Love & Curses(7)

“Fine.” She smiled, and he shifted his gaze to the sink.

“Since you’ve got the day off, why don’t I take you on a picnic? Sunshine, fresh air.” Good God, where had that come from? He laid the cup in the sink on its side and set it upright again then tapped the faucet with his fingertips. “Maybe Lake Pontchartrain?”

“I’m up for that.”

Me, too. He brushed past her. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll meet you at my car.”

Two hours later, he lounged next to Calista on a quilt, the sun beaming down on them. They’d demolished the French bread and cold cuts he’d brought and packed the remnants back into the cooler. Tipping the bottle of rosé, he refilled their glasses.

“This is quite the recovery prescription.” She grinned. “Do you take all your patients on picnics and ply them with wine?”

“Only the ones nearly creamed by buses.” He took a gulp, the sweet-tart liquid sliding down his throat. Damn, she was beautiful. All that long, wavy black hair. How he would love to dig his hands into those strands. And trail his fingers over her light cocoa skin. From the times he’d held her while she sobbed over some asshole who didn’t deserve her, he knew her flesh was smoother than silk. He shifted his gaze to the lake, the dark waters supporting several motorboats as they sped about. Could she be interested in him, or did she see him solely as a friend?

“And how many have there been?” She giggled. “Like, half a dozen or so?”

“One.” For over a year, there’s been just one. Emptying his glass, he set it aside and looked at her, captured by her intense whiskey-colored gaze. “Only you.”

She blushed and switched her attention to the lake. “Nice bedside manner, Dr. Mitchell.”

Unable to stop himself, he reached over and brushed aside an ebony lock, tucking it behind her ear. He skimmed his knuckles along her jaw line, and she turned toward him. Leaning forward, he slipped his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her head up, and pressed his mouth to hers.

Oh yes, at last he’d kissed her—and she hadn’t pulled away. Emboldened by her response, he drew the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips. She opened to him, and he took her mouth, darting his tongue against hers and drinking in the sweetness that was Calista. Heaven on Earth.

His body pulsed with fire, need and longing finally met. He pulled her closer, wound his arm around her waist. She was soft and pliant, and her heart pounded so hard he felt it against his chest.

Andy broke the kiss. Easing back, he stared down at her wet, swollen lips and wide eyes. Oh, shit.

“Calista, I’m…I don’t know why I—”

She slammed her mouth to his, threading her hand through his hair. She stroked his tongue with hers, the erotic motions sending lust to careen along every nerve. Lacing his arm beneath her knees, he scooped her onto his lap. As they dueled for dominance, a breeze washed over them, the smell of lavender tickling his nose—not her normal scent, but pleasant all the same. Leaving her lips, he trailed kisses along her jaw to her neck.

“Oh,” she said on a breathy moan. “Wait.”

“Calista,” he murmured against the supple flesh of her throat. He slid one hand to cup her breast, taunting him from beneath her tight T-shirt. Grazing a thumb over the tip, he found her nipple peaked, and groaned. She was so hot and delicious.

Lightning flashed over the lake, and thunder rumbled the air.

“Wait, Ben.” She shifted in his lap, the unexpected hip action sending his libido into overdrive. “There’s a stor—”

He kissed her again, another burst of heat spearing his nerves as she responded. He couldn’t get enough, couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. His body demanded her here on the quilt, now. Her whispered words rang through his mind—

He broke the kiss, held her shoulders, and frowned. “Did you just call me Ben?”

“I…um, well….” She blanched and looked toward the lake. “There’s a storm coming.”

Andy glanced at the murky waters, heavy gray clouds looming above. The sky had been clear blue a second ago. When had that gotten here?

He dismissed the weather, anger and hurt jabbing his gut. She’d called him Ben. Well, why the hell not? He was her last lover. Just got her heart broken by the bastard. Why shouldn’t she call him Ben? Fuck.

Calista scrambled to her feet, started gathering their belongings. Grimacing, he grabbed up the quilt and cooler and strode off to where they’d parked the car. Man, he’d so screwed this up.

“Andy, wait,” she called from behind him.

He kept walking. When he reached the parking lot, he popped the trunk, tossed the stuff inside, and slammed the lid shut. Without a word, he got into the car and started the engine.