Lips That Touch Mine

by Wendy Lindstrom

  He had a damned inferno roaring inside him, but her comment surprised him. He had let the fire die down, and had worried it might be getting too cool for her. "I can open a window."

  "I can't risk being seen."

  He grinned. "I suppose this would be difficult to explain to your lady friends."

  "Can you imagine their faces if they saw me drinking wine and playing billiards?" She giggled and clapped a hand over her mouth, her gorgeous blue eyes sparkling with laughter.

  "I'd pay a small fortune to see that."

  Laughter bubbled out between her fingers. She lowered her hand, revealing a wide white smile. It was the first time he'd noticed that one front tooth was slightly ahead of the other. It was barely noticeable, but something about the slight imperfection warmed him and made him want to hug her.

  "Wouldn't it be gay to do something naughty like that, then wind back time so nobody would know what you've done?" she asked.

  The implications of what she was suggesting astonished him. He planted the stick on the floor, waiting to hear what she might say next. "What naughty thing would you do if you wouldn't be found out?"

  She lowered her lashes. "I can't tell you."

  "Why not? You're trusting me not to tell anyone about your visit tonight."

  "True."

  "Well, then, you can trust me to keep your secret."

  She seemed to consider for a moment, then she gave him an impish smile. "I'd go swimming without any clothes on."

  He gasped in mock horror and stumbled against the billiard table. She burst into laughter, deepening the flush in her cheeks, but took his teasing in good humor.

  "What would you do?" she asked.

  He lifted his hand to stroke her warm, beautiful face. "I'd make love to you."

  Her breath whooshed out and her eyes widened.

  "I've shocked you," he said, but he had also shocked himself. As much as he wanted her, she was not the sort of woman to have an affair. He knew that.

  She gripped the table and looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. He liked that she was so aware of him, that she felt his desire for her.

  "I should be used to your teasing," she whispered.

  "You're no innocent, Claire." He stroked his thumb across her jaw, enjoying the flare of passion in her eyes. "You know I wasn't teasing." He enjoyed the blush that flooded her cheeks. "Shall we finish our game?"

  At her nervous nod, he stooped down to eye up his shot. A tiny pearl button dropped onto the felt tabletop in front of him. He glanced up and stopped breathing.

  Claire was unbuttoning the bodice of her dress.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Claire tugged at the neckline of her dress. Sakes alive! She was burning up. She released several buttons, then fanned her bare neck and chest. She had to cool down, sober up, regain her common sense. Her body had turned traitor, craving and yearning and leading her astray.

  Boyd was purposely testing her, as he had from the moment they met. She knew that, and had even grown to like matching her will against his—but tonight, he was too tempting.

  Looking at him made her want to throw propriety out the window. He was bent over the table, bracing himself on one hand, the billiard stick forgotten in the other as he stared at her.

  "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice oddly strained.

  Glancing down, she realized her bodice was gaping open. She was showing her body, revealing herself to him as boldly as a tavern wench. She'd been desperate for air, but suddenly Claire understood she needed more than air in her lungs. She needed freedom. Living with Jack had suffocated her. Her fear had suffocated her. She needed to breathe and gulp and gasp, to sing and dance and laugh. She needed to live.

  She hadn't meant to tempt Boyd, had only meant to cool her flushed face, but now that he'd seen her partially exposed, she was sure she wasn't imagining the hunger in his eyes. Something wild whispered through her, daring her to shed the harness of propriety, to embrace her freedom and this gorgeous man for one glorious evening.

  No one will know.

  Her pulse throbbed beneath her fingers, reminding her she was alive, that risk was part of living, that tonight might be her only chance at passion. Needing to bolster her courage, she picked up her glass of wine.

  He lowered his billiard stick. "Are we changing games?" he asked, his voice low and unsteady.

  Yes. She had changed the game. And she liked it. She liked the idea of seducing him. Especially in his own saloon.

  The idea was so wildly out of character for her, and so wonderfully ironic, she giggled.

  "You'd better not drink the rest of that." He reached for her wine glass, but she stepped away from him.

  The movement felt odd, like she was no longer solid, but rather a wave of water rolling across the floor.

  She gratefully sank onto the piano bench. "Are you afraid of me, Boyd?"

  "I'm afraid for you."

  His genuine look of concern touched her. Underneath his flippant and charming manner, he was a sincere, and even honorable, man.

  She set her wine glass on top of the piano. "I'm fine. I just want to play a song for you."

  He braced his elbow beside her glass. "I thought we were playing billiards."

  She waved a hand. "We'll get back to that." Her vision blurred as she looked down. Maybe she wasn't fine. She blinked and squinted at the black and white keys. "How about a temperance song?"

  "No thanks."

  The disdain in his voice made her laugh. "I was joking. I'm going to make up a song for you." Thankfully, her fingers functioned better than her brain, and she managed to play a verse of Cold Claire.

  "I know that song."

  "Not my version." She grinned up at him while naughty words—new words, wild words—flitted through her mind.

  "I can hardly wait to hear this." He gestured for her to begin. "Show me how much nerve you have."

  She lifted her chin and stroked the keys with authority.

  The sound reverberated through the room as she began to sing.

  I know a man who's impudent and bold.

  He claims he's a prince, but I suspect he's a toad.

  "Charming," he drawled, his voice rich with irony as a grin broke across his face.

  She laughed and missed her next verse. "Oops." She lifted her fingers from the keys, then started over.

  He is handsome and charming and a little too bold, but there's something I like about that naughty toad.

  His face scrunched as if he'd bitten into a lemon. "Your lyrics are awful." She burst into laughter, and her hands slipped off the keys. "I know, but I enjoyed making them up. Play a song with me."

  He sat and began the Moonlight Sonata.

  "Oh, how lovely. My mother used to play this song." Her heart sang with memories of being ten years old and dancing with her father in their parlor.

  She lay her palm on the piano, feeling the vibrations radiate up her arm. The music moved through her, and she ached to be held, to be touched, to be loved.

  "This is so beautiful," she whispered.

  "So are you, Claire."

  Her breath hitched and he stopped playing.

  "Dance with me." He pulled her to her feet and slipped his arms around her waist. "Hum your favorite song, and I'll do my best to keep time."

  She smiled and started humming a verse of "Cold Claire."

  He laughed and tightened his arms around her. "You should drink more often."

  "I do feel rather friendly tonight."

  "Is that bad?"

  "I don't know."

  She lowered her head to his shoulder, hanging onto him as their bodies swayed in the silence. "This doesn't feel bad."

  "It isn't bad." His strong fingers played down the muscles of her back as if he were stroking piano keys, sending delicious shivers down her spine.

  She remembered this rush of excitement in her blood.

  She remembered love.

  Fitting herself against him, she burrowed her nose into
the crook of his neck. He smelled of soap and bay rum cologne, and warm skin, his own particular smell. "You smell so good, I'm tempted to bite your neck."

  He gazed down at her. "You're a silly but amazing lady."

  She was. In his arms, she was everything he claimed her to be. They were amazing together.

  She felt the unmistakable plunge of her hair falling down her back, and knew he'd somehow pulled her pins free. His full, tempting lips tugged up at one corner, like he was too pleased with himself for words. "You said you were going to let your hair down."

  She had let her hair down, hadn't she? She'd swallowed three glasses of wine, shed her boots, unbuttoned her gown, and played a bawdy song on his piano. If that didn't constitute letting her hair down, what did?

  "It's just us, Claire. You can relax with me."

  "That could be dangerous," she said softly. Couldn't he tell? She knew exactly how dangerous it was to relax with a man. But she wasn't afraid. She liked being touched by Boyd Grayson, charmer, rake, reprobate. She loved being caressed and held tight, deliciously tight, against his tall, hard body.

  A small, rational corner of her brain cried out to be careful. He was a man, a strong man, a violent man when angered, a man who had loved many women. She had loved one man, a strong, violent man, who had tried to break her body and had broken her heart.

  Lord, her brain was reeling. She was at the edge again, the very edge of loving a new man, her second man, a man she did not fully know.

  Would he change without warning? Would he hurt her? Would he hit her? Would he mock her, punish her, desert her? Would he make her wish she was dead? That he too was dead?

  She'd almost wished for death, hers and Jack's, at one point, but she survived. She was alive. And falling in love again.

  Oh, how her head spun.

  Boyd was a man of experience. She'd shared her bed with Jack and no one else, not ever. Early on, she enjoyed it, but then her bed had become one more cage she couldn't escape.

  The tremor passing through her wasn't fear though. It was desire, sharp and intense. It was passion, hot and wild and demanding.

  And what was wrong with desire?

  She couldn't get pregnant. Why shouldn't she experience desire and passion? Why couldn't Boyd be her Abe? He was perfect for the position. He desired her, but surely didn't want the bonds of marriage. He wouldn't hurt her. He wouldn't cage her.

  He would be content with passion.

  He would keep their secret.

  She could have one night of passion without selling her soul.

  Excitement shook her as he pulled her closer to him. "Are you cold?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

  "No." She was hot with need—her need, his need. Heat radiated from his body and burned through to hers. She lifted her hand and touched her fingers to his mouth.

  He inhaled sharply and his eyes darkened. She looked into those eyes and saw her freedom.

  He lowered his head and kissed her, eyes open, letting her see his, need, the way she was shaking his control. Not an ounce of resistance resided in her as he pulled her against him. She felt weightless and giddy, reckless and wild, and oh, God, wonderfully free.

  Nothing could possibly compare to the feeling of his arms around her, the heat and hardness of his body against hers, the slow, probing of his tongue in her mouth.

  It was shocking.

  It was sinful.

  It was worse and better than anywhere she'd ever been.

  And so unbelievably fulfilling.

  The loneliness and pain and isolation that had cloaked her life fell away. Her thoughts and anxieties turned to vapor and vanished on her breath. What a blessing to be free of that voice in her head, to simply feel.

  Warmth surged through her as she fit her hips more tightly to his groin. A raspy groan rumbled his chest, thrilling her, encouraging her.

  No one would know.

  And she would never tell.

  In the pleasant haze, he broke away. She kissed his neck and licked his earlobe. His breath rushed out, and he buried his face in her hair.

  No one would know.

  She wanted to be free of her dress, free of everything that kept her from being skin to skin with him, but he gripped her arms and set her away from him.

  "I'm taking you home," he said, but his voice was hoarse, and his body did not make a move in the direction of her boardinghouse.

  "We haven't finished our billiard game," she said, not caring a whit. This new game was much more exciting.

  "We'll finish it in the morning," he said firmly, but his unsteady voice gave him away. She'd turned the tables on him, and now he was fighting the temptation she was dangling in his face.

  "It's my shot. Are you afraid I'll win?"

  He sighed against her ear, his breath spiraling hot sensations all the way down between her legs. Perversely, he leaned back and gestured to the table "Go ahead."

  She sauntered over, swaying her hips the provocative way Jack's lady friends used to do. The enhanced motion tested her balance, but she kept her head high and steadied herself by bracing her hand on the table edge.

  She picked up her stick and eyed up her shot.

  "Claire?" She glanced up.

  Boyd stood beside the table, feet spread, arms akimbo, wearing a grin only the man's lover could understand.

  Was she to be his next lover?

  She wanted to be, Heaven forgive her.

  He nodded toward the ball she was aiming at. She blinked, trying to focus on the bright red object against the dark green felt.

  "You need to shoot the ball with the higher number to gain enough points to win." He pointed to the black ball near the corner pocket. "You need to sink that one."

  "Oh." She flushed at her mistake. "I knew that. I was just...I was making sure I wouldn't touch your ball."

  He barked a laugh, then bit his lip.

  Suddenly, she realized how he might have taken her comment, and she bit her own lip to keep from smiling. But she was past blushing now. She was committed to her night of sin, to opening the door of the safe little cage she'd been hiding in.

  He leaned down and braced his hands on the edge of the table. They were tan and manly beneath his white shirt cuffs, and she imagined how good it would feel to have them roam her body, squeeze her breasts, cup her hips and...Heaven help her, touch her lower.

  Her breath gasped out as if he'd stroked the cradle of her thighs. She couldn't play this game with him a minute longer! And how could he? Was he feeling this same glorious rush of longing that was pounding through her body?

  "You'd better sink enough balls to win, Claire. If you don't, you're going to owe me a kiss, because I won't miss my shot."

  She was willing to owe him a lot more than a kiss, but how could she if he wouldn't ask?

  "I'll move away if I'm distracting you."

  She didn't want him to move away. She wanted him to pull her into his arms and kiss her until morning. Her stomach fluttered as she angled her tortured body over the table. "It's not necessary. A child could make this shot." The ball was lined up for a direct shot into the corner pocket.

  She drew the stick back, feeling the wood slide between her fingers. Would Boyd's back and hips feel smooth like that?

  Ignore him! Think about the shot.

  She squinted, but her head felt light. Was it the wine? Was that why she was pulsing with desire for the man leaning against the table? Or was she finally being honest with herself for the first time in her life? Could she risk a bit of safety for a taste of passion?

  Yes.

  She wanted a lover.

  She wanted Boyd to be her lover.

  She laid the stick on the table without taking her shot. "I need to check my shoulder. May I use your water closet?"

  Concern filled his eyes. "Would you rather I took you home?"

  "I'd like to finish our game," she said, hoping she was convincing. If she had her way, they wouldn't finish the billiard game tonight.

&nbs
p; He clasped her elbow and turned her toward a staircase that led to the second floor. "We'll need to go upstairs. Trust me. You don't want to use the water closet down here."

  Sailor leapt to his feet, but Boyd waved him back before the dog could follow them.

  Upstairs, he closed his apartment door behind them. "Wait here while I light a lantern."

  He struck a match, and the little blaze lit up his handsome face, giving him a golden, princely glow, marking all the angles she coveted to touch—that she would touch. Slowly the room around them filled with light.

  The kitchen walls were painted a warm buff color and topped with ornamental moldings and walnut wainscoting that matched the sideboard and cupboards. A small four-plate cookstove sat in the corner, and a tea table with two Windsor bow-back armchairs bordered a tall window. A small corner hutch, devoid of dishes, completed the kitchen furnishings. Clean and spare, the room was somehow welcoming.

  This was his home, the place where he took off his mask. Being in his private space was like being inside his skin, and her stomach fluttered with excitement. Would she finally see the intimate, secret side of him tonight?

  "Did you build this?" she managed to say soberly, though her head still felt light.

  "Addison Edwards had his boys build the cupboards."

  "I didn't realize he had sons."

  "He doesn't. I was referring to his hired help." He picked up the lantern and guided her out of the kitchen.

  The parlor was a dark, manly-looking room with pine wallboards painted forest green. Sturdy hickory armchairs and a camel-back sofa were upholstered in a green damask fabric. But the red carpet with a saucy green and yellow pattern made her head spin.

  She shifted her gaze to the dark mahogany mantel above the fireplace, and tried to remember how many glasses of wine she had.

  Oblivious to her spinning head, Boyd set the lantern on a hickory coffee table, then lit another lantern at the end of the sofa. "The water closet is in there." He nodded toward a door off the parlor. "Take one of the lanterns with you."

  She fumbled with the tiny buttons that closed the bodice of her velvet dress. "My fingers don't seem to want to cooperate. Would you help me remove my corsage?"