Lori Foster - Dash of Peril

The fire quickly warmed the interior and made everything cozy. She loved the crackling of the flames, the scent of aged wood burning.

Dash let her dictate the placement of the cat box, putting an old rag rug beneath it. After the cat had finished eating, Dash showed him the box. “Try to remember, bud. But if you forget, we’ll deal with it.”

Sitting on the hearth, Margo watched Dash talk to Oliver as if he understood. He might not get the words, but the way Dash stroked him, his gentleness—that Oliver comprehended all too well. “You’re so patient with him.”

Dash smiled toward her. “He’s family, right? And family is always important.”

Family. Immediately she thought of her dad—and clearly Dash had, too. They looked at each other, Dash in apology, Margo in resignation.

“I should probably call him.”

“No, let Logan and Reese do things their way first.”

Of course he was right. It had never been easy for her to take a backseat when decisions needed to be made. Being so personally involved made it doubly difficult.

Letting that thought go, she stood and looked around. “I want to see the rest of the house.”

“I’ll show you around.” Carrying her overnight bag, Dash approached. “Where do you want this? Up in the loft, or one of the rooms on this floor?”

Turning to look at the spiral staircase, she said, “Let’s start upstairs.” She went ahead of Dash, anxious for many reasons. Awareness of Dash, so close behind her, warmed her as the fireplace couldn’t. She could literally feel his gaze on her backside with each step up.

Today, though, would be her day. She wouldn’t let him distract her. She would do things her way—and they’d enjoy it.

“About that shower,” Dash said, his voice low and husky with arousal.

“Coming up next,” she told him. “So don’t get any ideas.”

“Too late for that.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry, I have ideas of my own.” She stepped into the massive bedroom. It didn’t disappoint.

An oversize bed dominated the middle of the floor with four skylights overhead. A wall of tall windows faced the lake, allowing in the inspiring view.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” Dash set down her bag and put his hands on her shoulders. “I bought the place because of the private setting, and this room.”

That had her slanting him a look over her shoulder. “Planning to do a lot of seduction here?”

Unlike her teasing tone, he sounded far too serious. “Yeah.” He kissed her temple. “I thought of you.”

That would be so nice—if it was true.

Stepping away she went to the windows first to look out. It took her breath away. Across the lake, tall pines guaranteed privacy. She could see his dock, a rowboat tied to the side but a larger boathouse connected. Two benches lined the shore, complete with a kayak stand and bright yellow kayak.

“Do you have a bigger boat?”

“A speedboat, yeah. The other place—the one I’m giving to Logan—was fishing only. No need for anything fast. But this lake is bigger, without the restrictions. I bought the boat when I bought the house, but it’s still winterized. Another couple of weeks and I’ll get it in.”

A door to the right led to a walk-in closet. She strolled to the bathroom off to the left. A pedestal sink, toilet and glass-enclosed shower—with another window looking out—filled the small room.

“The floor is heated. So are the towel bars.” He stepped close, but didn’t touch her this time. “Everything will be warmed up in just a minute if you want to take your shower.”

“I do.” She trailed her fingers over plush towels hanging on the bar.

“I can fix us something to eat while you do that.”

Margo turned to him. Yes, she wanted her shower, and food.

And then she wanted Dash.

Going on tiptoe, she kissed him. Then, drawn by his scent, the taste of him, she went on kissing him. Under her hands, his shoulders flexed as he planted both hands flat on the wall at either side of her head.

He didn’t take over, just let her do as she pleased. She touched her tongue to his bottom lip, licked inside, tipped her head to better fit their mouths together.

His beard stubble was now even more noticeable. She brushed her fingertips over it, enjoying the rasp. Snuggling up closer, she brought her breast to his abdomen, her belly to his groin.

Breathing harder, Dash clenched his muscles and made a small gruff sound of encouragement.

Knowing she had to stop or she’d blow all her plans, Margo inched away. She kissed him once more, a short, damp kiss. Then another. Patting his chest, she said, “I won’t be long.”

It took a second for her dismissal to sink in. With a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan, he stepped back. “You’re wicked. I love it.”

Love. God, how she enjoyed hearing him say that. “You have no idea yet how wicked I can be.” She stepped around him. “But I’ll enjoy showing you. Soon.”

WITH MARGO BUSY UPSTAIRS, Dash put on soup then took his own quick shower, taking the time to shave, as well. Dressed only in jeans—unsnapped—he stood at the counter, making sandwiches when she came downstairs.

Like him, she wore very little, only a T-shirt and panties.

It fired his blood, seeing her like this, so sultry and on the make. For him.

It wasn’t the first time a woman had taken the lead, but it was a first with Margo and because she was special, because he loved her, it ramped up his excitement to an acute level.

He turned, watching her come toward him. “Luckily the fire has warmed the floor. Otherwise your feet would be cold.”

“No.” She walked right up to him and, after a slow perusal of his body, stroked his chest, his shoulder, his chin. “I’m plenty warm.”

Looping his arms around her waist, his hands meeting over her curvy backside, Dash kept her close. She wore no makeup and her naked mouth looked lush. He wanted to kiss her long and deep, but didn’t want to steal her show.

She didn’t need makeup to look good. With her dark brows and long lashes, her high cheekbones, she looked sexy as hell no matter what. The bruises that had marred her fair skin were finally fading. How long would it be before the memory did the same?

Trailing her fingers down to the waistband of his open jeans, she murmured, “I’m starving.”

“A double entendre, I hope.” Subtly, he let his hands drop a little more, and lazily stroked her ass. Firm, silky... He needed her naked. With him naked. No more reservations between them.

Smiling, she stepped away and went to the table. “How soon until we eat?”

So she wanted to drag out the inevitable? Good. He wanted to savor things, too. “It’s ready now.” More than willing to play the game, which only built the anticipation, he served her.

They each took their time eating, talking. Oliver roamed the house, surprisingly at ease in the unfamiliar setting. He especially seemed to enjoy the fireplace and after a main-floor reconnoiter, he went back to doze on the hearth.

Seeing Margo like this made Dash want to know everything about her. “What were you like as a little girl?”

“I already told you.” Done with her food, Margo sat back, her legs crossed, her posture relaxed as she sipped on her sweet tea. “I was competitive and stubborn and independent.”

That much hadn’t changed, but now, having met her parents, he wondered how they’d dealt with a headstrong little girl—that they’d apparently never wanted in the first place. “Were you a tomboy or a girlie-girl?”

She traced a fingertip in the sweat on her glass. “A little of both maybe. I wanted to do all the things that West did—but I also liked playing with the occasional doll.” She tipped her head, thinking back. “I liked to dress like a girl, too, but it wasn’t always appropriate.”

The image in his mind was so adorably cute, he couldn’t help but imagine how their daughter might look. He’d want her to have Margo’s features, her big blue eyes. “How so?”

“When competing, a skirt can be a problem. So more often than not I was in jeans or shorts. I remember that I seemed to stay dirty, either from tussling on the ground or climbing a tree or forever running and getting sweaty.” She smiled to herself. “Mom stopped buying me shirts in pink and yellow and lavender and instead stuck with brown and gray because she said at least then the dirt stains didn’t show.”

It took all Dash had to keep his scowl hidden. “Did you like ribbons in your hair? Ponytails? Braids?”

Without any real deliberation, she touched the soft curls over her ear. “Maybe when I was really young. But my dad cut my hair when I was seven, and I’ve kept it short ever since.”

“Your dad cut your hair?”

She looked up, her eyes meeting his. “Dad always cut West’s hair. He’d use the clippers on him every other week it seemed. Then once, when West was about thirteen or fourteen, I followed him to the creek. He and some other boys were jumping from rock to rock, just looking at the fish and crawdads, screwing around like boys do. I tried to follow him, but I slipped and landed in the mud.”

That familiar ache expanded in his gut again. “Your parents were mad?”

“Mom wasn’t home when West took me in. He was afraid I was hurt, but I knew I wasn’t. I just had a skinned-up knee and a few scrapes and bruises—and all that mud.” She shook her head. “Dad ordered me into the bath, and when I was done, he made me sit in the kitchen chair while he cut my hair.”

Thoughts churning, heart aching, Dash slowly sat forward. “With scissors?”