Page 41 of Winter Break

“You shouldn’t be alone, Turner. You deserve better. Better than what your parents gave you, and better than spending your nights painting trim in a storefront. And I mean, Anita deserves to have her adventure, but I’m so sorry she’s leaving you.” A cloud may have crossed my face, thinking about that very thing, but I let it pass to focus on the positive.

“I love my life, Dalt. That’s the point. From the moment I stepped foot on the boardwalk. Hell, maybe from the moment I stepped foot in your house that first visit …”

I stood up and began to pace, his piercing green eyes and the feel of his hand through the denim all too much. “I loved Breakwater. It just felt like home. And I’m so lucky that Anita understood that. That she’s opened her home and her life and this shop to me even though I was basically a messed-up runaway with a business degree. She’s my family, and I’m so happy for her, Dalt. To be having this adventure after everything she’s given me, she deserves to have it …”

Dalton had stood up at some point too and was right in front of me when I turned to pace back in the other direction. Before I could get another word out, his hands wrapped around my arms, putting a stop to my movement. The space between us sparked and crackled while his green eyes studied my face, his desire clear, his question clearer.

“You deserve to be happy, Turner,” he said.

Seeing the answer he sought in my eyes, he kissed me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew he hadn’t answered the question about Austin, with whom he had sat arm in arm at the bar earlier that very day, upsetting me so much I’d run from the restaurant after my meeting, confused and angry and then angry some more for being confused and angry.

Further back were thoughts of Brett, and what he would think about me kissing the man he still called “Shorty” in casual conversation. Even deeper were thoughts of his father’s threats to seize the building, my building. I ignored them all and tilted my head up as his lips poured energy and feeling directly into me as if they could offer that happiness he was so sure I deserved.

He hummed, just like I remembered from the last time we kissed, and all rational and irrational thought left me. My hands found his waist, and I pulled him close. It was all the permission he needed to wrap his arms tightly around me, one hand running up and down my back, the other at the nape of my neck, playing with my hair.

Just like the first time we kissed, it just felt right. Like I was exactly where I was meant to be, wrapped around the one person I was meant to be with. Unlike the last time, though, the fire that had been kindling during most of our conversation had ignited for real, and so help me, I let it. This was no soft-but-sure first kiss, this was passion and connection and hunger.

He hummed again, and the vibrations ran through me. My hands started to wander, too, getting caught in the hoodie. When I pulled back, I meant to seek permission to take it off, but there was something I had to know first. I pulled further away from him instead, cool air on my lips reminding me of the fire that I’d just felt there. One of his hands remained on my neck, and he drew it forward, caressing my cheek.

“Please don’t, Turner.” He sounded desperate but also sure. “Don’t pull away. Not again. I don’t think I could take it if you …”

I slipped my hands underneath the hoodie, to his shoulders, but left them still as I asked, “You’re not dating Austin again?”

He shook his head no and said, “Just friends.” I dropped the sweatshirt to the floor. We’d ended up close to the cluster of supplies, but neither of us bothered to see if it had landed in a paint tray.

“And you’re not worried about …”

“Turner. Please do not bring up my brother right now,” Dalton said, and then we were kissing again. He made that delicious humming sound for a third time. How could it ever have scared me? I loved hearing it. What other sounds would Dalton make in the throes of passion? What sounds could I elicit from him?

I reacted to the noise by pushing him back until he hit the wall with a thump, my lips not leaving his as we moved, not even as I said, “Shoot, wet paint.”

“Don’t care.”

His big hands found my back again, dragging from my neck down until he paused at the small of my back and tipped his head to pull us apart. I whimpered at the loss, and he gave me a quick kiss and a beautiful smile as he tugged at the T-shirt I had tucked into my jeans. It was a silent question that I answered with a nod before taking his mouth with mine again. I could feel him struggling to pull my shirt out, but I was more focused on my tongue, gently caressing his lips until he parted for me. And there was that sound again.

Goodness! That sound.

My hands gripped his waist more tightly, and I shoved my thigh between his legs. I could feel him then, hot and hard against me, and I gave a little push, hoping it would drive him crazy and wanting to feel him, to know what kissing me had done to him. His warm hands found the small of my back again at that same moment, and he tipped back with a thunk against the recently hung drywall with the fresh coat of paint. I thrust my leg again.

“Turner, fuck,” he said before he yanked my shirt up. I had to pull away to get it off, and I used the distance to grab the hem of his sweater after I’d tossed my shirt aside.

“Nice.” I ran my fingers over it.

“Alaskan,” he declared before smiling again and saying, “Fuck it,” pulling it off, and throwing it to the floor along with whatever T-shirt he was wearing underneath.

He still had that swimmer’s physique, his shoulders wide, his arms huge, his waist tapered, the remnants of a tan line cutting across his biceps.

“Goodness, I want to run my fingers all over your muscled chest and arms.”

“Then do it,” he said, smiling.

I laughed, barely realizing I’d said that out loud. I raised my hands, then paused. Those rational thoughts were trying to seep back in, thoughts of his family and Anita, of my best friend and his.

Dalton had to lean down to force me to make eye contact, which tore my eyes away from his smooth chest. He took my hands and gently placed them on his pecs, inhaling a deep breath at the touch. I focused on another dot of paint on my hand instead of on him. His hands moved from my fingers to my arms. He grasped me hard and turned us, shoving me up against the wall. It was his leg between mine then, pushing and thrusting, his lips on me again, strong hands in my hair, controlling the action. I squeezed his hard muscles, but it wasn’t enough; my kisses traveled messily to his jaw, then behind his ear, an errant strand of hair tickling my cheek. I started to move further as Dalton’s hands found my jeans and worked the button open.

He reached in and grabbed hold of me, and I lost any sense of what I was doing, my head hitting the wall as I thrust forward, seeking more of what Dalton was giving me.

“Yes, Turner,” he said, his eyes wide, his green pupils shot. The next moments were a frenzy, for him at least. I stood still except for the embarrassing twitch of my dick, my head against the wall as he fought to pull my pants and boxers down as far as he could without letting go of my cock. His hand was dry, and it was a little rough, but he stroked me for a few blissful minutes. I started to moan, and Dalton exclaimed yes again, kissing me quickly. I should have been embarrassed when he pulled away, and I blindly chased his lips, but I lost the thread a moment later when he dropped to his knees in front of me.