Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel) (12 page)

“Hi,” he said.

Polly smiled. “Hi. This is weird.”

“Yes, it is.”

“If you’d asked me three days ago if I thought I’d ever find myself in the fancy bespoke bed of the Sugar Rush CEO, I’d have said you were nuts.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Here I am.”

His for the taking.

She didn’t have to say it.

Luke had been around. A lot. He knew what women liked, what they wanted, what they needed. All he had to do was reach over and sink his hand into Polly’s soft hair, curl his palm around the back of her neck, and pull her gently toward him.

All he had to do was press his mouth against hers, tease the seam of her lips open with his tongue, and delve inside to taste her sugar sweetness. All he had to do was slide one hand over her bare leg, up under her little skirt to find whatever scrap of lace she was wearing beneath.

She’d squirm and sigh, breathe whispers into his mouth, tentatively put her hand on his chest. He’d tighten his grip on the back of her neck, drawing her closer so she’d press her breasts against him.

All he had to do was tug her stretchy dress over her head to reveal the curves of her luscious body in her bra and panties—white lace, maybe, something she’d picked out because she was dressing up for their date. Nothing designer, no La Perla on her, just simple, sweet lingerie. Her nipples would be hard already, the outline of her areolae visible through the thin fabric, and she’d push her breasts toward him as if begging him to touch them.

And he would. He’d unclasp her bra and fondle her pretty breasts, lowering his head to lick her nipples and make her gasp. She’d watch him with a stunned kind of pleasure, as if she couldn’t believe what they were doing. Then he’d take her hand and guide it to his hard cock, closing her fingers around the bulge under his pants so there’d be no doubt as to where this was going.

That was all he had to do. He could hear her panting, the little moans that would stream from her throat as she slipped her trembling hand into his pants to grasp his erection. Her touch would be cool and light, sending a shocking bolt of lust through him. He’d ease her back onto the pillows and slide his fingers between her legs, where he’d find her pussy already damp and ready.

She was ready
now
. He could have her for the rest of the night, for as long as he wanted. All he had to do was reach out with one hand.

He cupped the side of Polly’s face. Her breath caught, her lips parting slightly. He brushed his thumb across her lower lip, thinking he would probably hate himself for this in the morning.

“Go to sleep, Peach,” he said.

She blinked. Luke pulled away from her and turned off the lamp beside the bed. His heart was hammering. He lay down, his back to Polly, and closed his eyes.

Damned if it wasn’t the worst sleep of his life.

WOW. WASN’T
THAT
THE BEST
sleep of her life?

Polly looked at the ceiling, enjoying the sensation of the mattress embracing her. The foggy dawn light filtered through the white curtains along the wall, but she had no desire to leave the bed to open them.

She stretched, and her muscles lengthened gloriously like smooth, pulled taffy. Her sleep had been deep and untroubled, the kind she’d had as a child when she hadn’t been worried about adult things like paying her rent and bills on time. The goose-down—
Scandinavian
goose down—pillows cradled her head like a cloud of meringue, and she swore there was some new zesty energy coursing through her veins.

Not to mention, even on a subconscious level she’d been deliciously aware of Luke’s strong body beside her, the soapy scent of him drifting into her dreams.

She turned to glance at him. He faced away from her, in the same position he’d been in when they’d gone to sleep. His shoulder muscles still looked strained beneath his navy T-shirt, the tendons in his neck still tight.

Polly lifted herself onto her elbow, her lovely relaxation fading a bit. She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder. Sure enough, his muscles were all bunched up and tense.

He twitched. She pressed her fingers into his shoulder a little more to see if his muscles would loosen up at all. Hard as a rock.

Luke shifted, peering over his shoulder at her. His messy hair fell over his forehead and his face was set with irritation. He was all scruffy, dark-eyed male. She swallowed hard. Oh, he was so handsome.

“What’re you doing?” His voice was rough.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did not.”

“Oh. I slept like a baby.”

Polly had never heard a man actually growl before, but she was pretty sure that’s what Luke did.

He stabbed his finger at the door. “Guest bathroom down the hall has soap, towels, and toothbrushes.”

He threw the sheets aside and stalked into the bathroom, shutting the door hard behind him.

Okay, so he wasn’t a morning person.

His mention of a bathroom made Polly aware of her bladder, so she hurried down the hall to wash up and brush her teeth. She wiggled out of her too-tight pantyhose and rolled it into a ball. She even
looked
well-rested, she thought, studying herself in the mirror as she tugged a silver comb through her tangled hair.

She left the bathroom and went downstairs to put her pantyhose in her purse. She retrieved her cell phone and checked in with Clementine, who had insisted on opening the bakery this morning after hearing about Polly’s date.

“Just in case the date goes long,” Clementine had said cheerfully.

Polly texted her that the date had, indeed, gone
long
, but due to the broken-down van and not other long . . . things.

Whatever you say, dear,
Clementine texted back.

Polly rolled her eyes and headed back upstairs to talk to Luke about dealing with the van and getting home. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“Luke?” Alarmed, she hurried to his side. “Are you all right?”

He looked up, his features still lined with fatigue. His hair was damp, and water trickled down his temples, like he’d dunked his head under the faucet.

“Did something happen in Venezuela?” Polly asked.

“Vene . . .” He shook his head. “No. Everything’s okay.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t sleep well.” She brushed a drop of water off his neck. “It must have been because I was here.”

“Yeah.” He sighed heavily and dragged a hand down his face. “It was because you were here.”

Polly tried to deflect a stab of hurt, along with the question of whether he slept badly when he was with
any
woman or if it had just been her. She didn’t actually want the answer to either question, hating the reminder that he had lots of other women, not wanting to believe he could be uncomfortable with her.

But if it
was
because of her . . .

She stepped back and gestured to the bed. “Lie down on your stomach.”

“What?”

“Come on.” She pressed on his shoulder to get him to do her bidding. “Face down.”

His eyes narrowed with suspicion, but he didn’t appear to have the energy to resist. He stretched out on the bed and pulled a pillow beneath his head.

Polly’s nerves suddenly tightened as she tracked her gaze over his broad shoulders and back, the material of his T-shirt fitting him like a second skin, and down to his very firm rear.

She took a breath, experiencing a sudden visceral memory of pressing herself against the front of his hard body. What would it feel like to press herself against the
back
of his hard body? Tingles like brightly colored sugar crystals surged through her.

Come on, Polly. Focus.

Luke had been very generous—and again, respectful—by letting her sleep in his bed and not once trying to touch her.

Wait a second. Aside from the caress on her cheek, why hadn’t he touched her? He obviously knew she still wanted him. Any woman would. And Polly could only partially blame the alcohol for how she’d acted at the Troll’s House because on a deep, primal level she’d just
desired
the man. She’d known the second she saw him again at Sugar Rush that her attraction to him was still hot and electric.

And given what he’d said about her hooking up with anyone but him . . .

She shook her head to dislodge her musings. The past forty-eight hours had been very odd indeed, so it would be best if she stepped back and reexamined this whole situation later—like on a day when she hadn’t woken up in a bed that probably cost more than the whole Wild Child building.

“Am I supposed to take a nap?” Luke turned his head on the pillow and opened one eye to peer at her. “Because I’m constitutionally incapable of sleeping past five in the morning.”

Polly glanced at the clock, which told her it was five thirty. Funny that both she and Luke Stone were naturally early risers.

“No.” She knelt on the bed beside him. “You’re just supposed to relax.”

“I’m constitutionally incapable of relaxing.”

“Not true. You’re a cardinal sign. Cardinal signs govern the seasons and have the power to change.”

He gave a faint laugh into the pillow. “All right, Peach. Prove I can relax.”

Polly’s heart sped up as she settled her hands on his shoulders. He tensed, a reaction that was neither reassuring nor flattering, but she tightened her grip and started to massage his rock-hard muscles. He was knotted up like a badly tied shoelace. After a few minutes of tentative rubbing, she got to her knees and put more force into her strokes.

Luke let out his breath. His muscles loosened a little, allowing her to slide her fingers to the back of his neck. The warmth of his skin flowed up her arms, and another sigh from him emboldened her further. She pushed her fingers into his hair, the thickness of it tickling her palms as she massaged his scalp, around his ears, then back down to his shoulders and his upper back, using slow even strokes.

There! His body began to slacken, his muscles becoming more pliable. She pressed her weight into her palms, making circular motions around his upper shoulders and digging her thumbs along the ridge of his spine.

He groaned.
Groaned.
A husky, masculine rumble whose effect on Polly’s nerves was in no way lost by the fact that it was muffled by a goose-down pillow.

“Where in the name of everything holy did you learn how to do this?” Luke asked, his voice thick.

“I grew up on a commune,” Polly said. “And one—”

“A commune?” Luke interrupted. “Like a hippie farm?”

“They’re called
communes
.” She deliberately pinched the back of his neck a little too hard. “Or intentional communities. Twelve Oaks is a lovely place near Santa Cruz. I lived there until I was nine. One of the residents was a massage therapist who would give free treatments to anyone who lived there. I’d help her set up and sometimes stay and watch. Then I’d practice massages on the cats and dogs that lived on the property. I was sort of like the local animal whisperer.”

“Well, now you’re the CEO Whisperer. Or a witch casting her spell. You could make a fortune with those hands.”

Polly thought that was what she was trying to do, but with baking rather than massages. She’d always liked helping people feel better, whether with massages, cookies, or home-brewed tea. But helping
Luke Stone
feel better was a whole new level of exceptional, and not because he was the CEO of Sugar Rush.

Because he was the hot, pool-playing guy from the Troll’s House who’d smiled at her and kissed her and made her feel
alive
again.

“Massages should be part of a holistic approach to total well-being.” She scooted back to run her hands over his shoulder blades. “The harmony of your body, mind, and soul. When those three areas are in balance, you can achieve your full life’s potential.”

“I’m all about full potential,” Luke mumbled.

He shifted and pushed up to his elbows. Polly took her hands off him.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

He gave a short laugh. “Hell no, Peach. You’re doing everything right.”

He grabbed the back collar of his T-shirt and hitched it over his head, then tossed the shirt to the floor before lying back down.