Page 553 of Summer Heat
She smiled, and it was a very womanly, knowing smile. “I think you could be right.”
Lance fought the wild, dark emotion that rose in him at the thought of some other man with his hands on her. He tried to summon a devilish comment or wicked smile, but they both deserted him. “Well, I’m glad you got a good deal.” He shifted his gaze from her eyes and halted.
The sweater she wore was made of some kind of open weave, with little holes that didn’t mean much—until the light was behind her. As it was now.
It illuminated everything, coming from behind to highlight one breast perfectly under the loose fabric. He felt electrified as he absorbed the simple beauty of the light touching her that way, washing down her slim side, curving around her ribs, kissing the edge of a nipple. A nipple, he noticed with a wave of dizziness, that was unmistakably aroused.
He looked up. Before she could hide it, he saw a naked yearning on her face, an expression of such furious hunger that it knocked the wind out of him. Slowly he put down the instruction packet in his hands.
Deliberately this time, he let her see him look at her—at her face, at her beautiful, seductive mouth, at her throat and at her breasts. She didn’t move, and the air was so thick with the promise of their passion that Lance felt dizzy. “You know,” he said quietly, “the light comes right through that sweater. I can see your breasts like you were naked.”
He almost didn’t hear her, she spoke so quietly. “I know.”
She’d done it on purpose. Sat in that chair knowing he would see her body and be tempted. The thought shattered his control. He stood up and walked to the chair, not caring that she might be able to tell this time that he was aroused. He dropped to his knees before the chair, and reached for her.
At the first brush of his hand over her shoulder, Tamara made a pained sound, and he lost it. He pulled her close, tugging her legs around him. She came willingly, wrapping herself around him, pressing her body close to his. His hands fell almost savagely in her hair and he hauled her to him, plunging his tongue in her mouth with a groan. That sweet mouth, so eager and hungry and deep.
But not enough. He felt blind and deaf and dumb, aware only of the violent need of a woman he could not get out of his head. He reached for the edge of her sweater and pulled, frustrated that he could not get it off quickly enough. It stuck on her shoulders, and he bent his head to kiss that creamy flesh, following her collarbone to the hollow of her throat, struggling to free her from the sweater.
All at once, it tore with a sound that seemed very loud. Tamara cried out, pulling him closer, and with a cry, he tore harder. It tumbled off her shoulders, catching at her elbows. Lance unfastened the bra below, freeing her breasts to his mouth, to his hands. Her skin was silky, supple, warm, and he felt he would explode. He thought he’d imagined how she felt, that no one could be so beautiful to the eye and to the touch and to the taste. But she was. He sucked her deeply into his mouth, kneading her hips with his hands, feeling her fingers digging into his flesh.
And this time, he wouldn’t lose her. Not this time. He reached below her skirts and yanked off her panties, and freed himself, and there, kneeling before her, her torn sweater falling around her beautiful breasts and graceful shoulders, Lance entered her with one sure, clean stroke.
Like the rest, this was violent. She moved to accommodate him, clinging to his shoulders, her legs clasped around him. Her skirt draped his thighs, and he clutched her ass as his need rose to a wild screaming in him. Her name rose to his lips like a chant, like a lifeline, and he whispered it softly, over and over, his heart pounding with need and love and hunger and a thousand things he couldn’t name. He felt whole for the first time since he’d been in her bed, whole like uncut bread, like sunlight.
He came apart against her, even as he tried to resist. She clutched him tightly and Lance shuddered, aching to cry out, knowing he couldn’t or he’d wake Cody. In a mindless, thoughtless, light-struck plane, he gave her himself on a level he knew he’d never given.
She held out almost to the last instant, and then Lance felt her follow him, the spasms of her body wrenching around him, giving him the last possible heights of pleasure. She held him tight, arms and legs and body, and buried her face in his hair, making a quiet aching sound that stabbed clear through him, her hands dug deep in his hair.
When it was spent, they did not separate. Lance sunk onto his knees, holding her close to him, kissing her shoulder, stroking her back, smelling her deep. She let herself be held.
“You feel so good,” he said, and his voice was hoarse. “I’ve wanted you every minute of every day since the last time.”
“Me, too,” she confessed against his neck. She straightened to look at him, their bodies still joined. “No.” The tattered sweater, revealing her nakedness, was almost unbearably erotic. He opened a palm on her shoulder and stroked her skin, the upper slope of her breast, her arm. “You’re passionate and sexy and beautiful.” He circled the tip of her breast with one finger. “You make me crazy, Tamara. I’m not kidding.”
“I used to have a boyfriend,” she said, tracing the edge of the hair on his chest, “who hated it when I did something like that to try and seduce him.” She looked at him, suddenly earnest. “But I couldn’t stand for you to leave tonight without—” She halted, stricken.
He kissed her urgently. “Don’t ever be ashamed with me. Not ever.” He clasped her face between his hands and kissed her again, very gently. He closed his eyes to concentrate on just the sweetness of her mouth, and a thickness filled his throat. He wanted to protect her, to please her, take care of her. “I think that man must have been an idiot.”
“I think he was.”
Now came the awkward part. They were both half-undressed and somehow there had to be some dignity to recomposing themselves. His legs were falling asleep. Gently he reached for the blanket on the chair, and pulled it forward to drape around her shoulders. “I must be getting old,” he said with a smile. “We have to move before I can’t walk tomorrow.”
She clutched the blanket around her shoulders, and with a small sound, eased away. Her skirts fluttered down modestly, and the blanket covered her as she sat on the floor. Lance shifted and pulled his clothes back together, but when she would have moved away completely, he grabbed her. Settling in the chair, he tugged her hand, intending to cradle her in his lap for a while.
Suddenly she went rigid. “Lance,” she said, horror on her face. “We didn’t use a condom.”
A cold wash of claustrophobia struck him. He’d never, ever forgotten such a thing before. What the hell was wrong with him?
But he had a sick feeling that he knew.
The wild man of Red Creek, with a string of women from here to Timbuktu, had fallen in love, fallen in love with a woman he could not allow himself to want.
Jake had been right, that snowy cold morning. Lance had it bad. And instead of falling for someone like himself, someone with a wild streak who might forgive the odd night lost to drink or wanderlust or any number of sins, Lance had lost his head over a woman who needed to be safe and secure and steady. All the things he wasn’t.
Chapter Seventeen
Tamara lay within the circle of Lance’s embrace and tried to ignore the war of emotions in her breast. Her head fit exactly into the cradle of his shoulder, and his arms fit comfortably around her. So right. He was so right.
