self-consciously rubbed a hand up and down her back, trying to calm her.
“Shh,” he soothed, his cheek moving against her hair. The silky tresses whispered against his unshaven cheek, unleashing the scent of roses. The combination of silk and roses was irresistible. He buried his nose deeper into her hair, filling his senses with the intoxicating fragrance. “Please, don’t cry anymore,” he murmured softly.
But her sobbing continued, growing in depth and intensity. She felt so small in his arms, so fragile. He knew she didn’t deserve this misery, any more than his mother had deserved what she’d suffered at the hand of Ned Parker. An unexpected need to protect Gayla welled within him. He gathered her closer, slowly rocking her back and forth.
She tightened her arms around him, and the swell of her breasts pressed seductively against his chest. His body responded in the most elemental way. Heat curled lazily in his groin, then surged upward to spread through his chest. His breath came in increasingly shorter bursts, stirring her hair.
He turned his lips to her temple. It was only a natural progression to her cheek. Her skin was soft beneath his lips, and flavored with the salt of her tears. Needing to see her, to anchor himself both emotionally and physically, he caught her chin in his hand and tipped her face up to his.
Her gaze met his—brown eyes flooded with tears, appearing like circles of molten chocolate against her pale skin. The utter hopelessness in her expression stabbed at his heart. So young, he thought sadly, to have the weight of the world heaped on her shoulders. All she’d done was care for an old man, and in doing so, had seemingly sacrificed her youth and her future.
She shouldn’t have looked desirable to him at that moment, with her eyes all red and puffy and her cheeks wet with tears, dressed in a tattered blue terry robe. Yet, she did. More desirable than anyone he’d met in a long time.
Full and moist, her lips were slightly parted and a breath away from his own, tempting him to draw closer. Without thinking of anything beyond the moment, he lowered his head.
The warmth of his breath touched Gayla first, followed quickly by the searing heat of his lips on hers. At the initial contact, she stiffened, then slowly she let herself go, melting into him, accepting his kiss, drawing from it.
He offered an easy path from grief to passion, one Gayla navigated without even realizing she’d made the step.
She needed his warmth, his comfort, the distraction from her grief, her worries. She clung to him, desperately absorbing the strength he offered so willingly, needing to feel the thrum of youth and vitality that pumped through his veins and the life that warmed her hands. The touch of his lips on hers was tender and giving. The shared breath, a renewal of life she needed in order to go on.
His arms tightened around her, the muscles in his back bunching and shifting beneath her hands, and their intimacy climbed to another level. She clawed at him, her nails digging into his back, flesh against flesh, heat drawing heat.
Her actions incited Brett, fanning the flames that already heated his blood to near boiling. He drew her closer still, until he’d dragged her from the chair and she lay sprawled across his knees, her face turned up to his, allowing him easier access to her lips. With her crushed against his chest, his lips on hers, he tugged the afghan free of her legs and tossed it in front of the fire. He followed, carrying her with him, gently laying her in front of the fire, then dragging his lips down the smooth column of her neck to the skin exposed in the veed opening formed by her robe’s collar. He soothed her not with words, but with his hands and his mouth, kissing away the salty tears, lighting fires where the chill of grief had threatened before.
Before he realized what was happening, he’d nudged the panels of her robe farther apart, exposing more and more skin for his ministrations until he’d bared a breast. Bathed a rosy hue by the glow of the fire, the delicate translucency of her skin lured him on. He touched a finger to the budded nipple that had taunted him through the thin robe, and felt the shudder of desire course through her. On a groan, he closed his mouth over the pebbled orb, drawing it deep within his mouth. Gayla arched beneath him, framing his face to hold him close.
Desire became something fierce, threatening to consume them if not sated. Moving quickly, Brett caught the tie of her robe and yanked it free, pushing the folds of her robe away. Shucking out of his jeans, he angled himself between her legs. His gaze locked on her face, slowly, rhythmically, he rubbed his groin against the pillowed softness of her femininity, teasing her, taunting her until her chest heaved and her breath came in ragged gasps.
“Oh, God, please,” she whispered, begging for release.
He rose above her, sliding his hands down her back until her buttocks rested in the breadth of his hands. He lifted, his own breath rasping, and guided her to him.
Her breath caught at the joining, and then escaped in a low, guttural moan as he moved inside her, carrying her farther and farther away from the sadness, the grief, the fears.
She slept like an angel.
Brett lay beside Gayla, watching her, his head propped on his bent arm, his elbow buried in the tangled folds of her robe. With a gentleness that was totally uncharacteristic of him, he caught a wisp of blond hair and tucked it behind her ear to better see her face. Her features were well-defined, patrician almost in their design, yet totally and undeniably feminine. He traced the lines, beginning at her forehead, trailing down her nose, across the slash of cheekbone to the delicate curve of her ear.
His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh as he let his palm cradle the elegant contour of her jaw. He’d never felt so…so soft toward a woman before, almost as if his heart had melted in his chest. How had this happened? he wondered again. How had his offer of comfort to this woman turned into the wild play of lovemaking that had resulted?
He brushed a knuckle along the thick curl of lashes that fanned beneath her eyes. At the moment, he didn’t care what had transpired. He was too weak, too sated to care much about anything.
A shiver shook him and he cut a glance at the dying embers in the fireplace. Not knowing where more firewood was stored, he heaved a resigned sigh. If he didn’t get them to a bed and under some covers, they were liable to both catch their death of cold. Pushing to his feet, he pulled on his jeans, then carefully tucked Gayla’s robe around her shoulders.
Kneeling, he gathered her into his arms, then stood. Moaning softly, she nestled against him, seeking the warmth of his chest, but her eyes remained closed, her sleep undisturbed.
His heart swelled at her unconscious seeking of him as her fingers curled into a soft fist against his chest. Smiling tenderly down at Gayla, Brett carried her up the stairs to his room.
Gayla awakened with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. Disoriented, she pushed to her elbows, and the bedcovers slipped to her waist. Mrs. Parker’s room? she wondered in confusion. What was she doing here? Suddenly chilled, she looked down and was shocked to find herself naked. A movement beside her made her whip her head around. Brett lay on the bed at her side, groping for the covers she’d robbed from him when she’d bolted upright.
Although she had no memory of coming to this room, the events of the previous night came rushing back.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered against trembling fingers. “What have I done?”
Inching carefully to the edge of the mattress, she slipped from beneath the covers and grabbed her robe from the foot of
