Page 12 of For the Love of Lilah
“A story?” The array of colored beads in her ears danced as she lowered to the grass. “I like stories.”
“Tell Lilah, too.” Jenny shifted closer to her aunt and began to play with her bracelets.
“Yes.” There was laughter in her voice, an answering humor in her eyes as they met Max’s. “Tell Lilah, too.”
She knew exactly what effect she had on a man, he thought. Exactly. “Ah... where was I?”
“Jim had black cork all over his face and was tossing the cursed tea into the harbor,” Alex reminded him. “Nobody got shot yet.”
“Right.” As much for his own defense against Lilah as for the children, Max put himself back on the frigate with the fictional Jim. He could feel the chill of the air and the heat of excitement. With a natural skill he considered a basic part of teaching, he drew out the suspense, deftly coloring his characters, describing an historical event in a way that had Lilah studying him with a new interest and respect.
Though it ended with the rebels outwitting the British, without firing a shot, even the bloodthirsty Alex wasn’t disappointed.
“They won!” He jumped up and gave a war hoot. “I’m a Son of Liberty and you’re a dirty redcoat,” he told his sister.
“Uh-uh.” She sprang to her feet.
“No taxation without restoration,” Alex bellowed, and went flying for the house with Jenny hot on his heels and Fred lumbering after them both.
“Close enough,” Max murmured.
“Pretty crafty, Professor.” Lilah leaned back on her elbows to watch him through half-closed eyes. “Making history entertaining.”
“It is,” he told her. “It’s not just dates and names, it’s people.”
“The way you tell it. But when I was in school you were supposed to know what happened in 1066 in the same way you were supposed to memorize the multiplication tables.” Lazily she rubbed a bare foot over her calf. “I still can’t remember the twelves, or what happened in 1066—unless that was when Hannibal took those elephants across the Alps.”
He grinned at her. “Not exactly.”
“There, you see?” She stretched, long and limber as a cat. Her head drifted back, her hair spreading over the summer grass. Her shoulders rolled so that the wayward strap slipped down again. The pleasure of the small indulgence showed on her face. “And I think I usually fell asleep by the time we got to the Continental Congress.”
When he realized he was holding his breath, he released it slowly. “I’ve been thinking about doing some tutoring.”
Her eyes slitted open. “You can take the boy out of the classroom,” she murmured, then arched a brow. “So, what do you know about flora and fauna?”
“Enough to know a rabbit from a petunia.”
Delighted, she sat up again to lean toward him. “That’s very good, Professor. If the mood strikes, maybe we can exchange expertise.”
“Maybe.”
He looked so cute, she thought, sitting on the sunny grass in borrowed jeans and T-shirt, his hair falling over his forehead. He’d been getting some sun, so that the pallor was replaced by the beginnings of a tan. The ease she felt convinced her that she’d been foolish to be unsteady around him before. He was just a nice man, a bit befuddled by circumstances, who’d aroused her sympathies and her curiosity. To prove it, she laid a hand on the side of his face.
Max saw the amusement in her eyes, the little private joke that curved her lips before she touched them to his in a light, friendly kiss. As if satisfied with the result, she smiled, leaned back and started to speak. He circled a hand around her wrist.
“I’m not half-dead this time, Lilah.”
Surprise came first. He saw it register then fade into a careless acceptance. Damn it, he thought as he slid a hand behind her neck. She was so certain there would be nothing. With a combination of wounded pride and fluttery panic, he pressed his lips to hers.
She enjoyed kissing—the affection of it, the elemental physical enjoyment. And she liked him. Because of it, she leaned into the kiss, expecting a nice tingle, a comforting warmth. But she hadn’t expected the jolt.
The kiss bounced through her system, starting with her lips, zipping to her stomach, vibrating into her fingertips. His mouth was very firm, very serious—and very smooth. The texture of it had a quiet sound of pleasure escaping, like a child might make after a first taste of chocolate. Before the first sensation could be fully absorbed, others were drifting through to tangle and mix.
Flowers and hot sun. The scent of soap and sweat. Smooth, damp lips and the light scrape of teeth. Her own sigh, a mere shifting of air, and the firm press of his fingers on the sensitive nape of her neck. There was something more than simple pleasure here, she realized. Something sweeter and far less tangible.
Enchanted, she lifted her hand from the carpet of grass to skim it through his hair.
He was reexperiencing the sensation of drowning, of being pulled under by something strong and dangerous. This time he had no urge to fight. Fascinated, he slid his tongue over hers, tasting those secret flavors. Rich and dark and seductive, they mirrored her scent, the scent that had already insinuated itself into his system so that he thought he would taste that as well, each time he took a breath.
