Second Chances: A Romance Writers of America Collection (Stark World 2.50)

She fought the urge to dance in her seat and took another calm sip instead. "Good."

"In fact, why don't you come visit the farm sometime soon? We give public tours on Wednesdays, but I'd love to give you a private look at the place. Maybe make dinner for you? I'm a pretty good cook."

Therese's heart flipped over in her chest and chill bumps broke out along her arms. Once upon a time, a home-cooked dinner down on the farm would have seemed quaint at best. Just then, it sounded like the most romantic thing in the world. But the urge to play hadn't yet drained from her system, and she couldn't resist one more tease. She leaned over, giving him a glimpse of her revamped cleavage, and laid a hand on his knee.

"Are you inviting me to see your zucchini, Mr. Taylor?"

His eyes flashed sex and mischief. "Only if you want to look."

HE COULD BARELY WRAP his head around the past couple of weeks, around the emails and the phone calls and the candlelit dinner they'd just finished. He couldn't believe she was standing there with him, their shoulders barely touching, watching night-owl water bugs dance across the surface of the pond. Somewhere nearby, a neighbor had a bonfire going. Someone else had Janis Joplin tuned high enough to send her whiskied strains shimmering through the half-light. He was so aware of the woman beside him it ached.

This was obviously the perfect moment to take her in his arms as he'd wanted to do for so long, to pull her to his chest like the hero she made him want to be, to kiss her like a man who'd gone mushy from the waist up and rigid with desire below. He wanted to kiss her, needed to kiss her, could barely control the hunger no food could sate. And yet here he stood, heart pounding and knees wobbling like a tenth grader at the homecoming dance. Like an idiot. Like someone who hadn't done far more difficult things in his lifetime. Except he wasn't sure anything he'd done before would turn out to be as important. It was early days yet, and anything could happen, but he just had this feeling about Therese, about their future. The last time he'd been so sure was the day he decided to start the farm. That had felt right, too.

He grabbed hold of his courage with both hands, reminded himself that he used to have balls, and said her name in a voice hoarse with everything building inside. She turned, a peaceful half smile on her face and answering need burning in her gaze. The desire very nearly took over, wiping out any possibility of the gentle, exploratory kiss he'd planned, and powering his body to move. He reached for her and, in one swift motion, crushed her to him as though he'd never let go and captured her lips in a kiss more passionate, more heated, than he knew he was capable of delivering. Maybe he hadn't been, before. Her curves gave against his hardness, but her body was as taut and wanting as his, and she met his fire flame for flame. She tangled her hands in his hair, tugging him ever closer as though she, too, had a lifelong hunger to satisfy. For long moments, pure, powerful lust swirled around them, stormy and desperate and laced with the kind of abandon most people could never understand. Tongues twined, hands roamed, and his brain buzzed so loudly it drowned out the waking pond frogs.

Then slowly, gradually, the physical intensity eased. Their bodies went loose and their muscles relaxed and their ravenous passion slipped into something more comfortable. His taste buds registered the sweet aftertaste of honeyed pound cake on her lips, his fingertips registered the softness of her sweater, and his heart registered the contentment soaking into his limbs. An unhurried diminuendo of tiny, breathless kisses eased them into reality, and she turned silently in his arms to face the pond again, serenity radiating from every line of her form.

He kissed the top of her head, counting every curly, soft blessing beneath his lips, and accepted that he was a goner. The farm had beckoned him from the moment he set foot on the land. But kissing Therese was coming home.

"I have scars, you know." Her voice was soft, barely audible above the crickets and the riot of his still-pounding heart.

He shook his head to clear the mist and kissed her head again. "What?"

"Scars. From the surgeries. I have them. I probably always will."

He nodded, then realized she couldn't see him. "I have them, too." His had been around longer, had far more time to fade, but that was okay. He still recalled when they were raw and ragged. He knew how to help them heal.

"I thought I should warn you," she said quietly. "For when we make love someday."

His pulse quickened, and he made a mental note to kiss every inch of all her scars when they reached that point. Then he took a deep breath, willing his voice to stay steady despite the heady combination of arousal and affection reverberating along his nerves.

"It won't matter," he said, his tone tender but firm. And it wouldn't. Because scars were powerful, a sign of determination. What mattered was that they were both going to live.

CiCi Coughlin is a storyteller, strategist, and chronic student--also a dog schmuck, Sinatra fan, and nacho connoisseur. She writes about the funny, sexy, quirky lives we all lead and loves experimenting with offbeat ideas. She pens everything from flash fiction and short stories to novellas and novels. Sometimes the heat level scorches; sometimes it simply simmers. Her twelve-book, high-heat series, Boudoir de Deux, is halfway finished and includes her award-winning novella Tex-Mex Sex Hex. As per usual, she has a plethora of other projects in the hopper.

CiCi, who lives south of Atlanta with the Staffy mix who rescued her, also writes mysteries, magic, and more as Maggie Marsh.

Find her at http://CiCiCoughlin.com and on Instagram @maggieshewrote or Twitter @maggieshewrote.

A PRICKLE SPIDER-WALKED DOWN my spine. I lowered my turkey sandwich and scanned the cliques scattered around the quad. Past the cheerleaders holding court in their thigh-high pleated skirts, past the skaters perched with their boards on top of the concrete retaining wall, beyond a trio of sophomore girls checking their cellphones, he drew my stare. Wind ruffled his hair as he leaned against the flagpole.

Our gazes collided like a six-foot swell crashing against the hull of a small boat. His lips parted; he straightened his lanky stance. I drew in a quick breath and averted my gaze. Where had he come from? Vogue? Vanity Fair? Maybe a castle in the United Kingdom was missing its ginger-haired prince.

First-day-at-a-new-high-school nerves trembled my hands as I stashed my half-eaten sandwich into its plastic cube and snapped the blue lid into place. Be cool. I finger-combed my hair. The sight of caramel brown tresses slipping through my fingers startled me. For a second I had forgotten the dye job, another layer in my disguise. If I didn't look like Sailor Saint James, and I didn't bear her name, then no one would hound me.

Sailor, why weren't you on the yacht with your father? Did he ask you to stay home because he planned to kill himself?

I wriggled on the boulder, searching for a more comfortable perch. A local pediatrician had donated the money for the wellness garden bordering the quad. The lavender, rosemary, and sage intermixed with the oversized rocks were supposed to lower student anxiety. Bees buzzed alarmingly close, a chaotic platoon of miniature drones. My throat constricted.

I should have sailed with him. Maybe I could have stopped ... whatever happened.

I rotated my cashmere-lined leather baseball cap so the brim shaded my eyes. Most of my trappings of wealth had been lost: my private school, our home and, of course, the yacht was collateral damage. My designer clothes hung untouched in the cramped closet in our small loft above a dying strip mall on the outskirts of town. Fashion editors and bloggers had praised my signature style--too distinctive now that I needed to blend in, not stand out. Only the baseball cap, seemingly ordinary but deceptively well designed and pricey, remained.

I risked another glance at the redhead. He had halved the distance between us. A rogue basketball escaped a nearby pickup game and bounced his way. He caught it, barely breaking stride.

"Over here!" a player shouted.

I expected the boy to send the ball bouncing back to the court. Instead, he lobbed a powerful chest pass.