I grab the lapel of his jacket and tug him back to me. "I'm fine," I say.
"And I get to sleep in tomorrow. I have a rare day off, and since I'm better than on track toward my payoff goal, I decided not to beg anyone to let me cover their shift at Maudie's in the morning. All of which means that I'm a girl without a curfew."
"Very interesting," he says, as we head toward the beach.
"You do realize it's after two in the morning."
"And the moon is full and the breaking waves are glowing in the moonlight. And you and I are going for a walk. Take your shoes off," he says as we reach the sand.
"You're still in a suit." I run my fingers over the lapel of his jacket. "A really nice suit, actually. Also, you remember the Pacific is freezing, right?"
He takes off the jacket and puts it around my shoulders. "The wind's chillier the closer we get to the water."
We leave our shoes and socks by a signpost--at this hour, I'm not worried someone will walk off with them--and once I've shrugged into his jacket, he takes my hand.
I laugh as and we run toward the breaking waves. "What exactly are we doing?"
"Playing," he says.
And that, in fact, is exactly what we do.
We kick waves toward each other. We dig in the wet sand with our toes. And we race down the beach and back, splashing in the surf, before I take off down the beach again, daring him to chase me.
"Wait," he calls after me. "You have to see this."
He's standing still, the waves coming in over his feet and soaking the hem of his trousers. I hurry toward him, my jeans damp around my ankles as well. "What is it?" I say, glancing at the sand that surrounds him, wondering if he's seen a crab or a starfish.
"This," he says, and draws me close.
I gasp, completely unprepared for the pressure of his mouth against mine, and when my lips part, he takes full advantage, capturing me with a kiss that is hot and open. A kiss so full of longing and need that it makes my knees go weak, and so full of sensual heat that electric sparks ricochet inside me until finally settling between my thighs, making me hot. Needy. Wanting.
When we break the kiss, I'm breathing hard. "Wow," I say as his thumb gently strokes the line of my jaw. "Is this when you get your explosion?"
"No," he whispers. "This is when you get your seduction."
We hurry toward the house, fingers linked, pausing only once so that he can press me against a lamp post and take my mouth in his. "I want you, Sugar," he whispers. "I want you naked beneath me. I want you wet, your legs spread for me, your fingers clinging to my back. I want to lose myself inside your heat, and I want to make you come like you never have before."
"Yes, please," I murmur, his words firing my senses and tempting me to pull him down to the sand and beg him to take me now.
I manage to hold off, but by the time we reach my house, I'm mostly non-functional. All I want is him. All I know is him. My body burns with sensual longing, and I'm so completely rattled by the force of my desire that I can barely punch in key code.
As soon as I do, we practically tumble inside, our mouths locked, our kisses frantic. I taste blood and don't care. All I need is Lyle. All I want is Lyle. The feel of him. The heat of him.
"Too hot," I murmur, then reach for the hem of his shirt and pull it free of his slacks. He's still dressed for the opening, and my fingers fumble as I try to unbutton the shirt. He, however, has no problems with mine. He pulls the Blacklist Tee over my head, then tosses it aside.
I'm still wearing my new La Perla bra, and he tugs the pretty lace down, freeing my breast. At the same time, he groans, the sound deep and passionate. "You're beautiful," he says, then holds my lower back as he bends over me, arcing my body as his mouth closes over my breast. He uses his tongue to tease my nipple, and I feel the sensation like a hot wire cutting straight through me, all the way down to my wet, needy core.
"Bedroom," I murmur, which is about as much coherent thought as I'm capable of.
He doesn't hesitate. He scoops me up, and I curl against him, my bare skin rubbing against the cotton of his shirt.
In my bedroom, he puts me down gently, but there's nothing gentle about the way I grab his shirt, fisting my hands in the material so that I can tumble him down beside me. I roll over, then attack those damn buttons until he finally takes over the task and peels off his shirt.
"Jeans," he says, his hands going for my waistband, releasing my button fly, and then finally tugging the denim down so that I have to quickly kick off my shoes or be tangled in a mess of clothing and sneakers.
"Here," he says when I'm naked except for tiny lace panties. He pulls me onto him, and I straddle his waist as his fingers stroke me through the damp panties, then slip in under the thin satin to find my core. "Christ, Sugar, you're so damn wet."
I am, and I writhe against his hand, wanting more.