Loe raamatut: «The Texan»
PRAISE FOR CATHERINE LANIGAN: Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen TENDER MALICE Copyright
PRAISE FOR CATHERINE LANIGAN:
“Lanigan knows her genre well....”
—Publishers Weekly
“As a storyteller, Catherine Lanigan is in a class by herself.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Catherine Lanigan’s books...represent the changing—and booming—genre of women’s fiction.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Catherine Lanigan will make you cheer and cry.”
—Romantic Times
“Catherine Lanigan is a master storyteller.”
—Rave Reviews
Catherine Lanigan is the bestselling author of the novelizations of the blockbuster movies Romancing the Stone and The Jewel of the Nile.
Dear Reader,
February, month of valentines, celebrates lovers—which is what Silhouette Desire does every month of the year. So this month, we have an extraspecial lineup of sensual and emotional page-turners. But how do you choose which exciting book to read first when all six stones are asking Be Mine?
Bestselling author Barbara Boswell delivers February’s MAN OF THE MONTH, a gorgeous doctor who insists on being a full-time father to his newly discovered child, in The Brennan Baby. Bride of the Bad Boy is the wonderful first book in Elizabeth Bevarly’s brand-new BLAME IT ON BOB trilogy. Don’t miss this fun story about a marriage of inconvenience!
Cupid slings an arrow at neighboring ranchers in Her Torrid Temporary Marriage by Sara Orwig. Next, a woman’s thirtieth-birthday wish brings her a supersexy cowboy—and an unexpected pregnancy—in The Texan, by Catherine Lanigan. Carole Buck brings red-hot chemistry to the pages of Three-Alarm Love. And Barbara McCauley’s Courtship in Granite Ridge reunites a single mother with the man she’d always loved.
Have a romantic holiday this month—and every month—with Silhouette Desire. Enjoy!
Melissa Senate
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
The Texan
Catherine Lanigan
CATHERINE LANIGAN
As a college freshman, Catherine Lanigan was told by her creative-writing professor that she had no talent and would never earn a living as a writer. With ten bestselling romance novels and praise from Affaire de Coeur, calling her “an unequalled and simply fabulous storyteller,” Catherine has proven him wrong in a very big way.
Catherine is also the bestselling author of the novelizations of the smash movies Romancing the Stone and The Jewel of the Nile. When not writing, she enjoys entertaining her friends with innovative gourmet meals.
For Charlotte Breeze and Karen Taylor Richman.
My thanks for all your hard work and plugging away
on this project long enough for serendipity to take
the credit.
Prologue
Houston, Texas
“I won’t believe for a second that I’m finished,” Rafe Whitten growled as he catapulted his six-foot-two-inch, wide-shouldered frame out of the brown leather chair in his accountant’s office. “Defeat is not in my vocabulary, Matt. You of all people should know that.”
Matt Leads instantly hung his head and shook it in frustration “It’s this ‘die-hard’ attitude of yours that’s gotten you into this financial black hole, Rafe. Tele-Cept was your brainstorm and probably would have gone on forever. Embezzlement is not easily recoverable.”
Raking his hand through his thick dark hair, Rafe placed his booted feet wide apart, folded his arms across his expansive chest and glared at Matt. “Don’t I know it. But bankruptcy? Matt, I can’t do it. It’s not the Whitten way of doing business. My clients believe in me. I’ve made promises I must keep.”
Matt was only a year younger than his thirty-three-year-old friend, Rafe, but it was at times like these he felt as old as Methuselah and twice as wise. “If you’d listened to me—”
“The ranch is all I have left,” Rafe interrupted him. “When my parents died they intended for me to keep it for their grandchildren.”
“Considering fatherhood is one of your least favorite topics, why are you letting the ranch and a bunch of horses keep you from making good at least the majority of this debt?”
Rafe ground his jaw and shoved his hands into his pockets. “They’re not just horses to me, Matt.”
“Sorry,” Matt apologized. He knew how close Rafe was to his menagerie of horses, bulls, cats, dogs, ducks, birds and any other animal that was smart enough to recognize a sucker when it saw one. Matt knew from Rafe’s receipts at the Waller County Feed stores that he would rather spend money on animal feed and grain than on food for himself.
“I’ve had a lot of dreams about that ranch, Matt. I always believed I’d make them come true. Now you’re telling me it’s impossible.”
“I never said that. Miracles happen every day. It’s just that I’ve never seen any.” Discernment narrowed Matt’s brown eyes. “Have you?”
Rafe immediately stopped pacing. “No.”
Despite his resolve to banish his anger toward his former business associate, Paul Thomas, haunting visions of their college comradery bored deeply into Rafe’s trusting heart. Letting even more blood over the situation was the fact that his five-year relationship with Cheryl Hudson had ended the day she walked out of his life to be with Paul. She’d left Rafe a note saying she couldn’t wait forever till Rafe made his millions. She’d already wasted too much of her youth. She wanted to “live.”
The fact that he’d given his heart to a gold digger hurt Rafe’s pride, but not nearly as much as the knowledge that she’d never loved him in return. He’d been a fool.
More than anything Rafe hated the way his stomach still turned over every time he thought about Cheryl. Her betrayal had been so razor-sharp that he felt he’d been left for dead before he even knew he was cut. Paul’s part in Rafe’s annihilation was secondary, but it was easier for Rafe to talk about Paul than about Cheryl. At least his emotions didn’t stick so viciously in his craw.
Rafe had learned all too well that the only way to fight anger and bitterness was to turn himself off... completely. Detachment was becoming a way of life for him and it suited him just fine. Nobody could ever hurt him again as long as he didn’t allow it, he’d told himself.
Rafe turned cool blue eyes back to Matt. “What’s done is done. I can’t change the past. If you truly believe selling the ranch is the way I should go...”
“I do. There’s a slim chance we won’t have to declare bankruptcy.”
“Bankruptcy is not an option for me. Few people realize it, but that black mark is made with indelible ink.”
Rafe looked out the nineteenth-story window at the Houston skyline. Beyond downtown stretched miles of highways, out to a second skyline of buildings around the Galleria and then further out to the northwest where the sprawling city was no more than scattered pockets of houses. Where land and sky drew together on the horizon was his beloved ranch. His mouth went dry knowing he’d lost it.
How cocky he’d been just a year ago. He’d thought Houston sat squarely in the palm of his hand. Every top executive wanted to do business with him. His technology was on the cutting edge of the lightning-fast world of global telecommunications. Rafe Whitten was the “man to watch” the Houston Chronicle had written. Even the Wall Street Journal cited him for his clever deal-cutting. Money marketers and stockbrokers in every major city were salivating over the day he’d take his company public. He was going to be a multimillionaire overnight, or so everyone thought.
But his partner, Paul, had gotten too greedy, too soon. He not only blew the deal, he sold Rafe down the river while doing it. With the company coffers wiped out, Rafe owed his initial investors millions of dollars. He’d sold everything he owned, the townhouse inside the Loop, his cars, ski boat and the lake condo at Walden. This was worse than the oil crash less than a decade ago. He’d weathered that downturn despite the fact he’d only been twenty-six years old. This time, his situation was much worse; the bust came from a viper at home.
Matt could tell from the flinty look in Rafe’s eyes that his friend was thinking about Cheryl.
Rafe’s hollow voice broke the silence. “I should have listened to you, Matt. From the day I met that blond she-devil at the Houston Livestock and Rodeo Show, you told me she was bad news walking. I remember accusing you of being too cerebral, too analytical and maybe even a bit jealous. Being a good friend, you kept your mouth shut. For a while we were happy, though. The company was moving along slowly but steadily in the kind of way that makes you CPAs comfortable. I gave Cheryl enough trinkets to keep her amused. Obviously, it wasn’t enough.”
Matt stood and went over to Rafe, put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish I’d been wrong about her.”
“Me, too.”
“You know, Rafe, we accountants like everything neat and tidy. So I hope you won’t get mad at me if I ask you something.”
His blue eyes, now reflecting a hard steel gray, never wavered from the horizon. “What is it?”
“Something here doesn’t add up. You’ve never been gullible a moment in your life that I’ve ever seen. So how is it that someone with your brains and savvy fell for her tricks? It just doesn’t seem right. There’s a very large piece of this puzzle missing.”
Rafe shrugged. “Hey, love is blind.” He finally turned to Matt, but his eyes were colder than ever. “You can bet one thing. I’ll never let any of it happen to me again. Once bitten...”
“You can’t mean you intend to be alone forever.”
“I don’t see a problem with that. You see a problem?” Rafe asked angrily, a nerve along his jawline twitching.
“Gotcha,” Matt replied quickly, not wanting to upset his friend anymore.
Turning to the brass hatrack, Rafe took his black cowboy hat off the top hook and settled it on his head. He put his hand out to Matt. “Thanks for all your help. You’ve been a good friend.”
Feeling somehow guilty and responsible for Rafe’s solemn mood, Matt said, “Why don’t we go out for a drink before you head back to the ranch?”
“Naw. The last thing I want is to be around a bunch of people who...”
Frustrated with Rafe’s seemingly implacable need to cut himself off from humanity, Matt interrupted. “Who might be having fun? Who might take your mind off things?” Suddenly, Matt was on a mission. If he let Rafe drive home in his present mood, he would only retreat into a deeper depression. True, Rafe had good reasons to be gloomy, but he’d been telling Matt he was giving up on life. Thoughts that black had to be attacked before their stain set in permanently.
“I have things to do,” Rafe replied, as he turned toward the door.
Matt caught him by the arm. “Well, I don’t. Since I know you can’t possibly pay me all you owe me, the least you can do is buy me a beer on my birthday.”
“Aw, you’re kidding. I didn’t know it was your birthday. Of course we’ll go out.”
“Great!” Matt said grabbing his briefcase and shoving his arms in his jacket. “Actually, it’s not my birthday,” he confessed sheepishly as he held the office door for Rafe.
“Why, you little...” Rafe playfully raised his fist.
“Watch it. You’re bigger than I am. It was only a little lie. Besides, today must be somebody’s birthday.”
“Look, Matt. I’ll have a beer with you, but I’m not going to celebrate,” Rafe said with finality as they left.
One
Houston, Texas
“I’m giving up men forever,” Angela Morton sighed glumly to her friends and co-workers, Ilsa Prentiss and Julia Freeman. As Angela sank her chin into her hand, one of the black-and-silver “Over the Hill” balloons that was tied to the back of her chair bobbed up and down, hitting her in the face. She batted it away.
“This is supposed to be your thirtieth birthday party. It’s time to have fun!” Ilsa replied with a wide smile.
“Don’t be so hard on her,” Julia scolded Ilsa, with her usual mother-hen tone of voice. Julia was the receptionist at the offices of Patrick Gallagher Realtors and being the oldest of the three at the ripe old age of thirty-two, she felt she was not only more experienced in “men matters,” but she’d been married and divorced when both Angela and Ilsa had not been married at all... yet. She was confident her advice was always on target.
“Look at her,” Ilsa said, pointing at Angela. “I’ve never seen a more perfect portrait of doom. The bags under her eyes are packed for Europe.”
“What bags?” Angela asked and instantly looked under her chair for her purse. “Since when have I ever had bags? God! Getting old is the pits,” she said, but Ilsa and Julia weren’t listening. They were too busy dissecting Angela’s life for her. “I’ve been working overtime lately. I’m trying to make a living,” she replied with false haughtiness. “I would never waste a minute’s sleep over a man. You can be sure of that.”
“Certainly not,” Ilsa commented as her eyes zeroed in on a tall, lean, blond cowboy in a very tight pair of jeans and a black hat. “Anyway, I overheard Randy barking orders at you last week to get your sales up.”
“Don’t remind me. Not on my birthday. Okay?”
“I think she’s absolutely right to give up men,” Julia said flatly as she took a long sip of a gigantic frozen margarita in front of her.
“You do?” Angela’s eyes widened in shock. “Why?”
“Take a look at your track record. First was James. What a loser that guy was. He couldn’t keep a job for more than six months. Once you finally kicked him out of the apartment, you discovered he’d maxed your cards.”
“That was six years ago,” Angela said.
“Yeah. And it took you eighteen months to pay off the bills. Then there was Rick who thought it was okay to hit on all your girlfriends.”
“A real peach of a guy,” Ilsa agreed, munching on her sixth handful of snack mix.
“Last but not least was Larry. The jerk of all jerks who not only married your college roommate, but screwed you out of at least six months of real estate commissions. Remember the rules? Never sleep with a Realtor.”
Angela was more depressed than ever. “Let’s not drag up the past, shall we?”
“We learn from the past,” Julia wagged her finger at her friend.
“That is precisely what I’m talking about. Men today aren’t real men like...my great-grandfather was.”
“Do we have to hear this story again?” Julia frowned.
Ilsa cut her off. “But it’s so romantic. Tell us again, Angela.”
“He fell in love with my great-grandmother the first time he laid eyes on her at the Governor’s Ball in New Orleans. He told her they would build a wonderful life together on his ranch west of San Antonio. She loved him, too, and married him the next month. She worked right alongside him every day of her life. They were never apart. Not even for a single night. Until the day they died, they were kind and considerate toward one another.”
“I do love this story,” Ilsa sighed.
“Men today are afraid of commitment. Afraid of working. Afraid of children. Afraid to live. So, why should I waste my precious time on any of them?”
Julia munched on the piece of lime in her margarita. “You have a point. However, this isn’t 1895. This is the Post Oak Ranch. It’s a bar. A meeting place. Not a real ranch, okay?”
“I’m not an idiot, you know,” Angela sniffed.
“No, you’re our best friend,” Ilsa chimed in while giving Julia a stabbing look.
Julia’s eyes filled with apology. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I want you to be happy. And I’m going to make up by finding you just the right dancing partner for tonight. Let’s see,” Julia’s eyes scrupulously examined every unattached man. “No, too old. That one is too cocky. And that blond, tall drink of water over there is... is... heading this way.”
“Oh, my God!” Angela blushed, then smiled at the handsome man who smiled back at her. At least that was what it seemed like he was doing.
The man walked up to their table and put his arm on the back of Julia’s chair. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.
Julia’s breath caught in her throat. “I—I—” She looked at Angela who nodded back. “I’d love to.”
Not five seconds later a dark-haired younger man wearing jeans, a plaid shirt and tennis shoes asked Ilsa to dance.
Angela was alone at last, which was just the way she liked it. “Now I can daydream all I want without feeling guilty,” she mumbled to herself as she let her mind wander.
She knew her friends meant well, but they simply didn’t understand her. Glaringly aware of all her past mistakes, Angela resolved that on this birthday, the beginning of a new decade in her life, she would never, ever fall in love again, though she really didn’t want to give up men all together.
If there ever was a “next time” in her life, she would be sensible. She would test his motives and learn to be friends first and lovers later. Integrity and loyalty in a man counted for more than just sexual attraction. She would never again settle for anyone who wasn’t the kind of man her great-grandfather had been.
“See? This isn’t so bad, is it, Rafe?” Matt asked as the bartender placed two long-necked beer bottles in front of them.
Rafe took a long draw on the beer as he looked around the room. It was the usual mesh of working girls looking for a man to take care of them and the even more usual ogling businessmen who wanted to do the caring...but only for one night. “Nothing changes much, does it?” Rafe scoffed and turned back to the bar.
Just then, out of the comer of his eye, Rafe caught a glimpse of bobbing black-and-white balloons. “I don’t believe it. It really is someone’s birthday,” he said with surprise.
Rafe was about to make another wisecrack when the softest pair of brown eyes set in the most ethereal face he’d ever seen looked straight at him.
His breath caught in his throat as her eyes settled on his face with a look of endearment he’d only previously seen in his mother’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if she was actually seeing him or looking through him. She didn’t appear to mind that he was staring back. Neither smiling nor acknowledging his presence, her face shone with an inner peace he wished he’d cultivated for himself.
Looking rather out of place amid the harshly made-up women around her, the “birthday girl” as he mentally referred to her, wore little makeup and her blond hair fell in soft, natural waves down the sides of her heart-shaped ivory-pale face to her shoulders. He wanted to believe she used very little hair spray and certainly would never entertain the thought of having her hair “woven” with acrylic strands, the way Cheryl had. Women had millions of beauty secrets from fake eyelashes to plastic nails, silicone breasts and dyed, false hair to make them beautiful. Rafe wanted to believe that just this once, he’d found someone whose beauty was natural. Maybe it was possible this “birthday girl” could restore his faith.
Matt started to respond to Rafe’s quip but stopped himself in time to watch his friend’s decidedly strong reaction to the pretty blonde who looked as if this birthday would be the one to truly bury her. Matt couldn’t figure out what held Rafe so spellbound. She wasn’t half the “looker” type Rafe usually preferred and she looked so utterly... sad. Matt thought his friend needed a cheerleader to zap him out of his depressed state. A quick fling would do the trick, Matt thought. This girl was too much peaches and cream and too much of a real person.
Rafe slid his beer bottle onto the bar.
“Where you goin’?” Matt asked.
“To celebrate someone’s birthday,” Rafe said without looking back at Matt.
Angela was unaware of the soft dreamy look on her face as she mused about her fantasy hero. He would be tall, strong and good-looking, but he would have a gentleman’s manners and a code of ethics others would admire. He would be kind to children and animals. And when he spoke, he’d have a voice that sounded like...
“Happy birthday,” a velvety, sensual voice poured over her.
Angela was so entranced by her own reveries, she thought she had imagined the voice. She stared blankly at the tall, handsome dark-haired man with flashing blue-gray eyes.
“Tell me I’m the first to dance with the birthday girl,” he said.
“You are?” Suddenly, Angela realized she was not dreaming. “I mean, you are! Yes, I mean, I’d love to.”
His smile revealed perfectly white even teeth between full, sensual lips. His jawline was sharply hewn and his cheekbones were high as if he had Indian blood somewhere in his ancestry. His Western clothes were faded and snug on his lean, fit body.
Angela stood very close to him when she rose from her chair. She couldn’t help detecting the faint smell of leather, as if he’d ridden into town on his horse. She would have swooned, but modern women didn’t do such things.
His touch was gentle yet possessive as he took her hand and led the way through the crowd around the dance floor. It wasn’t until she was behind him that she noticed his massively wide shoulders and chest that looked as if he could carry the weight of the world on them. Surely, he was a man of great responsibility. He’s my kind of man.
Whoa! Slow down, Angela, she thought to herself. Get a grip, girl. He’s only asked you to dance.
Melancholy strains of the country-western song being played filled the room as couples clung to each other under the dim colored lights. Angela wished she’d paid more attention to Ilsa’s dance instructions, but the truth of the matter was that Angela was the first to volunteer for overtime and the last to frequent the clubs with her friends. The result was that she did not follow well. Nor did she line-dance or square-dance. None of that mattered because this man, who seemingly had walked out of her dreams and now held her body in a forceful yet graceful manner, had actually made her feel as if they were one of those dance teams in an old Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire movie.
“Do you think we fit well?” he asked with that maddeningly sensual voice.
“I’m not sure,” she replied coolly, wanting to prove to herself she was over men forever. This killer-looking hunk was not going to foul her newly planted resolution. If she could resist him, she could do anything.
The logical side of Angela’s personality was quite pleased with her performance, but it was her romantic and heretofore overly impetuous side that shouted: You idiot! Why don’t you tell him what you’re really feeling? Other girls would already have him wanting to take them home to bed. “I mean, I think we fit fine.” That’s being assertive? Angela, girl, no wonder you never get a real man.
His breath was like a lover’s caress on her neck. His hands were callused and no matter how she fought it, another image of him, on horseback, streaked across her mind. His chest was rock-hard and as she pressed her fingers into the tight muscles in his shoulders she could feel her body responding to him. She couldn’t help leaning into him a bit more.
His hand slipped from the middle of her back to her waist and with splayed fingers, he pressed her body to his. Then he began moving his hips in rhythm to the music.
All this time, she’d thought he was coming on to her, but instead he was showing her what it was like to feel the music with her body. It was an incredible experience. He taught her how to catch the melody with her head and translate it into body language. They glided, swayed, turned and dipped according to the beat, the pulse and soul of the music. When the crescendo exploded, he spun Angela around so many times she was dizzy. She lost eye contact with the people around the dance floor as the room seemed to disappear. In order not to lose her balance, she was forced to lean against him. She looked in his eyes.
He gazed at her with smoky blue pools that seemed to promise eternity.
Quit, Angela! Wasn’t it only moments ago you promised yourself not to ever fall under a man’s spell again?
That’s right, she thought. From now on she was going to be adult about all her relationships. She tried to look away from him, but his feet quick-stepped around hers so fast that she was no longer aware of touching the ground. She’d taken flight and he was the pilot.
The music fluttered into a second chorus and the tempo eased them back to gentler movements.
“And what’s the birthday girl’s name?” he asked, placing his slightly rough cheek against hers.
“Angela Morton,” she replied haltingly. It was tough pretending her heaving lungs and banging heart were from the exuberant dance and not from him. After all, she wasn’t affected by men anymore.
“Nice name,” he whispered. “You feel like an angel.” He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, he thought. Rafe had to shake his head to dispel the romantic images from his brain. What was he thinking?
God, I don’t think I can stand this much longer. He’s doing everything right! He would have to call her “angel,” just like her father and grandfather had. Not one person she’d ever dated had figured that much out.
“I do?” she asked.
“Yes. Soft. Sweet and very, very warm.” He pressed his hand against her back again.
Her vow of becoming friends first and lovers later was becoming a dim memory as her breasts pressed against his granite chest. She didn’t like the fact that her breasts were far too sensitive for her own good. She couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like for him to touch her delicate skin. She squeezed her eyes closed, hoping the thought would disappear.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” Everything’s wrong. I’m responding to him more than any man in my entire life. I wish to heaven there was something I didn’t like about him.
“You closed your eyes so tightly, I thought maybe you’d lost your contact or something.”
“I don’t wear contacts.”
“I was holding you too tightly then?” he asked, putting his hand up to her chin and lifting her face to his. “I’ve been accused of getting carried away when I dance. It’s just that I’m a sucker for these torchy ballads. I’ve always liked music I could understand the words to... sing to.”
Angela felt her mouth go dry. Wouldn’t you know it? Just my luck he likes the same music I do. I’ll find something wrong with him yet. After all, nobody’s perfect. “Country-western is too whiny for me. I like real oldies... like Cole Porter.” I’ll bet he’s never heard of Cole Porter or Gershwin for that matter.
“Where did you come from? The stars? I’ve always thought no song will ever top ‘Night and Day,”’ he replied, flabbergasted.
Angela gulped. She’d never met anyone who liked her music. “I would have thought you were the George Strait type.”
“Honky-tonk bars and good-time lovers?”
“Yes,” she said feeling oddly nervous about his caustic reply.
“I’m that, too.”
I thought so . Angela dragged her eyes away from his cool, steady gaze and pretended his honest answer was just fine with her. The last thing she needed was a cavalier cowboy who racked up affairs like notches on a gunbelt.
They danced silently for what seemed like an eternity before Rafe broke the tension by asking her where she worked.
“I’m a Realtor. My office is on San Felipe, so it’s not far to my townhouse,” she replied, looking up at him and forcing herself to feign the same aloofness he’d injected into his voice.
Without warning, he kissed her.
An unbelievable fire leapt through her body the instant their lips touched. He held nothing back and claimed her mouth with such raw passion, she wondered how she’d survive the intensity.
His arms pulled and pressed her body into his, though they undulated to the music. Breast to chest, belly to belly and with his pelvis crushing into hers, her dream man locked his body to hers. Wonderfully, she felt as if she were melting into him. There was such a possessiveness about his kiss that she felt as if she was precious to him. Never had she felt so close to anyone. His kiss was magic. His lips were not hard or unrelenting, nor were they too soft, lacking purpose. His kiss was the kiss she’d imagined in her dreams all her life. He tasted divine, she thought as his lips slanted over her mouth. His tongue traced the edge of her mouth and then prodded her lips apart stroking the interior. She matched his low, sexual moan of surrender with one of her own. She thought she could almost feel their hearts entwine.
She breathed in his breath. She tasted his warm juices as she buried her hand in his nape. She could never allow this kiss to end. This was heaven. This was the feeling she’d always dreamed of, but never dared to admit to anyone, not even to herself.
He showed no sign of wanting to stop. Instead, his tongue probed more deeply, sending rivers of chills cascading over the hills and valleys of her body. Torrid blasts of desire mercifully extinguished the chills. As perspiration broke out between her breasts and between her legs, she felt herself begin to move to the rhythm of the hypnotic melody he was creating within her. She could no longer hear the sad refrain from the stereo system. She was listening with her heart. She could only hope he was hearing the same song.
Slamming, pounding against her rib cage, her heart told her that she’d never been this alive. The heat of his body matched hers degree for degree. His breath came in the same halting pants as hers. They were in sync with every nerve in their bodies. Angela knew that she would never again find anyone to thrill her so much with just a kiss.
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
