Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

She was unsure at first, startled by the intrusion, bewildered by the taste of a man. Of him. But as he continued his gentle assault, she relaxed again, and when she dared to meet his tongue, he could scarcely subdue his triumph.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she clung and pressed herself to him in slow undulations.

What a woman. What a woman! How he wanted her. Fiercely, insistently. He wanted to lift her onto the railing, delve beneath her skirts, step between her legs, and take her. No whispers of devotion, none of the preliminary caresses he usually enjoyed, just a swift, definitive claiming that branded her as his. After that, he would make her happy…after that, he would know she was his.

In the air over the cottage, birds called and swooped. On the beach, the waves rolled in. Butterflies flitted among the wildflowers nearby. But in the shadow of the porch, two people stood, willing prisoners of unforeseen passion.

Unforeseen passion? When had he last allowed himself such license? There were reasons, good reasons, why he did not. He knew men who had done so, and died for their passions.

He had to rein himself in, for his sake—and for hers. He had taken control of this kiss. He had to honor her trust in him. He had shown her what a kiss could be. Now he had to let her go, and pretend it didn’t matter that his balls ached and he, far too clearly, could imagine how Jessie would look stretched out on his bed.

Forcibly he subdued his instincts. Gradually he drew back.

She tried to clutch him closer. She murmured an objection.

Her ingenuous desire made him deepen the kiss again. He couldn’t resist—but this would never do. Again he pulled away, gentling her new passion with slow caresses that calmed and soothed.

Intermittently she struggled against his restraint, trying inexpertly to lure him on, and that made him want her more.

The girl had driven him beyond sanity, and in less than an hour. He should flee from her now. Flee from her as he had never fled from an enemy or a fight. Abandon the cottage and the holiday and…

She watched him with an edge of wariness that proved her intelligence. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Fiercely.” She watched him with increasing caution. “Like you want to chase me away.”

He almost laughed. Almost, but he couldn’t, not when his body ached and yearned. “You’re not good at reading faces.”

“So my stepmother tells me.” She pushed against his shoulders.

He resisted for one moment, then remembered—he was letting her go. Propping her against the post, he stepped away, and hoped she didn’t observe his arousal. And if she did, he hoped she didn’t know what it meant.

Putting her finger on her tongue, she rubbed it slowly back and forth. “Bacon and coffee.”

“What?” He couldn’t take his gaze off that pink little tongue.

“You had bacon and coffee for breakfast.” She smiled and stroked her finger over her lower lip, dampening it.

She was teasing him. Deliberately enticing him, when only a few moments ago he’d taught her how to kiss! A man learned from experience, but a woman learned from her instincts. A man would do well to remember that. But…there were other lessons he could teach her.

Taking her wrist, he pulled her wet finger to his mouth and bit it. Gently—but he let her feel the edge of his teeth.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the post.

He circled the bite with his tongue, then pressed a kiss on her palm, and closed her fingers over it.

Her eyes fluttered open. She gazed at him through passion-glazed eyes, and when he made no more move to seduce her, she straightened. “Oh! You have that expression on your face again.” Her eyelashes lowered. “I understand now. It’s not that you want to chase me away. It’s that you want to chase me.”

He answered swiftly, without thought. “I would catch you.”

Her gaze lifted. They stared into each other’s eyes, the heat between them growing so intense it threatened to scorch away the veneer of civilization that barely held him in check.

Her bosom rapidly rose and fell. The color fluctuated on her tanned complexion. Her hand trembled in his, and deliberately—he had lost all reason—he reached out and cupped her breast. She didn’t leap back or gasp; but her big eyes grew bigger and she stopped breathing. With his thumb, he sought the bead of her nipple, and when he found it, circled it, over and over. “You would be wise to kick me in the knee.”

She paid no heed to his words. Instead she whimpered, a single, primitive sound of need, and pressed her hand over the top of his. “Is this what it’s like to make love?” Her voice was low, vibrating with emotion, uncertain of her words. “This melting? This madness? If you and I decided to…to join ourselves together, would we survive the …the conflagration?”

“Survive, and live to love again.” He tried to smile, but he feared his grin was savage. Turning his hand in hers, he caught her fingers and raised them to his lips. He kissed them once, then gave her back her hand. “But we’re not going to make love. You’ve got a suitor to decide on, and I don’t despoil young ladies who don’t really understand what they’re asking for.”