The Silver Coin (The Colby's Coin 2)

She pressed closer.

“Breanna.”

Something inside him seemed to snap. He cupped her bottom, crushed her lower body to his as he rav­aged her mouth, his tongue rubbing against hers until she thought she would die. Her breasts were tingling with sensation, her entire body heavy with longing, liquid heat pulsing through her with each plunge of his tongue, each nudge of his hips.

Almost violently, Royce tore himself away, biting off a curse as he lowered her feet to the ground, stead­ied her against the bench—an arm's length away.

Gasping in air, they stared at each other.

“Are you all right?” Royce demanded, his fingers digging into her arms.

Reflexively, Breanna nodded, inclining her head in dazed non-comprehension. She was still awash with sensation, her mind and body reeling with discovery, her mouth clamoring for his.

“Royce?” She said his name in question, in bewil­derment. When he didn't answer, she blinked to clear her head, to make out the expression on his face.

His handsome features were taut, strained, a mus­cle working furiously at his jaw. His midnight eyes were blazing with sparks, and his forehead was dot­ted with sweat, despite the evening's chill. His teeth were clenched, his breath coming in hard rasps, send­ing erratic puffs of vapor into the night sky. He looked livid—no, not livid, tormented, as if he we r e fighting some harsh internal battle.

An internal battle over her.

Another long minute passed, and the cold began sinking back into Breanna's bones, causing her teeth to chatter.

Royce swore again, snapped into action. He bent, scooped his coat off the bench and wrapped it around her, rubbing her arms to warm them. “I'm sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I don't know what came over me. I know that's no excuse, but it's the only one I've got.” His hands glided up to cup her face, and he inspected her closely, frowning as he surveyed her disheveled tresses. “How do we fix your hair?”

Automatically, Breanna's hands came up, discover­ing the extent of the damage. “I can manage.” At his dubious expression, she forced a weak smile. “I've had practice.”

That made his eyes narrow. “Have you now?”

She realized instantly how he'd perceived her re­mark. “Not that kind of practice.” She swallowed. “My father insisted on my looking immaculate at all times. That wasn't easy to manage, especially when I was a child. I learned how to readjust my hair in record time. Watch.” She stepped back, smoothing loose waves of hair back up, twisting and braiding them until they'd reformed their original sleek coronet.

“I'm impressed.” Royce was studying her from be­neath hooded lids.

“Now all I need are these.” Breanna stooped, picked up her gloves, and gracefully tugged them on. “There. As good as new.”

“Just like before,” he said in an odd tone.

“No,” she replied quietly, meeting his probing stare. “Not just like before.” Silence.

Breanna gazed up at him, taking in the warring emotions crossing his face as he struggled with whatever internal demons were plaguing him. She wouldn't ask him what they were—that wasn't her right. She, better than anyone, knew the need to keep one's thoughts, one's conflicts, even one's memories private. Memories like the ones they'd just made. Dimly, she wondered why she didn't feel the shame she knew she should. She had, after all, behaved like a total wanton. Yet she felt more alive, more exhilarat­ed, than she'd ever felt in her life. Was that because the full extent of what she'd done hadn't had time to sink in yet, or was it because what she'd done had felt so incredibly right? So magnificently, incredibly right. “Stop looking a

t me like that,” Royce commanded roughly. “Or you'll be back in my arms before you've caught your breath.”

“What makes you think I don't want that?” She heard him inhale sharply.

“Breanna, you're playing with fire.” A weighted pause. “We both are.”

“Fire.” Her gaze remained steady on his. “Yes, that's what it felt like.”

“I don't want you to get burned.”

“All right,” she whispered. “Just singed then.”

“Damn.” He gripped her waist, pulled her closer and took her mouth in one long, blazing kiss. “You should be slapping me,” he muttered, his thumbs just grazing the underside of her breasts. “Pulling away, calling me a bastard, and slapping me.”

“Is that what I should be doing?” She shivered, to­tally focused on the tantalizing motion of his fingertips.

“Yes.” The kiss deepened, his tongue moving slowly, seductively against hers. “You should.” His thumbs shifted, brushed her hardened nipples once, then stroked them in slow, teasing circles.

“Oh, God.” Breanna's knees were shaking, pin­points of almost unendurable sensation shooting from her breasts to her loins. She shrugged Royce's coat off her shoulders, let it drop, then stepped closer, wrapped her arms around his neck.