Читать книгу Snowflakes at Lavender Bay: A perfectly uplifting 2018 Christmas read from bestseller Sarah Bennett! - Sarah Bennett, Sarah Bennett - Страница 13

Had it not been for Owen’s firm grip upon her waist, Libby might have melted into a puddle of goo right there on the promenade. Perhaps the town council would erect one of those little blue plaques on the wall to record the moment? It was here in the summer of 2018 that Libby Stone was relieved of her senses by a single kiss. Confusion wasn’t a comfortable state of mind. She liked things straightforward, to know where she stood in life. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, the tides followed the cycles of the moon, a seagull would always try and steal your chips, Owen Coburn was bad news wrapped in a very sexy package. All incontrovertible truths. Or so she’d thought. When he was being brash, she could tell herself she’d dodged a bullet, that her bruised feelings would heal soon enough. And then he showed up, flirted with her, kissed her until her head swam, even told her that he liked her.

She couldn’t think straight, and it wasn’t just from his kisses which had been even better than all those fantasies she’d spun about him. Gripped with the sudden panic that perhaps she’d fallen asleep slumped over the counter in the chippy, she unhooked her arms from around his neck and gave herself a pinch. Nope, not asleep.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Owen asked.

‘Just checking.’

He laughed. The low rich sound vibrated through her threatening to turn her already liquid insides to mush. ‘You really aren’t like any other woman I’ve ever met.’ She stiffened and would’ve wriggled free of his hold had his mouth not grazed softly across her own. ‘Damn, you’re spikier than a hedgehog. That was a compliment, by the way,’ he murmured against her lips.

She let herself melt against him once more as he traced his way from her lips to her throat in a series of butterfly soft kisses. ‘You really aren’t like any other man I’ve met either,’ she confessed.

Owen raised his head and she found herself straining to read his expression in the near dark. ‘I’m not what you think I am, Libby. Everything I’ve got in life has been earned through my own sweat and determination. No one gave me a hand up, along the way. It’s taken me eighteen years to get from being a jobbing labourer to having my name above the door of my business.’

Thankful for the shadows, Libby felt her face flush at the hint of accusation in his voice. She’d done to him exactly what she hated people doing to her—judged him by appearance. The designer suits, the confident way he talked about investing in the restaurant like it was no big deal had blinded her. From what he was saying, he’d worked his way up from nothing. She did a quick calculation in her head. ‘You must’ve started straight from school, unless you’ve got one of those Dorian Grey paintings hiding in the attic.’

‘Is that a roundabout way of asking how old I am? I’m 34.’

‘Oh.’ She’d assumed him to be a bit younger—closer to Sam’s age.

‘Oh?’ His arms slid from beneath her thighs to cup her bottom, the proprietorial hold sending shivers through her. ‘Is that going to be a problem for you?’

He was too close, the heat of him too distracting for her poor lust-addled brain, but she couldn’t back up when he had her pinned against the wall. ‘Why…why would it be a problem for me?’ Damn him for putting that breathy note in her voice. She didn’t do breathy, she didn’t do sweet, melting compliance. And she’d tell him so if he’d just stop touching her like that.

‘Because when I get you into bed, I don’t want you to suddenly decide the age gap between us is an issue.’

When. Not if. There was not even a hint of doubt in his voice and she liked it far more than she should. ‘So arrogant,’ she said, scrambling to regain the upper hand.

‘Confident.’

‘I hate you.’ But she was laughing as she said it, and he’d found that sweet spot just beneath her ear with his lips, and suddenly there was no more room for words.

She didn’t know how long they stood there in the shadows, the harshness of their breathing and the waves lapping upon the distant shore the only sounds as they kissed and caressed each other. It might have been minutes or a matter of seconds before Owen broke away with a gasp. ‘Take me home, Libby.’

Yes. She had her legs unhooked and was sliding back to the floor before reality kicked in. ‘Dad’s there.’

‘Damn.’ He smothered his own word with another round of feverish kisses. ‘Then come back to the pub with me.’

And do a walk of shame along the promenade in the morning, presuming she could even sneak in and out of there without her friends finding out? ‘That’s even worse.’

‘I need you.’ Three of the most intoxicating words she’d ever heard spilled from his lips. It was the tone of his voice as much as anything that blew the last of her common sense away. No man had ever spoken of her with such urgency, with such blatant need and just the right edge of demand.

If it hadn’t been so long since anyone had touched her like this, if she hadn’t been so bloody lonely, she might have pushed him away and run for the safety of her little bedroom above the shop with its walls still the same pale pink of her childhood. But it had. And he was making her body sing with anticipation. For the first time in her life she knew what it was to be the sole focus of a powerful man. ‘Come with me.’

Not stopping to think, she dragged Owen down the steps and along the beach to where a row of old beach huts rested against the wall of the promenade. They were a hangover from the Fifties, before the town had grown so popular with tourists. The parish council had refused permission over the years for any more to be built and put a moratorium on who could purchase them. As a result, they’d stayed in the hands of the same families for several generations.

The kids at school whose folks owned them had been some of the most popular thanks to their unfettered access to the perfect hangout spot. Libby had spent many an evening and weekend hanging out in one or other of the gaily painted huts. And if they were lucky… Pausing in front of a bright yellow hut, she stretched on tiptoe and fumbled along the top of the door frame with her fingers. ‘Ah hah!’

‘Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?’ Owen said as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. It was pitch black inside, but provided the Tanners hadn’t given the place a major overhaul she could still remember the layout.

‘Hang on to me.’ Extending her hands forward, Libby began to shuffle forward as she pictured the inside of the little cabin the last time she’d seen it. A pair of basket weave chairs on either side, a table in the far left corner piled high with the jigsaw puzzles and old board games, and along the back wall… Her shins brushed against something and she bent at the waist to find the edge of the large cushioned bench. ‘There’s a seat here.’

Owen gripped her hips. ‘I think I like where I am just fine, come here.’ Turning her with insistent hands, she expected his kiss to be as intense as the ones they shared on the beach. Instead, it was a long, slow exploration as though now he’d got her somewhere private, all the urgency had left him.

She didn’t want soft and tender, she wanted fast and furious with no time to think about what she was doing, and who she was doing it with. Frustrated, she pushed at the bottom of his T-shirt only to have him capture her hands and hold them away from their bodies leaving their lips a single point of connection.

‘Shh,’ he said when she would’ve protested. ‘No rush now, and in spite of what I said there’s no need for this to go any further unless you want it to.’

Damn him. She’d wanted him to overwhelm her, to take charge and do with her as he would. That way she could blame him in the morning when the regrets came, and they most surely would. Whatever else Owen might be, he didn’t strike her as the kind of man who wanted commitment, and that spelled disaster for Libby. In her heart of hearts, she knew whatever happened between them that night would alter her on some fundamental level. A shiver rippled through her, a portent rather than a thrill. Owen Coburn would not only be her downfall, he wanted her to walk right into his lion’s den with her eyes wide open.

Even with all those doubts and fears ricocheting through her brain, there was no hesitation as she freed her hands and hooked them around his neck. ‘I want this. I want you. No regrets.’

Had anyone in the history of the world told such a blatant lie to a lover? As they sank down together on the bench, she neither knew nor cared.

‘I can’t find my T-shirt.’

Raising her head at the sound of Owen’s voice was instinctive, and a huge mistake as she bumped it on the edge of the corner table. ‘Ouch!’ She sat back on her heels and rubbed her forehead. ‘I can’t find my jeans, or my bra. Whose bloody idea was it to have a tryst in a pitch-black shed?’

‘I seem to remember it was yours.’ Libby jumped. He sounded much closer to her than he had a second ago. Something warm brushed her shoulder then traced down her arm to place a tangle of material in her hand. ‘I found your bra. I was going to keep it as a memento.’

The silly comment helped soothe away the worst of her nerves. ‘What were you planning to do with it, nail it over your headboard?’

Owen laughed. ‘I thought I’d hang it from the flag pole outside my office, isn’t that what victors used to do with trophies captured from their enemies?’

He hadn’t moved away so she took a chance and leaned into the muscled heat of his chest. ‘We weren’t really enemies.’

His arm curled around her back. ‘No, not really, although I could’ve sworn you said you hated me, earlier.’

She’d said an awful lot more than that to him in the past hour. Shocking things; shameless things; things she’d never thought in all of her 26 years, never mind demanded until he’d taken her in his arms. Don’t think about it. What they’d shared had been too raw, too intense, and if she let herself dwell on it, she’d fall right back under his spell. Thankful for the shield of darkness so he couldn’t see the heat burning on her cheeks, she extended her arm to sweep along the floor beside her and touched something soft. ‘I think this might be your T-shirt.’

‘Thanks.’ He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to take it from her. Clever, questing fingers slipped under her top to play over the little ridges of her spine. ‘Libby…’

Dear God. His ability to put so much temptation in one word should be illegal. ‘We should be getting back. If Dad wakes up, he’ll wonder where I am.’ Mick Stone slept like the dead from the moment his head hit the pillow until his alarm clock went off in the morning, but Owen didn’t need to know that. If she let him get her under him again she might still be there when the beach filled up with visitors in a few hours.

His hand stilled on her back for a moment, before he withdrew it. ‘Sure. Right, let’s try and find your jeans.’ Was that a trace of hurt in his voice? It couldn’t possibly be. She could count her number of awkward post-coital experiences on one hand which was a damn sight less than him, of that she had no doubt. So, he should be better at this than her. She felt him crawl away, felt the loss of his warmth against her side and was suddenly desperate to scramble after him and tumble them both to the floor.

She didn’t though. Instead, she removed her top and began to fumble around with her bra until she had it the right way round to clip it back on. Her top was halfway over her head when Owen gave a little crow of triumph. ‘Here they are! Now I just need to work out where the hell you are again.’

Finally dressed, they left the little haven of the beach hut. Libby paused to lock the door and replace the key back in its hiding place before turning to survey the sky. The moon had set, and the first streaks of indigo and pink showed the approaching dawn. She could’ve sworn they’d only been inside for an hour. ‘What time is it?’

Pale luminescence flashed as Owen turned his wrist to study his watch. ‘About half three, I think.’

‘Bloody hell, come on, I’ve got to be up in a few hours.’ She broke into a jog, keeping the dark outline of the promenade to her left. The lampposts had dimmed to pale orange, another sign of how late—or how early—it was.

When they reached the steps leading up to the prom, Owen grabbed for her hand and tugged her around to face him. Cupping her jaw with his other hand, he feathered a kiss across her lips. ‘I’ll find us somewhere a bit more comfortable for next time.’

Next time. He said it as naturally as breathing, as though of course they would be seeing each other again. She’d been refusing to think beyond the next few moments, getting dressed, finding their shoes, saying goodbye…only it didn’t sound like he had any intention of saying goodbye. The sex had been good. Ha! Who was she trying to kid? The sex had been blow-the-top-of-your-head-off incredible. He’d certainly seemed to enjoy it as much as she had, so maybe he was on the lookout for a repeat performance. Or maybe he was looking for something more.

But what could that be, in truth, because even with him getting involved in Sam’s restaurant, didn’t he have a whole other life in London? He would be there, and she would be here. They could hook up for the odd weekend, she supposed, until the restaurant was up and running, but then what? It was too much to think about, and she was too tired right then to think about it. Or maybe just a bit scared of how she would feel if that was really all he wanted. She could always ask him and find out. The words stuck in her throat.

‘You’re very quiet all of a sudden.’

‘Am I? Sorry, I’m just a bit tired.’ Hating herself for the cop-out, Libby began to make her way up the stairs. ‘Well, my bed is calling to me.’

‘Hold on, I’ll walk you back.’ Within two steps he’d caught up with her and taken her hand in his.

They walked in silence to her front door, where she disentangled her fingers ostensibly to fish her key out of her pocket. She had the door open and one foot inside when he stilled her with a single finger beneath her chin. Hopeless to resist, she allowed him to tilt her face up for the briefest kiss. ‘Goodnight, Pixie.’

As she crept up the stairs to avoid waking her dad, Libby tried to convince herself it was a good thing that despite his promise of ‘next time’ he hadn’t tried to make arrangements to meet again—and failed miserably.