Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [39]
She quickly scrubbed away the mud and grass stains. Then she rested her head on the ledge at the far end of the enormous tub, stretching full length, and letting the warm silky water flow over her. She closed her eyes and it seemed that the action tuned her other senses to a keener intensity. She was conscious of the sound of running water, and the movements of Donovan as he built the fire in the fireplace across the room. There was the scent of the bubble bath, and the pungent odor of burning pine cones. How deliciously sensual and relaxing it all was, she thought drowsily… so relaxing.
“Brenna!”
She opened her heavy lids to stare into blue eyes that were deep and still as mountain pools. Donovan's eyes.
“Hello,” she said drowsily. Somehow it seemed supremely natural to open her eyes and have Donovan there, looking at her with that quiet intensity. He was no more than a breath away, sitting on the edge of the tub and leaning close to cup her head in his hands, as he murmured huskily.
“Hello, sweetheart.” His lips touched hers in a kiss as gentle as the drift of apple blossoms and sweet as honey. When his lips moved away reluctantly, she gave a little sigh of disappointment, and tilted her head in a little searching movement of frustration.
“You left the bath water running,” he said hoarsely. “I called, but you didn't answer.” Then his lips were there again, offering quick tender kisses to her yearning lips, her cheeks, the lobes of her ears. She turned her face up to his like a flower to the sun, her expression blindly sensual. He caught his breath raggedly, his eyes darkening with passion and his mouth covered hers, no longer gentle but burning with hunger. A demand that she met with a matching appetite. Her lips parted and his tongue stroked hers in a sensual frenzy, as he groaned low in his throat. Her hands reached up and curved around his neck to bring him closer, her fingers playing in the thick crispness of the hair at the nape of his neck, before running exploringly over the brawny muscles of his back and shoulders. “You're still wet,” she whispered vaguely. Breathing heavily, he wrenched his mouth away to bury his face in her throat. She could feel the rapid tattoo of the pulse in his temple. Or was it her own feverish heartbeat, she wondered. He gave a low chuckle, “I'm about to get a lot wetter,” he said huskily. “Help me with my shirt, love.” He drew back and pulled his shirt from the waistband of his slacks, and then was still. “Help me,” he said urgently. “I want your hands on me.”
She wanted them on him, too. She obeyed the irresistible urge to touch the spring mahogany hair on his muscular chest, and then growing bolder, ran her hands up his shoulders in a slow, explorative caress. He tensed, and a shudder shook his body. He caught and held both of her hands to his chest for a brief moment before he released them with a rueful sigh. “Perhaps I'd better not have your help after all, love. I'm about to go up like all the fireworks on the Fourth of July.” He stripped off the shirt, and threw it to one side, his hands swiftly going to his belt.
It was then that Brenna began to feel the first stirrings of alarm. She suddenly became conscious of the distinctly irregular situation she had become involved in. With scarlet cheeks, she looked down at herself and noticed with relief that the great quantities of bubbles cloaked everything but her shoulders in a snowy mountain of froth.
“Wait,” she said shakily, her eyes on the belt Donovan had removed and was about to toss after the shirt. “What are you doing?”
Donovan's quick appraisal took in her pink cheeks and