Dalton
The last twenty four hours has just about killed me, and the second glimpse of Alba’s bikini might finish me off. She tugs her sundress over her head and tosses it at the rug, and she’s so casual about it. Like she’s not giving me an embolism.
Those curves.
That body.
Those little scraps of red fabric tease me, taunt me, clinging to all the places I most want to devour. Alba reaches behind her neck for the bikini string.
“No,” I say. “Leave it on. Leave both parts on.” Her raised eyebrow heats my cheeks, but there’s no room for shame between us. Not anymore. “Do you remember that time we went swimming in the river, the spring before I left? And you wore this bikini?”
Alba wrinkles her nose, pausing on the rug as she casts her mind back.
“I don’t remember,” she confesses at last. “We went swimming a lot, Dalton.”
“Yes, but you’d never worn a bikini before. I hope you knew CPR, or that was gross negligence on your part. I nearly drowned.”
“Shut up.” Grinning, she moves to straddle my lap—then hesitates, smile fading. “I’m heavy. I don’t want to squash you. Maybe we should—”
Alba squeaks as I grip her hips, yanking her down. She lands in my lap, squishy and gorgeous and blushing.
I love that there’s weight to her. Sometimes in my life, when the constant nerves slicing up my insides get the better of me, I feel so goddamn insubstantial. Like a scrap of torn paper fluttering on the breeze.
Alba’s my paperweight. She keeps me present, keeps me rooted, keeps me calm.
“This,” I tell her, squeezing two perfect handfuls of ass, “is my dream. Don’t deny me, sugar.”
Besides, I’m plenty strong enough to lift her. I do it now, arranging her to my liking, showing off how easy it is for me to move her beautiful body. Proving that she can relax. Once she’s turned around and settled with her back to my chest, my chin resting on her shoulder, I brush one fingertip along her bikini top string.
Alba shivers.
“Hello again,” I say, addressing the hard nipples poking at the fabric below me. “I missed you both.”
She scoffs as I brush both thumbs over the hard beads—then stifles a whimper and grinds back.
Her bikini is almost dry, and the faint dampness, the reminder of the plunge pool this morning, makes me harder than ever. I’m stiff against her lower back, my shaft brushing against one of the dimples at the base of her spine.
“You used to sit on my lap like this sometimes. Remember?”
Alba is breathless. “Not exactly like this.”
“But close enough.”
When she shakes her head, glossy dark hair tickles my cheek. “Dalton, we’ll never be close enough.”
Amen to that.
Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I breathe in deep. She smells like cinnamon and sunscreen and the wet rock of the cave. Heart thumping, I nibble her shoulder.
“You like biting me there.”
Can’t deny it. “Want to bite you everywhere. Here,” I brush her nipple again, grinning when she squeaks, “and here… and here… and here.” Her belly, her ribs, her thigh. “But I want to taste you here most of all. I always have.”
Alba’s thighs part for me so readily, her breath stuttering as I slide her bikini to one side. My questing fingers find her slick and needy, her heat scorching my hand.
“Oh,” Alba says when my thumb brushes her clit. “Oh,” she says when my finger presses inside.
She’s quivering in my lap, gripping the arms of the chair until her fingertips go white. I lick her throat. “Should I keep going?”
“Yes,” Alba hisses. My heart is frenzied with triumph, banging around my rib cage. “Don’t you dare stop.”
It’s everything I dreamed to feel her squirm and sigh, her hips rocking against my hand. The soft, slick sounds of her body, and the broken noises she makes—it’s all music to my ears. Better than any chart-topping single.
Alba moans low in her throat when I lift two shiny fingers over her shoulder and suck them into my mouth. She’s tangy and salty-sweet. Delicious.
“You taste good,” I say, my voice rough, reaching back between her legs for more.
“Dalton,” she says, half laughing, half exasperated as I taste her again. “I’m not a freaking honeypot.”
“Sure you are.” Taking her hips, I guide her up and back onto my cock, sliding past her slick entrance. “You’re my sugar.” And it makes no sense, and I’m talking complete shit, but there’s no blood in my brain, okay? Everything has gone south.
All I know is I love this girl, and I want to say sweet things, and I want to sink all the way into her wet warmth until she feels my pulse throbbing inside her. Want to merge into one.
“Oh.” Alba moans as gravity pulls her down, down, onto my shaft, her body stretching to make room for me. “Oh my god.” She’s still clawing at the armchair.
I rub her back. “Doing okay? Go slow.” It’s taking every ounce of my self control not to grip her waist and thrust. This girl feels like sin, but I won’t hurt her. Never again.
“So,” Alba grits out between her teeth, “good.”
Ah. Yeah, it is.
And I’m glad she can’t see my goofy grin right now. Glad she can’t see my sheer relief, and the shameless worship in my eyes, and the way I’d walk over hot coals to make her happy. I’d do anything.
“This is it, right?” Need to hear her say it, even after our confessions. “This is real. This is forever.”
“RSVP,” Alba says, and I know what she’s saying. Invitation accepted.
“Yeah?” My face presses against her hair, and I swallow past the lump in my throat. My cock twitches inside her, and I’m in a maelstrom of good feelings here. “You’re in?”
Alba reaches one arm back right as her ass hits my thighs. She hooks it around my neck, holding me close, and our heartbeats rattle along in time. “I’m all in.”
With the first roll of her hips, we both groan.
By the second roll, I’m panting.
She’s so tight and hot and slick, and every squeeze of her channel sends sparks down my spine. She’s overwhelming. She’s perfect.
And maybe I’d be embarrassed by the way I’m fraying at the seams, falling apart from a few bounces of her ass in my lap, but Alba’s just as bad, working herself on my shaft and moaning shamelessly.
No man has ever been this lucky. And I’ve been plenty blessed in my life—with the albums, the wealth, the success—but I’d give it all up in a heartbeat for a single minute of this.
My hand cracks against her ass, leaving a red hand print.
“Oh!” Alba bucks and grinds down harder, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you just did that. Do it again.”
I smack her once more. Twice. Stare at the sight of her red bikini pulled to one side, at my hard length disappearing inside her over and over again, then count backward from twenty with my teeth gritted.
Every tendon in my body is taut. My gut is twisted tight, and sweat slides down my spine under my t-shirt. I’m too hot, and my jeans are sticking behind my knees.
“Next time,” I rasp, reaching around to rub her clit, “we’re getting naked. Fuck these clothes.”
Alba’s laugh pierces my chest, and my heart gives an answering lurch. “Whatever you want, baby.”
Jesus Christ.
“I want you.”
Want her flirty and grouchy and sleepy and bored. Want her every mood, every moment, every memory. And I want this sensation, when Alba Hernandez goes still in my lap, her back pressed to my chest, her heart beating like crazy against me.
I keep rubbing, praying to every deity I can think of that this works. That this gets her there.
Sure enough, Alba shudders and twitches and sighs, her channel clamping down on me in a vise grip. And I think it can’t get any better, that surely I’ve peaked, but then she moans my name.
I barely hold out until she’s done, slumping against me—and then I’m coming too, hugging her close, biting down on her shoulder again. Filling her up with spurt after endless spurt, my body practically turning inside out as I empty inside her.
It’s sticky. Sore. So fucking good.
She’ll make fun of me for biting her shoulder again. As she should.
“Shower?” I say at last, smacking Alba’s thigh. She bounces up—I stifle my wince—and when she turns around, I’ve never seen her so flushed and happy.
“Shower. Let’s go.”
* * *
Six months later
I always hoped I’d marry Alba Hernandez, but I could never have pictured it like this. Not in the secret cave in Sweet Cherry Cove, with only our two closest friends from town to witness. Not with the muted roar of the waterfall as the only music we need.
Sunshine spills through the crack in the rock overhead, and somewhere out there, far overhead, wheeling seagulls call to each other.
“Do you, Dalton Meadows, take this woman…”
I sure as hell do—and her baby bump, too. Maybe it’s nontraditional for the bride to look like she’s smuggling a melon under her white sundress, but hey. We wasted eight years already. We’re not wasting any more time.
Lindsay, the receptionist from Daybreak Inn, sniffles loudly and dabs her eyes from her spot by the plunge pool. She takes full credit for our union, even though the whole damn thing was my idea.
She’s a good friend, though. And we’re gonna decimate her honeymoon suite later.
“And do you, Alba Hernandez, take this man…”
Andre, the chef from the Rockin’ Rockpool diner steps forward with the rings. We’ve grown close over the last year, bonding over our unspoken agreement that pining is the worst. Of course, I won my girl over in the end. Whereas Andre…
Well. It’s a work in progress.
“I do,” Alba says, brown eyes twinkling at me as she smiles. My heart gives an almighty thump, and Lindsay blows her nose with a loud hoot.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
About. Goddamn. Time.