Page 14 of Suzanna's Surrender
“It’s hard to picture C.C. married. The last time I saw her she was about twelve.”
“She’s grown up now, and beautiful.”
“Looks run in the family.”
She glanced up, surprised, then back down again. “I think you’ve just said something nice.”
“Just stating a fact. The Calhoun sisters were always worth a second look.” To please himself, he reached out to toy with the tip of her ponytail. “Whenever guys got together, the four of you were definitely topics of conversation.”
She laughed a little, thinking how easy life had been back then. “I’m sure we’d have been flattered.”
“I used to look at you,” Holt said slowly. “A lot.”
Wary, she lifted her head. “Really? I never noticed.”
“You wouldn’t have.” His hand dropped away again. “Princesses don’t notice peasants.”
Now she frowned, not only at the words but at the clipped tone. “What a ridiculous thing to say.”
“It was easy to think of you that way, the princess in the castle.”
“A castle that’s been crumbling for years,” she said dryly. “And as I recall, you were too busy swaggering around and juggling girls to notice me.”
He had to grin. “Oh, between the swaggering and juggling, I noticed you all right.”
Something in his eyes set off a little warning bell. It might have been some time since she’d heard that particular sound, but she recognized it and heeded it. She looked down again to firm the dirt around the bush.
“That was a long time ago. I imagine we’ve both changed quite a bit.”
“Can’t argue with that.” He pushed at the dirt.
“No, don’t shove at it, press it down—firm but gentle.” Scooting closer, she put her hands over his to show him. “All it needs is a good start, and then—”
She broke off when he turned his hands over to grip hers.
They were close, knees brushing, bodies bent toward each other. He noted that her hands were hard, callused, a direct and fascinating contrast to the soft eyes and tea rose complexion. There was a strength in her fingers that would have surprised him if he hadn’t seen for himself how hard she worked. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he found it incredibly erotic.
“You’ve got strong hands, Suzanna.”
“A gardener’s hands,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “And I need them to finish planting this bush.”
He only tightened his grip when she tried to draw away. “We’ll get to it. You know, I’ve thought about kissing you for fifteen years.” He watched the faint smile fade away from her face and the alarm shoot into her eyes. He didn’t mind it. It might be best for both of them if she was afraid of him. “That’s a long time to think about anything.”
He released one hand, but before she could let out a sigh of relief, he had cupped the back of her neck. His fingers were firm, his grip determined. “I’m just going to get it out of my system.”
She didn’t have time to refuse. He was quick. Before she could deny or protest, his mouth was on hers, covering and conquering. There was nothing soft about him. His mouth, his hands, his body when he pulled her against him were hard and demanding. The swift frisson of fear had her lifting a hand to push against his shoulder. She might as well have tried to move a boulder.
Then the fear turned to an ache. She fisted her hand against him, forced to fight herself now rather than him.
She was taut as a wire. He could feel her nerves sizzle and snap as he clamped her against him. He knew it was wrong, unfair, even despicable, but damn it, he needed to wipe out this fever that continued to burn in him. He needed to convince himself that she was just another woman, that his fantasies of her were only remnants of a boy’s foolish dreams.
Then she shuddered. A soft, yielding sound followed. And her lips parted beneath his in irresistible and avid invitation. Swearing, he plunged, dragging her head back by the hair so that he could take more of what she so mindlessly offered.
Her mouth was a banquet, and he too racked with hunger to stem the greed. He could smell her hair, fresh as rainwater; her skin, seductively musky with heat and labor; and the rich and primitive fragrance of earth newly turned. Each separate scent slammed into his system, pumping through his blood, roaring through his head to churn a need he’d hoped to dispel.
She couldn’t breathe, or think. All of the weighty and worrisome cares she carried in her vanished. In their place, rioting sensations sprinted. The tense ripple of muscle under her fingers, the hot and desperate taste of his mouth, the thunder of her heartbeat that raced with dizzying speed. She was wrapped around him now, her fingers digging in, her body straining, her mouth as urgent and impatient as his.
It had been so long since she had been touched. So long since she had tasted a man’s desire on her lips. So long since she had wanted any man. But she wanted now—to feel his hands on her, rough and demanding, to have his body cover hers on the soft, sunny grass. To be wild and willful and wanton until this clawing ache was soothed.
