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

With excruciating slowness, he raised his hand and traced his thumb over her cheekbone, her jaw, and then down to the hollow of her throat and over her collarbone. He dipped his head and buried his face in her neck, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin behind her ear. "Tell me why you left." He nipped at her earlobe, and she could feel herself melting. Only Brandon had ever had this effect on her.

"Because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought we were making each other miserable, and I--" She sighed out a moan when he bit gently at the juncture where neck met shoulder.

"You what?" His hands skimmed over her waist, tracing up her back. He found the pull of her zipper and began easing it down.

"I didn't know how to fix it, and I thought you'd be better off without me. If you weren't peeling my dress off right now, I'd think you must hate me."

He let out a chuckle, the sound rumbling deliciously over her skin. "You drive me mental, but I could never hate you, Tash. I know things were hard between us. God, we were young. We didn't know what we were doing. You messed up, leaving like that, but I didn't know what I was doing either. I could've been better to you. We could've been better to each other." He pushed the straps of her dress off her shoulders and she wiggled out of it, letting the material pool at her feet.

She reached behind her and unhooked her bra, freeing her breasts.

"Sweet Christ."

She gasped when his strong hands cupped her ass and lifted her just as his mouth crashed into hers. There was nothing gentle, tender, or sweet in Brandon's kiss. It was the kiss of a man staking his claim: hard and hot and ravenous. His tongue stroked into her mouth, and she sighed against him, wanting to dissolve into him. She twined her legs around his hips and he tumbled them onto the bed, his weight solid and reassuring above her. He deepened his kiss as they worked as a team to undress him, his fingers pulling at his tie, undoing the buttons of his shirt, while she wrestled with the buckle of his belt.

"Bloody fucking bollocks," he swore, his mouth still against hers. He pulled back just as she freed his thick, hard cock from his pants.

"What?" She stroked him and he hissed out a breath, closing his eyes.

"I haven't a condom."

"So? I'm on the pill. Brandon, Jesus. I don't want to use a condom with you."

The wolfish smile reappeared and he pushed off the bed, shucked the rest of his clothing and then pulled her panties off, tossing them on the floor before crawling back on top of her. He notched the head of his cock at her entrance and rocked his hips, giving her only a taste of what she needed. He sucked a nipple into his mouth before raising his head to look at her.

"If we do this, if we try again, we have a lot of shit to work out. I need to know you're on board with that."

She nodded, swallowing around the lump in her throat. "I want to make it work with you. I promise to try harder, to be better. For better or for worse." Her voice shook and cracked on the last word.

"For better or for worse, Tash." His voice was hoarse, his eyes bright as he looked at her.

Happiness, relief, and hope filled her at the same time as Brandon eased himself all the way in, not stopping until he'd buried himself deep inside her. He slid his hands up and pushed her arms above her head, intertwining his fingers with hers. Over and over again, he filled her with slow, sensuous strokes that gradually gave way to harder, faster, deeper thrusts that all too soon had both of them crying out in bliss, sweating and shaking and panting.

As the sun rose over London and they lay sweaty and sated in each other's arms, she felt whole in a way she hadn't in years.

"I love you," she whispered, pressing a kiss over his heart, his chest hair crisp against her lips.

"I love you more," he whispered back, nuzzling into her hair.

"Are we going to turn this into a competition, too?" She propped up on one elbow, and he looked at her, one hand behind his head, the other sliding up her waist and to her breast. He looked so devastatingly sexy it took her breath away.

He shook his head. "No point. We've both already won."

She laughed and kissed him. Just this one time, she wasn't going to argue.

Tara Wyatt is a contemporary romance and romantic suspense author. Known for her humor and steamy love scenes, Tara's writing has won several awards, including the Librarian's Readers' Choice Award, the New England Readers' Choice Award, the Golden Quill, and the National Excellence in Romantic Fiction Award. A librarian by day and an author by night, Tara lives in Hamilton, Ontario, with the world's cutest dog and a husband who makes all of her heroes look like chumps.

Visit her online at http://www.tara-wyatt.com.

I COULD TELL THEY weren't married by their voices. As the couple browsed through volumes on the second floor of Between the Pages, my favorite Chicago indie bookstore, a woman I decided to call "Cherry," after her bright-red fingernail polish, purred in response to her man--a tall, hunky guy wearing a black leather jacket.

I overheard the hunk in leather say, "I'm not going home without the book I need."

Her reply was kitten-like--playful but sharp. "Well, we'll find it for you. I'm not a woman who leaves without accomplishing her mission."

Ah, defining herself. She spoke a decibel too loud for the quiet section of the bookstore and used that irritating, overly solicitous, enthused tone reserved for people still trying to make a good impression. I guessed they'd been dating for three weeks. Okay, maybe four. But for anyone within a fifty-foot diameter, hearing more of their conversation was unavoidable.

"How about this one?" Cherry asked. "It's an hors d'oeuvres handbook."