Page 33 of Mistletoe Cowboy

He bent his head toward her. “We can’t make out in a theater,” he whispered. “Probably a good thing.”

“Probably a very . . . good . . . thing,” she agreed as his mouth brushed slowly over hers.

“Come up here.” He lifted her off the ground against him and his mouth grew gently invasive. “You taste like honey,” he whispered, and smiled against her lips as he drew her closer.

She smiled, too. She loved the way he kissed her. He wasn’t impatient or demanding. He was gentle and slow and seductive.

“I like this,” he whispered.

“Me, too,” she whispered back.

He drew in a quick breath and slowly lowered her back to her feet. “One step at a time,” he said huskily, holding her just a little away from him. “We could get in over our heads too quickly.”

She nodded. She was staring at his mouth. It hadn’t been enough. Not nearly enough.

He read that hunger in her. “Too much too soon is dangerous,” he said firmly.

She nodded again. She was still staring at his mouth.

“Oh, what the hell . . . !”

He swept her close, bent, and made a meal of her soft lips, pressing them back away from her teeth so that his tongue could flick inside her mouth and make the kiss even more intimate, more seductive.

She moaned helplessly, and he ground his mouth into hers, his arms swallowing her up whole, in a silence that exploded with sensation too long unfelt, hungers too long unfed, passion that flared between them like a wildfire.

Finally, when her lips were almost bruised, he eased her away from him. His heartbeat was shaking the jacket he wore with his T-shirt. He sounded as if he’d run a ten-mile race, his breathing was so labored.

She just smiled, all at sea, deliciously stimulated, feeling as if she’d finally taken the edge off a little of the hunger he kindled in her.

“Well, that was dumb,” he muttered. “Now we’ll have hot dreams of each other every night and I’ll wake up screaming.”

She laughed. “I’d love to see that,” she teased.

He laughed, too. “If I do, I’ll phone you.”

“You could text me,” she said. “Even when I’m at work. I wouldn’t mind.”

He smiled softly. “You can text me, too, even at two in the morning. I don’t sleep much.”

“I could?”

He nodded. He touched her cheek gently. “We have differences,” he said. “My culture is not the same as yours. Even though my father is white, I was raised a Crow, in a Crow community.”

“I’ll study.”

He smiled. “That’s the idea.”

“But whatever the differences, I won’t mind,” she said. Her face was radiant. “I’ll adjust.”

He nodded. “I know you will. Meanwhile, we’ll try to keep it low-key. Okay?”

She flushed. She’d started this. “I should probably feel guilty, but I don’t,” she added pertly.

“Neither do I. Some things are inevitable.”

“Yes.”

He drew in a long breath. “Well, I’ll go home and try to sleep. If I can’t sleep, I’ll text you, and you can call and sing me a lullaby,” he said outrageously.

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