Your Fierce Love (The Bennett Family) Page 7

  The perimeter of the festival, set in the shade of Presidio Park, is absolutely full. As we step inside it, he places his hand at my lower back, warm and protective, guiding me to a booth labeled Trifecta, displaying all kinds of pastries. My mouth is watering already.

  “This isn’t on your list.”

  “No.” He presses the pads of his fingers into my flesh as he steps right next to me, pinning me with his dark gaze. “This is for your pleasure, Clara.”

  Hearing my name and “pleasure” in one breath is messing with me. Or maybe it’s the way he’s saying it. With a little intent and a whole lot of double entendre.

  “Blake, you’re here. Just in time.”

  A grinning chef greets us. He has a thick dark brown mustache that almost makes up for his lack of hair. His prominent belly hangs slightly over his apron. Blake takes his hand away from my back, shaking the man’s hand. I miss the contact already.

  The chef winks at me, and as he lowers himself under the counter, I feel like I’m watching a secret mission unfold. Straightening up, he shoves a tray with sourdough bread—a treat San Francisco is known for—in front of us. When he places it on the counter right in front of me, I bring my hands to my face, bouncing on my toes.

  “For me?” The question is superfluous, but I have to make sure before I attack the goodies.

  “Yes,” the chef and Blake say in unison. I immediately shove a slice in my mouth. It’s divine. I barely bite back a moan as I munch on it.

  “Delicious.”

  “Glad you like it,” Blake says. “We should be going.”

  “Lots of stops on the list,” I agree. After saying goodbye to the chef, we move on.

  “Thank you,” I say simply as we walk side by side.

  “You’re welcome.”

  As we walk deeper into the festival area, Blake places an arm across my back, resting his hand on my shoulder, lightly tucking me into him, as if I belong to him. I’m in terrible danger next to this handsome man who is feeding me delicious goodies and making me swoon. He’s exploiting my weaknesses, and he’s doing a thorough job of it.

  The festival buzzes with people of all ages: professionals who clearly just got off work, retired couples, groups of teenagers, and even the occasional parents pushing a stroller. Everyone is enjoying the city, celebrating it, and I’m soaking in all that infectious energy.

  We stop at the first booth on Blake’s list, and I’m surprised by the instant change in his posture when he talks to the vendor. He seems taller somehow. In charge. It’s the same body language I saw when I first went to visit the apartment. It’s a very sexy look on him.

  We finish the stops on his list surprisingly quickly.

  “What do you want to do now?” Blake asks. “What looks good?”

  Everything looks good. I peer around, trying to decide on a booth.

  “That one.” I point to a booth that boasts having the best Dungeness crab in the city. “Since they brag, let’s go try it out.”

  Blake and I go wild. At the end, when I pull out my wallet, Blake catches my hand midair.

  “No!”

  “Blake—”

  “Clara—”

  “I wanted the crab. I’m paying for it.”

  “Absolutely not. You’re not paying for anything when you’re out with me.”

  The vendor is looking between us with an amused expression. I’m not having any of this. I yank my hand away from Blake’s grip because his touch is melting my resolve, and I want to be firm.

  “You’re not letting me pay for stuff I want inside the apartment, or drinks I have at your bar.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not having any of this man-must-pay nonsense.”

  He holds up his hand. “It’s called being a gentleman. Never let a lady pay. You have an issue with that, then take it up with my parents. That’s how they raised me.”

  He disarms me, of course, and Blake pays in the next moment. I briefly wonder if he likes to take charge in the bedroom as well. Nope, not going there. But I already did, and the question is on the tip of my tongue. I swallow it down.

  The scenario repeats itself several times. By the time we’re done, the button of my jeans threatens to pop, and I feel like a stuffed teddy bear. I suck in my tummy, which shows a small beginning of a muffin top even on an empty stomach. I cycle to work twice a week, but that isn’t doing much for my tummy. Eating less carbs would help, but where is the joy in that?

  The sun is setting by the time we finish our round, and more people seem to have spilled into the festival.

  “This is getting claustrophobic,” I comment, and Blake nods in agreement. “Hey, I have an idea. Can we walk up the Lyon Street steps back home? They should start somewhere nearby and lead us right up in the Pacific Heights district.”

  I do one full turn, trying to guess which direction Lyon Street might be, but I feel lost.

  “Great idea,” says Blake. “Come on, I know the way.”

  “Do you know there are some four hundred stairways in San Francisco?” I rattle off as we head out into the night.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yeah. Some are so well hidden, it’s like they’re a secret.”

  Blake nods, impressed.

  “I have the habit of memorizing random stuff I read in city guides,” I explain. “Honed the skills years ago, when Nate and I worked on that international show. Even though we spent a few weeks, sometimes even a few months in each city, the work schedule was so Draconian that I had time to cram in visiting. Tried to make the most out of the time I had, which included reading city guides thoroughly.”

  Ah, but the Lyon Street stairs and their surroundings are a thing of beauty. As we climb them, I wish I had three more pairs of eyes so I could take everything in. Past the hedgerows are luxurious old mansions (some resemble small palaces), perfectly trimmed lawns, and lush plants. Far behind us, I can see the Palace of Fine Arts dome, and further still the Golden Gate Bridge. If I focus intently, I can even make out Alcatraz Island out in the distance on the water, clouded by mist. The only downside to this scenic climb is the three hundred steps or so. At some point, I feel as if someone is stabbing the left side of my belly.

  “Let’s stop for a bit.” Blake merely smiles as I lean against the railing, panting. Have to say, I would’ve expected the steps to be crowded, but we’ve only encountered a handful of people so far. We stopped near one of the large, billowing trees, and I take advantage of our break to inspect it closely. Its crown is majestic and falling like a thick curtain, some branches nearly touching the ground. I slip through the curtain, with Blake right beside me.

  Instantly, the air between us charges. Maybe it’s the fact that the light from the streetlamps barely reaches inside here, or that the green curtain protects us from view, but the setting is intimate. Too intimate. Heat rises to my cheeks. My neck starts to feel hot too. Actually, my entire body feels hot. A sudden gust of wind sweeps by, and a strand of hair catches at the corner of my lips. Blake pushes it away, then splays his fingers on my cheek and jaw. His thumb is pressing gently at the corner of my mouth, and I know I’m a goner. The intent in his eyes is unmistakable.

  He seals his mouth over mine, and the touch is electrifying. As he feathers the tip of his tongue over my lower lip, he coaxes a moan out of me. He’s demanding entry. I open my mouth, more than willing to let him in, greedy for more of what this man has to offer. His lips are as firm as they are soft, moving expertly over mine. When he slips his tongue inside, I lift my arms, lacing them behind his head, pulling him in closer. Blake not only obliges by leaning in to me, but he fists my hair, tipping my head up. His tongue is driving me insane with rhythmic moves that are jolting to life every single cell, infusing them with desire.

  I’m burning for him, needing to touch, graze, and pull. I vaguely register we’re moving, and then I feel a strange surface—tree bark—behind me. Blake is backing me up against a tree. He deepens the kiss, and my desire transforms into desperation.
I need to touch him. Every cell in my body is buzzing, and the only thing that will calm me down is touching him. Or perhaps it’s the reverse. I need him to touch me.

  I slip my arms under his jacket, slowly running my hands down the expanse of his back, enjoying the feel of those taut muscles under my fingers. When I reach the waistband of his jeans, far from being satiated, I want more. So, I bring my hands to the front, slipping them under his shirt. I just need a little skin-on-skin contact. Once I have that, I become aware that one of his hands is on my waist. The other cups my ass, pulling me against him until our bodies are flush against one another. And sweet heavens, he is hard.

  When we pull apart for air, we’re both panting. Blake drops his head in the crook of my neck, resting there.

  “You taste so good, Clara.”

  Feeling his heated breath on my skin makes it hard to think. I look over his shoulder to the surroundings, but the thick foliage of the tree and the dimming evening light is shielding us from view.

  “What are you wearing?” he asks.

  “Hmm?”

  “Your underwear. Describe it.”

  The last two words sound unmistakably like a command, and my body reacts before my mind, pressing into him, seeking more contact. Not answering doesn’t even occur to me.

  “Matching set of white cotton and silk.”

  “Thong or G-string?”

  I lick my lips. “G-string.”

  “How wet are you?”

  “Blake....”

  “Tell me how wet you are!”

  The command comes on another heated rush of breath that undoes me. I’m so turned on I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m almost ashamed.

  I press my thighs together. “Very.”

  With no small dismay, I realize my hands are still under his shirt, right at the waistband of his jeans, feeling him up. But what do I do? Do I let go? No, sir, I do not. Instead, I trace the defined lines of his abdomen, the steel muscles.

  His hand goes up to my hair, tugging gently, but I have the distinct impression he’s barely holding back from being rougher.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper as he starts breathing in deeper.

  “Calming down. Trying to think about anything other than taking you somewhere private and making you come.”

  I lick my lips, trying to swallow a moan. I fail. It tumbles from my lips, and Blake’s reaction is almost visceral. A groan reverberates from deep within his chest. It is a pure, masculine sound, and it’s calling to me on a primal level. I don’t know for how long we stay like this, limbs intertwined in a manner that is passionate and tender at the same time, but I like the feeling of his arms around me.

  “I can’t believe you backed me up against a tree.” I chuckle when he finally steps back.

  “I can’t believe I was able to stop at that.”

  Well damn. I walk around him, stepping out of the tree’s crown. Blake follows my lead. I’m still a little light-headed and very turned on. I need a cold shower. Stat.

  My shower, which also shares a wall with Blake’s. Somehow I don’t think a cold shower would help all that much.

  “Let’s continue our climb,” I suggest.

  We’re silent with the effort of climbing, and then we fall into an easy conversation on the way home. But when we step into the dimly lit and narrow stairwell of our house, suddenly, the air between us is thick with tension again.

  “Want to walk me up to my door?” I elbow him good-naturedly, hoping to diffuse the tension. No such luck.

  “Nah, I’ll just kiss you against it.”

  “You’re something,” I mutter. Blake traps my gaze with his for long seconds.

  I quickly step away, unlocking my door. As I step inside the apartment, I feel a tiny bit safer, even though Blake still looks all too potent and sexy.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night,” he replies, and I close the door.

  I head straight to the shower, about to turn the water on, but then I hear water noises from Blake’s shower too, and for a split second, I don’t move at all. I’m ridiculous. We probably showered at the same time numerous times in the weeks I’ve been here. Yeah, but that was before he kissed me against a tree.

  A low groan follows, which really must be a loud one, but it’s muffled by the wall.

  And then Blake rasps out my name. My knees buckle. The realization that he’s touching himself while fantasizing about me hits me with such force it knocks the breath out of my lungs. I listen intently for a few more seconds, just to make sure I’m not imagining this, but there’s no mistaking the reason behind his continuous groans. I can’t help it; I join in on the fantasy. Closing my eyes, I imagine him on the other side of the wall, naked, all that lean muscle and strong build on display, his hand sliding up and down his erection fast and then faster still.

  Every bone in my body liquefies. I’m beyond turned on, and I can’t bear the ache between my thighs for one second longer. I slide my hand down, Blake’s groans fueling me. I’m dripping with desire. I move my fingers over my opening, up until I reach my clit. Tension builds inside me until my body is tight with it. I’m right on the cusp, and I need my relief fast. I need it right now.

  I imagine Blake’s hands and lips on me. A thought nags at the back of my mind. Does he know I’m here? If I can hear his shower, then he must be able to hear mine too. The recognition almost sends me over the edge. Every cell in my body seems wired to my clit, and I move my hand more furiously than before. I press my other hand against the wall, seeking his skin, but encountering only the cold tiles. I want to break down this wall and reach out to him. I need him so badly. I want him to fill me up and whisper dirty things in my ear. I’ve never wanted anyone as desperately as I want Blake. Ever.

  “Oh fuck. Clara. Fuck!” The low guttural sound reverberating on the other sound of the wall sends all my senses into a tailspin. I pinch my eyes shut and come so hard, I grip the railing of the shower for support.

  “Blake!”

  I’m beyond shame or caring, and I chant his name again and again until I ride out my orgasm, fully aware he must hear me. When I open my eyes again, it takes a few seconds for my vision to return. My breath is coming in pants, my desire satiated and at the same time magnified. I move my hand from the shower railing to the wall again, as if I could somehow reach out to Blake that way.

  After I calm down, I finish my shower and step out. The mirror is smoked up from all the heat, and I drag my palm over it, cleaning it until I can look at myself: red cheeks, hooded eyes, ridiculously satisfied grin.

  Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the weakest woman of all?

  Clara.

  Even with a wall separating us, Blake and I just crossed a very dangerous line.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Clara

  “The specials are on the front page.”

  I nod at the waiter, taking the menu he’s handing me. I’m meeting Pippa and Summer for happy hour. I haven’t seen them since the wedding almost five weeks ago, which is five weeks too long. I love being with these girls. They understand my crazy. More than that, they usually join in on it too.

  Twenty pages filled with cocktails. Complete overkill. When the girls enter the venue, I wave to them, and my palms sweat lightly.

  I never can hold my tongue when I’m around them. Well, I rarely can hold my tongue, but my oversharing affliction is worse around them. I don’t want to tell them about kissing their brother last Thursday. I’m not even sure why, but I feel it’s smarter to keep the information to myself. Big mouth that I am, I already told Kate and Penny. Penny was ecstatic. Kate, the traitor, also cheered me on.

  As the girls sit down, I open the menu to the page I think has the most interesting cocktails. The two sisters resemble each other very much, even though at first sight they couldn’t be more different. Pippa is tall and blonde, and Summer is petite and has light brown hair. But they both have the exact same defined cheekbones and plump lips.


  “I didn’t actually read the entire menu, but these seem interesting.”

  “Ain’t nobody got time for twenty pages,” Pippa exclaims, looking at the menu in bewilderment. “These sound good.”

  “How are the girls?” I ask Pippa after we order. Mrs. Bennett proclaimed she needed more time with her granddaughters, which is why Pippa has a free evening. Sometimes she plans girls’ nights in at her house so she can keep an eye on the girls too.

  “Oh, they are opportunistic little devils. They’re all hugs and kisses when they’re with me, and when they see Mom they jump right in her arms, and to me, they’re like “we don’t know you”.”

  “That’s because Mom lets them eat chocolate in the evening too,” Summer comments.

  Pippa throws her hands up in the air. “They’re gonna do that when they’re adults anyway. I mean, look at me. They should at least have healthy habits when they’re kids.”

  “Is Julie at your mom’s too?” I ask. Julie is Pippa’s stepdaughter, and about twelve years older than the twins. Pippa’s husband was a widower when she met him.

  Pippa shakes her head, sipping the cocktail she just received. “Nah, she’s at home. Too busy warring with her father.”

  I grin. “Let me guess, Eric scared off another guy who asked her out?”

  “Nope, but refused to let her out of the house for a date because she was wearing a very short skirt and didn’t want to change. I think Julie’s researching colleges in Canada right now, possibly even Europe. The farther the better.”

  Summer chuckles. “Eric is a tad overprotective.”

  “You can say that again. Anyway, I think most men are. I mean, look at Christopher.”

  We burst out laughing, and I nearly snort cocktail through my nose. Christopher’s wife, Victoria, has a younger sister, Sienna, who is twenty and very much into dating. Christopher grills the guys so thoroughly when they show up to take her out that most don’t ask for a second date.

  “Sienna is a genius,” Summer muses. “We really need to pick her brain whenever we need ideas to troll our brothers.”