"There's one difference," she said as she slowly got to her feet.
"What's that?" Stacy asked, her brows knitting.
Raine offered her a bittersweet smile. "Your men stayed with you. Mine always leaves."
Prudy looked at Stacy. Stacy looked at Prudy. Neither said a word. How could they?
Raine was sweating by the time she reached her own place. According to the thermometer affixed to the post holding up the porch roof, it was a scorching ninety degrees. In the shade.
Inside the house, it felt about ten degrees cooler, and she sighed with relief. When she'd renovated the old house, she'd installed central heat and air as a matter of course, but she preferred her air fresh whenever possible.
Morgan was just coming out of the utility room when she walked into the kitchen and closed the screen door behind her. His long legs were sheathed in clean, dry jeans. His feet and his chest were bare. He stopped when he saw her, and glowered at her.
"Uh-oh," she said when she saw what he had in his hands. It was the remnants of the T-shirt she'd cut from his body.
"This just happens to be my favorite shirt." He looked pained. "Correction, this was my favorite shirt. Now it's a rag."
She felt her lips twitch. "I, um, forgot it was special. I'm sorry."
"Care to tell me what happened, Mrs. Paxton?" He was frowning, but his voice seemed to soften over her name.
"You were soaking wet and starting to shiver, and I couldn't get you to move. I had to do something, so I just … cut it off of you, like they do in the hospital emergency room."
His brow furrowed. In most areas of his life, Morgan was remarkably dispassionate and logical. When it came to his clothes, however, he had a tendency to be a tad eccentric. He had his favorites, which were as sacred to him as holy relics are to religious zealots. It was one of the things that Raine had found most endearing during those times when he was home.
"Frank Weinhard gave me this shirt when I signed my first network contract," he said in a tone dripping with accusation. "It was still in great shape."
Raine's jaw dropped. "Are we talking about the same shirt here? The one with the frayed neckline and a giant hole in the front?"
"I didn't say it was perfect." He sounded offended.
"Just that it was in great shape?"
"That's what I said."
She came closer for a better look. Dry now and a mass of wrinkles, the old shirt was even worse than she remembered. Extending a finger, she poked at one of the faded letters. She knew it was a B, but to the uninformed, it could be any of four or five other letters.
"Yes, I can see it's in a pristine state. And such a lovely color of drab, faded gray."
His mouth quirked. "I admit it's seen a little wear."
"Now that is an understatement if I've ever heard one."
A sheepish look came over his face. "I guess you think it's pretty dumb, getting all worked up over a shirt."
"I think it's called sublimation." She lifted a hand to touch the shirt, then let it drop. "Maybe it can be mended."
"Can it, Raine? Or is it too late?" His husky whisper seemed to thrum all the way through her. Suddenly he was no longer talking about a ruined shirt.
"I don't know," she admitted, shaking inside. "Maybe I'm afraid to find out."
He lifted a hand to smooth the same stray curl behind her ear. She shivered, and his mouth slanted.
"Maybe I am, too."
She drew a shaky breath. "I've never known you to be afraid of anything."
His lashes flickered. "You're not supposed to know."
"Why not?"
"Bad for my image."
There it was, that teasing grin designed to charm. Or was it to keep others from probing too deeply?
"I didn't marry an image, Morgan."
The look that whisked across his hard features was poignantly sad. "No, we both know you married the father of your child."
"Because I loved you."
He held himself very still while his gaze probed the depths of her eyes. She wondered if he would reach for her. When he didn't, she realized she was disappointed,
"And now?" he asked very quietly after a long moment of silence.
"Now I'm confused and muddled and … pregnant."
His eyes crinkled. "Which came first?"
"The pregnant part," she admitted. "The confusion and muddle arrived at just about the same time you did."
"Funny, that's when it hit me, too."
Raine found herself laughing. "This isn't funny," she said, biting her lip. "You're supposed to be furious with me, and I'm supposed to be totally impervious to your charm."
"Is that right?" He draped the tattered shirt around her neck like a towel and gripped both ends.
"We'll only end up hurting one another."
"That's one possibility. Way I see it, there's another."
"Which is?"
He edged closer. Close enough for her to feel the heat of his bare chest. Close enough to see the tiny needle marks in his shoulder from sutures placed there years ago by an army surgeon.
"I could turn out to be a terrific househusband. Indispensable, even. So indispensable you'd end up keeping me.
"You mean like a pet?"
His mouth rose at one aggressive corner. "Sorta, yeah. Provided I get to warm your feet at night."
He slowly drew the soft cotton shirt back and forth across the sensitive nape of her neck. Tiny shivers ran through her, part pleasure, part anticipation.
"I … don't think that would be a good idea."
"Sounds to me like you're afraid," he taunted gently, his gaze fixed now on her mouth. "The question is? Of whom? Me or yourself?"
She felt him tug on the ends of the shirt, drawing her closer. She knew she should resist. Any second now she would. Even as his head was descending, even as her eyes were fluttering closed as though beyond her control, she told herself to step back.
He touched his mouth to hers in a brief kiss. A mere whisper no longer than a breath. "Don't be afraid, honey."
She watched his mouth, enthralled by the sensuality of movement, the provocative creasing of his cheek. The flash of strong white teeth.
"I'm as chubby as a blimp."
It seemed vitally important for him to understand. How could he want her when she carried another man's children?
"Not chubby. Blooming. As round and ripe as a peach fixin' to fall from a tree."
She managed a shaky laugh. "You've become a poet."
His eyes crinkled. "Nah, I must've read that somewhere."
"You're always reading." She realized she was spouting nonsense. Stalling for time.
"Not always. Sometimes I'm sleeping. And sometimes I'm daydreaming about making love to my wife."
His tone was both wistful and amused, with an undercurrent of sensuous promise. She felt a thrill run through her, followed immediately by the cold water of panic. Perhaps that was the reason she flinched when he let one end of the shirt fall to her breast and lifted his hand toward her face.
"Easy, sweetheart. I just need to touch you, that's all."
"Why?"
His mouth firmed. "Silly question."
His fingers skimmed her cheek as he traced the sweep of her cheekbones. With the ball of his thumb, he followed the line of her lips. It was a tactile seduction, all the more arousing because she sensed the control he was exerting to go slowly.
"So soft and sweet," he murmured, his voice very deep. "Such a pretty mouth." She felt his breath on her face, tinged with toothpaste.
His lips seemed to hover over hers for an eternity. Mesmerized, she let her eyes drift closed. An instant later his mouth found hers. She felt a jolt, a spread of warmth, a small catch of excitement in her throat as he rubbed her mouth with his. She remained perfectly still as emotion fluttered through her. The glint in his eyes had promised power and heat. He was giving her slow and gentle. A tender wooing.
Little by little she felt the tautness draining from her m
uscles as his mouth made slow nibbling motions. When he caught her lower lip between his teeth, she uttered a small, inarticulate protest. When she felt his tongue touch her lip, the protest became a moan of pleasure.
He withdrew. Took a breath, then found her mouth again. It was a deliberate mating, utterly sexual, yet layered in complexity. He kissed her again and again, setting his own rhythm, slow and lazy, a symphony of constraint. Each time his mouth pressed hers, she felt more heat, more need. Each time his mouth withdrew, she moaned, bringing his mouth to hers again.
Each kiss took her deeper.
Each time, his lips were parted more, making him both aggressor and supplicant. She responded by opening her own lips in invitation.
He shifted, lithe as the cat he resembled, perfectly coordinated. He tilted his head to one side, fitted his mouth to hers. He skimmed his palms over her bare arms in a slow caress that warmed her flesh and heated her blood.
She snuggled closer, her belly pressed to his. Between them the babies shifted and settled, eliciting a sound from him halfway between a laugh and a groan. His arms closed around her, drawing her into a powerfully intimate embrace.
His toes tangled with hers where they peeked from the straps of her sandals. His large palms cupped her buttocks, drawing her even more snugly to him.
Something crested inside her, spilling over into pleasure. She needed. Wanted. No longer content to be passive, she put her arms around his neck and arched upward. She heard a growl of approval rumble in his bare chest, even as he slipped his tongue into her open mouth.
She felt exultant, alive.
It was heaven being held like this. How she loved feeling defenseless against his overpowering masculinity! Soaring, she gloried in the tightly coiled strength of the well-muscled arms holding her so securely. She basked in the feel of his hardness against her yielding softness.
The hard ridge of his arousal emphasized the elemental difference in their bodies. The demand of his mouth epitomized the contrast in their natures. His tongue was wicked and daring, making love to her mouth with each darting stroke. She felt her body opening, softening. Moisture gathered between her legs.
As though sensing her response, he changed the tempo of his seduction. His tongue was disciplined now. Controlled. Stroking into her mouth with slow deliberation.
She imagined him laving her body with those same slow strokes, and her breasts tingled. Another moan escaped her as she imagined the feel of his tongue on her stomach, on her thighs. Imagined a gently insistent intrusion into her body. A hot rush of demand.
She tensed and dug her fingers into his neck. Some semblance of sanity rose above the sensual bombardment, and she managed to wrench her mouth from his. Panting, she dropped her head to his chest and waited for the wild surge of need to pass.
"Please, Raine," he grated, his breath fanning the top of her head. "I need you."
Morgan felt the words being torn from him almost against his will, and winced. What had started as a prelude to seduction had escalated into a hunger so powerful, it frightened him.
Schooling himself to patience, he drew back and used his fist to nudge her chin higher until he could see her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips rosy and kiss swollen.
Her eyes were closed, her brow furrowed. A pulse as wild as his own beat in the fragile hollow of her throat.
He felt a rush of tenderness as fierce as his physical need. Because he couldn't help himself, he kissed her again, praying she wouldn't pull away. When she responded by opening her mouth, he nearly shouted his happiness aloud.
Instead, he murmured her name before kissing her again. Harder this time. She stayed with him, her fingers burrowing into his hair, opening and closing in delicious little spasms that tugged on his scalp and whetted his appetite.
His hands roamed the supple curve of her back. The soft cotton shirt was still warm from the sun and felt soft against his fingertips. But not as soft as her skin would feel. Or as satisfying.
The tail of her shirt was loose, allowing easy access to the warm skin it covered, yet he hesitated. Once he'd felt the silk of her flesh, he doubted he would have the strength to stop before he was buried deep inside her.
He drew back before it was too late, and the jolt of disappointment he felt nearly overrode his control. Her lashes fluttered, then lifted, and her drowsy gaze found his.
"Honey, we have to stop," he whispered, his voice thick with unslaked desire.
"Stop?" She sounded dazed. And … annoyed? He felt a rush of hope.
"It's been too long. I'm about to bust."
She choked back a laugh. "I withdraw my previous remarks. You're not a poet."
He felt a rush of tenderness "At least give me credit for trying to be a gentleman."
As she looked at him through hazy dark eyes, he cursed himself for being a fool. Yet, there was too much at stake to risk a mistake now.
Timing was everything.
At the moment his felt lousy.
"Maybe I don't want you to be a gentleman," she whispered, her gaze searching his.
He inhaled sharply. His control became even more precarious. "Careful, honey. I'm not in the mood for teasing."
Raine drew a shaky breath. She'd forgotten how meticulous Morgan had always been about their relationship. No games. No coy pretenses. Everything up-front and honest.
"I'm … not teasing," she made herself admit.
His expression turned fierce, his eyes molten. "Tell me you want me," he demanded.
"I … want you."
He closed his eyes for a long moment, his face stiff with need and something more. Something riveting.
"In that case, honey, hang on tight."
With one powerful, tightly controlled movement of muscle and sinew, he scooped her into his arms and headed for the bedroom.
Chapter 11
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He kissed her hard before setting her gently on her feet. It seemed to drain the last of his control. His expression was fierce, his muscles taut as he ripped open the button fly of his jeans. He dipped the other hand beneath her shirt and jerked her shorts over her hips, letting them fall to the floor.
Even as she was stepping free of the puddled cotton, his mouth was finding hers in a hungry kiss. Gone was the gentle wooing, the tender persuasion. The self-imposed moderation. Her mouth opened to his demand, allowing his tongue to enter.
Raine moaned, her senses quivering, brought to full life by the stroking of his hands and the sweet persistence of his kisses. Whatever doubts and reservations remained concerning the wisdom of making love to this man seemed irrelevant. All that mattered was the all-consuming heat of his passion.
He pulled back, his face taut with his need, his eyes smoldering, his arms corded as he slowly eased her shirt above her waist.
"Lift your arms for me, baby," he ordered, his voice thick.
She obeyed, poised on the knife edge of embarrassment. He'd never seen her in full-blown pregnancy, never made love to her when her belly was distended and her breasts were swollen.
Impatiently he tossed away the shirt, then dealt swiftly with the plain cotton bra. Her breasts spilled free, engorged now by need as much as her advancing condition. She waited as he stood unmoving, staring down at her. Gradually, like the bloom of shame, she felt heat rising from between her breasts. Suddenly miserable and uncertain, she bit her lip and tried to edge backward.
"Sweet heaven, but you're magnificent," he said, his voice rough with reverence. "My sexy fertility goddess."
His manhood sprang free of his shorts, his arousal heavy and throbbing through the open fly of his jeans. Raine swallowed, feeling her body warm and soften, eager to receive his. She had forgotten how large he was. How powerfully male.
She lifted her gaze to his, her cheeks flaming.
Seeing the drowsy desire in her eyes drove Morgan to the brink. He fought for control. He had to touch her. Now.
But suddenly he was afraid. What if it was too soon? What if he w
anted her too much to be gentle?
He felt awkward and ungainly, a peasant yearning for a queen. The ignorant son of a moonshiner with rough hands and the finesse of a mule.
"Raine, baby, I…" He swallowed, tried again. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."
"Oh, Morgan," she whispered, her voice vibrating with the same need he felt pulsing in his loins.
Gently, his hands trembling, he reached out to palm her breasts. She swayed, bringing her hands up to brace against his shoulders. Her eyes closed, and her lips parted on a sigh.
He lifted the fullness of one breast, then the other and watched the emotions playing over her face. With his thumbs, he teased the dark nipples until they were hot, hard nubs. It was beautiful to watch her body responding. He was wildly aroused, yet humbled by the openness of her acceptance.
"Honey, I can't … wait much longer," he grated, his painfully engorged body clamoring for an end to the exquisite torture.
Raine heard the strain in his voice and arched closer. He took her in his arms and held her fiercely, his body shuddering. Her hands closed around his neck as she rubbed her aching nipples against the crisp hair on his chest. He groaned, and buried his face in her hair. She felt the steely strength of muscle beneath the warm, taut skin of his neck, sensed the power in the broad shoulders. His hand cupped her buttocks, pulling her hard against the straining hardness of his arousal. She felt spurts of pleasure inside, like tiny sparks.
"That feels so good," she murmured softly. "So good."
He groaned, then suddenly lifted her.
"Straddle me, honey. Let me feel your heat."
Arching upward, she clung tighter, felt his arousal probing for the warmth behind her thin panties. At the same moment he moved backward toward the bed.
Still holding her securely, he slowly sat down, his hard shaft pressed against the delta of her thighs.
"Ah, that's so … nice," he managed in a breathless tone of raw desire. His thighs bunched hard under hers as he drew up a hand to wet one finger.
Baby by Design Page 13