to look into those wide brown eyes…
He set his wineglass on the counter—a stupid move, and he knew it. With both hands empty, the urge to fill them with her softness was nearly over-powering.
She watched him, her eyes tracking from his face, to his glass and back to his face again. After an endless few seconds of that, she set down her glass, too.
Behind her at the stove, the chicken sizzled in the pan, giving off a mouthwatering, savory smell. The salad sat, half-made, beside her glass.
And he couldn’t stop himself from thinking…
If she were someone different, or if he was.
If those vows they’d exchanged Saturday in the town hall had been the real thing.
If she were truly his wife.
This would be their life, here, in this graceful old house, her in her apron, the chicken on the stove, the salad on the counter and the potatoes in the oven.
The two of them, talking about what had happened at work, sharing the little details of their separate days, before they sat down to dinner.
Together.
And later, he’d take her to bed—their bed.
He’d hold her and kiss her—kiss every last inch of her. Until she was pliant and heated and ready to have him. He’d enter her slowly, by aching degrees…
“Oh,” she said quietly, the word like a yearning sigh between them. “Oh, I did miss you.”
It was too much. More than he could bear. His need to touch her took over. He reached out.
With a cry, she swayed toward him. And he wrapped his arms around a miracle.
Katie. Right here. In his hungry arms.
He rained kisses on her soft, flushed cheeks. “I missed you, too. So damn much.”
“Oh, me, too. I missed you.” She let out a giggle and a sweet blush stained her cheeks. “But I already said that, I know I did. I—Oh, Justin. You should kiss me.” She tipped up that plump mouth. “You should kiss me right now.”
“You’re right.”
He took her lifted mouth. And she gave it, eagerly, sending a blast of heat exploding through him. She opened for him, so he could plunge his tongue inside and taste her—so sweet, so eager, flavored with wine.
She wore a kitten-soft sweater over a skinny wool skirt. It wasn’t enough, to feel her through that fluffy sweater. He eased it up—just a little. He wasn’t going to go too far.
He put his hands on the velvety, warm flesh at the small of her back. She moaned into his mouth. He sucked in the sound, breathing in her breath, letting it back out so she could take breath from him.
He muttered her name, between deep kisses on her open lips. “Katie, Katie, Katie…” And his hands…
He couldn’t stop them. They wandered up her back, found the place where her bra hooked and eased those tiny hooks apart.
Yes! He brought his hands around, both of them, between them, and he cradled her small, round breasts, groaning at the feel of them, the soft, slight weight against his palms. He scraped her nipples with his thumbs and then caught them, each one, between thumb and forefinger, rolling, pinching a little, just enough to make her push her hips against him, just enough to make her moan.
More.
He had to have more of her.
He had to have all of her. Stark need pounded through him as his blood spurted, thick and hot and hungry, through his veins.
He raked that sweater up, losing her mouth so he could kiss her chin, scrape his teeth along her throat, nipping and licking as he went. He nuzzled the fluffy sweater, but only briefly. And then he found her breast.
He latched on and she cried out, clutching his head. He drew on the sweet peak, working his teeth against it, making her cry out again.
As he suckled her, he let his hands slide downward, over the glorious inward curve of her waist and out, along the warm shape of her hips beneath the nubby wool of her skirt.
The skirt was in his way and he wanted it gone.
He grabbed two handfuls of it and eased it upward, over those warm, slim, waiting thighs.
Her panty hose stopped him. His fingers brushed them, and sheer as they were, the slight barrier of nylon reminded him.
He shouldn’t be doing this.
He had no damn right to do this.
It took every last ounce of determination he possessed, but he lifted his head. She tried, at first—raising her body to his, pleading sounds rising from her throat—to pull him back to her.
But no.
He couldn’t. He had no right to give in to her tender urging.
He lifted his head and her soft hands fell away.
Gently, he smoothed down her skirt as she looked at him, dazed, flushed and dreamy-eyed. “Justin?” She whispered his name on a yearning, slow breath.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. He took her by the waist and carefully turned her around, taking the loose ends of her bra straps and hooking them together again.
He smoothed the sweater back down.
Only then, when those tempting bare inches of skin were safely covered, did he guide her back around.
Lazily, she raised her arms and rested them on his shoulders. “Oh, my.” She let out a long, sweet sigh. “I think the chicken’s burning.”
He gritted his teeth to keep from taking her kiss-swollen mouth again. “Better see to it.”
“Yes.” She looked adorably regretful. “I suppose I’d better.”
He let go of her—yet another impossible task somehow accomplished—and she turned for the stove.
The wine was right there and his glass was empty. He needed more. A river of it, to wash the tempting taste of her from his mouth—to numb the reality of what he was here to do. He filled his glass and topped off hers, too.
I could…just drop the whole thing with Caleb, he found himself thinking as he stood a few feet behind her, sipping more wine, his gaze tracking the length of her. From her gleaming, thick brown hair that curled sweetly at her shoulders, down to her trim waist, and lower still, over the smooth swell of her hips, along the shape of her thighs outlined beneath the slim skirt, and lower, to the backs of her slim calves. She sent him a smile over her shoulder as she moved from the stove to the oven again. From there, she came closer and set to work finishing the salad.
He watched her hands, narrow and smooth, clear polish on her short-trimmed nails.
