What the Heart Wants (What the Heart Wants, #1)(31)

What the hell had Lolly done—or said? She must’ve brought up the mother thing.

Damn it, he’d tried to cut her off at the pass with that soap-opera nonsense about her mother entrusting her to him because she thought he could give her the best home, then making him promise to not to reveal her name. Couldn’t she be satisfied with that? Girl Child wasn’t old enough to hear that her mother hadn’t wanted her. He’d tell her more when she was older, when it would mean less to her.

He patted Laurel’s arm and handed her a tissue.

God, where did all that water come from? Females must be born with extra storage tanks behind their eyes. Lolly wept like that too. He’d even seen Maxie cut loose a couple of times.

Quieter now but still sobbing, Laurel wiped her cheeks. Then, as if too weak to sit up on her own, she leaned against his side, her breast pressing against his arm. He looped the other arm loosely around her shoulders and gently rocked her. The bed creaked in a suggestive rhythm that he tried not to think about.

“That’s okay. It’ll be okay,” he said in a singsong voice, the same assurance he had given Lolly.

Maybe she was going to be okay, but he wasn’t so sure about himself. He’d wanted to comfort Laurel, but he’d been stiff as a stovepipe ever since he sat down beside her, and his idea of comfort was rapidly expanding its scope. God, she was so damn female! He kissed her silky hair and let his lips wander across her forehead.

He’d always thought Laurel looked very Southern—the dark hair and pale eyes, the graceful slenderness of her body. She was made for plantations dripping with Spanish moss, for mint juleps and long, hot nights with all the windows open, for mosquito netting floating over sweaty beds in the nighttime breeze. But right now his bayou babe was gulping back tears and making strange snorting noises. She grabbed a couple more tissues, blew her nose loudly, and rested against him again.

He shifted closer and brushed her forehead with his lips.

She looked up at him in surprise, then touched his face—hesitantly—as if to make sure he was real.

He tracked a teardrop across her cheekbone with his finger. “Why were you crying? What did Lolly say?”

Her mouth was tremulous, her eyes heavy-lidded and wet. “No, Jase. It wasn’t Lolly. It’s you—because you’re leaving.”

He was leaving and taking all her silly dreams with him, the romantic stories she’d woven around him ever since she was fifteen. He’d go back to Dallas and she’d move out of Kinkaid House, leaving her childhood behind. This was the end, the last time she would see him.

Her eyes widened in appeal and their depths darkened to slate. “Kiss me, Jase, kiss me,” she whispered.

At first he thought he wasn’t hearing right, because what she said was so much what he wanted to hear. But then she turned her face up to him and closed her eyes.

His mouth tasted her—gently, sweetly. He didn’t want to come on too strong, but she melted against him. He buried his face in the side of her neck to inhale her fragrance, then adjusted her against his chest and moved his lips toward her ear. “Laurel, I’ve waited so long.”

“I’ve waited too. Love me, Jase. Make love to me.”

“Yes.” His voice caught in his throat so he said it again, louder. “Yes.”

She wanted him. The princess of Bosque Bend wanted him, Jase Redlander. And he’d always wanted her. His first impulse was to rip that slinky pantsuit off her and grind himself into her so hard that the whole town would hear her come. But Marguerite, may she burn in hell, had taught him better. And Reverend Ed’s daughter deserved better. Laurel was different from the women he’d been in the habit of casually hooking up with over the years.

Go slow, you big ape. Make this good for her. Stretch it out as long as you can.

His lips traced the tender skin behind her ear. She whimpered and moved her hand down his back. Good. He kicked off his shoes and sank her down on the bed, their heads twisting in kiss after kiss; the bed’s wooden slats protested loudly all the while.

Ghosts of dead Kinkaids? Tough shit. If those old dudes and dames on the staircase hadn’t had sex at least once in their lives, Laurel wouldn’t be here today.

He rocked his forehead against hers, smushing their noses together. She moaned and rubbed the undersides of her arms against his shoulders as the tip of his tongue outlined her mouth, then sought entry to explore the inner rims of her lips and the sensitive flesh above her teeth. He couldn’t get enough of her.

He caressed her arms and hips—barely touching her skin to sensitize her, then using longer, stronger strokes for his own satisfaction. He dropped kisses on her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks, then licked at the circles of her ears.

She shuddered and clutched his head to bring him close for deep soul kisses. His sleepy Southern belle was demanding her just due. Her legs moved restlessly as her tongue twined with his.

He stroked her arms again, lightly touching the sides of her breasts at the same time. She opened her eyes and breathed in hard.

Undoing the cloth-covered buttons on her blouse, he played with the tops of her breasts, then sucked her nipples through her lacy, barely there bra.

Was he rushing her? He skimmed his mouth across her fevered cheeks and let his breath whisper in her ear. “You okay? We can slow down.”

“No. Don’t slow down.” Her voice was husky. She ran her hand up under his loosened shirt and buried her fingers in his chest hair.