All I Want Is You (9 page)

Just then, the bathroom door opened and Jack came out in a pair of gray gym shorts, wet hair, no shirt. She looked up—­then hurriedly looked back down, at her candy bar. But the vision she'd just seen was branded into her brain.

He looked good with wet hair. And he looked even better without a shirt. She felt it between her legs—­a subtle pulsing that hadn't been there a few seconds before. She didn't know why it surprised her that his chest was broad and muscled, his shoulders and biceps just as toned. She just hadn't thought about it, she supposed. But she was thinking about it now. She bit her lip, intent on studying the pattern in her bedspread as if it held all the answers to the universe. Yet she still saw Jack's chest in her mind.

“You're right about the shower—­a little creepy,” he said.

She glanced back up. Oh God, he looked hot. His grin made her smile back, despite herself. She tried to sound normal when she replied. “Well, looks like we both survived.”

After rubbing a towel over his dark hair, he tossed it under the sink outside the bathroom, then plopped on the bed opposite hers. “How's your Twix?” he asked as he picked up his own 3 Musketeers bar.

“Good,” she said. “My dad and I both loved Twix bars.”

But—­ugh, why did she keep bringing up her parents? She was in the habit of
not
talking about them most of the time, because it avoided an unpleasant subject. So what was the deal? A shiver ran through her before she could stop it.

Then she returned her gaze to the bedspread, wishing the moment away. Because that quickly, that was what it had become—­a moment. He'd seen her quiver—­she knew it, sensed it. And the dimly lit room had grown almost unbearably quiet around them.

“I know it's none of my business,” he said gently, “so you don't have to answer if you don't want, but . . . what happened to your parents, Christy?”

Christy drew in her breath, let it back out. She lifted her gaze cautiously to Jack's and dared to peer into those blue, blue eyes. She let herself look beyond the stark beauty of them, beyond the handsome, rugged guy they belonged to; she let herself see the kindness there, let herself feel the same connection as when they'd kissed—­only more now.

Yes, she seldom spoke about this—­even when ­people asked—­but maybe she could tell Jack. Maybe, for some reason she couldn't quite understand, she
wanted
to tell Jack.

“It was a fire,” she said softly. Funny how that word's meaning had changed for her over time. When she said it now, it was no longer about flames or heat—­it was only tragedy, and loss; it was something that had obliterated everything she loved. “A house fire. The home I grew up in, outside a little town called Destiny, a ­couple hours northeast of Cincinnati.”

She saw the change in his expression—­the horror, the sympathy. Usually, she hated that—­it only reminded her how much had been stolen from her and how heartbreaking it was. But somehow Jack's concern, instead, comforted her. She didn't like feeling vulnerable in front of him—­but at the same time, knowing he cared meant something to her.

And it was
always
nice when ­people cared—­most ­people did, she'd found—­but why did Jack's care touch her more? Even as he said, his voice low, “That's really rough, Christy. I'm so sorry that happened.”

She held eye contact with him. That was slowly getting easier now. But her skin prickled and her voice came out small when she said, “Thank you.” Because even if she wanted to open up to him, there was still something . . . raw there. About sharing how much she'd suffered. About letting him know what made her weak—­even if it had also, in ways, ultimately made her strong at the same time.

“Were you . . . there when it happened?” he asked tentatively. Clearly wanting to know more but not wanting to upset her.

She gave her head a gentle shake. “I was away at school. At UC. By the time I got home, it was all over. Just ashes left.”

Understanding passed over his face. “That's why you don't have the pictures you told me about earlier.”

A short nod from her. “Yeah. Lost everything.”
Everything
. It was a big word. And it still stung to feel the enormity of it.

“I can't imagine that. Starting over with nothing,” he said.

“It's why . . .” Oh crap. She wished she hadn't started the sentence. She was sharing too much now, too fast.

“Why what?” he asked.

She swallowed past the lump that had risen in her throat. “It's why I have so little. There wasn't any insurance. There wasn't anything.” Her gaze dropped back to the bed as embarrassment swept over her. She was starting to sound maudlin and pathetic. This was exactly why she didn't talk about this—­it made it too easy to start feeling sorry for herself, too easy for weakness to start stealing over her like a dark, pervading shadow. And she liked herself so much better strong.

When an entirely different kind of shadow hung over her—­a real one, closing in from her left—­she instinctively raised her gaze to find that Jack had come to sit next to her on the bed. His face was suddenly so much nearer, his body, too, and his eyes still held that same care.

“Um . . .” she said, feeling a little overwhelmed by his closeness—­and also embarrassed by her uncertain reaction to it.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low, near her ear, “for telling me that. I know it wasn't easy.”

She tried to swallow back all her emotions—­passion, pain, still a little embarrassment—­and whispered, “Thank you . . . for caring. It's a hard thing. And I don't talk about it a lot.” Though she'd said little, she felt breathless when she'd finished.

And Jack said, “Christy, I . . .”

And the words hung in the air like a mystery as she waited for him to finish, wondering what on earth he was going to say, because somehow, just from the way he'd begun, it felt big, important.

“You what?” she asked softly.

I have something to tell you, too.
The statement sat on the tip of Jack's tongue, on the verge of coming out. She'd just bared her soul to him, after all, and his heart was breaking for her because he hadn't seen anything like this coming. He'd wondered what had happened to her parents, of course, but he'd never imagined she'd lost them in such a sudden, tragic way. And the quietness of her voice as she'd told him—­she'd sounded like a little girl. It struck him that perhaps all of us remained children, always, when it came to our parents, especially when it was about losing them. And somehow it all added up to making him want to tell her his truth, too—­or at least part of it. About Candy, the divorce. About
his
greatest loss.

It was nothing compared to hers—­and yet, it was all he had to share, the thing that had most injured him in life. And he wanted to share it with 
her
.

Which was odd as hell. It was his least favorite subject, the thing that . . . diminished him, made his soul feel like it was bleeding out. But maybe he wanted to show her that everybody had wounds, even him. Maybe he wanted to show her he was brave enough to share what hurt him, too. Because he thought
she
was brave as hell. It wasn't easy to bare your soul.

And yet . . . as he looked down into her pretty eyes—­especially green just now in the dim ­lighting—­he just . . . couldn't.

Because he couldn't tell her about Candy without it leading in to the whole money talk, and even now . . . it wasn't that he thought she would deliberately set out to use him—­but he didn't think Candy had set out to do that, either.

She raised her eyebrows at him and he realized how long she'd been sitting there waiting for him to finish—­how long he'd left her hanging. “Were you . . . going to say something?” she asked gently.

So he told her the only truth he could right now—­something else that burned in his soul and, at the moment, seemed more relevant than his own secrets anyway. “I think you're amazing.”

At this, her eyes widened and her mouth fell open in the shape of a soft “o” and something about it was more than he could handle. He had to kiss her again.

And so he lifted one hand to her cheek and lowered his mouth over hers. The kiss moved all through him, like something expanding inside him, becoming the biggest part of him. And as he let himself get lost in it, he decided he'd made a damn good decision because making out with her was a lot more fun than confessing a hurtful past. Making out with her, in fact, felt better than anything he'd done in a long time.

She leaned into his kiss, leaned her whole body into his, in fact. He wasn't sure anything had ever felt quite so good as the warm cotton of her T-­shirt, the soft globes of her breasts underneath, as they pressed against his chest.

Still kissing her, letting it consume him more with each passing second, he followed the urge to lay her back on the bed. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down with her, and his hands began to roam her curves.

Between kisses, she sighed prettily as his touch slid upward from her slender waist over the soft cotton. And when he eased one hand over her breast, the turgid peak jutting through against his palm, he found himself deepening the kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth. She met it with her own and his cock began to harden.

Her feminine breath went ragged as he teased her nipple between his thumb and forefinger through the T-­shirt. He wanted to kiss her there. He wanted to kiss her
everywhere
. He'd truly thought he could share a room with her platonically enough when the plans had been made—­but now . . . now he couldn't imagine anyplace could feel any sweeter, hotter, than to be making out with Christy Knight in a crappy little motel room in the middle of nowhere.

Soon her legs circled his hips, pulling him to her until the column of stone between his legs—­he'd gone rock-­hard now—­met the soft juncture of her thighs. Though layers of clothes rested between them, they were
soft
clothes, the kind that let him feel exactly how soft
she
was in that particular spot—­and he knew she felt how stiff he'd gotten for her, too.

She was panting now as he moved his kisses from her mouth onto her delicate neck—­and soon he was kissing his way onto her supple breast, then capturing one beautifully taut nipple between his teeth through the cotton fabric. The moan that echoed from her throat in response nearly buried him, seemed to wrap all around him—­and it made him sink his body somehow still deeper onto hers as he began to move, to thrust, almost involuntarily, between her thighs. Damn, he wanted
nothing
between them, wanted to drive himself deep, deeper, deepest inside her.

He wanted her so badly that he could hardly decide what to do next—­push up her T-­shirt or take off her pants. As his hands eased up under the long hem of the oversize shirt, his fingers curled into her waistband and the decision was made.

He gave a soft tug and she lifted her ass, letting him pull the sweatpants down. Flinging them aside, his eyes landed on the panties he'd just revealed—­white cotton with pale pink polka dots. Perfect and sexy and cute as hell.

“You're beautiful, honey,” he murmured, his focus still on her hips, then moving more pointedly to the crux of her thighs. He slid his palm upward on one of those silky thighs, stopping at her hip to close his fingers around the pink elastic band, and his voice dropped to a mere rasp as he said, “Wanna take these off, too.”

Her quick breath of excitement drew his gaze to her face, where he found her eyes heavy-­lidded, her expression passion-­filled and ready. “God, I want you, Jack,” she murmured.

He followed the urge to bend nearer, to lower a gentle kiss to the skin just above her panties and below her belly button.

In response, another brisk, sexy intake of breath from above.

“I want you, too, honey,” he said deeply against her tender flesh.

And as he eased the fingers of his other hand into the pink elastic, ready to rid her of the panties altogether, she lifted her hips slightly to let him, and she said ever-­so-­softly, “You're only the second guy I've ever done this with.”

 

“And I'll tell you a secret . . .”

Lewis Carroll,
Through the Looking Glass

Chapter 8

J
ACK WENT
still, everything inside him tensing. He hadn't seen that coming, either—­not at all. Christy had told him her age—­twenty-­four. Young, but not
that
young. Not so young that it had ever crossed his mind that she hadn't had at least a few sexual relationships.

And while, a few weeks ago, he might have questioned whether she was lying, he could feel the truth in her words—­and in her body. He could feel it in her physical response. It explained the way she'd clung to him so tightly. And of course, maybe she'd have done that anyway—­the chemistry between them was powerful—­but now he understood that maybe this was bigger to her than just chemistry. And hell, hadn't he already acknowledged that it was probably bigger to him than just chemistry, too?

And if he was only the second guy she'd been with in this way . . . did this mean she really cared about him? He would worry it was a game on her part if she knew about his money, but she didn't. And yet, even so . . . God, was this wise? This was supposed to be fun, easy—­he didn't want to end up falling for her, for so, so many reasons. Not to mention the fact that now he understood Christy was dealing with a great loss and . . . what if she was just grasping at any lifeline?

And all that aside—­even if none of that existed . . . hell, he couldn't help feeling in awe of this demure side of her. And when a glance up revealed her biting her lip, suddenly looking a little nervous now that he'd slowed things down, he couldn't deny that maybe he wasn't feeling completely secure, either.

Shit. He wanted her so damn bad. And he knew she wanted him, too.

But it suddenly seemed like a ridiculously reckless move. Maybe for both of them.

“Is . . . is something wrong?” she whispered.

Oh damn. She sounded so . . . vulnerable. Not the Christy he'd come to know.

It reminded him that ­people weren't simple—­they were layered, and complex, and they possessed hidden sides that they seldom, if ever, revealed to others. But Christy had been brave enough to let down her guard with him, and his heart felt bigger for knowing that—­so he felt like an ogre when he said, “I don't think we should do this.”

Her body went rigid in his arms. “Oh,” she murmured. Yep, he was a jerk.

“It's not that I don't want to—­believe me, honey, I do.” In fact, what stood ramrod solid between his legs right now began to ache, reminding him just how badly he wanted to.

“Then . . . ?” she began uncertainly.

Hell. He wanted to comfort her, do something to ease her frustration, the same frustration he suffered at the moment, too—­but he wasn't sure if it would be better to kiss her or to just pull back and separate their bodies completely. And he owed her an explanation. “It's just . . .”

“That I shouldn't have told you the truth—­about only being the second one,” she said regretfully.

“But I'm glad you did,” he was quick to assure her. “Because . . . it made me feel special. That you would want
me
to be the second guy.”

“Well, if you feel so special,” she asked gently, still in his loose embrace, “why are you embarrassing me by stopping?”

At this, he let go of her, sat up next to where she lay, and ran a hand back through his damp hair. Distance—­he needed to distance himself here. “This happened pretty fast,” he pointed out. “And like I said, I didn't come on this trip to seduce you.”

“But I'm a big girl, Jack, and I can make up my own mind.” Her tone bordered somewhere between put out and humiliated. “And if you're worried this will tie you to me in some way, don't.” The longer she spoke, though, the softer her voice grew again. “You know that I . . . well, that I can't have anything serious with you since . . .”

Even though she trailed off, her unspoken words hung in the air as clearly as if she'd said them.
Since I need a guy with money and you don't have any.

Damn. It was weird. To know he did have money. But thinking he didn't made it so he wasn't relationship material for her. Talk about a twisted situation. And even though he understood her position and had accepted it, it still stung a little to know she automatically counted him out based on cash flow. So much for fun, easy, casual sex.

“Look,” he said, regrouping. “Why don't we go to sleep, head to the beach tomorrow, and just . . . ease into this, see where it goes. I, uh, don't want you to make a decision you'll regret just because I wooed you with a fancy dinner and a five-­star hotel room.”

At this, a loud laugh burst from her throat when he least expected it. And he laughed, too, and was glad he'd managed to lighten the mood.

“If it happens later, at the beach,” he went on, “by then we'll both be sure we want it to, you know? And if it turns out I'm meant to be the second guy you have sex with, well, I'd rather give you a better memory than doing it on a crappy old bed at the Colonial Inn.”

Sitting up, she tugged her T-­shirt down over her hips and sat cross-­legged next to him. “It's not so awful here,” she said gently.

But he just tilted his head, flashed her a
get real
look.

“Well, okay,” she admitted. “It's fairly awful, but . . . I wouldn't have regretted it. I promise.” She gave her head a soft tilt, peered up at him. “Though . . . you know what's nice?”

“What?” he asked.

“To know you're a really good guy. In that way.” She pursed her lips, met his gaze, and he sensed that she was going to confide something else in him. “The fact is, every guy I've ever said no to when it came to sex dumped me.”

And damn, he hated hearing that. It was so wrong. And he could only imagine the ways that had hurt her. He lowered his chin slightly, keeping their gazes locked as he said, “Maybe you're hanging out with the wrong guys.”

B
Y
the time they hit the road the next morning, Christy thought it seemed like business as usual. Jack was back to calling her Alice. “What do you want for breakfast, Alice?” “Chop, chop, Alice—­we need to hit the road.” And as they resumed heading south, she could have almost believed last night had never happened.

Except that she knew it had.

Right after they'd nearly had sex, Jack had mumbled that he should probably move back to his own bed. And she'd mumbled a muted sort of, “Yeah.” But he didn't actually do it. And in fact, at one point she'd awakened in the night to feel him behind her, his hand curved warmly over her waist through her T-­shirt, his legs mingling just lightly with hers.

Of course, later she'd woken up to find her bed woefully empty—­at some point he
had
moved. And she'd felt a little sad about that, but what had taken place earlier had mostly made her feel . . . happy.

It was nice—­okay,
amazing
—­to be touched by him, kissed by him. But even just to look across the space that separated their beds and know things were
happening
between them, that he wanted her the same way she wanted him, that—­in spite of herself—­the prospect of romance with Jack loomed large . . . that was pretty amazing, too. Passion wasn't all about touching and being touched. There was so much more to it. Maybe more than she'd known up to now.

It made her feel . . . too young, in a way. Naïve. To realize how much she still didn't know about things like romance and passion—­and also to have confessed to him what she had.
Why did I say that? Why didn't I just shut up and let it happen?

But . . . maybe she'd wanted him to understand that, despite his earlier impressions of her, sex wasn't something she took totally lightly. It wasn't just some tool to get what she wanted. It had felt important to make him understand who she really was: a girl who valued her relationships, and a girl who valued
herself
. Maybe she was a little lost right now—­but at least he'd learned one important truth about her: that she respected herself enough not to just give her body away to every guy who passed by.

She also wasn't sure why she'd told him the part about getting dumped by guys she'd turned down for sex. After all, she hadn't turned
him
down. In fact, the embarrassing opposite had taken place. But maybe it was just another way of saying to him:
What's happening right now means something to me.
Without quite having to say that.

And even as crazy as her body had been going with lust and frustration, she loved that it had mattered to him, too. Or that at least
she
mattered. How many other guys would have stopped at that point? Until last night with Jack, she would have guessed zero. And the fact that Jack had cared more about making it right, and special, than just
making
it . . . kind of blew her mind.
Oh God, I wish I didn't need a rich guy, I so, so, so wish I didn't need a rich guy.

But for now, she resolved to put that out of her mind. Jack was behind the wheel; they were going to the beach. They were heading to see Grandpa Charlie. Now was the time to stop thinking about her problems, to just let them go. It was vacation, after all.

And as they passed through Valdosta a few hours after leaving the Colonial Inn, and the Florida state line grew near, that familiar sense of excitement from her younger years began racing through her veins like adrenaline. It was about ­getting closer and closer to paradise, knowing soon the rest of the world—­including your troubles—­would be far, far away for as long as you stayed. It struck her just now what a wonderful place it was to run away to if it could really give her all that.

The Welcome to Florida sign had just appeared in the distance when the car began to slow—­and she looked over at Jack wondering why as he pulled off into the emergency lane, stopping just in front of the sign.

“What's wrong? Is something wrong with the car?” God, what if he'd been right to worry about that? She was thankful not to be alone, but she
so
couldn't afford a car repair right now.

“No, just thought we'd take a picture. Of you with the sign. Start rebuilding your collection.”

“Oh,” she breathed, stunned. That he was so thoughtful, that she'd been lucky enough to meet him. Maybe getting locked out of her apartment hadn't been such a terrible thing after all.

T
HERE
was something about that first view of the ocean, always.

“There it is!” she announced, as giddy as if she were ten years old. The welcoming scent of crisp, salty air wafted through the open car windows as they crossed the bridge that led over a small bay and into the sleepy seaside town of Coral Cove. Hot, tropical sun blasted down, making the water sparkle beyond the sand dunes and sea oats that guarded the beach. “There's a more touristy area up the road,” she explained to Jack, “but this is my favorite stretch of beach. It's . . . empty but not lonely.” She looked over at him, feeling a bit silly. “Does that make any sense?”

He gave a short nod. “
Perfect
sense. I like it, too,” he said. Then he asked, “How long since you've been here?”

“I'm not sure,” she replied, thinking back. “High school, I guess. Everything was different then. Life seemed a lot easier.”

“Well, try to let it seem easy while you're here,” he suggested with a soft grin. “Because that's why you came, right? Vacation.”

Now it was she who nodded. “Good point.” And there truly was something about the beach that made her cares feel . . . nonexistent. She knew the problems hadn't disappeared, but it was nice the way that simply being here, just coming back to this place she loved, gave her a fresh sense of hope.

North of the gulfside beach lay a small grid of short, quiet streets lined with pastel cottages where many of the community's residents lived, but Jack and Christy followed the beach-­lined road south into town.

“There,” she said, pointing oceanward once more. “That's the public beach.” A small lifeguard tower painted in red and white stripes jutted from the sand, and colorful umbrellas dotted the shore. Families and other small groups congregated beneath them or lay stretched out on towels and in lounge chairs. A few kids played in the surf, and to one side of it all, a large wooden pier stretched from the beach out into the water.

The few restaurants, motels, and other businesses resided across the street from the beach—a clothing boutique and a place selling beach chairs and T-­shirts caught Christy's eye as they passed. This part of town was smaller than she ­remembered—­or maybe some of the businesses had just closed over time—­but she still found the atmosphere quaint and inviting.

“Where's your grandpa's rest home?” Jack asked.

“Further up the road,” Christy explained. “There are a few bigger hotels in that direction, too, past Grandpa Charlie's place. That's where my family always stayed. And there are probably some new ones since I was last here—­my grandpa tells me that part of town has grown.” She glanced back toward the area they'd just passed through. “Though I guess maybe the older part isn't faring so well.”

It was just then that Jack slowed the car as they approached an old row motel painted white with a red roof. According to the big faded sign out front, it was called the Happy Crab—­a thin, red tube of neon outlined the smiling crab on the sign. Jack pulled into the parking lot and said, “This looks like a nice place.”

And Christy blinked. “It does?”

“Well, a step up from the Colonial Inn at least. And it's right by the beach. I'm betting the price is right, so I think it'll be a good place to stay.”