Sunsets & Seduction. Tawny Weber
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of his.
They walked into her bedroom, and he watched as she moved around the room, lighting several candles set on dressers and tables. The warm light revealed ultrafeminine decor that he only vaguely remembered, taking in the thick, old-fashioned quilt of cream and roses, the ornate, Victorian lamps and lacy curtains. It spoke to the old-fashioned, traditional woman who lived beneath the image of the hardened career woman.
The space was so feminine it made him feel too big and cumbersome, like if he moved, he’d break something. Classic bull in a china shop. At the same time, he liked it very much. She was different than the other women he knew in a way that spoke to him.
“You’re quiet,” she said, stripping down to the black bra and panties that took his attention away from the room altogether.
She had an amazing body, all legs, curves and delectable soft spots he loved to explore and hadn’t gotten nearly enough of. The soft, flickering candlelight completed the fantasy.
He grinned, shucking his shirt, liking the way she looked at him when he did so. “Just taking in the room, and you,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at her and making her laugh.
“You’re different now,” she said, watching him closely.
He shrugged. “Not really.”
“You were so closed off back then. I know that interview was torture for you,” she said.
“I was still adjusting. It’s disorienting, being in the desert one day and back here the next, surrounded by people who all want something from you.”
“You never said much, even during our night together.”
He didn’t remember that. He remembered touching her and losing himself in what she’d offered him. But now he realized how selfish he’d been.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t myself then. I should have walked away when you asked me back to your place, but—”
He’d needed the comfort, but more than that, something about her had beckoned him. Something about Chloe had given him what he needed, which was way more than sex, even though he didn’t recognize it at the time.
“I’m glad you didn’t. I only wish you hadn’t walked away after,” she said. “Are you going to walk away again now? Am I going to wake up in the morning to find you gone again?”
“No,” he said simply, the word his promise.
“Okay,” she said, accepting it.
She put on her robe, and then grabbed another one from the closet, handing it to him.
He took the garment, staring at it for a moment. It was definitely a guy’s, and that bothered him for a second. He looked up to see her staring at him, one eyebrow arched.
“What? Did you think that I didn’t sleep with anyone for three years, just waiting for you to come back?” she asked, smiling, though there was no barb in the question.
He took a breath. “No, not that. Hell, I didn’t even really know I was looking for you again until tonight … or maybe I knew it all along, since I got down here in Norfolk. I was reading your articles … you’re still an amazing journalist,” he said, and saw pleasure bloom in her expression. “An amazing woman.”
“I kept track of you, too,” she admitted, turning to the dresser and fussing with something, opening a drawer where she put some items, and closed it again. “I often thought of contacting you, but I don’t go begging. Though you were the first man who made me consider it,” she said, walking up close and sliding her hands over his chest.
“I don’t imagine you were a saint either.”
He frowned. No, he hadn’t been a saint. There had been some women, several, in fact, but none that really mattered. None he ever saw again or sought out.
“Let’s not talk about the past. It’s done,” he said. “The present—and the future—are much more promising.”
“I like the sound of that,” she agreed.
She seemed smaller here, more fragile and feminine, her hair undone and curling from the rain, falling down over her shoulders. He slid his hands through it, feeling possessive and lucky—why did he wait so long?
Her mouth was like velvet, and he let his robe drop to the floor as he dived the other hand into her hair, kissing her until she was trembling with need. Possessing her.
His, he thought.
“Ely,” she said his name on a breath when he released her lips. He was sure he couldn’t hear it enough, wanted to make her scream it.
Falling to his knees, he undid her robe, slid his hands up her legs, parting her slim, silky thighs. Parting the soft folds of her sex with his fingers, he tasted her lightly at first, but as she heated up, becoming slick, he lost himself in kissing her, sucking the hard, aroused pearl of her clit between his lips.
Chloe knew how to take charge—one of the things he loved about her—and her hands held his head, directing him, pressing and urging until he gave her everything she wanted, which he was more than happy to do.
She did scream his name when she came, and he didn’t let it end there, making her crest one more time. She sagged against him as he stood and took her in his arms.
Her cheeks were flushed with satisfaction, her pupils dilated, mouth soft as he kissed her fully. He wanted her again, but also wanted to wait. He needed her to know that he could be there for her, not always satisfying his own needs, oblivious to others as he had been before, when he left her.
They had time. He’d make it up to her.
“How about that glass of wine?” he asked. “Maybe something to eat to go with it?”
She nodded against his shoulder.
“I have to wait for my knees to feel solid again,” she said, gazing at him with eyes he thought he might like to see staring at him every morning. Eyes he might like to see on smaller versions of both of them.
Whoa, Marine, he cautioned himself. Slow down a little there.
But Ely had always led the charge, committed to the mission, focused on the target. He didn’t see the point in second thoughts or delaying action.
“I can help with that,” he said huskily, bending down and scooping her up, smiling at her gasp of surprise as she linked her hands around his neck and held on.
“Ely, this is hardly necessary,” she said, laughing as he carried her out to the living room.
“But it is fun,” he said, kissing her nose as he deposited her on the sofa.
“Matches?” he asked, noting more candles on the fireplace mantel.
“Up by the picture of my father,” she directed, pointing.
He saw the picture, and grabbed the box of stick matches, lighting one, taking in the portrait.
“Navy officer,” he observed, sliding her a glance. Her father was a highly decorated submariner.
“Yes. Retired now.”
“You never mentioned him.”
“You never asked.”
It was true, he hadn’t. Besides the interview, where she had focused on his life, they hadn’t talked much at all.
He lit the candles, and then walked to the kitchen, telling her to stay put. He had a lot of making up to do.
Coming back with a tray of cheese, fruit and crackers and a bottle of wine, he joined her on the sofa.
“Well, now I am feeling very spoiled,” she said, taking a glass of wine from him. “I could get used to that.”
“All part of my evil plan,” he agreed, taking some cheese and crackers, and