Half Moon Hill: A Destiny Novel Page 20

She watched the man she loved as he stood there clearly trying to get hold of himself. He took a deep breath, eyes downcast, blinking—until he found whatever it took to meet her gaze once more. He looked so tired that she just wanted to hug him. “Sometimes I do,” he said, “but other times, Anna . . .”

  And in that moment Anna wasn’t sure such outrage had ever gripped her body. She could barely breathe beneath the weight of his sorrow and thought she’d never been more livid at another human being than she felt toward Duke’s father right now. Even her “other mother,” when she’d learned the truth. A crime committed in love just wasn’t as ugly as one committed in hate. Her anger spilled over as she said, “You listen to me, Duke Dawson. You are good. You’re plenty good!”

  She stopped then, took a breath, felt something softer welling inside her then. “You’re good . . . to me. David. You’re . . . the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. In fact, I think you’re incredible.”

  She watched as Duke’s eyes filled with disbelief, maybe doubt, maybe wonder—she couldn’t tell. And she didn’t want any confusion about what she felt, about how she saw him. So she followed the stark, desperate urge to lift her hands to his cheeks and kiss him with all the love and need inside her.

  “Please,” she heard herself murmur against his mouth between kisses. “Please.” At some point, Duke’s arms had closed around her, at once quenching and fueling her intense thirst for him.

  When the kissing stopped, he whispered, “Please what, Anna?”

  And it was only then that she realized she’d said it loud enough to be heard. The word had seeped from her lips unbidden, and the truth was—she didn’t even know what she’d been asking him for. Please let me love you. Please let me be there for you. Please be there for me.

  And then—oh! She understood.

  She was asking him for . . . everything.

  But you can’t tell him that. You can’t put it into those kinds of words when he’s shaken up, vulnerable. And maybe the words didn’t need to be said anyway. Maybe she could just show him.

  So instead she said, “Please . . . take me. I need you inside me right now more than I think I’ve ever needed anything in my life.”

  Oh God, those were pretty freaking intense words, too—which had come out sounding a lot less controlled than she’d planned. But they were just as true, she realized, as the other thoughts in her head. And they were out there now—she couldn’t take them back. So she looked longingly up into his warm gray eyes and, one more time, said, “Please.”

  “Your fear, your terror, all of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not even admit to themselves.”

  Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera

  Fifteen

  After that, things turned urgent, fast. He worked at the hook and zipper on her skirt—she struggled to get his blue jeans open. Both rushed to yank their shirts off over their heads, and Duke’s gaze dropped briefly, wildly, to her red bra, before he reached for the straps, looping his thumbs inside, shoving them from her shoulders. She pushed his jeans down as he grabbed on to her undone skirt, tugging it and her panties to her thighs.

  When finally they were naked, she reached for him again—but he clamped on to her shoulders, turned her around, and propelled her toward the staircase. She thought he wanted to go upstairs, to her bed—and though she personally didn’t want to wait even that long, she also wasn’t in the mood to argue, so she started up them.

  “No,” he said quickly, halting her. “On your knees.”

  Oh. Okay. He didn’t want to wait, either. Good.

  Now it was pure lust and need that had all the blood draining from her face, every part of her body tingling as well, as she dropped to her knees on the second step, then leaned forward, planting her hands on a higher step and arching her back. His strong hands closed over both sides of her ass, making the heated anticipation all the sweeter, and she heard yet one more unplanned plea leave her lips. “Oh God—please.” And this time, she knew exactly what she was begging for.

  He answered by plunging that hardest part of him into her softest. She cried out as the rough entry rocked her body from head to toe—perfectly. And it was perfect, because as much as she loved moments when Duke was tender with her, right now she wanted to feel him everywhere, in every molecule of her being, and this was the kind of sex she craved.

  He drove into her hard, hard, hard, his strokes relentless. She bit her lip, shrieked her pleasure with each thrust, and just as she’d resolved to do with her emotions earlier, she basked in it.

  For a while, she closed her eyes, simply drinking in every hot impact. But then she opened them, looking to the steps directly in front of her. She wanted to feel where she was, the urgency of it, the rawness. She became more aware of her palms and knees pressed into the polished wood, of the songs of crickets and tree frogs bringing the summer night in through the windows, along with a soft breeze. All her senses became engaged, somehow succeeding in helping her feel Duke even more.

  All except one. Taste. And she wanted it all in that moment with him—again, she wanted everything. And she wanted to give him as much as she took. Maybe even more. She just wanted to love him in every way.

  And so she heard herself saying, “Wait. Duke. Stop.”

  He went still in her, his hands molding to her hips, the sounds of their labored breath louder to her now than the night sounds. “Wh-what?” he managed to rasp. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” she breathed. “Just . . .” She looked over her shoulder at him. “I . . . I . . .”

  Finally, he eased out of her, and the loss was almost painful, but she still wanted what she wanted. And so she turned over to sit on one of the steps and looked up into his eyes. “I want . . . to taste you.”

  He appeared a little overcome, unsteady, at the words. His jaw went slack, the scar on his cheek seeming to relax along with it. His eyes clouded with lust. And she could have sworn his mouth trembled just slightly as he said very quietly, “Okay.”

  Anna didn’t do this with just every guy—and as she reached out, taking the stone column of his erection into her hand, it dawned on her that this might be the first time in her life that this particular act had been her idea. It’s a lot better that way. She already knew that, instinctively.

  Gingerly, she leaned in, ran her tongue up his hard length. And the pleasure of tasting made what she was sharing with him right now complete. It also multiplied her desire, along with her boldness.

  And so then she parted her lips and took him between them. His low groan warmed her soul. Had she ever felt closer to another person than she felt to Duke right now? She didn’t think so. And maybe that was dangerous. But no, no—stop. Bask in it. Be here, right now. Believe in this. Don’t be afraid.

  So she made love to him with her mouth, her lips, her hand. His fingers threaded lightly through her hair. He whispered things. “So good, baby, so good.” “Just like that.” But mostly, he stayed quiet other than the heated sighs and moans that sounded, to her, like the sweetest music.

  After a while, she drew back, released him, looked up at him. Wondered if he could see the love in her eyes—or if maybe he’d felt it in her ministrations. And she whispered, “Back in me, please.”

  “Anything you want, honey,” he told her. And then he knelt onto the step below the one where she sat, eased his arms around her waiting body, and entered her once more.

  She gasped at the gloriously welcome intrusion, her arms curling around his neck. It was the first time she’d gotten to do that tonight, wrap around him at all, and it felt good to hold him, to cling to him a little. I love you. Oh God, she wanted to say it so bad—but don’t. Not now. Too soon. Just too soon.

  And so she just continued to hold him as he moved in her, to kiss him as he rocked her body. Now his strokes were slower and more rhythmic. And Anna couldn’t imagine a pleasure more complete.

  Until he said, “Aw—aw baby, I’m gonna come
. You’re making me come.”

  And it was only afterward, as he whispered in her ear, “Sorry, Daisy,” and she said, “For what?” that she realized she hadn’t had an orgasm this time.

  “I, uh, didn’t mean to finish yet. And you didn’t . . . get to.”

  But Anna didn’t really care. Sometimes sex was about coming—yet sometimes it actually wasn’t, and this was one of those times. Still, of course, she wouldn’t turn down an orgasm. So she just laughed, feeling giddy, fulfilled in a way that went far beyond what a climax could bring, and glanced toward an antique clock on a table next to the front door to say, “It’s early yet. And I have faith in you.”

  Duke set the old wooden level he’d found in the garage on the sill of the window he was installing in the room Anna liked to call the library. Morning sun shone in through the brand new glass. Since the window was straight, he began to nail it in place.

  Last night . . . God, he still couldn’t believe last night. He’d been mentally prepared to go over to Lucky’s, to tell Lucky what had been going on with him, so even though it hadn’t been easy, it had been fine. But coming back to Anna’s and spilling his guts about his mother’s death and his father making him feel more like shit than he already had . . . that he hadn’t planned on.

  Even now, it was easy to let himself be a little embarrassed about how emotional he’d gotten. And about the fact that she knew now. About his dad. That his dad didn’t want him around. That his dad didn’t want him . . . period. Hell, just remembering it all again in this moment had his chest tightening, his throat thickening. He hammered a nail in place a little harder than he needed to, felt the strain of the muscles in his arm.

  Calm down. It’s over.

  But it was still a lot to deal with. His greatest shame—the part that had felt even more unspeakable than what happened to Denny. Shit, he hadn’t even managed to get it out when he was talking to Lucky, the friend he’d come through hell with—and yet he’d told Anna?

  And then she’d said he was incredible.

  When he really thought she was the incredible one.

  But then she’d even made him feel incredible—like . . . like the king of the fucking world. Had anyone ever made him feel that good before, that special? Duke had gone through most of his life feeling unspecial, unimportant—somewhere along the way he’d decided life was just a thing you had to get through, as best you could, and that if you were lucky you might find some fun or happiness along the way, but that mostly it was just . . . a stretch of time to be handled. But last night, there for a little while on the stairs in the foyer, that had changed. He’d been special. And he’d found something miraculous, someone miraculous, someone he couldn’t possibly deserve.

  As usual for them, they’d moved to her bed after the steps. And they’d done it twice more. He’d made her come each time, remembering that she had faith in him. Liking it. He’d known she was joking in a way, but he also liked showing her that he wanted to make her feel good, too. Duke had always been an equal opportunity lover—if he was gonna be with somebody, he wanted her to have as good a time as he did. But this, last night, went way beyond that. His desire to bring her pleasure last night had risen from somewhere way deeper.

  And that part was difficult for him, too. Because he didn’t know where it had come from, or what it was about. He only knew that he was getting in too deep here, feeling too much. That had seemed dangerous enough a couple of weeks ago, but now . . . it seemed far worse. He didn’t know how to do this, how to be like this with someone. He wasn’t the kind of guy she needed, the kind of guy she deserved. Sure, he was feeling better at times, starting to come back to life—it was like she’d helped him start breathing again. But just because he was more functional than he’d been when they’d met in the woods, it didn’t mean his father was wrong about him. It didn’t mean he knew how to change himself into a better man. It was all just so . . . heavy. And he had enough heavy stuff in his life already.

  So maybe he should just back off, like he had before. Not to hurt her, but . . . well, just to keep a handle on the situation.

  “Hey, I’m off to the bookstore.”

  He could hear the smile in her voice even before he looked up to see her standing in the doorway. Damn, she looked beautiful in another flowy skirt, this one stopping above her knees and giving him a view of the long, tan legs below and the stylish strappy shoes that showed off her pretty feet. Oh shit, when had he started thinking she had pretty feet? He raised his gaze back to her eyes and simply said, “Okay.”

  “Sorry I slept in and we didn’t do breakfast—you wore me out last night.” She winked then, and he felt it in his groin. Along with her happy sense of trust, trust that everything was great between them.

  “No problem,” he told her, his words coming out stiff. That was how he started backing away—he could feel himself putting up that wall this very second, the wall that kept him from being too relaxed around her, too open, too easy. He wondered if she was beginning to notice yet.

  That was when she closed the remaining space between them, slid her slender arms confidently around his neck, and kissed him. Okay, she hadn’t noticed. And he kissed her back. Because he couldn’t not. In fact, the tape measure he held in one hand dropped to the rug beneath their feet with a soft plunk because he needed his hands—he needed to slip them around her waist and pull her closer. And by the time she eased her tongue into his mouth, he was lost to kissing her completely.

  When the kisses ended, she let out a soft, pleasured sigh that seemed to move all through him. And then she tilted her head, cast a speculative smile, and said, “I’m probably working all day again at the store, unless Amy suddenly shows up. Think you’ll still be here when I get home?”

  Say something doubtful. Or vague. Tell her you’re not sure. “Do you want me to be?” he asked instead.

  She nodded. “Very much.”

  “Okay. Then I will be.”

  “Good,” she said shortly, clearly pleased—and then she turned around and left.

  Duke stood there listening as her heels clicked lightly on the hardwood, moving away from him, and exiting through the front door. A moment later he heard the sound of the Mustang starting, and then accelerating away.

  What the hell had he just done? What had happened to backing off?

  Despite what you just told her, tonight would be a good time to get your ass back to the cabin. Even if it hurt her to come home and find the house empty, that would be best. For both of them. And right now the solitude definitely appealed.

  But . . . maybe seeing Anna tonight appealed more.

  Shit. Backing off wasn’t gonna be so easy this time.

  True to her prediction, Amy didn’t show up at Under the Covers for the rest of the week. More than once, Anna envisioned her out at the cottage she now shared with Logan on Blue Valley Lake, comforting Mr. Knightley, whom she imagined stretched out on a couch with a thermometer in his mouth and a hot water bottle on his head.

  It was Friday night and Anna was unwinding by sitting on the screened back porch with Cathy’s diary. And as another vision of the very spoiled Mr. Knightley came to mind, she realized her own kitty was stretched out alongside her thigh on the wicker sofa. She glanced down at him. “Don’t let this go to your head, but I think you’re tougher than Mr. K. And that’s good, because if you ever need to go to the vet, I’m not shutting down my whole life on your behalf for three days—got it?”

  “Meow,” the cat said.

  Anna took it as acceptance and gave a short, quick nod. “Good kitty.”

  The sound of a hammer echoed from the side of the house where Duke was finishing the last of the many windows. Knowing they were both thoroughly tired from a long week of work—even if very different kinds—not to mention more mind-blowing sex, Anna had brought home a pizza. After eating, Duke had wanted to finish the last window before dark, so Anna had decided it was a good time to catch up with Cathy.

  She opened the leather-bo
und diary to the bookmarked page.

  When Robert didn’t come to work at the house yesterday, I knew something was wrong. Daddy, on the other hand, didn’t even worry—he just said Robert was probably being lazy. Then, “Or for all we know, he’s run off. People like him, you never know what to expect or how long you can count on them.” I thought it was harsh given that Robert has been as dependable as the day is long, and I’d actually thought Daddy had taken a liking to him in the recent weeks, especially since he’d trusted him enough to drive me to and from school sometimes.

  And of course I was worried about Robert, so after supper I said I was going to go butterfly hunting in the meadow over the hill, but instead I snuck through the woods and to the cabin.

  I knocked and, getting no answer, I let myself inside. I found Robert lying in his bed asleep, but I could tell he wasn’t well. It was strange to watch him sleeping—and it made me think how . . . innocent a person is when they’re asleep. Or maybe the word I’m looking for is vulnerable. Anyway, I confess to sitting in a small chair and just watching him, thinking of him almost like a little boy in those moments. And I felt bad that he had no mother to take care of him when he was sick the way I do—because is there any better comfort than that?

  After a bit, he woke up and was, naturally, surprised to see me. He tried to smile, but when he couldn’t quite muster it, that’s when I understood how sick he must be. He said he thought he had a fever, and he joked to ask me if I was real or if he’d just hallucinated that the prettiest girl in the world was sitting next to his bed. I wanted to kiss him again that very moment, believe me, but I kept myself from it.

  Cathy went on to write that she’d returned home by dark, but later, after her parents were asleep, she’d gathered provisions for Robert and snuck back out. She took a thermometer, half a bottle of antibiotics her father hadn’t finished after a bout of bronchitis last winter, and a thermos of the chicken soup her mother had made the previous day.