“Don’t apologize.” He pushes back from the table and his empty plate, rising. “Come sit by the fire with me.” Voice dark, sensual, as alluring as the too-high apple in the glowing, sun-slanted orchard.
We settle on the couch in front of the fire. He keeps a distance like the other night. But space between us no longer works for me.
I snuggle against him, chest pooling with warmth, voice soft. “I didn’t think I could still feel safe anywhere. Didn’t even know how to feel human again until I came here. Met you.”
His corded arm wraps around me, drawing me tight, thumb tracing my cheek.
“Soft as spring petals,” he says, exploring me incrementally the way I’ve seen someone gentle a horse. Easy touch, small nuances, smaller steps.
Something breaks inside. It’s no longer enough for me. I want to live again. I want towant… and take. Whole, complete. Unafraid.
I lean into his touch, lips parting, stretching up to capture his mouth as warmth envelopes us. The scent of woodsmoke from neighboring hearths lingers in the distance, the pulse of trust and restraint aching between us.
His hand caresses my shoulder, massages, accustoming me to his touch until my throat’s too tight to breathe, body aching, the juncture at the top of my legs throbbing, urgent. What would it feel like to be with this man? To let passion take over, ignite like dry cheat grass to spark?
I have to know. No other choice. Yearning pulses through me. I grab his work-hardened hand, drop it lower to cup my breast. My heart explodes, a ragged sigh escaping his lips.
“Lacey,” he says like a whispered prayer.
“Your hand is trembling,” I say as his thumb glances over my nipple. I gasp.
“Don’t want to hurt you, push you too far,” he says, low rumble vibrating through me.
“Don’t want to stop or let you go,” I whisper. Tired of leading a half-life steeped in fear.
I shift, animated by heat and desperation, crawling into his lap, straddling him on the couch. The air escapes his lungs as I feel his firm arousal digging into the soft flesh of my thigh. Heat and passion swirl in his eyes, the temptation of the orchard taking root.
He parts the flannel, kissing along my jawline, slow and easy, setting my pulse on fire as he takes his time, makes a feast of me down to my neck, my shoulder, my collarbone, and then lower until I feel the heat and wet of his mouth through the thin veil of cotton and lace.
“Yes, Anson,” I gasp, body quivering, relaxing against his lips. Each kiss, nip, and suck a promise I long to hold onto.
“I need you,” I confess.I need to feel loved, cherished, like I’m his everything.
“You sure?” he asks, ambivalence threading his question. “Don’t want to take advantage of you when you’re feeling vulnerable, unsteady.”
“I want you to make me forget …everything,” I pant against his ear, savoring the salt and warmth of his flesh. “Show me what matters.”
He moans as the tip of my tongue traces the shell of his ear, finding his earlobe, sucking and teasing. Flannel hits the couch, then my shirt and bra.
His mouth claims my breasts, dipping lower, awakening fire buried so deep I no longer thought it existed. Lips seal around my nipple, sucking hard, big hands teasing and tantalizing me.Seizing my hips, echoing my lead, arching me against him, slow and easy, grinding me down over him until my head swims.
“What I wanted in the orchard,” I confess between gasps. “Had to walk away or lose control.”
His eyes dart to mine, face somber, searing. “I knew you wanted me. Could feel it. Smell it. Taste it on your lips and flesh. But I didn’t want to push, start something without trust between us. Don’t want any regrets, Lace. Any pain.”
Sandalwood and apple blossom collide as our breaths race, bodies sliding against each other. The layers of clothing between us a cage I long to escape.
“The only regret,” I say, cupping his cheeks and running my hand over his rough afternoon stubble. “Would be not letting you know how you make me feel.” I tug at his shirt, fingers stumbling over his buttons, hungry for more of him.
I lean forward, feather his chest in kisses, trace his scar with the tip of my tongue. He shudders at my caress. Like he’s not used to people touching him there.
“Too much?” I pant.
“Doesn’t hurt anymore,” he says warmly. Hand coming up to stroke my cheek. “Healed by you.”
I grab his hand, place it over my heart. An echo of earlier in the kitchen. “I heal your outer. You heal my inner.”
“Meant to be,” he says with conviction, finally sinking fully into the moment, surrendering with me. Flames spark from the fabric, rustling.
