The Widow - Carla Neggers [75]
“Easy isn’t the first word that comes to my mind when I think of you. More like determined, single-minded, dedicated…”
She rolled her eyes. “Gee, I’m feeling better already.”
He tightened his hold on her. “Attractive. Sexy. Brown-eyed.”
“Shapely?”
He laughed. “Definitely.”
“Liar. I’m not shapely. I’m–” she thought a moment “—fit.”
“That’s it,” he said, his mouth lowering to hers. “I could watch you trek up and down mountains all day with that fit butt of yours.”
“Bastard,” she said with a laugh, their lips coming together before she could add anything else.
She opened her mouth to the kiss, giving a small gasp at the urgency with which he responded—all eagerness and heat. There was nothing tentative about him. He wasn’t tiptoeing around what he wanted.
He lifted her shirt and placed his palm, warm from the fire, on her stomach. “Stay with me tonight.”
“You can trust me not to go out a window on a bedsheet.”
“I’m not talking about staying in a guest room.”
“Owen…”
He eased his palm higher up her abdomen and smiled. “Yes, Abigail?”
“You’re direct, aren’t you?”
Without answering, he smoothed his palm over one breast, outlining the shape of it, curving his fingers around the nipple. “Lace,” he said. “Somehow I expected a lace bra, Detective.”
“Ah-ha. So you’ve been imagining what kind of bra I wear.”
“And you? Want to admit what you’ve been imagining about me?”
She smiled. “No.”
He slid her off his lap and got to his feet, tossing another log on the fire, then caught her by her hand and helped her up. The fresh chunk of wood caught fire with a crackle and a spark of heat. Owen didn’t let go of her hand. They walked together down a short hall to his bedroom, all dark woods and deep, earthy colors. The air was cooler there, away from the woodstove.
“It’s a beautiful spot,” Abigail said.
He lifted her into his arms and laid her on his bed, smoothing back her short curls. “Don’t think for a change. But if anything doesn’t feel right—”
“I won’t shoot you. I promise.”
He ignored her attempt at humor and kissed her forehead, her nose. “Just tell me.”
She touched her fingertips to his mouth. “I will. Thank you.”
They helped each other get undressed, her shirt going first, her lacy bra and underpants going last. Owen was very careful of her bandaged scratches, but she hardly noticed them at all, her entire body screaming out not with pain but desire, an ache that had nothing to do with getting attacked with a drywall saw.
“Owen,” Abigail said, letting her mind spin away from all that had brought her to Mt. Desert. “I like saying your name.”
She ran her hands up his back, skimming the ripple of scars, of hard muscle. She had nothing on him when it came to being fit. Every inch of him betrayed the work he did. He was tough, sexy, focused and absolutely relentless.
“Stop thinking,” he whispered, as if he’d been reading her mind.
“I’m not thinking. Not really. I’m feeling your scars.” Her fingertips caught the tip of his erection. “I guess that’s not a scar.”
“I hope to hell not.”
He took her nipple into his mouth, scraped his teeth erotically over it, then down her stomach, and lower. There were no more words after that. And, she thought, no going back. She moved under him, guiding him to her. He eased into her just a little, as if to give her a chance to change her mind, but she responded by taking him deep inside her.
That was all he required. She could feel his shudder of total abandon as he thrust into her. She threw her arms over her head and shut her eyes, sensations washing over her, emotion and physical need melting together, indistinguishable.
He didn’t slacken his pace, didn’t relent. She grabbed hold of his hips and drove him even deeper into her. She knew she was on the edge. She tried to hold back, but he urged her on, thrusting faster, harder, until she was spiraling into an orgasm that took over her entire body. She cried out, but still he didn’t stop, taking her higher,