A Town Called Valentine(77)

“Nate, what—”

He reached forward, caught her hand and drew her toward him, sweeping her legs out from beneath her and cradling her in his lap. She gasped, but didn’t protest, just looked up at him all wide-eyed.

“I’ve wanted to do this all day, heck for weeks,” he whispered, and lowered his mouth to kiss her.

To his relief, she flung her arms around his neck, which pressed her breasts against his chest, making him groan. He deepened the kiss, felt wild about her taste, and wanted to touch her everywhere. He licked and nipped his way down her neck, buried his face in her hair, used his hands to explore her lean back. He cupped the curve of her ass before moving up inside her shirt, along her ribs. Her heart pounded hard against his, and she seemed desperate as she cupped his face and brought their mouths together again. They kissed as if they’d never kissed before and might never again. She tasted like the sunrise to him, the promise of something new, fresh and full of possibilities.

And then his hand captured her bare breast, and her ragged moan made him shudder. He kissed her even as he trailed his fingertips across her nipple, over and over until she squirmed in his lap, gasping. Then he pinched her lightly before soothing her again.

He lifted his head and stared into her glassy eyes. “I want you, Em. Let me take you to bed.”

She rested her trembling hand on his chest. “I want you, too, but . . . it’s too soon for me.” She gave him a crooked smile. “We’ve only had one date.”

He groaned. “Doesn’t fixing fence count?” Her soft laugh made her breast jiggle in his palm. “Damn, you feel good.”

“So do you. Kiss me again.”

They kissed for a long time, and when her warm hands crept up under his shirt, he was the one who stopped it.

“Okay, okay,” he whispered huskily. “If you touch me much more, I can’t make any promises.”

Her eyes were soft with tenderness, even as she slid from his lap to sit beside him on the little couch. They were pressed together along their arms and legs, and he kept her hand in his.

They remained silent for a little while as he worked to get himself under control. He looked at the book beneath her lamp, a romance with a racy cover. The apartment was saying more and more about her. He liked being with her, whether it was putting up drywall or hiking up a mountain. And if she needed to wait until she was comfortable at the thought of sex with him, he’d be okay with that.

“So you’re not mad I came to the ranch today?” she suddenly asked.

He heard the hesitation in her voice, and it caught him by surprise, as he remembered this afternoon and her look of relief that he hadn’t been angry with her. “Why would you think I’d be mad?” he asked hesitantly, knowing he might be mad—if she were someone else. He worked so hard to hold women at a certain emotional distance, to not let them close—to keep them from being hurt.

Her gaze lingered on their joined hands. “Nate, you don’t exactly have a reputation as a man who brings women home to the family on a regular basis. And you might have thought it an . . . intrusion that I was there when you hadn’t invited me.”

“You made a flower delivery, Em,” he said. “And then my dad invited you for a ride. I’d never expect you to say no. But . . . I know what you’re saying, and I admit, my reputation isn’t without cause. It’s been pretty deliberate.”

“I get that impression,” she murmured, watching him.

He looked into those blue eyes, and knew he had to tell her the truth. “It’s because I know myself pretty well. I hurt women, Em. I don’t mean to, but it happens, and not just to women I’m dating.”

Though she’d stiffened at his first revelation, now she looked bewildered. “Nate, I know you’re not after any kind of commitment. I’m not either—I’m leaving Valentine soon. But surely the women around here know that you’re not interested in marriage. You made it very clear up front. And they still let themselves be hurt that you keep things casual?”

“That’s not why they get hurt,” he said, running his hand through his hair even as he leaned his head back against the couch.

She said nothing, only continued to look at him expectantly.

He had never talked about this with a woman, hell, with anyone. But he took a deep breath. “I . . . don’t know when to stop, Em,” he murmured. “When people need help, I . . . help them. Over and over again, until they don’t know when my helpful suggestions are doing more harm than good. I don’t know either, until it’s too late.”