B007S2Z1KC EBOK Read online

  He drew a breath. Held it. As soon as they ate, he was getting the hell out of here.

  The trauma of the day had left him keyed up and on edge. He throbbed with pent up energy and steamed with heat. He needed to unwind before he was fit for civilian company. Given the slightest encouragement, he’d fall on Clare like a slavering dog on a piece of meat. She deserved different, she deserved better, their first time together.

  Besides, the incident that pumped his adrenaline had clearly disturbed her. In spite of her brave assistance, he’d seen her shock when the reverend was hit, the memories that crowded her eyes and tensed her shoulders. However much he admired her calm competence at the scene, he knew she was too shaken to take him tonight.

  They sat at the battered kitchen table with its pretty woven place mats and flowery napkins and ate. Squelching his body’s restless want, Matt derived a certain painful satisfaction just watching her, amused by the contrast between her hearty appetite and her neat, almost dainty handling of knife and fork.

  As she ate, the color returned to her face. Her nose was faintly sunburned. He wanted to test the temperature of her pink skin with his fingers. Hell, he’d take any excuse to touch her at all. The imagined feel of her warm, smooth flesh made his blood pressure build.

  Doggedly, he plowed through his omelet and chomped on his salad, hardly registering the alien vegetables that lurked amid the lettuce. After today’s events, he told himself, Clare needed care and cosseting. He could only give her hunger. His demand was too great, his desire too raw, for the patient seduction he figured she required.

  She looked up from her plate, and the tentative invitation in her eyes made him bite his tongue.

  He pushed back from the table. “I should go.”

  ***

  Oh, no. Clare didn’t want Matt to leave. She wanted the reassurance of his warm, living presence. She knew her need was partly a reaction to the afternoon’s violence, an instinctive affirmation of life after a reminder of death. She knew, too, that her feelings went deeper than that.

  What she didn’t know was how to make Matt stay.

  “Have you taken a pill yet?” she asked, to delay him.

  “What?”

  “Your pain pills. Where are they? I’ll get you one.”

  He stood, moving restlessly, hands jammed in the pockets of his borrowed windbreaker. It strained across his broad shoulders, emphasizing his size and power and muscle.

  “It can wait. I’m fine.”

  His masculine energy had sustained her all day. She’d admired his calm, depended on his decisiveness and control. Now he looked tired and edgy and in pain. Concern over his injury sharpened her reply. “You’re limping. And no offense, but you look rotten.”

  He laughed shortly. “I don’t think a pill is going to help either one of those conditions, sugar.”

  “Well, it can’t hurt. Sit down.”

  Somewhat to her surprise, he sat.

  She jumped up to get him a glass of water, glad to help, relieved to have something to do with her hands. He fished a brown plastic bottle from his pocket and shook out two small white tablets.

  Filling a glass at the tap, she stood over him while he drank. His close cut hair curled slightly into the strong nape of his neck. She itched to touch it.

  “Clare.” His voice was restrained.

  “Mm?”

  “You’re making me nervous.”

  She laughed and ran her hands down the thighs of her jeans. “I know,” she admitted ruefully. “I’m even making me nervous. Can I get you something else? Coffee, anything?”

  He leaned back to look at her from under half closed lids. The expression in his eyes made her pulse race. “Coffee would be fine.”

  She hovered an instant longer by his chair and then darted for the coffeemaker. Pouring water into the well, she offered suddenly, “You were wonderful this afternoon. I didn’t tell you before.”

  “Not so wonderful. The shooter got away.”

  She turned, indignant he could think that way, could value himself so little. “You saved Reverend Ray’s life.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. The bullet missed the major organs.”

  “He still could have bled to death.”

  “Yeah.” He met her eyes again, and she warmed at the appreciation in his gaze. “You didn’t do so bad yourself. It can’t have been easy for you, dealing with the gunshot back there, reassuring Mrs. Carter. You did good.”

  The warmth spread, settling low. His opinion mattered far too much. She ducked her head, spooning coffee grounds into a paper filter, counting carefully.

  When she thought she had herself under control again, she said, “You really should take that jacket off. I might have a T-shirt or something you could borrow.”

  “Trying to get my clothes off, sugar?” He sounded amused.

  Her hands shook as she fitted the filter into the basket. She was afraid. Afraid that he could breach the walled garden of her heart and bring it to ruin. More afraid of the strength of her own feelings than she was of his rejection. But all day she’d had practice in facing down her fears. She wasn’t backing down now.

  Baldly, she answered, “Yes.”

  Silence settled in the kitchen like thick honey. The scrape of his chair clawed through it. She imagined him standing, and pulled a deep breath into her lungs.

  “Clare.”

  She gripped the cool plastic handle of the coffeepot.

  He said her name again, soft, insistent. She turned, her back to the counter.

  His hands waited at the zipper of the navy windbreaker. Her mouth dried. She couldn’t speak. While she watched, he pulled it down, the sound rasping the silence. She could hear it even over the pounding of her heart. Without embarrassment, he stripped the jacket from his shoulders and dropped it on his chair.

  The sight of his broad body, all hard planes and slabs, closed her throat. A thin rug of dark hair swirled over his pectorals and stomach. A small medal on a thin gold chain rested on his chest. A white scar cut across a lower rib.

  He paced toward her across the linoleum and reached behind her to pull her clenched hands from the rim of the countertop. Gently, he smoothed them open. One by one, he placed them high on his chest, against the warm muscle and springy hair. She could feel the suggestion of sweat against her palms, see it on his upper lip. Her hands rose and fell with his breath.

  “All you had to do was ask, sugar,” he said in his brown velvet voice. “All you ever have to do is ask.”

  She looked up then. “I have. Before. You turned me down.”

  “I don’t want you to regret this.”

  He was such a good man. Beneath his rough hewn façade ran a vein of pure gold, a wealth of courage and honor and compassion. She wondered if he let anyone in his life dig deep enough to uncover it.

  She smiled. “Why don’t you give me a chance to find out?”

  He inhaled once, sharply. And then his mouth took hers.

  Warm and patient, it coaxed a response she was eager to give. He kissed her with a slow thoroughness that sapped her doubts and burned away her fears. Through the thin cotton of her T-shirt, she could feel the hot imprint of his flesh. His breathing was deep but steady. His arms were strong and comforting.

  Comfort wasn’t all she wanted tonight.

  She stood on tiptoe to twine her arms around his neck and opened her mouth wider. His instant response jolted through her system before he controlled it, channeling the urgent heat that threatened to consume them into long, lush, leisurely kisses. Warm, gentle kisses. Ultimately frustrating kisses. Making an impatient sound in her throat, Clare wriggled closer.

  His hands clamped on her shoulders and then released. “We’d better stop here.”

  Disbelieving, she tilted back her head. “Why? Better for who?”

  “Just better. For now.” His callused fingertips trailed down her cheek, sending ripples of delight along her nerve endings.

  She didn’t understand. Admittedly, it
had been a long, dry while, but she still knew when a man was aroused. And he was, heavily, gloriously aroused. But there were other considerations that might stop him, she realized, concerns she hadn’t had to worry about in years.

  “Is it birth control? Because I’ve got condoms. I mean, I probably should check the expiration date or something, but...”

  He continued to touch her face, her hair, with broad, strong fingers that teased and trembled. “No. Sugar, no.”

  “What, then?” she demanded. “You said all I had to do was ask. Well, I’m asking.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Clare...”

  She fanned her anger, preferring it to the hurt that burned the back of her eyes. “What am I supposed to do now? Beg?”

  “Dammit, no!”

  His obvious frustration soothed her resentment, but not enough. “Maybe you could tell me what I’m doing wrong,” she suggested. “I’m a little out of practice.”

  He shook his head impatiently. “Maybe I’m not the guy you should practice on.”

  “Why not?” she snapped.

  “I can’t make you promises.”

  Deliberately, she held his gaze. She could see his struggle to do the right thing. It only made her want him more.

  “I’m not asking you for promises.” Paul had made her promises, solemn vows blown to bits by a murderer’s gun. “I’m asking for tonight.”

  Goaded beyond the limits of his control, he swore and reached for her. The anger that had crackled around them coalesced into a lightning flash of passion. Triumph burst in her, drowned almost immediately by a downpour of desire as his hands swept over her, as his mouth crushed hers and devoured her. Shaken by the storm she’d conjured, she could do nothing but ride the wind.

  His tongue plunged deep as she ran greedy palms over his damp, smooth, naked back. His rough cheeks abraded her face as they fed on one another, grappling frantically, rubbing like big cats mating. His scent swamped her, and she made a feral sound deep in her throat. Trying to absorb him through her skin, she pressed closer, breast to chest, belly to groin. Not close enough. He stroked her, his touch hard and hungry. Her fingers curled, her short nails sinking into his shoulders, and he groaned into her open mouth.

  Her blood pounded in her head as she breathed in deep gulps. She couldn’t remember sex ever being like this, not sweetly close or quietly comforting, but raw and elemental. She felt matched. Mated. He dragged his teeth along the sensitive cords of her neck, and she shuddered. He branded her, his touch searing her breasts through thin cotton and insubstantial lace, and she moaned.

  When he ripped open the fastening on her jeans, thrusting his hand inside to close over her, she screamed. She was already wet and ready for him.

  He staggered, and they banged into the table. Cupping her buttocks, he lifted her onto it and ducked his head to suckle her through her shirt. She gasped encouragement, flinging her arms around his neck to pull him closer.

  With hot, dark words of praise, he petted her, burying his lips against her throat as his touch glided surely over, around and between the petals of her flesh. She flowered for him, pushing her hips urgently against his hand.

  More, she thought frantically. She needed more.

  She was desperate for him, already straining for his hot, full, complete possession. He stripped her jeans down to her knees and off her ankles. She grappled with his belt buckle, fought the buttons of his fly as he stepped between her legs.

  His arousal, thick and proud and heavy, sprang into her hands. She caressed him and was rewarded by his groan. “Birth control,” he rasped. “We need...you said...”

  “In the bedroom.”

  His stomach muscles jumped under her wandering touch. Inhaling sharply, he rested his damp forehead against hers. “I’m not in any shape to carry you up the stairs, sugar.”

  The wry tone couldn’t disguise Matt’s chagrin. Shocked to momentary sanity, Clare drew back. His wound. Of course. He returned her gaze impassively, the muscles tightening in his jaw. The knowledge that this strong, proud man required her reassurance was surprisingly sweet.

  She smiled in invitation, her blood roaring in her ears. “Then I guess you’ll just have to race me up them.”

  The heat in his answering smile warmed her to the soles of her feet.

  In the end, Clare figured, it was less a race than an obstacle course. They bumped and slid from step to step, pausing to kiss and play and touch until frustration sent them staggering upward again. They were leaning on each other at the finish, naked as ancient Olympians and breathing deep like runners at the end of a marathon. His hands flowed over her, igniting fires in their wake.

  “Here.” She tugged his arm impatiently. “Through here.”

  ***

  Her room was like her, Matt thought, with a cop’s ability to observe and retain detail even in moments of emotion. Small and neat and deceptively utilitarian with its narrow white bed and big wooden dresser. Around the room, little touches hinted at the sensuality in her nature: the vanilla scented candle on the nightstand, the soft blue throw at the foot of the bed, the fresh flowers on the table by the window. She must have left the sash open when she left the house that morning because the gauzy white curtains billowed at the bottom, and the air that flowed through the room was fresh and chilly.

  His skin prickled.

  Clare kissed his shoulder. “Checking for those burglars?”

  It wasn’t burglars that worried him. He was the intruder here.

  Unexpectedly intimidated, he lowered himself cautiously to the edge of her neat white bed. He guessed he was the first man to make it this far since her husband’s death. Could he control himself long enough to make it good for her? He hadn’t been with a woman since he’d left the hospital. For a while before that, actually. But he was ready for her.

  He looked down at his lap, where his body quivered with greed and eagerness. All right, more than ready. And healed enough. His wound had closed to a neat white circle and a ragged pink line. He’d built his muscle until the right thigh was a match, outwardly at least, for the left. She didn’t seem disgusted by the slight difference, by the weakness that kept him from sweeping her up and under him and loving her until she cried out and clung. Loving her as she deserved to be loved.

  Slim and white, she glimmered before him. She was so beautiful she made him ache. She was so delicate she made him sweat.

  “You’ll have to be on top,” he said roughly.

  She stepped forward, her hair pale gold in the dim light from the window, her smile lighting the darkness.

  “I think I can take it,” she said.

  Her innuendo eased the knot inside him, released his rigid control. In this one way, at least, maybe he could be what she wanted. He held out his hand. She twined her fingers with his, and he drew her down onto the soft, quilted cover of the bed!

  As he rolled on his side to kiss her, her smooth thighs rubbed his. Need leapt inside him, sharp and deep. He felt the hardened crests of her nipples against his chest. Hoping her reaction was to him and not to the chill of the room, he grazed them with his thumbs, pressed them with his palms. Her sigh of satisfaction filled his mouth.

  Her hands and feet were cold. Sliding over him, they warmed quickly. Her mouth was hot and drew on his. Little avid sounds escaped her. She liked what he was doing, he knew it. He felt it in the flex of her muscles, the arch of her back, as his hands explored, as his mouth feasted. Her tension built his, stretching his self command until they both quivered like trees in the wind. Limbs rubbed. Sheets rustled. A pillow slid to the floor, but he didn’t miss it.

  Her delicate cheeks were flushed, her slitted eyes turbulent with emotion. He took her up once with his touch alone, for her pleasure, for his. Her head tossed. Her heels dug into the mattress. He did it again, driving her on and on before the strong gale force of his passion, swept up in her gloriously uninhibited response. She poured herself into his hand.

  He flung himself onto his back, g
ripping the disordered sheets on either side.

  “Now,” he said. “Dammit, sugar, now.”

  She slid silkily over him and climbed astride. Soft as mist, wet as rain, she took him into herself in exquisite increments. He was sucked into the center of the storm, rising under her, falling with her, until sensation whirled him up and pleasure emptied him.

  Her final cry of satisfaction drifted down with him to earth.

  ***

  Clare woke to rain and the sound of Matt breathing in the darkness.

  A cold, fretful breeze stirred the curtains, but under her hand his chest rose and fell in deep, steady cadence. He radiated heat like a furnace.

  Comfort, bone deep, flowed through her.

  She’d forgotten the peace of lying with a man, the intimacy of sharing a bed and sleep. She didn’t know how long she had drowsed, but she felt she could go on like this forever.

  In the intimate darkness, the subtle colors of the room were drowned and glimmering. The faint, sweet scent of daffodils drifted from the table by the window, mingling with the earthy musk of man and sex. Turning her face into the smooth skin of his shoulder, Clare inhaled.

  “Your nose is cold,” Matt rumbled.

  His words, hardly loverlike, pricked her confidence. A little of her satisfaction leaked away.

  “Sorry. I thought you were asleep.”

  “Hey, come here.” His big hand pressed against the back of her head. “I like it. Means you’re healthy.”

  “Healthy?” she repeated, tasting the word in her mouth. “Like the dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  She heard his grin in the darkness. Turning her head quickly, she bit at one of his fingers.

  “Careful, sugar. You’re liable to give me ideas.”

  Reassured, she nestled her cheek against the hard, smooth curve of his shoulder. “Big talk,” she scoffed.

  “You want big? I’ll give you big.”

  She giggled. A genuine giggle, she thought, vaguely astonished at the sound. “You’re delusional, cowboy.”

  “Is that what I am?” Rolling to his side, he pressed against her.

  Her breath caught. The muscles in her thighs went lax at the hard evidence of his desire. “Maybe not delusional,” she conceded, getting the words out with difficulty as he nuzzled her throat. “Maybe just insatiable.”