Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

Danny Trujillo’s, playing Ultimate Alliance. Get out of my way.”
     
    He took the box from her instead, dumping it on the counter.
     
    She bit her lip. “Listen—”
     
    The front bell jingled. Regina glanced toward the door and back at him, her dilemma plain on her face.
     
    He showed her the edge of his teeth. “Deal with it.”
     
    The customers? Or him helping her? He wasn’t sure.
     
    Maybe she wasn’t either, but she didn’t have much choice. She shot him a look and stalked through the swinging door. He heard her voice.
    “How’s it going, Henry? What can I get you tonight?”
     
    Dylan unloaded two more cartons while she boxed Henry’s dinner—one lasagna to go— and took an order for four lobsters, steamed, with a side of slaw.
     
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    She bumped a hip against the door, grabbing up the lobsters on her way to the cook top. “Thanks.” She dismissed him. “I’ll get the rest in a minute.”
     
    Dylan ignored her. Each case of tomatoes must weigh sixty pounds.
    How had she gotten them into the van in the first place? “Where does this go?”
     
    “Walk-in refrigerator. On your left. But—”
     
    “What’s wrong with iceberg?” he asked, to distract her.
     
    She dropped the lobsters into boiling water. Dylan restrained a wince. “Other than being colorless, tasteless, and relatively lacking in nutritional value, not a thing.”
     
    “Then why buy it?”
     
    “I don’t. So either my mother did, or the supplier switched the order.”
     
    She snapped the lids on various containers: lemon, butter, cole slaw.
    By the time she rang up the lobsters, Dylan was setting the last case on the floor.
     
    Regina blew out her breath. “Thanks. I guess I owe you.”
     
    “I’m sure we can work out some form of payment,” he said silkily.
     
    She snorted. “I’ll cook you dinner.”
     
    “That’s not what I had in mind.” He moved in, trapping her against the stainless steel counter, watching awareness bloom in her big brown eyes.
     
    “Too bad, because that’s all I’m offering.”
     
    He stepped between her thighs, sliding his hands into her hair, beneath her bandana. The pulse in her throat leaped against the heel of his hand. “Then I won’t wait for you to offer,” he said and took her scowling mouth.
     
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    She tasted sharp and earthy, like sun-warmed tomatoes and olives and garlic. She smelled like apricots. She flooded his senses, filled his head, good, yes, this, now. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her mouth was warm and eager. He felt the tension in her tight little body as she pressed against him, slight breasts, narrow waist, slim thighs, all fine, all feminine, all his, and the hunger in him developed claws that raked his gut.
     
    He wanted . . . something. The release of sex, yes. More. He wanted to feel her tremble and come apart again, wanted her wet and soft and under him. Craved her tenderness. Her touch.
     
    He hitched her up on the counter. She hooked her legs around his waist. He pictured himself stripping the jeans from her and pushing his way inside, now. He fumbled for her waistband.
     
    Her hands came up between them, flattened against his chest. Good, yes, touch me, he thought.
     
    She pushed, hard.
     
    He raised his head, confused.
     
    Her lips were full and wet, her eyes dark. The tiny gold cross on her chest moved up and down with her breath.
     
    “So, what’s the deal with you and Margred?” she asked.
     
    “What?”
     
    “You were talking to her when I came in.”
     
    His blood roared in his head. “That has nothing to do with you. With this.”
     
    “Yeah?” She attempted to close her legs. He didn’t move. “Because I won’t be used to make her jealous. Or to cover whatever thing you two have going on from Caleb. What do you want, Dylan?”
     
    “I’d think that was obvious.”
     
    “Not to me.”
     
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    He took her hand and pressed it to his crotch, where he was hard and aching for her. “You,” he said. “I want you.”
     
    Her lips trembled; firmed into a sneer. “Very nice. Excuse me if I’m not flattered. Or convinced.”
     
    He pulsed against her. “What would it take to convince you?”
     
    Blushing, she tugged her hand away. “I don’t know. More than being groped against the kitchen counter. Been there, done that.”
     
    “I did not grope you,” he said, irritated. She’d pushed him away before he’d had the chance.
     
    “It’s not always about you,