couple of steaks ready to go.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, blocking out the sight of his well-loaded coat tree that seemed to shout the fact it belonged to a family man. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she admitted.

  It wasn’t his stockinged feet that alerted her to the fact that he was walking up behind her. It was the shiver that danced down her spine. The knot of breathless…waiting…that formed in her chest.

  “Because Erik’s not here?” His voice was as quiet as hers, and the low timbre dragged velvet-soft over her senses.

  She exhaled carefully and turned to face him, only to find him standing closer than she’d expected. Her nose practically grazed the thick, ivory knit of his bulky sweater. She slid back her foot, needing space. “Yes.”

  “If he were here, would you have stayed?”

  She was trapped in his eyes, as surely as if he’d lassoed her. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “He can wear a person out.”

  “He’s energetic. And he undoubtedly got that from you, just like he got your hair and your eyes.”

  “Then why the hesitation?”

  She wasn’t even sure what they were talking about anymore. It was problematic, looking at a man who made one’s ability for coherent thought fall right out the window.

  “Not enough appeal unless my son is around?”

  She shook her head. “You know that’s not so.” Her voice had gone husky again.

  “Do I?”

  Her entire body felt flushed. “I’m not the one who regrets kissing…touching…me.” She pushed out the words.

  His slashing eyebrows rose. “Regret. Believe me, darlin’, I’m on intimate terms with regret, and that isn’t what I’ve been feeling where you’re concerned.”

  “Well, you could have fooled me.” She hated that her voice wasn’t steady. “Considering the way you—”

  The rest of her words died under the swoop of his mouth catching hers.

  Shock rocked through her, as deep and encompassing as it had the first time. Her fingers flexed. Grazed thick, cable knit. In shock’s wake flowed need and pleasure. It spread through her, achingly warm, finding crevices that had been cold and empty.

  His fingers tangled in her hair and her head fell back, her mouth opening under his. He made a low sound that rippled her nerve endings and her fingers curled around his forearms, kneading.

  When he finally lifted his head, she sucked in a sharp breath, willing away the dizziness clouding her judgment. But she might just as well have tried jumping over the moon.

  His hand surrounding the nape of her neck anchored her in place. “This is not regret,” he rasped.

  Faith trembled. “Cam—”

  He kissed her again. Harder. More urgently. Only to break away again. His breathing was rough. “I want you. And you were right. It’s been a long time. I haven’t felt this way since my wife. And maybe I convinced myself that leaving you alone the other night was the right thing to do, but today I’m not feeling so generous. So if you really want to leave, do it now. Otherwise—” he grazed his thumb over her lips “—don’t.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Leave.

  Don’t leave.

  A million thoughts whipped through Faith’s head, but none of them stuck around long enough to gain form. “It would be smarter for me to go.”

  His thumb swirled over her chin. “Definitely.”

  “But I don’t want to leave.” The words were more exhale than form, but he seemed to understand all the same.

  He stepped closer, his thumb raising her chin. His head dipped. But the racing urgency she’d expected didn’t come. Instead, he brushed his lips over hers, a light exploration, a gentle discovering.

  Her heart lurched. Her fingers twisted in his sweater.

  When had she moved her hands to his chest?

  She could feel the race of his heartbeat and it went to her head faster than the daiquiris had gone to Frannie’s head that afternoon.

  He kissed the corner of her mouth, the point of her chin, the line of her jaw.

  She twisted her head, desperate for his mouth on hers. “Cam—”

  His lips caught her earlobe and she shivered. His hand flattened over her spine, bringing her flush against him and a moan rose in her throat, her knees going soft.

  He laughed silently, sounding so pleased with himself that she started to push at him, but he just covered her mouth again, tsking against her lips, and lifted her right off her feet, pulling her up his body until her mouth was even with his.

  She clutched his shoulders and stared into his eyes. With no seeming effort at all, he held her there, his hands slowly sliding from her waist to her rear, her thighs.

  Her legs circled his waist seemingly with a mind of their own and they both went still.

  The only sound in the room was the rasp of her denim jeans against his, underscored by harsh breaths.

  Then he swore under his breath, muttering an apology almost simultaneously, as he backed her against the knotty pine table right there in the foyer.

  Envelopes and car keys flew under the haphazard swipe of his hand and he lifted his mouth only long enough to drag her sweater over her head. When it was gone, his palm covered her bare breast. His lips swallowed her gasping delight.

  She pulled at his sweater, desperate to feel his skin against hers, and he obliged by tugging it off himself. Her blood hummed in her veins. Her mouth pressed against the satin warmth of his shoulder. Her breasts nestled against the crisp-soft swirl of hair on his chest. Her fingers blindly fumbled with the button at his waist, only to knock into his as he slid down her zipper.

  “Hurry,” she gasped.

  And he swore, removing his hands from her altogether. And if she weren’t pressed up against him so tightly, he’d have been inside her if not for a few layers of fabric.

  She froze. “No. Not again. Don’t pull away from me again.”

  His fingers circled her wrists, keeping her from touching him. “Dammit. I have to. What was I thinking?”

  “Maybe I like you not thinking,” she admitted unevenly. “Maybe I like you just…being. With me.”

  His jaw worked for a moment. “I want to. God. I want to. But I wasn’t prepared… I—” he broke off, swearing. “No condom,” he finally said, bluntly.

  She stared. Felt the blood drain out of her face, only to return, double-speed. Hesitation niggled at her, but she stomped down hard on it. He might have her hands subdued, but he didn’t have her legs.

  She twined them more tightly around his hips and pulled him back. “We don’t need one. Safe as houses, remember? Please, Cam. Do you want me to beg here?” She was so afraid she’d do just that. Hadn’t she come bearing cookies in some barely disguised, antiquated gesture?

  Her reserve was nil, and pride hadn’t kept her from waking night after night from dreams of his hands touching her. So even though he’d pushed her away more than once, she’d still had to try.

  His shackling grip had loosened just enough for her to slip one hand free, and she tugged at his jeans, popping the strained fly the rest of the way.

  He groaned when she slid her hand over him. Touched him. Shaped him.

  “Lift up,” he rasped. She tilted her hips and he pulled the rest of her clothing free, dragging jeans and boots and socks off in one fierce motion. Then his hands, warm and so strong, slid up her thighs. “Are you sure, Faith?”

  He’d called her Faith. She was shuddering wildly. “I’m sure.” The words were little more than a moan, and she pressed her mouth against the hot column of his throat.

  She felt—tasted—the groan he gave.

  And then he sank into her.

  Harder. Deeper. More than anything she’d ever experienced.

  She cried out. Her head fell back, knocking the wall, but she barely noticed for the wild pleasure streaking through her.

/>   His forehead fell to her shoulder, his hands like iron as he lifted her to him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She barely heard him. Her hands swept over his back, holding tight. “You’re not,” she promised. “Oh, Cameron.”

  His heartbeat felt like a locomotive pulsing against her breast. Her fingers flexed against him and she arched, mindlessly greedy, shocked in some small, tidy corner of her mind at the gasping moans coming out of her mouth, at the feral growl rising from him as he took.

  And took.

  And took.

  He slapped a hand against the wall above her head. His mouth devoured hers, swallowing her cry. Everything inside her screamed for release.

  The foyer table rocked precariously.

  His mouth tore from hers. Burned to her temple. Her ear. His breath was harsh. “Faith.”

  Just that. Her name, so raw, so…perfect as she felt everything he was explode inside her.

  And she shattered, too, flying apart.

  She wasn’t sure who was holding whom together more.

  But in the end, it didn’t really matter.

  They were both destroyed, baptized in the fire of each other.

  It wasn’t really an eon of soul-deep pleasure, though it felt that way before Cam felt Faith go boneless against him, their bodies still fused. It was hardly a testament to his masculinity, but his damned legs were marshmallows. He blew out a shaking breath. Cautiously pushed his hand against the wall again, straightening away.

  She clung like a limpet, her head tucked against his neck. “Don’t go,” she whispered hoarsely.

  And damned if he didn’t want her all over again, right then and there. “I’m not going anywhere.” He sounded as if he’d run a marathon.

  Maybe that’s what happened when a man was outrunning his past.

  He lifted her with him, managing to more or less collapse on the carpet without bruising either one of them.

  He hoped.

  She still had her head tucked against the crook of his neck, as if he’d been grown specifically for that purpose. Her long legs tangled with his.

  And it all felt…right.

  He tossed his arm over his eyes, slowly stroking her hair. “I still have on my pants,” he muttered, feeling like a complete, lumbering jackass. It wasn’t a sensation he was accustomed to, or one that he relished.

  But she giggled. “I know.”

  Of all the sounds he’d elicited from her, it was the giggle that was the most unexpected.

  And something inside him loosened. Unfurled. “I—”

  “Wait.” Her hand snuck up and covered his mouth. She lifted her head and looked at him. Her honey-colored hair drifted over them in silky sheaves. “If you apologize now, Cameron Stevenson, I’m very much afraid I might have to hurt you.”

  Her voice was humorous. But her eyes—more green than brown, and decidedly slumberous at the moment—were starkly vulnerable.

  He stroked his knuckles over her smooth cheek.

  Golden.

  Touching her was like stepping into the warmest, most inviting, molten sunshine.

  And he was so damn tired of being out in the cold.

  Her lashes had flicked down, hiding her gaze when he’d touched her cheek.

  “No. I can’t apologize for that. Unless I left bruises or something.” He moved his hand. Cupped her arms where he knew he’d grabbed her—probably too hard, too tight—and gently rubbed her satiny skin.

  Her lashes lifted. “I don’t bruise that easily,” she whispered.

  But he knew otherwise. Faith Taylor, competent, strong, beautiful Faith Taylor, just carried her bruises—whatever their cause—on the inside.

  And he knew, the same way he’d known his life was forever changed the day he’d played checkers on a woolen blanket in a park, that he never wanted this woman bruised by anything. Ever.

  He turned, settling her carefully on the carpet, and reached past her for his sweater. Then he held it out for her. She looked at him for a long moment before silently tucking her head through it.

  For some reason, it seemed as trusting a gesture as what they’d done together in his foyer.

  He pulled the sweater down around her. The ivory knit enfolded her past her hips. Then he rose. Fastened his jeans, fumbling a little at the avid way she watched him, and held out his hands. “Come on.”

  Her eyes narrowed a little. “Where?” But she settled her palms on his.

  He pulled her to her feet. “So suspicious.” And he’d given her plenty of reason to be. “I want to show you something.”

  “What? Your etchings? Think maybe we’ve covered that already.”

  He gave a bark of laughter at that. “You’ll see.”

  He drew her back down the hall to the great room. Past his desk, past the windows that looked over the hill where she’d tobogganed with Erik, and into the den beyond. “I was in here when you knocked,” he told her. “That’s why I didn’t hear you.”

  Her gaze was traveling over the burgundy leather couches and the massive bookcase built into the wall that was already overflowing with books. The fire he’d built earlier that day was nothing but a smolder now, and he tossed another log on, jabbing it with the poker, making sparks fly up the chimney. A fresh scent of wood smoke curled into the room.

  He replaced the black iron screen and turned to Faith. “I was watching that.” He gestured at the big-screen television mounted on the wall, but she’d already noticed the frozen image of Erik from the night of the school’s chorus program. He picked up the remote and pushed Rewind. “You were there only long enough to see the last ten minutes or so.”

  Her fingertips were curled around the edges of his sweater sleeves. She cast him a sideways look. “How’d you know when I came in? I was in the back.”

  He handed her the remote and slid a long lock of her hair free of the sweater collar. “I noticed. Same way I always noticed when you’d come in the council meetings. When you snuck out a few minutes before it ended. When you climbed up in the bleachers at the last game. I noticed.”

  Her lips parted softly. Her thumb roved restlessly over the buttons on the remote, not pushing any of them. “Oh.”

  His lips twitched. “Yeah. Oh.” He gestured at the furniture. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m just gonna heat up the grill.”

  She looked thoroughly bemused and he wondered how long he’d be able to keep her in that state. She sat down on the corner of the couch, curling her long legs beneath the hem of his sweater, and pointed the remote to start the video playing again.

  He went into the mudroom and grabbed a shirt off the pile of laundry he’d yet to put away, and pushed his feet into his boots, then went out on the deck to flip on the grill. He left it to heat and went back inside. Steaks were a no-brainer, fortunately. And these days the salad came conveniently out of a bag.

  Thank God for modern conveniences.

  He dumped it into a bowl, scooping what he spilled on the counter into the trash. Then he hastily scrubbed a few potatoes, stabbed ’em a couple of times and tossed them in the microwave, punching the button that said…ta daa…potato. Another major convenience, since the only way he’d learned his way around the kitchen was by trial and error. He pulled out the steaks, went back to the deck and slapped them on the grill, then closed the domed lid over them and went back inside.

  “Gourmet touches.” Faith stood in his kitchen looking more edible than anything he could have imagined. She held up the emptied bag from the salad between two fingers. “I’ve never had a man cook for me before.”

  “Oh yeah?” He dropped the long-handled fork he’d used with the steaks onto the counter and headed for her. “Stand around looking like that, Faith, and I’ll be happy to cook anytime.”

  Her eyes widened and her lips curved. “Cam—”

  “Keep saying my name,” he suggested gruffly as he slid an arm around her waist, delving oh-so-easily beneath the sweater. He pushed his other hand through her silky hair and her head
fell willingly to the side, letting him taste the skin right below her ear.

  “Cam.” That came a little more breathlessly.

  He caught her earlobe gently between his teeth.

  “Cah…ham.” Her hands grazed his chest. “The, um, the video is rewound.”

  He heard her. He just didn’t hear her. “I’m not ever going to get enough of you.” He widened his stance, pulled her closer. Tighter.

  She wriggled against him, pushing at his shoulders. “The, um, the video?”

  He exhaled. Pressed his forehead to hers. “Right.” He took in another long breath. Let it out even more slowly. Reluctantly let go of her. “Bright idea of mine,” he muttered. “You deserve candlelight and champagne. I serve up nuked potatoes and home movies.”

  Her eyes softened even more. “I’ve never had much of a head for champagne, actually. And I don’t…expect romantic gestures.”

  He looked at her. “You said something like that before,” he remembered. When he’d conveniently used her to derail the threesome at The Hitching Post. “Don’t you believe in romance?”

  “Of course I do.” She dropped the empty sack on the counter. “I just don’t think I’m the kind of woman who brings that out in anyone.”

  He nearly laughed out loud until he realized she was serious. “You must have been married to a prize idiot,” he murmured, slipping his hands along her neck. Watching the way her lips parted unconsciously as he pressed his thumb against the pulse fluttering at the base.

  “I suppose you treated your wife to grand gestures all the time.”

  “No,” he said, and for once the honesty didn’t scrape raw and painful at his insides. “She was the one who was into gestures. I was the practical one who cleaned up the mess afterward.”

  “Mess. Ah. Well. There you go. Grand gestures must be overrated if they leave a mess.”

  He closed in on her, following her as she backed up, until she was caught between him and the undoubtedly cool front of his stainless steel fridge. “Yeah, darlin’, but I’ve learned that some things are worth a mess.” He leaned down and nipped at her lower lip, watching her face.