Lips That Touch Mine

by Wendy Lindstrom

  Wariness stole into his eyes, but he moved to stand in front of her. She lowered her arms to her side, giving him access to the tiny pearl buttons, to herself.

  His artist's hands were nimble, but too efficient, as if he didn't trust himself to be near her. After he opened the buttons along her bodice and wrists, she turned her back to him, pretending a modesty she didn't feel. He peeled the fabric over her shoulders, then cupped his palms over her bare, upper arms. Gooseflesh speckled her skin as he drew his warm hands down her arms, pushing the soft material to her wrists.

  His warm breath caressed her neck.

  She longed to lean back in his arms, but he tugged the sleeves over her hands and stepped away. He draped the top section of her dress over the arm of the sofa. "There's a mirror above the basin," he said, his voice low and gritty.

  Until now, she had considered honor a virtue, but the vein of integrity keeping him from making love to her was becoming a major obstacle to her plan of seducing him. How could he act so deliberate and controlled? Was he so used to undressing women that it didn't arouse his ardor? She panicked, almost afraid to think what she was thinking.

  She ducked into the spacious, and surprisingly clean, water closet. The instant she closed the door, she set the lantern on the cabinet and pressed her hand to her pounding heart. He couldn't be rejecting her. He had just told her he wanted her. He'd said he wanted to make love to her. And he'd flirted with her shamelessly almost from the moment they met. Was he waiting for a sign from her? She asked him to unbutton her dress. What more of an invitation did he need?

  The mirror flashed her own conflicted expression back at her. She leaned toward the glass and peeked at the one-inch gash marking the crest of her shoulder. The slash of dark red blemished her skin, but it wasn't that bad, and it wasn't bleeding, thank goodness.

  What if he changed his mind? She was as committed and as ready as she would ever be. She couldn't lose this opportunity. Somehow, she must force him to see her, to forget everything but her for this one night.

  She turned away and unbuttoned the waist of her skirt and petticoats. They fell to the floor in a puddle of lace and velvet. She stepped free of the yards of fabric, then bent down to remove her stockings.

  The room tilted.

  She braced her hand on the basin stand to steady herself. Was she drunk? Was that why she was peeling off her clothes in Boyd's water closet? Suddenly, her actions seemed illogical, reckless, irresponsible, absurd. What was she thinking?

  Boyd wasn't Abe—and Claire wasn't her grandmother. She was a lonely widow who'd had too much wine. She would regret this tomorrow. She...oh, Lord, that wasn't true.

  She must do this. She must! If she turned coward now, she would never forgive herself for passing up her one chance for a grand passion. She would never be free if she didn't exorcize Jack from her memory and embrace a new man, a new life—her own life.

  It had to be tonight.

  She rolled down her stockings, stripped them off her feet, and dropped them on the floor in a wrinkled heap.

  Years of depending on herself allowed her to struggle out of her corset. It fell to the floor with the rest of her garments, and she took her first full breath since dressing that morning.

  Shivering, she stood in her chemise and lace drawers, suddenly afraid of how Boyd would see her, how he would react to her outrageous behavior.

  Would he find her too wanton?

  Of course he would. How could he not?

  But would he reject her for her wantonness?

  She was dressed in her unmentionables, and bent on seducing him. What else could her behavior be called but wanton?

  Daring.

  Stupid.

  Adventurous.

  A gamble.

  Back and forth her mind rushed, questioning and weighing the rewards and repercussions of her actions until she clenched her fists to her temples. Her racing heart could not endure this a moment longer. For better or for worse, she was going out there. She would storm his senses before he could think, before the serious, noble side of him demanded he act with honor. She wanted the charmer, the rake, the man who had been seducing her for weeks. That man would make love to her.

  With her stomach cartwheeling, she wrenched open the door and stepped into the parlor.

  o0o

  Boyd looked up from the carving he'd been fiddling with and pricked the tiny point of his knife straight into his thumb. Before him stood Claire Ashier, the widow he wanted to seduce, the woman he wanted to protect. She was ethereal and glowing in her lacy white chemise and drawers. Silky, golden hair draped her narrow shoulders and breasts, lifting and falling with each panting breath from her parted lips. Her stormy blue eyes, filled with questions and doubts, were fixed on him.

  "What the..." He cleared the squeak from his voice, but could barely force words from his tight throat. "What are you doing?"

  She crossed the carpet and sat beside him on the sofa. "I'm ready to give you that sinful kiss," she whispered.

  His knife and wood carving fell to the floor.

  "Tonight," she said. "If you want me."

  If he wanted her? Manic laughter welled up inside him. He wanted her so much he was shaking like a schoolboy in a brothel. He wanted her from the first time he'd seen her standing on her porch. That evening she tried to scare him by pointing her revolver at him, but she only intrigued him. Tonight, though, he knew real danger. Her bare skin and lacy garments were a weapon he couldn't defend himself against. Her nearly naked body was a lure from which he could not turn away.

  She angled her body toward him, her long, bare, incredibly gorgeous legs stretched out beside his. "Do you want me?"

  God, yes. He wanted to devour her.

  He gripped her arms and held her away from him. "Any man alive would want you."

  "I don't want any man. I want you."

  He could hardly believe this was the same Claire who mere weeks ago had refused to let him touch her foot. "I shouldn't have allowed you to drink so much wine."

  "You didn't allow me to do anything," she said. "I'm capable of making my own decisions, and I've decided I want you."

  She leaned forward and kissed him, fusing their mouths together with such heat, his mind reeled like a runaway tire hoop. She lifted her knee across his lap, fitting herself more tightly against him, killing him, killing his willpower, killing every thought but those of her.

  He roamed his hands over her body, sculpting her rounded bottom beneath his palms, pulling her around to straddle his hips, promising himself he would stop soon.

  He kissed her tenderly. She took the kiss deeper, pushing him to respond until his breath came in gasps against her cheek.

  She arched her neck, offering her smooth white throat to his mouth. He tasted her, sucked and kissed and nibbled until she lifted his palm to her breast.

  He groaned, believing he'd betrayed her with the wine. "We need to stop."

  "We don't." She tugged her chemise up over her waist, over the full globes of her creamy taut breasts, over her head until she had fully bared her torso.

  God in heaven, she was beyond beautiful, surpassing every dream he'd ever had. Hunger gnawed at him as he looked at her. She was no virgin. She knew what she was doing, what she was asking for.

  "My imagination didn't do you justice." He stroked his thumbs across the hardened peaks of her dusty brown nipples, knowing he should stop, that she deserved more than a tumble on his sofa. She'd been hurt by her husband. He didn't want to add to her heartache.

  She threaded her fingers in his hair and kissed his neck, her tongue swirling over his skin.

  He needed to get her out of his arms, out of his house.

  She raised her head, her eyes glassy from the wine, or passion, or both. Which gave him pause, which lured him on.

  "Make love to me," she whispered.

  She rocked her hips against his groin and sent his heartbeat ricocheting through his chest like a bullet in a canyon.

  Hi
s body melted, then hardened, then ached like holy hell.

  Her face was flushed and her hair flowed across her shoulders in waves of gold. She was too perfect. She had no idea what she was doing to him, of the inferno raging inside. He gripped her wrists to stop her from unbuttoning his shirt. "I'm burning, Claire. It's going to consume both of us if we don't stop."

  "Let it burn," she said, her eyes fierce, her breath hot against his jaw. "Let our passion scorch the walls."

  "I can't. I don't have anything to protect you from getting pregnant."

  "I can't conceive." She rolled her hips against him, sending a stream of heat burning through his groin.

  He gritted his teeth, shaking from the battle raging between his desire and his conscience. He gripped her arms and forced her to look at him. "Are you certain?"

  "Yes." She covered his mouth with her own, pressed her bare breasts into his palms. Like an insistent wind, she curled around him, caressing him, bending him to her will until a groan of surrender tore free and he pulled her down beside him on the sofa.

  Desire rolled through Boyd, boiling his blood, melting his will, burning away his resistance.

  Claire moaned into his mouth as he moved his fingers over her, slipped them inside her drawers, stroking her until she was as wild and greedy as he felt. She fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, caressing his hardness where it strained against the cotton fabric. She freed him, then closed her fingers around his turgid heat.

  He groaned low in his throat, knowing he was lost, knowing she'd just sealed their fate. He gripped her hand and stopped her before she pushed him over the edge.

  He reared back on his knees and shoved his trousers down over his hips. She untied her drawers, and he pulled them down her long legs and over her bare feet.

  "Hurry," she whispered.

  He slid between her white thighs, entering her with a groan, satisfying the wrenching need pounding through his body. She gasped and lifted her hips, pressing her breasts against his chest.

  "Oh, Boyd...it's so good," she said, her head thrown back, throat arched to his seeking mouth.

  "Let go," he whispered into her hair as his own body begged for release. He kissed her neck, her breasts, her mouth as he rolled his hips between her thighs. She clutched his shoulders and cried out.

  He felt contractions shake her body. She tightened her legs around his hips, pulling him deeper, driving him to a shattering climax. But in the hard rush of his release, he regretted taking something so intimate from her. His body shuddered. His conscience shuddered. He'd been unbearably selfish.

  The caress of her warm palms sliding beneath his shirt and up his bare back made him sorry he'd been so quick. He raised up on his elbows and saw a soft, satisfied smile on her swollen mouth. She'd enjoyed it, but he could have given her so much more. He'd let himself get carried away, had let his demanding body set the pace.

  She tugged the back of his shirt. "Why don't you take this off?"

  Her request surprised him. He'd expected her to grow shy and want to go home.

  "It's not fair that I'm the only one who is completely exposed," she said, shaming him for yanking his drawers down like an unfeeling cad.

  He rolled to her side. "I'll get your garments for you."

  She hooked her arms around his neck. "Surely you don't want me to leave yet?"

  He wanted to keep her in his arms, beneath him or on top of him, all damned night. Every night. And that scared the hell out of him. He couldn't tell her that, so he said nothing.

  Her smile faded. "Are you disappointed in me?" she asked, insecurity bleeding back into her eyes.

  No. He was disappointed in himself.

  He stroked her cheek, the feel of her soft skin making him regret his hastiness. He'd needed her so badly, but had missed so much. "I hadn't planned for this to happen."

  "Does that mean you're sorry?"

  "Not in the way you think. I've wanted to make love with you since I met you. But I shouldn't have taken advantage of the situation."

  "I came to you in my undergarments. How can you think you took advantage of something I was freely offering? I wanted this, Boyd." Her lashes settled lower, seductively lower, over her gorgeous eyes. "I'd like more."

  So would he. More than she could ever know. "Are you certain you can't get pregnant?"

  A deep sadness stole into her eyes, smothering the starlight he'd been admiring. She nodded and withdrew her arms from around his neck. "I had a bad miscarriage almost two years ago. The doctor said I'll never conceive again."

  The desolation in her voice broke his jealously guarded heart wide open. He had brothers who had children. He had a niece and two nephews he adored. Deep in his soul, he hurt for her, felt her loss, understood her heartache.

  Words were useless at times, and this was one of those times. He drew her against him. She came willingly, letting him hold her for a long, long time in his silent apartment, the two of them listening to the mantel clock ticking toward dawn.

  He'd lain on his sofa hundreds of times, a few of those times with a woman, but never with this tenderness in his heart. He felt protective of Claire. He wanted to shield her from her own memories, from all the hurts she'd suffered, kiss away her tears, and fill her life with joy.

  But he suspected the only way to offer comfort was to share her grief. He kissed the top of her head that she'd nestled beneath his chin. "Did Jack cause your miscarriage?"

  o0o

  Claire drew back and met his eyes. "No," she said, understanding why Boyd was asking. "Jack wanted our baby. My body just wasn't fit enough to nurture a child."

  Boyd's dark eyebrows tweaked inward, his gaze sweeping over her healthy body as if questioning how it could be true.

  "I wasn't in the best of health at the time," she said, answering his unspoken question. Two years of fear, scant meals, and Jack's rages had taken a toll on her body. She shivered, glad that Jack, and that whole wretched existence, was behind her. "It's chilly in here. I'm thinking your bed would be far more comfortable," she said, praying he would understand her desperate need to be held for a while.

  Long lashes half concealed his honey-brown eyes as he studied her. Finally, without a word, he pulled away and stood beside the couch. He hitched his trousers up over his hips and buttoned them.

  Claire reached for her drawers, accepting his silence as a rejection.

  "I'll take you in," he said. He bent down and slipped his arms beneath her. To her surprise, he cradled her body against his chest and carried her through a door off the parlor. He lowered her feet to a plush carpet beside a huge four-poster bed, then turned back a thick quilt. She slipped between linens that smelled freshly laundered, and he tucked the bedding around her shivering body. "I'll build up the fire," he said, then left the room.

  She lay in the dark, hearing the rattle of the stove door and the thump of wood being chucked inside. Seconds later, the sound of water splashing told her he was in the water closet washing up. She relaxed back into the thick pillows. Her mind was still a little fuzzy, but she was nowhere near as confused as she'd been before making love with Boyd. In fact, she felt an amazing sense of peace.

  She'd taken a risk—and a lover.

  She'd opened the cage.

  Boyd entered the bedchamber with a lantern and sat it on the stand beside the bed. He stood with a white towel hooked around his neck, his lean, hard torso completely bare. Dark hair fanned across his chest and over muscle and sinew that gleamed with drops of water he hadn't toweled dry. His wet, slicked-back hair shone like onyx in the lantern light, emphasizing the shadowy fringe of his eyebrows and lashes...and those dark eyes that made her burn.

  The force of his gaze tightened her stomach muscles.

  He brushed his knuckles across her cheek. "I want to make love to you the way you deserve to be made love to."

  Of all the things he might have said to her in that moment, none could have filled her with more confidence or joy. She turned back the bedding to welc
ome him, her lover.

  Muscles shifted across his shoulders and tapered, naked back as he bent to lower the lantern wick. The room turned golden, his skin bronze. Unabashedly, she watched him shuck his trousers and drawers.

  She'd seen Jack's body through peeks and glimpses, the young girl in her too shy, the experienced woman too intimidated, to openly appraise him. But she wasn't shy or afraid tonight. The woman in her took a good, long look at the man she was inviting into bed, into her heart, into her life.

  Boyd was impressive in every way.

  He slipped beneath the covers and reached for her. She moved into his arms, coveting the warmth radiating from his hard body. The tangy smell of soap clung to his neck and chest where she nestled her head.

  "What a surprise you are," he said, a tinge of awe in his voice.

  She smiled against his chest, enjoying the rumble of his voice beneath her ear, enjoying his approval. She'd surprised herself too. "It pays to be daring at times," she said, recognizing the truth of her words.

  "How daring do you feel now?" She lifted her head, expecting to see humor in his eyes.

  She saw banked fire instead.

  He scraped his blunt fingernails across her scalp, sending a delicious shiver through her as he slipped his fingers into her hair. "I want to touch you all night, starting right here." He drew his thumb over her lips. "And give you so much pleasure you beg me to stop."

  She'd never begged, but when he rolled her to her back and kissed and nibbled and stroked her until she was mindless and gasping, she considered it.

  And he hadn't even touched her below the neck.

  "Roll onto your stomach," he said near her ear. A wicked thrill zipped through her, stealing her ability to speak. She hesitated, unsure what he was asking.

  He kissed her neck. "Trust me."

  She would. Oh, she would. She rolled onto her stomach, trusting that whatever he did to her would be heaven.

  He sat up and spanned her back with his talented artist's hands, moving his warm palms over her skin with slow, fanning strokes that made her moan. The tips of his fingers dragged across her skin, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh that made her shiver with pleasure.