Love, Come to Me(44)

“Lucy . . . look at me. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

Her long lashes fluttered open as she met his eyes, which were glinting with wicked amusement. “Not really, no.”

He grinned suddenly. “You are,” he insisted. “You’re just too muleheaded to admit it.”

“Muleheaded? I’m—”

“Don’t glare at me like that, honey . . . it cools a man off quicker than ice water.”

“Good!” she said, trying to twist away from him, annoyed at the way he had dispelled the mood of soft dreaminess. “And stop smiling at me like that—there’s nothing funny about this at all!”

“Be still.” He pinned her down and dropped a kiss on her nose, forcing his smile away even though his eyes were still twinkling. “You don’t like to laugh at yourself,” he observed more quietly. “You should learn to.”

“Why?” she demanded in a muffled voice. “You laugh at me enough for the both of us.”

He kissed each corner of her mouth, then nibbled on the lobes of her ears and the hollows behind them, whispering to her so softly that she only caught bits and pieces of what he was saying. He whispered that she was beautiful and that he wanted her, and he was so flattering and seductive that Lucy’s temper was mollified in no time at all, and she curled up to him, mesmerized by his gentleness. He cupped her breast in a light stroking motion, and his fingertips began to toy with the hardening peak. Pleasure seemed to stream from his hands through her entire body, pleasure so heady and rippling that she was floating in it. “So very shy,” Heath murmured at the side of her neck. “You have such beautiful hands . . . I want to feel them on me.”

“Where?” she breathed, touching his shoulders hesitantly.

“Everywhere.”

“I don’t know how—”

“Do anything you want,” he coaxed, keeping rein on his urgent passion with stupendous effort. Gamely she ventured down his chest and around his back; her fingers learned the symmetry of his muscles, as solid as bolted steel, and the long curve and the sensitive hollows of his spine. She stopped when she reached his lean hips, coloring in a mixture of apprehension and uncertainty. Murmuring encouragement, Heath took her hand in his, fitting the back of her hand into his palm.

“Heath—”

“Don’t pull away from me.”

“I can’t—”

“No barriers between us,” he said. “Not in this room, not now. No walls . . . nothing forbidden . . . nothing to fear, nothing to hide . . . nothing to lose.”

The sound of her own heartbeat was in her ears like the thunder of waves against the shore. Trembling, she let him guide her hand downward. First the brush of thick hair against her fingertips, then the incredible heat and hardness of him against her palm. Heath caught his breath, held it and then released a taut sigh. Her slender fingers traveled over the length of him, exploring delicately, pausing as she sensed the leaping fire and tumult she was causing in him, resuming more slowly as her awkward shyness was replaced by curiosity. She was vaguely amazed at the discovery that she didn’t mind touching him in this way. It was unfamiliar and intimate but strangely exciting. She caressed him more boldly.

“Am I doing it right?” she asked, her breath warm on his neck, and he shivered.

“God, yes.” He gave a laugh that was little more than a catch in his throat. “You’re disproving all those stories I’ve heard about Yankee women.” He caught her wrist and pulled her seeking fingers away from the source of his blistering desire. “Just a minute,” he said breathlessly, rolling on his back as his hand retained possession of hers.

“What’s wrong?”

Heath lifted her hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle. “Nothing. But if you keep doing that, tonight’s going to be over much sooner than I had planned.”

She raised herself on one elbow and looked down at him. Her reserve began to unravel rapidly as she felt the warmth of his stare go through her. The tenderness of his touch soothed her fraught emotions like a balm. “What do you mean?”

“Around you I have no control. None whatsoever.”

“That . . . that’s good, isn’t it?” she whispered.

“Oh, don’t smile like that,” he groaned. “You’re making it worse.”

In an unexpected move he took hold of her and rolled over like a stretching cat. His legs settled between hers as he braced his forearms on either side of her. Lucy gasped at the feel of his masculinity wedged so intimately against her. She could feel the heaviness and driving power of him, only barely restrained and trammeled. Uneasily she tried to wriggle away from him, but was pinned so securely by his weight that she resorted to shrinking deeper into the mattress.

“None of that . . .” His arms slid beneath her back, forcing her to arch so that her br**sts were thrust upward, her body vulnerable to his pleasure. He nuzzled the warm underside of her breast, his lips moving upwards until her ni**les tightened in eager anticipation. His tongue touched the contracted flesh, circled the pinkening aureole with a stunning awareness of its sensitivity, danced lightly upon the tingling peak until Lucy was shivering. Desire, searing, shattering, irresistible, swept from her head to her toes, and left her helpless with need.

Unconsciously she stroked his hair in a silent entreaty not to stop. The tip of her middle finger found the scar on his temple and traced along it tenderly, but then she accidentally brushed her palm against her breast and felt it round and warm, pulsing with life. She jerked her hand away as if burned. Heath lifted his head and stared at her with glowing turquoise eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asked huskily. “I don’t mind if you touch yourself.”