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“And you deserve it.”
Without warning, he grabbed her arm and spun her around so quickly, she slammed into him.
“Hey—”
“Let’s start over,” he suggested, his gaze warm, the scent of him as fresh as a sun-drenched Montana morning. His breath touched her face in a gentle caress.
“Too late,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, attempting not to notice that her breasts were crushed against his chest, her thighs pressed against the hard length of his, her body responding to the closeness of his.
Strong arms held her prisoner. “I thought we’d gotten past all that.”
“Past the fact that you accused my father of horse thievery? Or past the feud? Or past the night you accused me of lying to you before you walked out the door?” she asked, the words tumbling out in a rush.
He tensed, every muscle suddenly rigid. “I think we’d better leave well enough alone.”
“But nothing was ever ‘well enough,’ was it?”
“What do you want from me?”
“The chance to explain why I couldn’t tell you that I wasn’t pregnant eight years ago,” she shot back, her insides quaking. Standing so close to him stirred up all her old insecurities,
but this time she wasn’t going to back down.
Something flashed in his eyes. Pain? Or pity? “Does it matter?”
She gasped. Of course it mattered! More than anything had ever mattered. “Eight years ago it was all that mattered.”
“Eight years is a long time,” he said, his eyes focused on her lips.
“It seems like yesterday.”
Colton just stared at her. “Clichés, Cass?” he drawled, suppressing a laugh, his mouth curving into an amused smile.
Instantly infuriated, she sputtered, “You are, without question, the most insufferable, egotistical, bloody bastard that ever walked this earth!”
Colton laughed, a deep rumbling sound that erupted into the evening air.
“You think that’s funny?” she said, jerking away, her black hair flying in front of her eyes, her fingers curling into fists of frustration.
“No, I think it’s probably the truth,” he admitted with an exasperating, devilish grin. Quick as a cat, he tugged on her arm, yanking her back against him. “What is it about you?” he wondered aloud. “One minute I think you’re the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met, the next I realize you’re a pain in the backside.”
“Like you.”
“Exactly,” he said, his eyes growing dark as they focused on her lips.
Cassie’s throat closed.
Slowly, with painstaking deliberation, he lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers.
Cassie had to bite back a moan.
His lips molded over hers, and her knees nearly buckled. Her conscience told her to stop this madness, and she tried. Though she attempted to push him away, he wouldn’t relent, holding on to her with a fierceness bordering on desperation.
Her palms against a solid, denim-clad chest, she struggled a little as his tongue touched the inner recesses of her mouth.
A seeping warmth flooded her limbs, and though she thought perversely that she should bite him, she didn’t. Instead, she closed her eyes and sighed. What was the point of fighting when she’d been waiting for eight years for him to take her into his arms?
When he dragged his lips away, she whispered, “You’re positively annoying!”
