Page 508 of Summer Heat
She looked good. Like a Sunday afternoon in a meadow. Like a good bottle of wine. Like everything calm and soothing in the world.
Like good sex.
Sleepily he blinked. Yeah, that, too. That plump mouth, her pretty breasts, that hint of fury and passion in her green eyes. Unless he missed his guess—and if he knew anything, it was women—she hid a very passionate nature behind all that no-nonsense busyness.
“Blame me?” he echoed with a smile. “What did I do?”
She looked away, tracing the edge of her book with a fingernail. The thick hair fell over her face, hiding it, but he saw the blush pinken the skin of her chest. Ah-ha.
“Nothing. I just wanted to blame someone.” She tossed her hair from her face. The pointed chin jutted upward. “But I was just dumb.”
“Nah,” he said, standing up. “Never that.” In a couple of long strides, he closed the distance between them. He stopped in front of her, acting purely on instinct. Lifting one hand, he brushed his fingers over the greenish bruise that marked her face. “Maybe you were just distracted.”
It was the second time he’d touched her. And for the second time, he noticed her skin was almost astonishingly soft and silky. Caught by the texture, he ran his fingers over her cheek. She didn’t move away, but she lowered her gaze. He touched her thin eyelids, traced her eyebrows, which were as dark as her hair, and shaped like bird wings. “Your hair is so dark.”
“My father was half Choctaw.” The response was automatic enough he knew she said it a lot.
A dizziness—maybe exhaustion or loss or simple appreciation—moved through him. She was as easy to enjoy as a dandelion growing in a forgotten lot. And like a dandelion, he suspected she had long and sturdy roots, a stubborn will to survive that would not be easily killed.
He lifted his other hand to her face and cupped the piquant shape between his palms, spreading his finger open so he could touch as much of that tender skin as possible. “Wow,” he said, and couldn’t think of anything else to add.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Your skin is so soft I just want to feel it. Do you mind?”
“Yes,” she whispered. She raised her lids, revealing the dusky heat in her eyes. He doubted she knew that it showed so plainly, so alluringly. “Please don’t,” she said.
But her body betrayed her. She shivered a little and her lips looked suddenly moist and ready.
Lance kissed her. It was done with no thought, no planning. He just bent his head and tasted her lips. It seemed like such a simple, obvious thing to do.
But it wasn’t simple. A bolt of something pure and clean moved through him as their lips touched, a physical sensation as powerful as a plunge into the ocean. Her lips tasted faintly of lemon tea and salt, and they fit his with an extraordinary perfection, as if their mouths had been carved together, long ago in another world, and only now fit together again.
It was so unexpectedly satisfying that Lance didn’t even feel any need to go within. There was enough just right there, in the sweetness of lips too long untouched—and hungry, by the way she returned the kiss—and the discovery of a mouth so flawlessly molded to his own. When he inclined his head, she moved the other way; when he moved, she moved.
Her hands came up to catch his wrists, as if to pull his hands away. But she didn’t. She only curled those small cold fingers around his arms and held on. He kissed her, and she kissed him back—small, delicate, nibbling kisses that explored this place and then another, kisses that grew longer and warmer and moister.
Before it could be too much, or he pushed farther than he wanted or she needed, Lance lifted his head. Still holding her face, he tasted his mouth with his tongue. “Mmm,” he said, and was surprised at the husky sound of it.
She pulled free, her color high. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
“Yeah,” he said. “So do I.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling how tousled it was. Weariness made him unstable on his feet. God, he’d never been so tired! “Your car is fine now. You shouldn’t have any problems.”
Tamara dug in a backpack and came up with his keys. She put them in his hand. “What was wrong with it?”
There had actually been quite a lot wrong. The radiator had a crack and he’d had it replaced, but he knew she didn’t have any money. He’d seen her panic this morning. One thing having money let him do was little things like this, without anybody ever having to know. It somehow made it better to have it in the first place, when so many people did not. “It wasn’t much. The spark plug and some crossed wires. Joe got it fixed.”
“Joe Moran?”
“Right. I paid him, so you can just pay me when you can. It was twenty-three dollars.” He grinned. “Well, actually $23.09, if you want to be exact.”
Visible relief broke on her face. “Good. I have it right here.” She counted the bills from her wallet, and with a grin, plucked a dime to put on top. “So we’re square.”
He chuckled and pocketed the money. From the back of a chair, he took his jean ja
cket. “Don’t forget, now. Cars don’t like to be sworn at. You didn’t swear at my darlin’, now did you?”
“How could anyone swear at that car? It runs like cheetah. ”
