What the Heart Wants (What the Heart Wants, #1)(38)
Jase held her in place with his big body and lowered his head to her lips. When his tongue snaked into her mouth, she drew back with a scowl. “Ummph—you taste like peanut butter!”
“I thought you liked peanut butter.”
“To eat, not to—to—”
He raised his head, and his black eyes glittered at her in wicked amusement. “Then let’s just try it the other way around.” He reversed himself on her.
Laurel was startled. “No, Jase, I—I…”
His mouth claimed her body as it had her lips, and she caught fire. Her flesh didn’t exist anymore, and neither did her mind. The only thing left was a burning, shimmering heat consuming all that lay in its path.
“Jase, Jase,” she chanted mindlessly. “I want—I want—” But she didn’t even have the words for what she wanted, because there were no words.
But he knew, Jase knew.
Then it was her turn. She opened her mouth to his male flesh.
*
An hour later, Jase lay exhausted on the floor, watching the dust motes dance in a sunbeam. It was a good that those lacy curtain things were drawn, but he wasn’t sure it would have mattered one way or another. He wasn’t acting sanely as far as Laurel was concerned.
What was it about her? He rolled onto his side and studied her as she slept, curled up on the jewel-toned carpet, the afternoon sun dappling her skin.
Her eyes were gray, he knew, her nose straight, and her mouth soft and inviting. She was pretty, but in a quiet, subtle way, not like the brassy, come-hither looks that dominated beauty pageant runways. And she was—well—nice, that much-overused word that covered everything from her loyalty to him sixteen years ago to her kindness to Lolly this weekend. There was a certain aura about her too—almost a regal air. That came from her heritage, of course. She was a lady, from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes, but she was also sexy as hell. And she was all his. He smiled in satisfaction, stretched a little, and sat up partway, leaning back on his elbows.
Damn. This was a first—the front room floor.
What if Laurel had after-church visitors? He snorted to himself, picturing a mad scramble as they ran upstairs to get some clothes on. Or maybe he’d saunter down the hall and answer the bell with a pillow strategically placed and inform Mr. and Mrs. Hoity-toity that the notorious Jase Redlander was back in town, thank you, so they’d better lock up their wives and daughters.
He bent his legs and leaned forward to rest his arms across his knees. The sad fact was that, at one time, a warning like that would have been accurate. Marguerite had awakened an appetite in him that, in the beginning, needed constant appeasement. The second he hit Dallas, he took every female he could get, with a decided preference for older women. It started out as a winning combination on both sides, but the relationships were never more than physical—and fleeting.
He was damn lucky that one of the women he’d had a fling with not only told him off good and proper, but also gave him the name of a top-notch therapist. Otherwise he might have been on the town forever, perpetuating Marguerite’s legacy. He’d tried to be more selective of his bed partners from then on, more considerate, but he’d never developed deep feelings for any of them.
The only woman he’d ever loved was Laurel Harlow, the most popular girl in the sophomore class.
So why wasn’t her doorbell ringing? Why weren’t people calling on her after church?
He looked over at her. She’d pulled her robe across herself in a belated attempt at modesty before she fell asleep, but one rose-tipped breast had escaped its cover. He considered the possibilities. Tempting, but he was thirty-two, not sixteen. Enough was enough—for now.
His eyes roamed the room. It looked different somehow. Those creepy naked statues, the ones that always made him uneasy, were missing from the entrance to Reverend Ed’s study. Had she sold them? He was more convinced than ever that Laurel was having money troubles. The economy had been down lately, and maybe her father had lost a bundle in the stock market or gotten sucked into a Ponzi scheme. Life could be hard without money, he knew, but at least he’d never had to keep up appearances.
He glanced around the big room again. In the bright light of day, he could see details he’d missed before. The place looked downright shabby.
Maybe he could help her out, loan her money to get the house back in shape. Hell—he’d give her the money. But she wouldn’t take it, he knew, not after last night. It would seem like payment for services rendered.
He recovered his trousers from the den and returned to the front room to awaken Laurel by running his hand down her shoulder. “Rise and shine, sweetheart. We need to do some serious grocery shopping.”
She yawned, and sat up. Taking both her hands, he helped her to her feet, growled, and nipped at her neck.
“If I’m not fed at regular intervals, I get ver-r-r-y hungr-r-r-y.”
She yipped appropriately and drew her robe on the rest of the way. He draped his arm over her shoulder as they walked up the stairs.
*
Laurel looked at the family portraits along the way, wondering what her forebears would have said about their naked romp. The girls were smiling at her, but their mother seemed disapproving. Why? Even Victorians had sex. In fact, from what she’d read, they were obsessed with it.
Upstairs, she slipped into a wide-necked tee and a colorful cotton skirt while Jase buttoned his shirt and rolled up the sleeves to accommodate the weather, but he didn’t bother to tuck in the tail.