He caught her wrist. “Unless you’re trying to shove your finger through my chest, stop,” he warned.
She jerked, trying to free herself.
Reckless need had him jerking back.
She crashed into him, a startled noise escaping her.
He reached up with his free hand and cupped her hip, holding her against him.
For the longest moment, they just stared at each other.
“Let me go,” she whispered, the hoarse murmur shattering the silence.
“I did that. Once. I’ve regretted it and been miserable ever since.”
Moira’s lashes fluttered down over her eyes. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to first one eye, then the other. When her mouth fell open on a gasp, he leaned down and licked at her lower lip. “Do you know how hard it is to go through life holding onto memories … Mac?”
She made a low noise in her throat.
It could have been protest.
It could have been assent.
He didn’t know.
He prepared himself to pull away.
What he didn’t prepare himself for was for her to curl her right arm around his neck and tug him in closer.
Her tongue slid out to meet his.
It was a nervous, almost shy kiss—so much like their first one.
He could remember it, clear as day.
That first kiss had shaken the very bedrock of his world.
This one threatened to end it.
Fisting his hand in the material at the small of her back, he brought her in closer.
She came willingly and when she arched against him, he slid that same hand down her hip, toying with the hem of her skirt.
She rolled her hips against him and Gideon swore, tearing his mouth away.
“You’re supposed to be the smart one, Mac. So show it. Pull away and walk up that path, get away from me now.”
She licked her lips, her tongue lingering on the upper bow. Then she curled her hands into his shoulders and rose up onto her toes. Softly, she whispered, “I’m tired of being the smart one, Gideon.”
* * *
She told herself she was ready.
She told herself she’d been waiting for this for too many years.
But when he spun her around, shoving her up against the rough side of the boathouse, Moira knew she’d lied.
She wasn’t ready.
Even when he hiked her up, shoving her skirt up in the same motion, she knew she wasn’t ready.
Her panties disappeared in a jerk and a tear and then he was between her thighs.
She still wasn’t ready and she didn’t care.
“You’re wet,” Gideon rasped against her ear.
Yes, she was wet and getting wetter as he stroked two fingers down her slit, opening her.
She gasped when he slowly screwed those same two fingers inside her. Clamping down tight around him, she arched up and rocked, trying to take him deeper.
But Gideon wasn’t in the mood for slow and teasing foreplay.
She’d barely had time to feel him stretching her before his hand was gone, replaced by the blunt, probing head of his cock.
She whimpered at the feel of him as he moved in closer, hooking her knees over his elbows to open her fully. A moan rose in her throat but lodged there as he started to forge his way deep, deep inside her.
* * *
She was stretched tight around him, her flesh hot and slick, straining to accommodate him.
Gideon knew exactly when he’d felt like this—the last day he’d made love to her—only a few short minutes before she’d told him good-bye for the final time.
He banished that memory to the very depths of his consciousness and focused on the here and the now, staring at the sight of his cockhead, slowly disappearing inside the satin wet depths of her pussy.
Moira keened out his name, her voice strangled and broken.
Her nails bit into his shoulders, short, neat half moons that he’d carry with bittersweet, vivid memories until they healed.
Her hips twisted in his hands and he shuddered as that action drove her more completely down on him.
Retreating, he started to ride her, sinking a little deeper, a little faster each time.
Moira responded with a shattering sob, shaking in his hands and quivering as though with a fever.
His own climax was already rushing on him hard and fast.
It wouldn’t be enough.
Nothing with her would ever be enough.
Nothing.
* * *
Judging by the angle of the light, Moira knew they had to have spent well over an hour inside the boathouse.
Her clothes might not be totally beyond salvaging, but she probably was.
She went to stand up, but before she could, Gideon kissed her back. “Leaving already?” he asked.
“It’s a memorial service. I’m supposed to be out there for my brother.”
“Yeah. We should be out there.” He pulled her onto her knees and moved between them. “But I’d rather be in here.”
She gasped as he came inside her.
She was swollen and sore and she didn’t know how to handle telling him she’d stopped taking the pill a few months after she’d divorced Charles.
But in that moment, nothing mattered but feeling him inside her.
Unlike the others, this climax was slow and sweet and lazy.
When it ended, she let him pull her back into his arms and she cuddled up against him.
I miss you, she thought, half desperately.
She did miss him.
But how did one reach across a void of so many years and tell the man she’d always loved that she was sorry?
That she’d made a terrible mistake?
* * *
Hannah studied the picture of Alison, trying to ignore the creeping dread that crawled up her spine. Absently, she reached down to rub her belly. She wanted the next few months gone. Wanted her baby to come and wanted to forget about every bad thing that had happened lately—
“Don’t think that,” she muttered. “You’ve forgotten enough, haven’t you?”
Something bumped against her hand.
She jumped.
The sensation was so startling, so unexpected, she looked down, staring at the spot where she’d felt it.
It happened again.
“Oh, my goodness,” she whispered, the words hardly more than a breath of sound as she realized what had just happened.
The baby had just moved!
The dread, the uneasiness that had chased her much of the day fell away and she turned, ready to rush and find Brannon.
She almost crashed right into Lloyd Hanson. At the sight of the smirk that curled his thin lips, she balled one hand into a fist. Immediately, she backed away, automatically bracing both feet wide and turning her body slightly to the side.
She knew for a fact that dealing with him could end badly. Her experiences with him brought about that instinctive fight or flight response and when it came to scum like him, the response was fight. He was a coward, a wife beater, and trash—in that order.
She didn’t like Lloyd, not at all. She hadn’t liked him even before she’d shown up on the scene when he’d been beating his wife senseless.
Hannah hadn’t been on the clock when she’d heard the screams coming from inside the little house where Joanie had lived with Lloyd since their marriage four years earlier. That hadn’t kept Hannah’s bosses from tearing into her when she’d used a rock to break the window and let herself inside. She’d called the cops first—she wasn’t stupid. She’d then used that same rock on Lloyd’s head.
He’d wanted to press charges but it was found there were no grounds.
So then he’d tried to claim she’d caused him physical and mental trauma.
But that hadn’t gone over very well because when his lawyer had even attempted to give Hannah grief, Hannah had handed him his ignorant ass. She hadn’t even needed her lawyer—and the woman had p
ractically applauded by the time Hannah was done.
Then she had looked at her counterpart and asked, “You really want to put her on the stand? Your client is a known abuser. My client’s mother lived with an abuser for years. You’ll never win because my first witness is going to be Hannah and you’ve already gotten a glimpse of what runs through her mind when she sees a woman being beaten.”
The lawyer had told Lloyd he’d never win.
Joanie had even left Lloyd … for a while.
She’d gone back but even now, people liked to ask him how he was doing with his mental trauma.
All of that might add up to why Lloyd was staring at her with complete and utter hatred in his eyes. Some of the people around them glanced their way. Hannah braced herself. This just might get ugly.
“Gonna be nice, being a babymaker for the richest fuck in town. How long did it take you to sleaze your way into his bed, huh?”
“Kiss ass, Lloyd,” she advised him, shoving past him—or trying.
He caught her arm, his fingers digging in.
She jerked away. Knowing him—and knowing he wouldn’t let go—she didn’t just pull away, though. She swung out, jabbing him in the throat with a stiffened hand.
He fell back, gasping and rubbing at it.
“You … fuckin…” He sucked in a wheezing breath and waited a few seconds before he tried again.
She debated about walking on, or nodding at one of the men who were clearly looking in her direction with silent offers of help.
But no.
She was tired of this.
This wasn’t the first time Lloyd had hassled her and Gideon had already told her if he kept it up, they’d have enough to slap a restraining order against him. Unlike Joanie, Hannah wasn’t scared of her own shadow and she wouldn’t drop the order.
If the son of a bitch violated it, she’d have his ass in jail.
Hannah set her jaw, glaring at him.
“One of these days, you fat cunt, a man’s going to teach you a lesson,” he said, leaning in so that nobody around them caught the low threat. He was so close, she could catch the garlic off his breath. “It might even be me.”
“Nah, Lloyd.” She moved back and smiled at him. “You see, that can’t happen. You would actually have to be a man for it to be you.”
He snarled and made to reach for her again. “You watch how to talk to me, you whore!”
The shadow that fell across him was the only warning he had.
Hannah caught a glass from a passing server, lifting it in a salute to Brannon as he closed his hand over Lloyd’s skinny shoulder. Brannon’s hand tightened. She watched as his knuckles went white and bloodless and Lloyd winced, trying to jerk away but he couldn’t manage it.
Brannon dipped his head low and said softly, “You want to say that again, Lloyd?”
“I…” Lloyd jerked his head. “You don’t want to do this here, Brannon. The sheriff is here. Gideon Marshall’s around somewhere.” He sucked in a breath and whimpered as Brannon’s grip tightened. “You stupid fuck. If you don’t let me go right now, I’ll fucking sue your stupid ass.”
“Sure, Lloyd.” Brannon gave him a calm smile. “I’ll let you go.”
He did—with a hard shove that sent him stumbling into the dirt.
A low laugh broke out into the crowd and when Lloyd came up, he came up swinging.
Hannah winced as she watched Brannon take a punch—and that’s all there was to it.
He took the punch.
Then, when Lloyd went to slug him again, Brannon blocked it. “I’m going to give you the same advice you gave me. You don’t want to do this here,” Brannon said. “My property and I’m warning you. If you lift your hand to me again, I’ll defend myself.”
“Suck my dick, you uppity, rich son of a bitch,” Lloyd said, panting. A grin spread across his face.
He’d gotten a taste of blood, Hannah thought. It had made him stupid.
Otherwise, he would have realized that Brannon wasn’t even breathing hard.
Brannon took one more punch.
The next one, he caught and trapped.
Hannah gagged when she heard the bone break. It was a sickening sort of sound, a cracking wet one, followed immediately by Lloyd’s shriek.
Tank Granger chose that moment to emerge from the crowd, swearing a blue streak. He stopped at the sight of Hannah and the other women and instead started to mutter under his breath. That lasted precisely ten seconds. She could count on Tank to keep things routine. He gave himself a specific amount of time to indulge his temper before he became all business. Slapping his hands on his hips, he looked at the writhing, whimpering form of Lloyd Hansen before shifting his attention to Hannah and Brannon. “Please tell me there’s a damn good reason you snapped his arm like a twig, Brannon McKay.”
“Self defense,” Brannon said, jerking a big shoulder in a shrug.
Tank ran his tongue across his teeth and then looked at the skinny, lanky form of Lloyd Hansen. For a moment, he almost looked like he wanted to laugh and then he dragged a hand down his face. Hannah thought maybe he was wiping the smile away. He called out into the crowd. “Devin! Levon! I need you boys! Hope you’re sober.”
Two men separated themselves from the crowd—they were in civilian clothes—and sober as far as Hannah could tell.
As they came closer, Tank made a quick call into dispatch for an ambulance and then he focused a pair of hard hazel eyes on Brannon. “Explain this to me, son. Just how did you break his arm defending yourself? If I recall correctly—”
A high-pitched wail came from Lloyd as Levon and Devin hauled him to his feet. Levon had stabilized Lloyd’s arm—he’d been a field medic in the army up until two years ago. Hannah couldn’t fault how efficiently he’d done it.
Tank cocked a brow and then looked back at Brannon. “As I was saying, if I—”
Lloyd wailed again.
“For the love of Mary, boy, have some dignity and quit your caterwauling!” Tank bellowed.
“It fucking hurts!” Lloyd sobbed, leaning heavily against Devon. He shot Levon a dirty look. “That idiot you got there got no idea how much it hurt when he…” He fumbled to a stop as he looked at his stabilized arm.
Levon folded his hands behind his back. “I apologize, Mr. Hansen. When I broke my leg during my last tour, I discovered it was a lot more painful to leave the broken limb unstabilized, but if you’d like me to unwrap it, I can do that.” He gave Lloyd a placid, unperturbed smile.
Lloyd muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath.
“In my day, when somebody did something to help a man out, he said thank you,” Tank said. Then he looked back at Brannon. “One more time.”
Brannon looked at Hannah. “He called her a whore.”
Then he looked back at Tank. “He was in her face and he called her a whore. So I got in his face and asked him if he’d like to repeat that. I had my hand on his shoulder and he told me to stop touching him.” A smirk of a smile lit Brannon’s features.
It was terrible and primeval and juvenile, but that gleam that came into his eyes made Hannah’s heart race. She rested a hand on her belly and tried to think calming, soothing thoughts.
It wasn’t working.
Brannon, totally unaware of how off-topic her thoughts were getting, shrugged. “I stopped touching him.” He shrugged. “I might have pushed him … hard. He went down and got up, punched me. Twice. I told him each time he needed to stop and get off my property. I didn’t strike back or attempt to defend myself until he went at me a third time.”
“That’s a bunch of bullshit,” Lloyd snapped.
“No. It’s not.” Hannah rubbed her hand over her belly, then gasped as the baby kicked in response.
Brannon’s eyes flew to her.
“It’s okay.” She fought not to smile at him. It so didn’t seem to be the time. Shifting her gaze over to Tank, she gestured to Lloyd. “It’s no secret there’s no love lost between Lloyd and me. He’s b
een getting in my face off and on ever since that incident with Joanie. Last week, I had to call Gideon after Lloyd threw something on my car when I was driving—”
“You can’t prove I did that!” Lloyd protested.
Hannah ignored him. “There’s a police report about it and I’ve talked to Gideon about Lloyd and his hassling twice. I’m about to file a restraining order.” Curling her lip at the man in question, she added, “As a matter of fact, I think Gideon’s office is my next stop when I leave here.”
“You ain’t got cause, bitch!” Lloyd jerked away from Devin and then went an ugly shade of pasty white as he fell, off-balance, into Levon.
“You called me a whore,” Hannah said. “You accused me of sleazing my way into Brannon’s bed just to con him out of child support. You repeatedly get into my face and invade my personal space and put your hands on me. You grabbed me not even five minutes ago and called me a fat cunt, told me that some man—maybe even you—would teach me a lesson. I think I’ve got cause.”
The pasty white had long since gone red.
Hannah toasted him. “I told you to stay out of my way, Lloyd.”
He roared. Forgetting his arm, forgetting the sheriff and his deputies, he lunged in her direction. In the process, he rammed into Tank who had moved to block him.
Five seconds later, he was on his ass, screaming in agony.
“Well, I think you’ll be spending some time in lock-up, Lloyd.” Tank’s ruddy face was bland as he shook his head at the wailing man. “You need to cool off, son.”
Hannah studied him over the rim of her glass.
She wondered if she had an icicle’s chance in hell of talking Joanie into leaving while her darling husband was taking his time out.
* * *
“The baby kicked.”
It was nearly four hours later.
The memorial was supposed to have ended nearly two hours ago, but it ended up dragging on longer than planned, and not just because of Lloyd Hansen’s meltdown.
Nearly forty-five minutes after the sheriff and his men had followed the ambulance and its furious patient off the winery grounds, a decidedly disheveled Moira McKay had emerged from the trees.
The Trouble with Temptation Page 19