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He told her he’d walked to the tavern; it was only a few short blocks from the Ocean Bluff Inn. So she drove them to the hotel in her car, through the misty drizzle.
She hoped her friend Monica wasn’t behind the desk as they hurried up the porch steps and into the charming lobby, with its colonial furnishings and welcoming atmosphere. Monica’s family owned the place, and Monica was working her way up, learning the business one job at a time. Fortunately, the night clerk behind the polished check-in desk was no one Gwen had ever seen before.
Dylan spirited her right past the desk to the broad, carpeted stairs and up to the second floor, then down the hall to a room at the end. It was smaller than she’d expected. Didn’t movie stars stay in suites, with grand pianos and hot tubs big enough to contain an orgy?
This room was modest, with sturdy maple furniture and lacy drapes flanking the window. If there was a TV, it was hidden, probably behind the doors of the armoire across the room from the wide brass bed. An upholstered easy chair and ottoman occupied one corner, and a small writing table held an open laptop and a folder of papers. Atop a wheeled cart sat a plate covered with a silver lid and a glass of ice water—the remnants of a room service meal, Gwen guessed. She glimpsed a pair of flip-flops just beyond the threshold separating the bedroom from the bathroom, and a flannel shirt was draped over the knob of the closet door, but otherwise, the room was reasonably tidy.
Dylan closed the door, then placed his hands on her shoulders and eased her around to face him. “You okay with this?” he asked.
Funny, she didn’t recall him asking her that the last time she’d accompanied him to his room. That had been a cheap motel, not a pretty ocean-front inn overflowing with ambiance. And he hadn’t had to ask that time. They’d been all over each other.
She wanted to be all over him now. He stood before her, tall and lean, his eyes smoky with desire. His lips curved in a question. His hands remained on her shoulders, light but warm, holding but not clinging.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I’m okay.”
He bowed and touched his mouth to hers, a gentle brush, asking in its own way whether she was okay. She answered by circling her arms around him, flattening her hands against his broad, strong back, and opening her mouth to him.
Clearly, that was the answer he’d been waiting for. He hauled her close, the fingers of one hand digging into her hair while his other hand moved down her spine to her waist. His tongue slid deep, taking possession of her mouth, claiming it. She felt just as crazed as she had that night so many years ago, just as hungry for him, just as delirious with arousal. She’d been with two men in her life whom she’d considered marrying, and neither of them had ever made her feel what Dylan made her feel: sheer, unadulterated lust.
He pulled at her sweater. She tugged at his shirt. He kicked off one shoe, then slid his hands to her bottom and lifted her off her feet. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he carried her to the bed, never once breaking the kiss.
They tumbled together onto the fluffy down comforter, yanking at each other’s clothing and their own. Gwen wriggled out of her sweater, and Dylan unfastened her bra and tossed it over the side of the bed. She unbuttoned his shirt, and he shrugged out of it and hurled it across the room. He worked open the zipper of her slacks and slid the garment down her legs, dragging her panties along. Thank goodness they were too busy kissing for him to pay any attention to her underwear, which was strictly practical and pathetically unsexy. As a single mother, Gwen had no time—and no budget—for elegant lingerie.
Not that Dylan noticed, or cared. Once he’d disposed of her slacks, he writhed out of his jeans. Then he slowed, pausing in his kisses to lean back on his haunches and gaze at her naked body. It wasn’t the same body he’d seen so long ago. It was six years older, and it had endured a pregnancy. Her breasts had nourished her baby. Her skin had been stretched, her hips stressed. She never wasted time obsessing about the changes Annie had wrought, because Annie was so worth it. Gwen would have willingly sacrificed a leg in exchange for the blessing of having Annie in her life. A few stretch marks and a bit of saggy, baggy flesh didn’t matter.
Apparently, they didn’t matter to Dylan, either. He bowed to kiss one breast and then the other, then cupped his hands around them and squeezed gently. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured.
She recalled the line about beauty being in the eyes of the beholder—and her beholder’s eyes were beautiful. All of Dylan was truly beautiful. The shadow of his beard made his chin look sharper, his cheekbones more chiseled. His mouth was determined. His hair was wild with waves. She tangled her fingers through the locks, turned on by their silky texture.
But then, everything about Dylan turned her on—his hair, his dark, intense gaze, his broad shoulders and slender hips and long legs. His muscles had more definition than she remembered. He wasn’t bulky, but he was definitely buff. He’d probably had to undergo extensive fitness training for his cinematic stints as Captain Steele.
She slid her hands from his hair down his back, his skin warm and sleek beneath her palms. He let her touch him as he touched her, grazing her throat, sweeping his tongue down the hollow between her breasts, caressing her thighs and stroking the damp heat between them. When she moaned, he stopped and pushed away. “I’ve got condoms,” he said. “Unless you want to make another baby.”
Her first thought was yes! But then she realized that yes only meant yes, she wanted him. She wanted him inside her. She wanted him to rock and roll her, to do sinful things to her, to deliver her to ecstasy and then join her there. But no, she didn’t want another child. Not now, not with him. This was about one night, like the last time. This was letting go, drowning in sensation. It wasn’t about creating a family and signing on for twenty years of responsibility.
She couldn’t get pregnant, anyway; she had an IUD. But he was a Hollywood celebrity with a no doubt active sex life. “Go get your condoms,” she said, her voice so thick with yearning she almost didn’t recognize it.
He sprang off the bed, sprinted into the bathroom, and returned with a box, which he tore open en route. And then he was back in her arms, sprawled on top of her, kissing her, pressing into her. Finally, finally filling her.
They peaked too quickly, but it didn’t matter. Her orgasm was so sharp it almost hurt, but that didn’t matter, either. She closed her eyes and rode it out, accepting it for what it was. One time. One encounter with this amazing man.
She had to go home. It was a school night; she needed to send Hayley back to her own house at a reasonable time, or Hayley’s mother would stop letting her babysit for Gwen.
But she didn’t want to leave just yet. Her head was nestled deep into the soft down pillows, but she was able to turn it enough to glimpse her watch. Eight-forty. She could stay with Dylan a little longer. Lying in the warmth of his embrace, his body aggressive and protective at the same time, felt too good.
He eased off her, settling his head next to hers on the pillow and drawing her against him. “What is it with us?” he asked. “Chemistry or something?”
“Maybe.” She smiled and the motion caused her mouth to brush against the heated skin beneath his collarbone. That Dylan found their lovemaking as spectacular as she did reassured her, even if she was mystified by it. She was no great lover. She hadn’t had a lot of practice with a lot of men. Yet with him...
Chemistry. Or something.
“It was phenomenal last time, too,” he said, stroking his fingers lazily through her hair. “We shouldn’t wait six years to do it again.”
If he moved to Brogan’s Point, they wouldn’t have to wait six years. He’d be a short drive away. They could see each other whenever they wanted. They could date. God, that sounded so juvenile, especially after they’d set the world on fire with sex.
Did movie stars even date? Did they call women up and ask them to...what? Go to the movies? That seemed too self-referential.
In any case, why would Dylan want to date her? He was famous. He could have any woman he wanted. She owned a little shop in a little town. She liked her quiet life—and in fact, many days, when Annie was a handful and the store was plagued by hassles and snafus, she wished her life was even quieter. Her idea of success was a day with good sales and some time spent cuddling with her daughter while they read a bedtime story. Her idea of glamor was dangly earrings and a slick of lipstick. Her idea of fame was winning the Good Citizen award from the Brogan’s Point Business Council because of her efforts to get recycle bins placed next to the trash cans on Seaview and Atlantic Avenues.
The first time Dylan had made love to her, he hadn’t been successful or glamorous or famous, at least not the way he was now. Perhaps this time was about nostalgia, or about the discovery that, thanks to Annie, he was inextricably linked to Gwen. But really, this wasn’t a relationship. It couldn’t be.
“I should go,” she said.
She felt his arms relent. He eased away from her, pushed himself to sit, and gazed down at her. “I want you to see the house,” he said. “I want you to tell me if you think Annie will like it.”
She sighed, fighting off a sudden pang of grief. If Dylan lived in Brogan’s Point, she would lose Annie. Not fully, not the way she would if Dylan put his money and power behind a full-fledged custody battle. She doubted he wanted custody. That possibility didn’t concern her. But if he settled into a house nearby and encouraged Annie to visit him whenever she wanted, they would develop a bond, one that eroded Gwen’s own exclusive bond with her daughter.
It would be good for Annie. But not necessarily for Gwen.
“I’d drive you home, but you’ve got your car here.”
“It’s not a problem.” If this were a date, of course, he’d expect to see her back to her house. But it wasn’t a date. It was...a flash of fireworks on a dismal, drizzly evening.
She forced herself off the bed. The room wasn’t cold, but the more distance she put between herself and Dylan, the chillier she felt.
She wasn’t a swoony romantic. She knew this interlude hadn’t been about true love. She’d stopped believing in true love the day Adam told her he’d fallen for someone else and was leaving her.
But she wanted to believe. She wanted to think that what she’d just experienced with Dylan meant something.
While she got dressed, he pulled on his boxer briefs. Too much of him remained visible—the supple contours of his chest, the narrow punctuation of his navel, the sinewy muscles in his arms and legs. His face. His eyes, still dark with hunger as he watched her put on her bra, her pants, her sweater.
When she was dressed, he crossed to her, gave her a gentle hug, and kissed her brow. “I’ll call you,” he said.
She nodded, fighting off ridiculous waves of sorrow. This doesn’t mean anything, she reminded herself as she touched her lips to his cheek. But she was afraid to say anything, afraid that instead of words, she’d release a sob. So she only turned and walked away.
