Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [122]
His head dropped forward as if he experienced a crushing sadness. Unsettled by what was going on within him, she tried to laugh, to make a joke out of the situation, though tears rose, threatening to clog her throat. “Hey, I’m a silly female. Just ignore me. I merely assumed that when you gave me an engagement ring you loved me. But hey, no worries. Clint and I will adjust—”
He swung around, catching her off guard. One hand clamped hard around the back of her neck, the other her waist. Yanking her to him, he took her mouth savagely with his, kissing her with a passion that seemed fueled by desperation as much as desire. “Damn it, woman, I love you. You have no idea how much I love you. I don’t know what I would do if you left me. I think I would die inside.”
He pushed her back against the wall; his trembling hand came up, his fingers stroking her cheek as though he were a sculptor memorizing the contours of her face, as if he stared at the most precious thing in his world. The power of his emotions washed through her, humbled her, shamed her for her childish reaction, for her craving to hear the simple words when he gave her so much more. Words didn’t begin to measure up to the strength of his need for her reflected in his dark green eyes.
“You have no idea how you complete me, make my life right, see me happy. You lack all concept of what my life was like growing up. How empty I have been all these years . . . waiting for you to come with your healing love.” He leaned his forehead against her, as if seeking to keep the sexual tension from taking over and spiraling out of control.
“You haven’t spoken of your past to me, outside of mentioning your brothers and your mother and father. I figure you’d tell me those things when you are ready. You and I are what’s important, the life we are building here, now, the future. We will have a lot of wintry nights ahead or slow summer evenings when we can talk about memories, what made us who we are. The past is not important at this stage, Jago. Sometimes people let the past rule them too much.”
“The past is important . . . to some. Obligations, duties, loyalty, love—all are in the mix. And yes, some allow it to rule their lives. It’s frightening how the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children and even grandchildren, swept up by past events that happened without our playing any role. Yet, we are unable to break free before it’s too late.”
“It’s never too late. You simply have to remember what’s most important and fight for what you want.”
“I hope you mean that. I hope—”
The phone rang, breaking the moment. She smiled. “Told you. Every time we talk, someone visits, calls or we get horny.”
“Horny is more fun. I do love you, Asha.” The back of his hand stroked her cheek. “Never doubt that.”
“Never doubt my love either.”
“I don’t. I doubt myself. That is what I doubt.” Jago growled as the phone kept ringing, saying the person on the other end clearly wasn’t going to leave them in peace.
“It’s a new year. The rest of the world is back to work.
They don’t know we’re snowbound and enjoying it.”
“I don’t care who the devil it is, I’m telling them to go to blue blazes.” He crossed the room to the phone and jerked it up. “Hello. Oh, Des. Sorry, I’ve been concerned, too. A lot of things happening here, as I am sure it is there.”
Of course, Jago didn’t tell his older brother to get stuffed. Asha could tell by how drawn his face became that he was worried about Desmond. His speaking in hushed tones reinforced that impression. Giving him space, she prodded Clint’s belly. “Feed the kitty?” she enticed.
The silly cat nearly twisted himself into a pretzel, flopping around like a fish out of water, trying to get to his feet. In the kitchen, Asha opened a small can of Fancy Feast for the yodeling pussycat. With him happily feeding