Impulsion (Station 32 #1)(64)
It wasn’t until he walked past his porch, through his front door that he had the thought that she was a taken woman, that she never said this hell was over. It halted him. He wanted to hear her say she was his now, that she had come back, that this was more than one random night to her.
Looking at her now, those eyes glancing around the room as her hands stayed on him, he decided it didn’t matter if he heard her say that; he already swore to her that he was going to make her his…for all he knew, he only had tonight to love her, and if that were the case, he was going to love her every way a woman could be loved.
“This is yours?” she breathed, glancing around. This home was breathtaking, the kind of home that had design character, built to a person, not decorated to do so.
The floor plan was wide open, the ceilings were high. Gloss wood floors were in every room she could see, calm colors along the walls, high white molding giving depth.
The living room had deep auburn furniture, sitting at an angle before a stone fireplace. There was a soft chair facing the window, an ottoman just beneath it.
That room lead to another. To her left there was a dining room, only a small wall shielded the kitchen behind it. Before her, in the center of the bottom floor was a wide staircase, framed with white wood.
“Mine.”
Her eyes met his. “You built it here?”
He nodded to the chair by the window. “It had a good view.”
She reached for his face, let her thumb rush across his bottom lip. She was home. Not a doubt in her mind.
“The ultimate stolen moment,” she said with a glance to the closed door. They had never been behind a closed door, not one like this. Not when it didn’t matter if anyone found you.
“We’re not stealing a moment, Harley, we’re taking this night and—” Before he could say, “every night past it,” she had reached up and claimed his lips once more. She pulled away just as his hands started to move around her.
“Where’s the bedroom?”
A gasping smile came to him, and he nodded to the stairs. Within the next beat of his heart, she was gone from his arms, running up the stairs, looking back to make sure he was following her.
On his path to her, he lost his shoes, lost his shirt. He was reaching for the clasp on his belt when he stepped into his room.
The wall to the right was more windows than wall, and right then the moonlight was cascading over the king size bed that balanced the room. She was kneeling in the center of his bed. She had lost that dress; all she had on was a white bra that was a mix of cotton and lace, nearly hidden by her long strands of windblown hair, which matched the thin silk cloth hiding the warmth of her.
In his wildest dreams, he had never imagined her to be this bold, this inviting, so sure, without a trace of timidity. It was stirring him in the most erotic way, but at the same time in the back of his mind he wondered who had taught her that. It burned him to know that anyone had ever touched her, but his own guilt pushed down that thought, and his outright need to have her right then killed all those wandering dark thoughts.
Harley had never felt so free, so alive. Even when she was with Wyatt before, in the heaven of this farm, she felt the chains, the chance of an end, the near promise that there was some separation before them. Now she didn’t feel any of that. She was high on life, intoxicated by the warm rush that was consuming her body.
It seemed someone somewhere had always had control of her for as long as she had breathed. Wyatt made her feel safe, made her feel like she could be herself. He unlocked something inside and made her feel powerful, beautiful, seductive.
She held her breath as his heated stare moved across her body; she had never seen his eyes that hungry before, never seen anyone’s eyes that hungry.
When he began to move closer, she felt her heart pick up a rapid beat. She edged closer to the edge of the bed on her knees as he came to her. Her breath slid down his chest as she leaned forward, landing a sweet kiss just beneath his collar bone.
As if she were the most fragile thing in existence, his grasp slid around her middle, letting his hand drift with only a feathery touch. She felt his lips against her forehead, felt the short breaths against her flesh. She looked up at him, finding his eyes, seeing how deep they were searching hers; so much emotion, so much pull.
Their lips met; a slow, sweet kiss melded them together.
Harley’s hands moved down his bare chest, tracing every rigid edge. Her hands fumbled with his belt, the button. Just as she eased him free, his hand halted on her back and he moved forward, laying her down.
Harley’s long hair landed in a halo around her. She was his first—his first everything—but back then he saw with his hands, his lips, never his eyes. He wanted to see her with everything.
He reached for her shoulder, his fingertips glided the strap down. Those same fingertips eased across her chest, tracing the lines of her bra, only to land on the other side to do the same. His eyes met hers as his hand slid around her back, and she smiled as she felt him fumble with the clasp. That smile faded, and her eyes fluttered closed as his hand glided around her, moved across her chest. She felt not only his touch, but his eyes. She felt his breaths kiss her flesh, warm chills spread across her skin as she arched into his caress.
That sensual dance from one side of her body to the other was only stopped when his hand would move lower with every other sway, only to leave. Then his hand began to slide across her stomach, moving as slow as possible, almost hesitating.