Page 39 of Wyoming Heart

“WHEREDIDYOUget apples in March?” she asked when the silence became too full of tension.

“There’s a whole food market that just opened in Catelow,” he said, his voice sounding oddly strained. “Bart went shopping. He likes organic.”

“Me, too.” She’d heard about the market. She’d have to check it out. She turned and looked at the pretty red apples in their small barrel. “These are nice,” she said.

He came up behind her. Close. Too close. She could feel the heat of his tall body, smell the faint cologne that clung to him.

She was breathing oddly. Her heart began to race. She was nervous and couldn’t hide it. She’d never had such a reaction to a man. He was a rounder, they said. Would he know?

Of course he knew. He could almost feel her heart beat. She smelled of wildflowers and flour. Without realizing why, his big, lean hands slid around her waist and pulled her back into his body.

“How long does it take, to make a piecrust like those?” he asked, for something to say.

“Not...not a long time.” Her small hands went to push his away, but they lingered as his fingers spread to her waist and moved to hold her there. Involuntarily, her hands slid over his. Her heart was almost shaking her.

His mouth went to her neck. His lips smoothed over it, through the soft strands of her long hair. Odd, how hungry he was for her. He’d never toyed with innocents, not ever. He confined his pursuit to women who were in his own class, models and debutantes, movie stars, even sports stars. This was a tragedy in the making, and he knew it. But she was so damned sweet. She made him ache for things he’d never wanted.

“Mr... Mr...” She swallowed hard. “I can’t remember your last name.”

“My name is Cort,” he whispered at her ear. His big hands contracted, warm and strong around her waist, and pulled her closer. “Say it.”

“Cort,” she whispered shakily. This was wrong. She had to stop it, now while she could. She turned in his grasp.

But before she could protest or say a word, his pale brown eyes caught hers and held them. His hands went to her back and pulled, ever so gently, until she was almost completely plastered to his long, muscular body.

“I... I can’t...” She tried to speak.

“Yes, you can, Mina,” he whispered as his head bent. “Easy,” he murmured as his mouth smoothed tenderly over hers and she jerked in his arms. “Slow and easy. It’s like...dancing.”

She wanted to push him away. She really did. But her body ached from the contact with his. She felt safe. Restless. Hungry. Shaky. And his mouth was doing something unfamiliar to hers. It wasn’t like with Jake. This was arousing, the soft, slow brushing, the faint nip of his teeth, the harsh sound of his breath as the contact worked on him.

Over the years, there had been just a few kisses, most recently Jake’s. But this was totally out of her experience. He made her want something more, harder, deeper, and she found herself going on her tiptoes to try and coax his teasing mouth to do what she wanted it to do.

He smiled against her lips. He knew how women reacted. He knew all too well. He was practiced in this ancient art. His lips coaxed hers apart and his hands half lifted her into a more intimate contact with him. And then the teasing stopped.

His mouth ground into hers, hard and hungry, his arms enclosing her, possessing her, as the kiss grew more intimate by the second.

She felt his powerful body shudder. He groaned against her lips. She was lost, floating, starving to death for something she didn’t understand.

One big hand went to the base of her spine and pushed her hips into his. He shivered, letting her feel the sudden, growing hunger of his body as it began to swell.

She wasn’t so innocent that she didn’t realize what was happening to him. She was almost drugged by the pleasure his mouth was giving her, but the abrupt change of his body brought her back to reality. He was a cowboy. He’d had plenty of women. She knew by the way he was with her. She could recognize experience, even though she had very little. She eased her mouth from under the crush of his and tried to move back.

He was aching all over. He’d gone in headfirst, so used to women who followed him helplessly into the bedroom that he had no practice at stopping short of intimacy. She was pulling away. His slow brain finally realized that she was protesting the hold he had on her.

He lifted his head. He felt it spinning like a top. She was potent, this sweet, fragrant little virgin.

“I’m...sorry,” she whispered. “But...”

He let her ease away from his hips, but he didn’t let go. His pale eyes, darkened with passion, searched hers. The soft swell of her mouth, the quick little breaths that he could feel against his lips, the faint trembling of her body told him things she wouldn’t.

He shuddered faintly, helpless in his hunger as he fought for control.

She watched him, fascinated, embarrassed, a little shamed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again, grimacing.

So she knew it hurt men when they couldn’t go past petting, he thought absently. Was she an innocent? “How do you know that?” he asked in a strained tone.

“Know what?” she asked.

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