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He drew her nipple into his mouth with a strong, sucking pressure, and she arched again, her thighs shifting. She felt like a dessert offered up to him, lying across his lap with her body lifted to his mouth, glorying in the way his lips and teeth and tongue worked at her breast.
“Reese,” she said again. It was little more than a moan, heavy with desire. Everything that was male in him responded to that female cry of need, urging him to surge deep within her and ease the empty ache that made her twist in his arms and cry out for him. His loins were throbbing, his body radiating heat. If she needed to be filled, he needed to fill her. The two restrained matings he’d had with her hadn’t been enough, would never satisfy the lust that intensified every time he looked at her.
But if he ever let himself go with her, he’d never be able to get that control back. April had taught him a bitter lesson, one that he relearned every day when he worked on his diminished acres, or saw the paint peeling on his house. Madelyn might never turn on him, but he couldn’t take the chance and let his guard down.
With an effort that brought sweat to his brow, he lifted his mouth from her maddeningly sweet flesh and shifted her to her feet. She swayed, her eyes dazed, her top twisted up under her arms and exposing those firm, round breasts. She didn’t understand and reached for him, offering a drugging sensuality that he wouldn’t let himself take.
He caught her wrists and held her arms to her sides while he stood up, an action that brought their bodies together. He heard her moan softly again, and she let her head fall forward against his chest, where she rubbed her cheek back and forth in a subtle caress that made him curse his shirt for covering his bare skin.
If he didn’t get out of here now, he wouldn’t go at all.
“I have work to do.” His voice was hoarse with strain. She didn’t move. She was melting against him, her slim hips starting a drumbeat roll that rocked into his loins and made him feel as if his pants would split under the pressure.
“Madelyn, stop it. I have to go.”
“Yes,” she whispered, rising on tiptoe to brush her lips against his throat.
His hands closed tightly on her hips, for one convulsive second pulling her into his pelvis as if he would grind himself into her; then he pushed her away. He picked up his hat and strode from the bathroom before she could recover and reach for him again, because he damn sure wouldn’t have the strength to stop this time.
Madelyn stared after him, confused by his sudden departure and aching from the loss of contact. She swayed; then realization burst within her, and she gave a hoarse cry of mingled rage and pain, putting her hand out to catch the basin so she wouldn’t fall to her knees.
Damn him, damn him, damn him! He’d brought her to fever pitch, then left her empty and aching. She knew he’d wanted her; she had felt his hardness, felt the tension in his corded muscles. He could have carried her to the bed or even had her right there in the bathroom, and she would have gloried in it, but instead he’d pushed her away.
He’d been too close to losing control. Like a flash she knew what had happened, knew that at the last minute he’d had to prove to himself that he could still walk away from her, that he didn’t want her so much that he couldn’t master it. The sexuality of his nature was so strong that it kept burning through those walls he’d built around himself, but he was still fighting it, and so far he’d won.
Slowly she went downstairs, holding the banister because her knees felt like overcooked noodles. If she were to have any chance with him at all, she would have to find some way to shatter that iron control, but she didn’t know if her nerves or self-esteem would hold out.
He was already gone, the truck nowhere in sight. She looked around blankly, unable to think what she should do, and her eyes lit on the dead chicken lying on the floor.
“I’ll get back at you for this,” she said with grim promise in her
voice, and began the loathsome task of getting that blasted hen ready to cook.
CHAPTER SIX
WHEN REESE CAME in that evening, Madelyn didn’t look up from the bowl of potatoes she was mashing. The force with which she wielded the potato masher went far beyond what was required and carried a hint of savagery. One look at her averted face told Reese she was probably imagining using that potato masher on him. He looked thoughtful. He’d expected her to be cool, maybe even a little hurt, but he hadn’t expected her temper to still be at boiling point; it took a lot of energy to sustain a rage that many hours. Evidently it took her as long to cool off as it did to lose her temper to begin with.
He said, “It’ll take me about fifteen minutes to get cleaned up.”
She still didn’t look up. “Dinner will be ready in ten.”
From that he deduced that she wasn’t going to wait for him. The thoughtful look deepened as he went upstairs.
He took one of the fastest showers of his life and thought about not shaving, but he didn’t like the idea of scraping her soft skin with his beard, so he ran the risk of cutting his own throat due to the speed with which he dragged the razor across his skin. He was barefoot and still buttoning his shirt when he went back down the stairs.
She was just placing the glasses of iced tea on the table, and they sat down together. The platter of fried chicken was sitting right in front of his plate. He’d either have to eat the damn bird or wear it, he decided.
He piled his plate with chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, all the while eying the platter curiously. He continued to examine the contents while he took his first bite and controlled a grunt of pleasure. The chicken was tender, the crust crisp and spicy. Madelyn made a better cook than he’d expected. But the remaining pieces of chicken looked…strange.
“What piece is that?” he asked, pointing at a strangely configured section of chicken.
“I have no idea,” she replied without looking at him. “I’ve never cleaned and butchered my food before.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. If he made the mistake of laughing she would probably dump the bowl of gravy over his head.
The meal was strained and mostly silent. If he made a comment, she replied, but other than that she made no effort to hold a conversation. She ate a small portion of each item, though minuscule was perhaps a better word. As soon as she was finished she carried her plate to the sink and brought back a clean saucer, as well as a cherry cobbler that was still bubbling.
Very little in life had ever interfered with Reese’s appetite, and tonight was no exception. He worked too hard to pick at his food. By the time Madelyn had finished dabbling with a small helping of cobbler he had demolished most of the chicken, all the potatoes and gravy, and only two biscuits were left. He was feeling almost contented as Madelyn placed an enormous portion of cobbler onto a clean plate for him. A quick look at her icy face, however, told him that food hadn’t worked the same miracle on her.
