Vaughn winked at River as he backed down the stairs. “You still keep the key under the ugly frog statue?”
“It’s not ugly. And you can’t—” When Vaughn shook his head at her unfortunate phrasing, she broke off, stomping her foot on the wooden floorboards. “We can’t,” she clarified, those big eyes pleading at him from above. As in, we can’t go inside for the purpose of ripping off one another’s clothes.
“I know, Riv.” A wave of regret punched him in the gut. How many times would his decision to leave hurt her all over again? “I won’t…touch you again unless you invite me, all right?”
The words had been pried from his mouth by rusted pliers, but they satisfied some of the guilt bubbling in his abdomen. With one final glance at River’s slight form, Vaughn continued his journey to the back door, cursing himself for making the promise. Because there would be snowballs in hell before he ever broke another promise to River…no matter how much his body yearned to break all the rules.
…
River paid Helen—who seemed to take a month packing away her knitting supplies—and went through her nightly ritual of turning off lights and securing the house. Although, it was much more difficult to accomplish the tasks after a pint of tequila…and with Vaughn watching her from the bottom stair. Grave eyes followed her from the living room to the kitchen, watched as she checked the locks on the windows. She tried not to rush through the process, pushed by her tired brain into making the point that their lives wouldn’t be completely altered just because he’d come back to Hook.
In her periphery, she saw him shift positions, obviously uncomfortable, just as he’d always been in the living room of her family home. Her parents might not be there anymore, but her father’s disapproval of Vaughn must have lingered, judging from his visible restlessness. She’d once asked her mother why her father held Vaughn in such low regard, and surprisingly, his reputation as a troublemaker was only half responsible. Like many contentious relationships in Hook, the dislike went back a generation—a dispute between their fathers, the origin of which River was only partially aware. But she’d known enough to be sure that it had nothing to do with the Vaughn she’d known, so she’d never pursued a full explanation.
She didn’t know him anymore, though. Or did she?
Maybe it was the alcohol tinkering with her mind, the emotional upheaval of her wayward ex storming back into her life, or a combination thereof, but she experienced the sudden need to knock him off balance, the way he’d done to her by coming home, issuing promises, looking at her the way he used to.
But lying to herself had been River’s default of late, so she decided to be honest about the other reason she wanted to throw Vaughn into his own tailspin. Feeling like a desirable woman, being touched and lusted over…it had been too long. He had woken up a wealth of sexual energy in the eighteen-year-old she’d once been, but the hunger for intimacy had been left to cool its heels. Waiting for…what? Her hormones hadn’t vanished simply because she’d become a mother. Whether she liked it or not, the way he looked at her was making serious waves in the tide pool she’d managed to keep semi-calm. The difference now being that love wasn’t part of the equation. Was there a way she could feed the demands of her body without feeling hurt or used afterward?
Yes…
River’s pulse went wild as the idea occurred to her. Not giving herself room to back down, she swayed toward Vaughn, where he’d risen to his feet on the staircase. He held out a big hand, which she took, allowing him to help her to the second floor. The flapping wings in her stomach beat with abandon, and maybe some melancholia when Vaughn remembered exactly which bedroom she slept in, opening the door with an air of authority that turned her on, despite herself. Despite everything.
She watched his Adam’s apple rise and plummet as her bed came into view. The same bed in which they’d made love when Vaughn hadn’t yet rented his apartment, or when they couldn’t afford the motel room or hadn’t yet rented his apartment.
His gaze was still burning a hole in her sunny yellow bedspread when he spoke gruffly. “Okay, doll. Got you home safe, but I need to go now.” Their fingers slipped apart, Vaughn backing toward the open door. “I’ll find you tomorrow.”
“Vaughn.”
Blunt, impatient fingers attacked his hair. “You should maybe have some Tylenol handy for the morning—”
His advice broke off when she freed her hair of its ponytail holder, shaking it out around her shoulders. The flapping wings in her chest moved lower, lower until every inch of her skin was sensitized, licked by fluttering feather tips. Vaughn’s reaction did it—the dropping of his jaw, the liquid quality that stole over his eyes. Desperate to push, to witness more of his desire for her—it felt so good—River gripped her T-shirt’s hem and lifted it over her head.