TRACE FOUND HIMSELF at the Rusty Anchor needing a drink. The place was filled as it usually was, and the minute Russ saw him belly up to the bar, he poured a shot of whiskey. “How’d you know?” Trace asked, lifting the shot in gratitude before he downed it in a single practiced move.
“You had a look that said beer ain’t gonna do it,” Russ answered with a knowing grin, and Trace nodded. Either the man was a freaking psychic or Trace had his day written all over his face. “Troubles of the rich and famous?” Russ teased gruffly, and Trace wished that were his problem. Somehow that seemed easier to navigate than the situation with his parents.
“It’s my folks.”
“Say no more. We’ve all got ’em and some are worse than others. Yours, though, have been through a lot. Losing Simone... Hell, that would’ve tore up the most stoic.”
“Simone died eight years ago. Isn’t it time we all stop using her death as a crutch for every single bad thing we do in our lives?” Trace asked, tapping the bar for another shot. “I don’t know...it just seems her ghost lingers a helluva lot.”
By his third shot, he was feeling good and he’d finally lost the tension cording his shoulders. The music was toe-tapping good and he was enjoying himself, shooting the shit with fellow bar patrons and laughing at raunchy jokes told by the deckhands.
That was until he heard a particular laugh filter through the noise. He swiveled on his barstool and searched the dim light for the source. He zeroed in on Delainey sitting in one of the corner booths, a single glass candle lighting the cubicle, with Otter Stout. Delainey was laughing at something and Otter was beaming at having been so witty. Something primal and possessive washed over him and after three shots of whiskey, his good sense had completely left the building. He signaled for a beer, and after Russ had put one in his hand, he sauntered over to where Delainey and Otter were having their little tea party for two.
“Hey, Trace,” Otter exclaimed with a smile. “How you doin’? I haven’t seen you in a while. Miranda said you’ve been out busy with Search and Rescue lately. Any good stories?”
“Just the ones the news sees fit to blab about,” Trace said, his stare going straight to Delainey. Why was she so pretty? She was like a delicate piece of chocolate, sweet and decadent. And he was suffering from a sweet tooth something bad. “You guys catching up on old times or something?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but he really didn’t like the way Delainey’s eyes had lit up. He knew he didn’t have the right to care but he did, and the three shots of whiskey were telling him he had every right.
“Did you want to join us?” Otter asked, preparing to move over, but Delainey cut him off before he could answer.
“I’m sure Trace has his own friends to visit with. He doesn’t need to horn in on our time. Besides, I want to hear all about your decision to go into real estate. I’ve always dreamed of having a few investment properties.”
Trace snorted and she glared at him for the rude noise. Otter seemed to catch the odd current flowing between them and his brow furrowed. “Hey, you guys should catch up or something. We can chat later, Laney. I’ll have those short-term rental papers to you first thing in the morning.” Delainey started to protest but Otter had scooted out and made his way through the throng of people to the front of the bar, where he then disappeared.
“Are you happy?” Delainey asked, glaring. “That was incredibly rude.”
“I know,” Trace admitted, but he smiled nonetheless. “You look really pretty tonight.”
His unexpected compliment seemed to rattle her, and he liked the effect. “How much have you been drinking?” she asked, standing and grabbing her purse and jacket.
“Probably too much,” he allowed with a shrug. “Are you going to be my designated driver tonight? I probably shouldn’t drive.”
“I’ll call you a cab,” Delainey said, moving past him, but he caught her hand and brought it to his lips, startling her. “What are you doing?” she asked, her gaze darting to see who was watching. “I can’t be seen canoodling with the talent.”
“You haven’t even begun to witness my true talent,” he murmured with a wicked grin. He ought to stop, but the whiskey was running the show now. He swigged his beer, but before he could finish she took it from his hand.
“That’s enough of that,” she said, putting the half-finished beer on an empty table. “Let’s get you a cab.”
“First, let’s dance,” he suggested, pulling her into his arms and moving sensually against her to the beat of the music. She gasped and if the lighting wasn’t so dim, he could’ve sworn she’d blushed. “C’mon, one dance, sweetheart. For old times’ sake,” he said softly against the shell of her ear, and she relented with a shake of her head even as she looped her arms around his neck. “There...see? That wasn’t so hard was it?”
“You’re drunk, and if you weren’t you wouldn’t be wanting to hold me like this,” she reminded him with a sad smile.
“True and not true.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s true I’m drunk. Not true that I wouldn’t want to hold you. Delainey, I always want to touch you. The difference being, when I’m sober I remember why I shouldn’t.”
Delainey accepted his answer with a nod and instead of coming back with a sharp quip, she settled against his chest and they danced, a slow sensual movement in tandem with each other, as if the entire bar had disappeared and it was just them and the music. “Maybe I should get you drunk every night,” she said lightly.
“And why is that?” he asked.
“Because you’re not as angry. This is how I remember you,” she said. Trace let that comment sit between them and finally the song ended and she drew away. “So, are you going to let me call you a cab?” she asked.
“No, but I’m going to let you drive my truck.”
“And how am I supposed to get home?”
He pulled her back into his arms. “You and I both know you’re not going anywhere until the morning.”
She bit her lip. “We really shouldn’t...”
“Honey, you’re preaching to the choir, but I don’t feel like being a good boy.... How about you? Do you feel like being a bad girl?”
Her gaze widened and she swallowed as she slowly shook her head. “Yes,” she whispered.
His grin widened. “Then let’s get out of here before we both come to our senses.”
“Lord have mercy...”
You got that right.
Trace knew he was making a big mistake, but at the moment he didn’t care. The morning would come soon enough. Until then...he was going to show Delainey all that she’d been missing the past eight years.
* * *
DELAINEY WAS LOSING her mind. But the idea of feeling Trace’s body against hers one last time was too big of a temptation for her to ignore. Screw good sense. They managed to make the front door and slam it behind them before they were both tearing each other’s clothes off. Trace, smelling of whiskey and male, drove her insane with need as he ripped her shirt off, popping buttons as he went. She laughed and pushed his shirt from his shoulders and then giggled as they tumbled to the leather sofa, the room encased in darkness. Fingers, tongues, hands, even feet, went crazy as they explored each other in a frenzy that took her breath away. He never stopped, moving from one pleasure spot to the next, seeking out her erogenous zones like a bloodhound intent on finding the next target. She lost her mind several times, babbling and crying out as Trace wrung an orgasm out of her within seconds. And then just as she was coming to her senses, she heard a rapper tear and she mouthed “Thank God” because she wasn’t going to be content with intense foreplay this time around.
She wrapped her legs around his torso and lifted her hips, and he drove himself home, burying his length deep inside. She cried out with pure, unadulterated pleasure as Trace rocked her body. The darkness and the taboo nature of their union pushed her to greater heights, and she was soon sobbing as another, more powerful orgasm clenched every muscle and stole her ability to think like a normal, rational human being. At that moment, she would’ve given Trace anything he wanted—even it meant leaving her career and popping out his babies. It was that good.
Had she ever been so consumed by another person? No. Not even close. She considered herself a sexual being, but this was ridiculous. Were those stars? Delirium, that’s what this was. Orgasmic lunacy. And she wanted more. God help her...she wanted more.
Delainey recovered lying on top of Trace, their sweat drying in the cold room. After a long moment, she reached up and grabbed an afghan draped on the edge of the sofa and covered their bodies with it.
“Good thinking,” he murmured sleepily, his arms curling around her and holding her tight. “This is nice,” he added, and she wondered if it was the alcohol speaking. Probably, but she closed her eyes and savored it just the same. This felt right. She’d spent the past eight years bouncing from one bad relationship to the next, blaming circumstances for their failures instead of examining the real reason. She didn’t want them to succeed. None of them had that essential quality—none of them was Trace. This man was like a drug in her system, and she’d been unaware just how much she’d needed a fix until this moment.
“I can hear you thinking,” Trace said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Sorry,” she said, feeling guilty for allowing anything to ruin the moment. “Are you cold?”
“I’m perfect. How about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Want me to build a fire?”
“No. I don’t want you to move.”
She felt him chuckle and she smiled. “Good, because I don’t want to move yet, either,” he admitted, tightening his hold on her.
“Why were you drinking at the bar tonight?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t her that had sent him straight to the bottle. She’d hate to think she was fodder for the chorus of a melancholy country song.
He exhaled a heavy sigh. “My parents.”
“What’s wrong with your parents?”
“I didn’t want to believe it but...my mom’s a hoarder. Pretty bad actually. I don’t know what to do other than calling Social Services.”
“What does Miranda or Wade have to say about it?”
“Miranda was the one who told me about it in the first place and Wade doesn’t know. I haven’t told him yet.”
“Maybe Wade should come home to help you deal with it.”
“Yeah, that’s what Miranda said, too.”
“You’re worried about your mom, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “She looked old. I’ve never seen her age so quickly. And after I saw her living conditions, I knew why. It made me sick to my stomach.”
“What about your dad?”
Trace made a sound of disgust. “He’s no help. He’s just watching her bury herself as long as it doesn’t interfere with his pot planting. That man’s not the man I grew up with, that’s for sure.”
Sadness for Trace and his family filled her chest. At one time, the Sinclair family had been like her own—more so, seeing as her family had been so dysfunctional. She didn’t feel it was her place to offer advice nor did she think Trace would welcome it, so she remained silent and instead pressed a quick kiss to his bare chest. “I’m sorry, Trace,” she said quietly.
“Yeah...me, too,” Trace said, his voice heavy with more than drink and sexual satisfaction. “Let’s go to the bed,” he suggested.
“Oh, are you ready for sleep?” she asked, surprised. Maybe the alcohol had sapped his stamina. She tried not to be disappointed, but then Trace surprised her by scooping her into his arms.
“I never said I wanted to sleep,” he said, thrilling her with the sensual suggestion in his tone. “I just thought you might like the bed more than the sofa when I bend you over.”
“Oh!” She gasped and buried her burning face against his chest, yet she was secretly delighted. She loved his dirty mouth. But she loved what he did with that dirty mouth even better...
As far as that little voice at the back of her brain whispering that she was making a huge mistake? She answered with, “Go big, or go home.”
And then she told that little voice to shut the hell up.