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He just—he just wanted to hold her.
Be with her.
Kiss her, just a little. Like this. God, yes, like this. Kisses that made her tremble in his arms.
And he wanted to touch her.
Not in a way that demanded anything of her. Asked anything of her.
He only wanted to feel the softness of her hair as it slid through his fingers, the warmth of her skin under the stroke of his hand.
But with her lips clinging to his, parting to his, with her body pressed to his, wanting was rapidly giving way to the heady rush of need.
For the first time in his life, Travis saw the difference between the two.
He was a man who prided himself on self-control, even in sex. Especially in sex. Only a fool let his emotions carry him away with a woman.
But it was different with her.
With Jennie.
He couldn’t get his thoughts together. Couldn’t focus on anything but her taste, her heat, her sweet moans.
He tried.
He clasped her shoulders. Drew back, just a little. Looked down into her lovely, innocent face.
“Honey.” His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat but it didn’t help. “Jennie. We don’t have to do anything more than—”
She rose to him, put her hands into his hair, silenced him with a kiss.
“Are you telling me you don’t want me?” she whispered.
Travis took her hand, placed it over his racing heart, then brought it down, down, down to the fullness straining the fabric of his fly.
“What do you think?” he said thickly.
She gave a soft, incredibly sexy laugh.
“I think you need to take me into the bedroom. Behind you, through that door.”
He lifted her into his arms, carried her into a room that was hardly big enough to contain a chest of drawers. A nightstand.
And twin beds.
He almost laughed. Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been this.
“It could be worse,” Jennie said, as if she knew what he was thinking. He looked down at her, saw that her lips were curved. “The bedroom in my last place had bunk beds.”
He did laugh, then; she did, too. But when he felt the brush of her breasts and belly against him as he lowered her slowly to her feet, their laughter faded.
Her eyes were filled with need.
Filled with him.
Desire, sharp and hot, still burned within him.
But so was something else.
He wanted to—to take care of her. Protect her.
He wanted to be the lover he had not been that first time. The lover she deserved.
He kissed her. Gently. Framed her face with his big hands.
“I’m going to undress you,” he said softly. “And lie down with you in my arms. We don’t have to do anything more than that tonight.”
When she parted her lips to answer him, he silenced her with a kiss.
Then, slowly, his eyes fixed to hers, he began undoing the buttons of her blouse.
Normally, he was fine with buttons. Small, round bits of plastic; how difficult could opening them be, especially for a guy who’d been undressing women since the age of sixteen?
Very difficult.
His fingers seemed too big. Clumsy. He found himself concentrating, hard, on every miserable one of what seemed like an endless line of tiny plastic rounds that marched down her blouse.
She made a little sound.
He looked up.
“What?” he said, a little gruffly.
“Nothing. I mean—I mean—I can’t—” Her hands closed over his. “Tear the blouse, if you have to. Just—just touch me...”
On a deep, long groan, he did what she’d asked and tore the delicate fabric in two.
Then he drew back.
Not a lot. Just enough so that his eyes could take delight from the delicate beauty he’d uncovered.
Creamy shoulders. The rise of rounded breasts above a simple, white cotton bra. A tiny, heart-shaped birthmark just below the hollow of her throat.
How could he not have noticed that last time?
How could he not have noticed how sweet, how innocent she was?
He kissed the heart.
Kissed the delicate curve of flesh rising above the bra.
Kissed the center of each cup, where the faint pucker of fabric hinted at the nipples that awaited the touch of his tongue.
Jennie made a sound that tore straight through him.
“Travis,” she whispered, and he knew that no one had ever said his name with as much tenderness.
He reached for the clasp on her jeans.
Undid it.
Took hold of the zipper tab.
Drew it down.
Slowly he eased the jeans down her legs.
Such long, endless legs.
She was trembling.
Hell, so was he.
He slipped off her shoes, one at a time. Looked at her. Like this, barefoot, wearing the simplest bra and panties, she was a woman a man would ache to possess.
And, God, yes, he ached. For her.
“You’re beautiful,” he said softly.
Color swept into her face.
“I want to be,” she said. “For you.”
That was what he wanted, too. That her beauty, her unique self, be only for him.
“Aren’t you—aren’t you going to touch me?”
Her words were a magnificent torment. He wanted to do exactly that, wanted it more than anything...
He was drawn as tight as a bow.
He could see the pulse beating just beneath the tiny heart-shaped birthmark.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Take my hand,” he said in a gravel-rough voice. “Show me where you want me to touch you.”
He held his hand out to her. She stared at it. At him. He forced himself not to move.
It seemed an eternity but, at last, she took his hand. Brought it to her cheek. To her throat.
Her lips.
Parted them, and sucked one of his fingers into her mouth.
A low moan rose in his throat.
He was going to come. Sweet Lord, he was going to come...
He drew a harsh breath. Focused on her. Felt the pounding in his veins ease.
“Where else shall I touch you?” he said in a choked whisper.
Her eyes locked with his. She brought his hand down her throat.
To her breast.
Travis closed his eyes. Cupped his hand around the sweet weight, felt the push of the cotton-covered nipple into his palm.
“And—and here,” she whispered, as she drew his hand over her ribs, over her belly...
And stopped.
She couldn’t go any farther.
What she was doing was beyond anything she’d ever imagined doing with a man.
Letting him touch her so intimately.
Guiding his hand over her body.
Watching his face as she did it, seeing his tanned skin seem to tighten over the bones beneath it.
“Jennie.”
She blinked.
His eyes had narrowed and glittered like shards of obsidian in the night.
“Don’t stop,” he said. “Show me what you want.”
She took a breath. Took another.
“I want your hand here,” she whispered, and she shifted her weight, brought his palm between her thighs, placed it against the part of her that throbbed with need for him.
He said something, low and fierce and shockingly primal.
She was hot and wet, and he couldn’t wait, couldn’t hold back, couldn’t...
“Travis,” she sobbed, “please, please...”
He reached for his jacket, prayed there were some forgotten condoms in the interior pocket. Yes. Thank God, there were two slim packets.
“Jennie,” he whispered, “beautiful Jennie.”
Somehow, he tore off his clothes. Fumbled with her bra, got the c
lasp undone, tried to deal with her panties, cursed and, instead, ripped them from her.
She was moving against him, her body hot against his, her mouth open and wet and seeking on his.
All his thoughts about doing this slowly, gently, never mind maybe not doing it at all, vanished like smoke on a windy morning.
The bed was a million miles away.
The wall was much closer.
“Hold on to me,” he said as he lifted her. “Your arms around my neck. Your legs around my waist...”
She screamed his name as he thrust into her.
