Something to Prove. Cathryn Parry

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СКАЧАТЬ He tossed the corkscrew into the grocery bag. They should just eat dinner and then say goodbye. He could take her phone number and call her when he’d accomplished what he needed to.

       But he didn’t want to eat or to say goodbye. Not yet. He didn’t want anything but for Amanda to stay a while longer.

       He stabbed the metal poker at a burning log, licking with flames. The wisest thing to do was to end the day on a high note. Escort Amanda back to her hotel and get his head straight for tomorrow, which was packed with training sessions and meetings.

       Amanda’s soft laugh sounded behind him. He glanced back to see her holding a condom box.

      Whoa. The kid had packed condoms with their dinner? He shook his head. He needed to have a talk with Steve, pronto.

       But she was laughing, her head tilted. “Magnums, huh?”

       A roaring sounded in his ears. She wasn’t shooting down the idea. “I didn’t tell him to do that.”

       “But he’s used to your habits, isn’t he?”

       “No, I don’t have habits—he’s just a stupid kid who doesn’t understand that I don’t do this. Not for any reason.”

       Maybe he was too vehement, because a look flickered across her face—like disappointment or sorrow.

       What was happening here?

      Touch her. If I don’t touch her, she’ll leave.

       And he didn’t want her to leave.

       In a moment he was beside her, pressing her to him and pulling off her woolen cap and resting his chin on her soft hair. He gathered it up and inhaled. Her shampoo smelled like summer raspberries. She was the summer to his winter, and it was killing him.

       “Brody…” she breathed. And then her sunny gaze settled on his mouth, tempting him.

       He exhaled and closed his eyes. He needed her to stay. With a guttural moan, he kissed her full on the mouth again, and as before, she made a small sound of need then opened her lips to him. His tongue swept inside, mingling with hers, kissing her like he’d never kissed another woman. She tasted so good, he didn’t care if tomorrow never came.

       “Please,” she whispered, urging him on, and her slight hands were tugging at his waistband. It was so easy to slide his hands down from her silky hair and along the sides of her torso to the edge of her shirt, before pulling it over her breasts and up over her head. He dropped the shirt, heard it whisper to the floor.

       Her bra was lace. Peach lace, and he could see even pinker skin beneath and a beaded, rosy nipple. A feeling of helplessness overtook him, as if he’d jumped into a pool so deep he couldn’t escape if he wanted to. “Yes,” she murmured, and he slid his thumb beneath the lace and stroked.

       She felt so soft, so welcoming to him. He’d never wanted to be anywhere more. His mouth went to her breast. She gasped and pressed her hips against him, against the hardness in his jeans.

       “Are you sure you want this?” he asked in a low voice.

       “Since the moment we first shook hands in the interview room.”

       He smiled, his cheek catching against her fullness. During the interview he’d been distracted by the same thought. He lifted his head, smoothing back her hair and gazing into her eyes.

       She nodded. And to let him know exactly what she wanted from him, no mistake, she reached under his cotton shirt, dragging it up and across his skin.

       He sucked in his breath at the feel of her cool hands touching him—across his chest, his shoulders, down his arms. He had a scar there, from stitches when he’d been a teen and had face-planted at Whistler. Her fingers hesitated and then shook, as if he scared her.

       He stood motionless. She could still back out if he wasn’t careful.

       “Does this hurt?” she whispered.

       “No,” he said honestly.

       With a sigh she raised his arm and pressed kisses across his scar. He lost it and picked her up, carried her to the couch. Something seemed to drop away—the gate he’d been keeping closed, the control he’d been adopting for her sake. But she’d asked for it, and he was here, and yeah, maybe this was truly who he was.

       He peeled away her bulky clothing—all of it, every last stitch—and he was glad for the crackling fire. “You, too,” she said, and he sat back, letting her undress him, helping her take off his jeans.

       Her fingers rested on his erection tenting the cotton boxer briefs, and he hissed out a breath.

       He was waiting for her to stop him. He didn’t want her to—he was ready for this—but if she was going to change her mind then he needed her to tell him so now, because he no longer could think of any reason he shouldn’t—

       Her hand edged beneath his boxers and gently stroked him, skin to skin. It took all his concentration not to move. His mouth was so dry he couldn’t swallow.

       “Brody, it’s been so long for me,” she whispered, “you have no idea.”

       Like hell he didn’t. It had been two years for him, too, living like a monk in his self-imposed new way of life. “Believe me, I know.”

       And then he cupped her face in his hands. She’d shown him that what he’d done those two years was right. Just as what he was doing now was right. He wanted her to know that though he’d known her only a short time, in that short time he’d shared a deeper connection with her than he’d had with any other woman. And he wanted to complete that before she left. Because their time together was only temporary.

       But their connection didn’t have to be.

       She blinked and tilted her head to him, questioning. But he couldn’t tell her everything he’d been thinking, he could only show her what he meant. He was a physical guy; physical was what he did best. By making love to her, he would be holding on to the moment as long as he could. He pulled her onto his lap. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

       She smiled, her cheeks flushing. “Yes, Brody.”

       “Good.”

       And then he pushed her hair back from her face and kissed her, deeply, again and again, using her gasps and whispered pleadings as his course markers.

       Her hands dropped from his shoulders to his waist, clutching him. And it was a pleasure to stroke her bare skin. To take his thumb and drag it through her beautiful curls. He caressed her, a rhythm she set with him by dragging her hips against his hand. Her skin was dewy and damp and she was smiling at him. It was more than a pleasure to glide his fingers inside her as her body pulsed and contracted around him.

       “You’re killing me,” she whispered.

       He drew back his hand.

       “No, I mean, I want you to…do everything. I want to feel you inside me…”

       The condom packet, he remembered. Cripes, the kid was smarter than he was. And then they were both fumbling for the box.

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