Rising Tides Read online

  "I want to see you." Slowly, inch by inch, he slipped the dress from her shoulders. They were sun-kissed, strong, gracefully curved. He'd always thought she had the prettiest shoulders, and now he indulged himself by tasting them.

  The hum in her throat told him she was both surprised and pleased by the attention. He had a great deal more to give her.

  She'd never been touched this way, as if she were something rare and precious. What that touch stirred in her was so new and warm. Her skin seemed to soften and sensitize under the brush of his lips, the blood beneath to go thick and lazy. She only sighed as her dress slid down to pool at her feet.

  When he eased back again, she could only stare up at him in wonder. Her lashes fluttered, her pulse skipped when he stroked his fingers lightly over the swell of her breast above her simple cotton bra. She had to bite her lip to hold back the groan when he flicked open the hook, when he gently cupped her breast in his palms.

  "Do you want me to stop?"

  "Oh, God." Her head fell back, and this time the groan escaped. His workingman's thumbs were skimming slowly, rhythmically over her nipples. "No."

  "Hold on to me, Grace." He spoke quietly, and when her hands came to his shoulders and gripped, he brought his mouth to hers again, drawing more this time, asking more until she went limp.

  Then he lifted her into his arms. He waited until her eyes opened again. "I'm taking you, Grace."

  "Thank God, Ethan."

  He had to smile when she pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder. "I'll protect you."

  For a moment as he carried her off, she thought of dragons and black knights. Then the more practical meaning got through. "I—take the Pill. It's all right. I haven't been with anybody since Jack."

  He'd known that in his heart, but hearing it only added to his steadily rising need.

  She'd lighted candles in the bedroom as well. Slim tapers there that lanced up out of tiny white shells. The white of her iron headboard glowed in the soft light. White daisies sprang out of a clear glass vase on the small table beside the bed.

  She thought he would lay her down, but instead he sat, cradling her, holding her, drugging her with those slow, endless kisses until her pulse beat thickly, grew sluggish. Then his hands began to move.

  Everywhere he touched a small fire fanned into flame.

  Callused hands, slipping, sliding over her skin. Long, rough-edged fingers stroking, pressing. There, oh, yes, just there.

  The day-long stubble of beard rubbed the sensitive curve of her breasts as his tongue circled, then flicked. And always, always, his mouth coming back to hers for one more, just one more endless, mind-reeling kiss.

  She tugged at his shirt, hoping to give back some of the pleasure, some of the magic. Found the scars and the muscle and the man. His torso was lean, his shoulders broad, the flesh warm under her seeking fingers. The breeze whispered through the open window, the call of the whippoorwill chasing after it. And the sound no longer seemed so lonely.

  He eased her back, settled her head on the pillow, then bent to pull off his boots. Pale-gold candlelight swayed against shadows the color of smoke. Both shades shimmered over her. He watched as her hand snuck up to cover her breast, and he paused long enough to take it and kiss the knuckles.

  "I wish you wouldn't," he murmured. "You're such a pleasure to look at."

  She hadn't thought she'd feel shy, knew it was foolish, but she had to order herself to let her hand fall onto the bed. When he slipped out of his jeans she had to struggle with her breathing all over again. No fairy-tale knight had ever been built more magnificently or borne scars more heroically.

  Desperate with love, she held out her arms in welcome.

  He slipped into them, careful not to press his full weight onto her. She was fragile, he reminded himself, so slim and so much more innocent than she believed.

  As the rising moon slanted its first light through the window, he began to show her.

  Sighs and murmurs, long, slow caresses, quiet sips and tastes. His hands aroused, devastated, but never hurried. Hers explored, admired, and forgot to hesitate. He found where she was most sensitive, the underside of her breast, the back of her knee, the sweet, shallow, seductive valley between her thigh and her center.

  So focused on her was he that his own rising need took him by surprise, flashing once, hard and strong and dragging out his moan when he took her breast into his mouth.

  She arched, shuddering at the edgier demand.

  And the rhythm changed.

  With his breath growing ragged, he lifted his head, his eyes intent on her face. His hand slid between her thighs, pressed there against the heat. Found her already wet.

  "I want to see you go over." He played his fingers over her, in her, as her breath quickened. Pleasure, panic, excitement all raced over her face. He watched her climb, closer, closer, with her breath tearing, then releasing on a strangled cry as she peaked.

  She tried to shake her head to clear it, but the delicious dizziness continued to spin. The familiar room revolved, hazed, so that only his face was clear, was real. She felt drunk and dazed and unspeakably aroused.

  This, finally this, was love as she'd dreamed it would be.

  Her skin quivered as he slid slowly up her body, his mouth laying a warm, damp trail.

  "Please." It wasn't enough. Even this wasn't enough. She craved the mating, the union, the final intimacy. "Ethan." She opened for him, arched. "Now."

  His hands cupped her face, his lips covered her lips. "Now," he murmured against them and filled her.

  Their long, groaning sighs blended, that first endless shudder of pleasure as he buried himself inside her rocked them both. When they began to move, they moved together, smoothly, silkily as if they'd only been waiting.

  Desire was fluid, its current steady. They rode it, thrilling to the pace, to the deep, resonant pleasure of each long, slow stroke. Grace swirled close to the edge, felt the orgasm build, slide through her system like velvet ribbon so that she rose up, farther up, wallowed in the glow, then floated down into weightless wonder.

  He pressed his face into her hair, and let himself follow.

  he was so quiet it worried her. He held her, but he would have known she'd need him to. Still he didn't speak, and the longer the silence stretched the more she feared what he would say when he broke it.

  So she broke it first.

  "Don't tell me you're sorry. I don't think I could stand it if you told me you were sorry."

  "I wasn't going to. I promised myself I'd never touch you like this, but I'm not sorry I did."

  She rested her head on his shoulder, just under his chin. "Will you touch me like this again?"

  "Right this minute?"

  Because she caught the lazy amusement in his voice, she relaxed and smiled. "I know better than to rush you on anything." She lifted her head because it was vital that she know. "Will you, Ethan? Will you be with me again?"

  He traced a finger through her hair. "I don't see talking either one of us out of it after tonight."

  "If you started to, I'd have to try to seduce you again."

  "Yeah?" A smile crept over his face. "Then maybe I should start talking."

  Thrilled, she rolled over him and hugged hard. "I'd be better at it the next time, too, because I wouldn't be so damned nervous."

  "Nerves didn't seem to get in your way. I nearly swallowed my tongue when you walked to the door in that pink dress." He started to nuzzle her hair, stopped, narrowed his eyes. "What were you doing wearing a dress to sit around at home?"

  "I don't know… I just was." She turned her head, ran kisses along his throat.

  "Hold on." Knowing just how quickly she could distract him, he took her shoulders and lifted her up. "A pretty dress, candlelight… it's almost like you were expecting me to come along."

  "I'm always hoping you will," she said and tried to kiss him again.

  "Sending me off with a recipe, for Christ's sake." In a smooth and easy move
he plopped her on her butt beside him, then sat up. "You and Anna got your heads together on this, didn't you? Set me up."

  "What a ridiculous thing to say." She tried for indignant, but could only manage guilty. "I don't know where you get these ideas."

  "You never could lie worth spit." Firmly, he took her chin in one hand, holding it until her eyes shifted to his. "It took me a while to figure it, but I've got it now, don't I?"

  "She was only trying to help. She knew I was upset about the way things were between us. You've got a right to be mad, but don't take it out on her. She was only—"

  "Did I say I was mad?" he interrupted.

  "No, but…" She trailed off, drew in a careful breath. "You're not mad?"

  "I'm grateful." His grin was slow and wicked. "But maybe you ought to try to seduce me again. Just in case."

  Chapter Eleven

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  in the dark, while an owl still hooted, Ethan shifted, easing out from under the arm Grace had wrapped around his chest. In response she snuggled closer. The gesture made him smile.

  "Are you getting up?" she asked in a voice that was muffled against his shoulder.

  "I've got to. It's after five already." He could smell rain on the air, hear it coming in the rising wind. "I'm going to get a shower. You go back to sleep."

  She made a sound that he took for assent and burrowed into the pillow.

  He moved lightly through the dark, though he had to check himself a couple of times on the way to the bathroom. He didn't know her house as well as his own. He waited until he was inside before turning on the light so the backwash of it wouldn't spill into the hall and disturb her.

  The room was scaled to match the rest of the house, so small he could have stood in the center and touched each side wall with his hands. The tiles were white, the walls above them papered in a thin candy stripe. He knew she'd hung the paper herself. She rented from Stuart Claremont, and the man wasn't known for his generosity or his sense of decor.

  He had to grin at the orange-billed rubber duck nested on the side of the tub. One sniff at the soap made him realize why Grace always smelled faintly of lemons. While he appreciated the fragrance on her, he hoped sincerely that Jim wouldn't notice the citrus scent on him.

  He ducked his head under what he thought of as a piss-trickle of spray. She needed a new showerhead, he decided, and as he rubbed a hand over his face, noted that he needed a shave. Both would have to wait.

  But it was likely that now that things had changed between them, she would let him take care of a few things around the house for her. She'd always been so blessed stubborn about accepting help. It seemed to him that even a proud woman like Grace would be less stiff about taking help from a lover than a friend.

  That's what they were now, Ethan reflected. No matter how many promises he'd made to himself. It wouldn't end with one night. Neither one of them was built that way, and it had as much to do with heart as it did with loins. They'd taken the step and that step involved commitment.

  That's what worried him most.

  He would never be able to marry her, have children with her. She would want more children. She was too fine a mother, had too much love to give not to want them. Aubrey deserved brothers or sisters.

  There wasn't any point in thinking about it, he reminded himself. Things were the way things were. And right now he had a right, and a need to live in the moment. They would love each other as much as they could for as long as they could. That would be enough.

  It took him barely five minutes to discover that Grace's hot water heater was as small as the rest of the house. Even the miserly trickle of water turned cool, then cold, before he'd managed to rinse away all the lather.

  "Cheap bastard," he muttered, thinking of Claremont. He switched off the spray and wrapped one of the bright-pink towels around his waist. He intended to go back and dress in the dark, but when he opened the door, he could see the light from the kitchen and hear Grace's still sleep-husky voice singing about finding love, just in the nick of time.

  While the first drops of rain pattered against the windows, he stepped into the scent of bacon frying and coffee brewing. And the sight of Grace wrapped in a short cotton robe the color of spring leaves. His heart gave such a hard bounce of joy he was surprised it didn't simply leap out of his throat and land quivering in her hands.

  He moved quick and quiet, so that when he wrapped his arms around her, pressed his lips to the top of her head, she jolted in surprise.

  "I told you to go back to sleep."

  She leaned back against him, closing her eyes and absorbing the lovely thrill of a kitchen embrace. "I wanted to fix you breakfast."

  "You don't have to do things like that." He turned her around. "I don't expect things like that. You need your rest."

  "I wanted to do it." His hair was dripping, his chest gleaming with wet. The sparkling gush of lust both delighted and shocked her. "Today's special."

  "I appreciate it." He bent, intending to give her one soft morning kiss. But it deepened, lengthened until she was on her toes straining against him.

  He had to pull himself back, block off the rushing need to tug off the robe and take her. "The bacon's going to burn," he murmured, and this time pressed his lips to her forehead. "I'd better get dressed."

  She turned the bacon briskly to give him time to cross the room. Anna had been right, she thought, about having power. "Ethan?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I've got an awful lot of need for you stored up." She glanced over her shoulder, and her smile was smug. "I hope you don't mind."

  The blood danced gleefully out of his head. She wasn't just flirting, she was challenging. He had a feeling she knew she'd already won. The only safe answer he could think of was a grunt before he retreated to the bedroom.

  He wanted her. Grace did a quick dance and spin. They'd made love three times, three beautiful, glorious times during the night, had slept wrapped around each other. And he still wanted her.

  It was the most beautiful morning of her life.

  it rained all day. The water was rough as the tongue of a shrew and just as likely to lash. Ethan fought to keep the boat on course and was glad he hadn't let the boy come with them. He and Jim had worked in worse, but he imagined Seth would have spent a good portion of the day hung over the rail.

  But foul weather couldn't spoil his mood. He whistled even as rain slapped his face and the boat pitched under him like a rodeo bronc.

  Jim eyed him sideways a few times. He'd worked with Ethan long enough to know the boy was the friendly, good-natured sort. But a whistling fool he wasn't. He smiled to himself as he hauled up another pot. Looked like the boy did something more energetic than reading in bed last night, if you asked him.

  About time, too—if you asked him. By his reckoning Ethan Quinn was round about thirty years of age. A man should oughta be settled down with a wife and kids by that time of life. A waterman was better off going home to a hot meal and a warm bed. A good woman helped you through, gave you direction, cheered you up when the Bay got stingy. As God knew it could.

  He wondered who this particular woman might be. Not that he stuck his nose in other people's business. He minded his own and expected his neighbors to do the same. But a man had a right to a little curiosity about things.

  He pondered on how to bring the subject around when an under-the-limit she-crab found a tiny hole in his glove and snapped before he could toss her back.

  "Little bitch," he said with a wince but without much heat.

  "She get you?"

  "Yeah." Jim watched her splash back into the waves. "I'll be back for you before the season's over."

  "Looks like you need new gloves there, Jim."

  "The wife's picking me up some today." He shoved the thawing alewives they used for bait into the trap. "Sure helps matters to know you got a woman to do for you some."

  "Uh-huh." Ethan shoved the steering stick with one hand, picked up the gaff with the oth
er, and timed the chop and the distance.

  "A man spends the day working on the water, it's a comfort to know his woman's waiting for him."

  A little surprised that they were having a conversation, Ethan nodded. "I suppose. We'll just finish up this line, Jim, then head in."

  Jim culled the next pot, let the silence settle between them. A few gulls were having what Jim thought of as a pissing match overhead, screaming and diving and threatening each other over loose fish parts.

  "You know, me and Bess, we'll be married thirty years come next spring."

  "Is that so?"

  "Steadies a man, a woman does. You wait too long to marry up, though, you get set in your ways."

  "I guess."

  "You'd be around thirty now, wouldn't you, Cap'n?"

  "That's right."

  "Don't want to get set in your ways."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Ethan told him and shot out the gaff.

  Jim merely sighed and gave up.

  when ethan wandered into the boatyard, Cam was at the skill saw and three young boys were sanding the hull. Or pretending to.

  "You hire a new crew?" Ethan asked as Simon trotted over to investigate.

  Cam glanced to where Seth chattered away with Danny and Will Miller. "It keeps them out of my hair. You give up on crabs today?"

  "Pulled in enough." He pulled out a cigar and lit it while he gazed thoughtfully out the open cargo doors. "Rain's coming down pretty hard."

  "Tell me about it." Cam sent an accusing scowl toward the streaming windows. "That's why those three were in my hair. The little one'll talk your ears blue. And if you don't have the others doing something to keep them busy, they make trouble out of thin air."

  "Well." Ethan puffed out smoke, watched the kids send Simon into ecstasy with rough rubs and scratches. "At the rate they're going, they'll have that hull sanded down in ten or twenty years."

  "That's something we have to talk about."

  "Hiring on those kids for the next two decades?"

  "No, work." It was as good a time as any to take a break. Cam stooped and pumped iced tea out of the cooler. "I got a call from Tod Bardette this morning."

  "The friend of yours who wants the fishing boat?"

  "That's right. Now, Bardette and I go back a ways. He knows what I can do."

  "He offer you another race?"

  He had, Cam mused, cutting the dust in his throat with the sweet tea. Turning it down had stung, but the sting had eased more quickly this time around. "I made a promise here. I'm not breaking it."

  Ethan tucked a hand in his back pocket and looked toward the boat. This place, this business, had been his dream, not Cam's, not Phillip's. "I didn't mean it that way. I guess I know what you put away to pull this off."

  "We needed it."

  "Yeah, but you're the only one who's given up anything to make it happen. I haven't bothered to thank you for it, and I'm sorry for that."

  Every bit as uncomfortable as his brother, Cam stared at the boat. "I'm not exactly suffering here. The business is going to help us get permanent guardianship of Seth—and it's satisfying on its own account. Of course, Phil's bitching about our cash flow every time you turn around."

  "That's his strength."

  "Bitching?"