Dance Away with Me(65)

It has everything to do with tomorrow.

He circled her palm again. “Let me hear you say it.”

If that’s what he needed to hear . . . “This has nothing to do with tomorrow.”

“And everything to do with tonight.”

If he picked up his sketch pad, she would never forgive him. “I’m not on the pill.”

“No problem. Those condoms you love so much . . .” He touched the pocket of his jeans. “I don’t go anywhere without them, not when you’re around.”

She smiled. “Flattering.”

His big hands slid down her back. Her skin hummed. Maybe tonight could be a singular point of time for them, disconnected from the rest of their lives. He paused at her waist. “You’re killing me,” he groaned. “All I want to do is strip you naked and take you right here. But . . .”

No buts!

“. . . this could screw up everything between us in a hundred ways.”

“For a man of few words, I’ve heard enough.” She took over. She clasped her arms around his neck, went up on her toes, and parted her lips. Her fingers played with the thick, crisp hair on the back of his head. She caught his bottom lip between her own. Lingered there. Enticed.

Always the seducer. Never the seduced.

His body pressed hard against hers. She tilted her hips and rubbed against him like a cat, but kept her tongue tucked away where it belonged. Trav wasn’t big on tongues.

His palms cupped her rear with only the thin layer of crimson fabric separating her skin from his. She waited for him to reach under.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stole the kiss. Took it over. One moment she was in charge. The next moment she was spine-against-the-wall, her face cupped between his big, skillful hands. He angled her head ever so slightly and lifted her chin. His thumb brushed the pillowy center of her bottom lip, easing it away from her top one.

He slid his hands to her shoulders, dipped his head, and she felt his tongue. At first only a tease and then slipping inside. Exploring.

It was like being kissed for the first time. In an entirely new way. She was a stranger caught up in an exotic land. Did she really like being kissed like this?

She did.

His mouth-play didn’t stop. How many ways could he kiss? He flattened his palms against the wall on each side of her head, his chest to her breasts. She fluttered her eyes open. His were half-closed. He was going to devour her. Her skin pebbled.

He clasped her wrists at her sides. She’d always been slightly claustrophobic, and he’d trapped her with his body. She had no compulsion to pull away, nor did she feel completely safe.

The smell of woodsmoke. Of him. It was all so enticing.

He released her. Lowered his hands until they came to rest on the sides of her hips.

Reach under. Reach under my dress. . . . She silently urged him, but he didn’t follow orders. Instead, he pulled back. His gaze searching hers. Forehead furrowed.

He wanted her. She could feel how much.

“God, Tess . . .”

She slipped away from the wall and knelt on the blanket. The bed would be more comfortable, but it was too far. He knelt beside her, the glowing flames from the woodstove painting their bare arms in gold and umber.

They lay back together.

He groaned. “You’re every man’s fantasy.”

She fought the urge to argue with him.

He kissed her again. And again. Deep, thorough kisses so arousing she became drunk with them. His chest was bare, but he still wore his jeans. Her legs were bare, but she still wore her dress. His hand found the inside of her knee. Finally. But even then, he took his time, moving slowly. He located her collarbone. Kissed the hollow of her throat. Paused when he realized she wore no underwear.

She was wet. Embarrassingly so. But he didn’t seem to mind. She arched her neck. Her thighs parted.

He touched her. The very center of her. Only the lightest caress. Then deeper. Firmer. Faster. She fell apart.

He barely gave her time to recover before he touched her again. Her breath quivered and once more she shattered.

She needed all of him. Had to have him. She splayed her hands against his chest and rolled him off her. Reached for the zipper of his jeans. Felt what was there. Thick and turgid.

He stopped her hands before she could unzip. She looked at him in shock and saw the troubled downturn taking over the corners of his mouth. With her heightened senses, she could read his thoughts. “This has nothing to do with tomorrow,” she whispered.

“I wish to God it didn’t.” He thrust himself up from the floor and stalked toward the front door.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside.”

“Why?”

“Guess.”

“Oh . . .” She wanted to tell him he didn’t need to. That she’d take care of it. Take care of him. But the door had already closed. Still bare-chested, he stalked out into the cold April night.

*

She couldn’t bear the awkwardness of seeing him when he returned, so she cowered in her room. What could she say when she knew he was right? How could tonight not be connected to whatever would happen tomorrow? Despite his rough exterior, he was a man of honor. Right now she hated that about him.

She heard him return as she was taking off the badly crumpled dress she’d never wear again. The faint sound of running water came from the downstairs bathroom. He’d made her forget about Wren for a little while, but that magical flight from reality had ended. The Dennings hadn’t called for advice. They hadn’t begged her to come take a screaming baby off their hands. Jeff and Diane Denning had fallen in love with Wren the moment they’d seen her. It was something Tess understood too well.