completely opposite of my cousin’s. All her personal troubles aside, I was drawn to her, not just her beauty. Some people have irresistible auras—not that bullshit you read about in horoscopes, but something as magnetic as the aurora borealis . Karlie shines. And I’ll do whatever I can to soak up the heat she radiates. I don’t have a better explanation yet, and I don’t need one.
Chapter Eleven
I pull into the driveway after six—late because of heavy traffic. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I had the flu because my throat is scratchy, my core temperature is too high, I have sweaty palms, and I’m breathing heavily. I stare at the front of the house through my windshield. The day after our first sexual encounter I didn’t call or text Lucas. What kind of message does that send? That I don’t give a shit? Of course that’s the farthest thing from the truth; for some unknown reason, I do.
I shut the engine off and grab my backpack off the passenger seat. The front door is unlocked, and after I step inside, my eyes have to adjust. It’s fairly dark and I notice the drapes have been closed on all the windows in the living room. What’s going on? I leave my bag and purse in the hallway. Candles are burning on the coffee table, mantel, breakfast bar, and table. Is that Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing”? I stifle a laugh. I know Lucas is into classic music, but . . .
The table is set, spinach salad and French bread waiting. I hear Lucas fumbling around in the kitchen. “Lucas?”
“In here.”
I peek around the corner. He’s holding a pan. “You cooked?”
He smiles and shrugs, placing the pan on the counter, then sheds the oven mitts. “I promised you dinner—sorry we didn’t make it last night.”
Heat floods my body. There’s a perfectly viable excuse for missing our first date; we’re both equally guilty. I stare at the floor, too embarrassed to face him. He tilts my chin upward.
“Don’t tell me you’re having regrets.”
“N-no.” Awkward. “I’m not used to this . . .” There’s still a sparkle in his eyes, but he frowns. I know he’s thinking about Connor. I am too. All the negative experiences—the painful memories. Missed dinners. Feeling taken advantage of. Unanswered passion.
“I know it will take some time to forget, Karlie,” he says, pulling me to his chest. “But if you give us a chance, I promise, you’ll never regret anything we share.”
I let my head rest against him. His heartbeat hammers against my ear, reassuring me of his presence. Lucas Lafontaine is real. I suck in a deep breath. This is one of those pivotal moments all the talk show hosts warn about. I’m in control of my own destiny right now. I gaze up at him. “You don’t regret last night?”
“Are you crazy?” He cups my face with both hands. “Good God, Karlie, I can’t get enough of you.” His lips brush over mine, his tongue tentatively testing my resistance.
There is none. I immediately open up to him, welcoming the warm moisture of his kiss. His big hands slide up my arms, then lift my girlie T-shirt, exposing my stomach. He groans as he massages my tummy, his fingers sneaking underneath the seam of my bra. He reaches around my back with his other hand. Snap. My breasts are suddenly free and he wastes no time caressing them. His callused fingertips evoke violent shivers.
Then he whips my shirt and bra off, leaving me wearing only my long cotton skirt and sandals. He drops to his knees, and his thumbs etch soft circles over my nipples. I don’t mind that he’s completely obsessed with my tats and breasts. “36DD?” he teases, his lips following the path his thumbs blaze across my areolas.
I smile. “Shrewd guess.”
He stares up at me. “Wasn’t a guess,” he assures me. “I’m an expert.”
Before I can respond, he rises, capturing my mouth with his. Dinner is going to get cold. But I don’t care—I’m lost again. Every thought and sensation I have revolves
Chapter Eleven
I pull into the driveway after six—late because of heavy traffic. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I had the flu because my throat is scratchy, my core temperature is too high, I have sweaty palms, and I’m breathing heavily. I stare at the front of the house through my windshield. The day after our first sexual encounter I didn’t call or text Lucas. What kind of message does that send? That I don’t give a shit? Of course that’s the farthest thing from the truth; for some unknown reason, I do.
I shut the engine off and grab my backpack off the passenger seat. The front door is unlocked, and after I step inside, my eyes have to adjust. It’s fairly dark and I notice the drapes have been closed on all the windows in the living room. What’s going on? I leave my bag and purse in the hallway. Candles are burning on the coffee table, mantel, breakfast bar, and table. Is that Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing”? I stifle a laugh. I know Lucas is into classic music, but . . .
The table is set, spinach salad and French bread waiting. I hear Lucas fumbling around in the kitchen. “Lucas?”
“In here.”
I peek around the corner. He’s holding a pan. “You cooked?”
He smiles and shrugs, placing the pan on the counter, then sheds the oven mitts. “I promised you dinner—sorry we didn’t make it last night.”
Heat floods my body. There’s a perfectly viable excuse for missing our first date; we’re both equally guilty. I stare at the floor, too embarrassed to face him. He tilts my chin upward.
“Don’t tell me you’re having regrets.”
“N-no.” Awkward. “I’m not used to this . . .” There’s still a sparkle in his eyes, but he frowns. I know he’s thinking about Connor. I am too. All the negative experiences—the painful memories. Missed dinners. Feeling taken advantage of. Unanswered passion.
“I know it will take some time to forget, Karlie,” he says, pulling me to his chest. “But if you give us a chance, I promise, you’ll never regret anything we share.”
I let my head rest against him. His heartbeat hammers against my ear, reassuring me of his presence. Lucas Lafontaine is real. I suck in a deep breath. This is one of those pivotal moments all the talk show hosts warn about. I’m in control of my own destiny right now. I gaze up at him. “You don’t regret last night?”
“Are you crazy?” He cups my face with both hands. “Good God, Karlie, I can’t get enough of you.” His lips brush over mine, his tongue tentatively testing my resistance.
There is none. I immediately open up to him, welcoming the warm moisture of his kiss. His big hands slide up my arms, then lift my girlie T-shirt, exposing my stomach. He groans as he massages my tummy, his fingers sneaking underneath the seam of my bra. He reaches around my back with his other hand. Snap. My breasts are suddenly free and he wastes no time caressing them. His callused fingertips evoke violent shivers.
Then he whips my shirt and bra off, leaving me wearing only my long cotton skirt and sandals. He drops to his knees, and his thumbs etch soft circles over my nipples. I don’t mind that he’s completely obsessed with my tats and breasts. “36DD?” he teases, his lips following the path his thumbs blaze across my areolas.
I smile. “Shrewd guess.”
He stares up at me. “Wasn’t a guess,” he assures me. “I’m an expert.”
Before I can respond, he rises, capturing my mouth with his. Dinner is going to get cold. But I don’t care—I’m lost again. Every thought and sensation I have revolves
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