This Loving Land - Dorothy Garlock [56]
“Sweetheart.” His breath was warm on her face. “I’ve waited all day for this. It’s getting harder and harder. . . to not do more than kiss you.”
The knowledge that she could excite him so much, could cause his big, work-hard body to tremble and his breath to catch in his throat, made her brave. Her hands moved down and slipped inside his shirt. His chest was furry in the center and warm and smooth as her hand slid along muscles that quivered at her touch. Her exploration stopped abruptly. She turned her lips from his so she could speak.
“You . . . you’ve been hurt here!”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now but you.” He began kissing her again, his hand coming up under the hair at the nape of her neck to hold her head. She could feel the stirring in him and in her, and she wanted to melt into him, become one with him, so she could feel the pain he’d felt when these scars were made.
Gently, still kissing her, he eased her arms from around him and, holding her by the shoulders, he peered down into her face.
“Let me move you and John Austin to the house, sweetheart.” There was urgency in his voice. “I want you to be there. I’ll move to the bunkhouse until we are wed.” He pulled her back into his arms.
Her heart hammered. The sincerity in his face, his voice, made her weak. Somewhere, she found the strength to whisper:
“It won’t be long now.” She placed slow, nibbling kisses along his jawline. “Until we’re married, I’ll be waiting right here, anytime you can come to me.” She pulled away, laughing lightly. “Why are we standing here? Shall we sit on the veranda?”
“Let’s take a walk down by the swing.” He untied a bundle from behind the saddle, and arm in arm they moved away from the house.
Now is the time, she thought, to tell him about Travis’s visit. While she was trying to form the right words in her mind, they reached the cottonwood tree, and he flipped out the blanket and lowered himself down. The moment was lost.
He leaned on his elbow and watched her. He was quite sure there was not another woman like her and never would be. How easily she had woven her web around him, yet she was like a fragile butterfly. The moon was up and skimmed the treetops. In its silvery light she was a vision of all that was wonderful. He had to have her close, and he reached up and tugged on her skirt. She knelt down beside him.
“Are you real, Summer, or am I having a dream? A wonderful dream.” His fingers closed lightly around her wrist and brought it to his lips, kissing the soft skin, running his tongue along her inner arm.
She ‘bent low to press her trembling mouth to his. “Oh, love,” she breathed against his lips. “Even dreams are not this wonderful!”
With an arm across her shoulders, he rolled down onto his back and pulled her down beside him. A great peaceful sigh came from him.
“You’re tired,” she said, with concern. Her eyes searched his face in the meager glow, and her fingertips stroked his scarred cheek.
In the warm, wavering glow of the moon, her skin shone warm and pale, shadowed and highlighted, even more beautiful than he had seen before. There was a radiance about her that was different, but he couldn’t name it.
“My beautiful Summer,” he breathed, almost in reverence. “I could not have believed it, but you have grown even more beautiful. Are you a fairy princess, my love?”
“Yes.” She smiled down into his eyes. “And I may turn into a green toad if you don’t kiss me.”
“Not that!” The words were a husky growl in his throat. He turned and bore her down to the blanket, leaning over her and gathering her close. His kisses came upon her mouth, warm, devouring, fierce with love and passion. Summer closed her eyes as the bliss of his greedy mouth swept her every nerve with intense excitement. She heard his harsh breathing in her ear, the hoarsely whispered words of love. His hand moved between them to the buttons on her dress, exposed her naked breast to his touch.