Single Dads Collection. Lynne Marshall

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СКАЧАТЬ It was here,’ and, turning his head, he touched his lips to hers.

      For a moment her heart lodged in her throat, but then it broke free, beating wildly against her ribs, deafening her with the clamour of its rhythm. Deafening her to reason, certainly, because instead of moving away, taking herself out of reach, she went back up on tiptoe, slid her arms around his neck and kissed him right back.

      He groaned softly, easing her closer, and she felt his fingers thread through her hair and cup her head, anchoring it against the onslaught of his mouth. Then the kiss gentled, and he lifted his head a fraction, dropping a daisy chain of hot, open-mouthed kisses over her cheek, her eye, down the side of her jaw. He traced a line around her ear, his breath teasing her hair and making it stand on end, then he moved on, down the side of her neck, across her throat, pausing over the wild fluttering pulse before continuing down, down, across her collar-bone, her shoulder, the slope of her breast.

      He lifted his head and stared down at her. ‘You’ve caught the sun,’ he murmured, one finger trailing over the sensitive skin of her cleavage. ‘Do you have any idea,’ he went on gruffly, ‘just what you’ve been doing to me all day, running about in that little scrap of black Lycra?’

      He traced the line the costume had followed, down, up—back down again…

      She sucked in a breath and her ribs lifted, bringing his knuckles into contact with her breast, and he groaned again, his hands sliding down to bracket her waist, easing her closer as he trailed his tongue over the sun-warmed skin, leaving fire and ice in its wake. With a muttered oath he lifted her vest top out of the way, unclipped her bra and tenderly, reverently, cradled the burgeoning fullness of her breasts in his hard, hot hands.

      He sucked in a breath, his head lifting so he could stare down at her, and his pupils were huge, his eyes dark as midnight with desire. His thumbs dragged over her nipples, sending sensation arrowing through her and bringing a cry to her lips, and slowly he lifted his hand and stared at it.

      There was a bead of moisture on his thumb, pearly white, and as she watched he lowered his head and touched his tongue to it.

      His eyes were still locked on hers, smouldering with unspoken need, but the touch of his hands had triggered her natural response, and she felt the milk beading on her nipples.

      ‘Harry, no,’ she moaned, anguished, and lifting her hands to his shoulders, she pushed him away, her heart clamouring, her body aching for him but common sense, finally, making itself heard.

      And he dropped his hands and stepped back, swallowing convulsively, and turning on his heel he strode away, up the stairs and into his room, closing the door softly but emphatically behind him.

      With a whimper Emily crumpled against the worktop, her hands trembling too much to deal with the breast pump for a moment. And so she stood there, her legs like jelly, until her breathing had slowed and the world had righted itself and her hands were hers again.

      Then she gathered all the bits and pieces from the steriliser, went into her study and shut the door every bit as firmly. Two doors between them was the minimum they needed at the moment.

      She sat down, set up the equipment and reached for her CD player to relax her—and then remembered that her favourite, most relaxing CDs were in the sitting room.

      And she’d never be able to listen to them again without thinking of him.

      Five more nights, she told herself. That was all it was. Five more nights until he was back in his own home and she had her house back to herself.

      It couldn’t come a moment too soon.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      ‘THAT’S a bit more like it!’

      Em stood back and studied Harry’s work, and nodded. ‘You’ll get there. Take the cut down another notch and run over it again. You never know, you might even find a lawn in there!’

      And she turned back to her surveying, measuring, checking sight lines and jotting notes on a pad. Busy. Busy, busy, busy since the sun had crept over the horizon and he’d been dragged out of bed by Kizzy’s first whimpering cry. She’d been up minutes later, going downstairs while he’d fed Kizzy and tried so hard not to think about last night.

      The feel of her. The taste.

      The look of longing in her eyes before she’d pushed him away and stepped back, bringing their unscheduled and very unwise kiss to an end in the nick of time.

      More or less. His dreams had been colourful, to say the least, and he’d been glad to get up just to get away from them.

      Then while he had been changing Kizzy’s nappy and looking out of the window, she’d taken the washing down the garden and hung it out in her nightshirt and bare feet, standing in the dewy grass and stretching up to the washing line so that her nightshirt rose up and gave him the occasional glimpse of her smooth, firm bottom encased in its sensible white knickers.

      Since when had sensible white knickers been such a turn-on?

      Not that he’d been looking, of course. Just glancing down the garden while he’d changed the baby’s nappy and put the kettle on to make them tea and loaded the washing machine with his clothes and emptied the dishwasher—anything that just happened to give him a view out of one of the back windows!

      Then she’d come back in, stood with one foot rested on the other like a child, staring at the floor for a moment until she’d lifted her head, sucked in a breath and said, ‘About last night.’

      And without giving her a chance to get in first, he’d said, ‘I know. I’m sorry. It was stupid of me. It won’t happen again.’

      And she’d stood there, opened her mouth again, shut it, and then finally said, ‘Good. Right. So. About your garden.’

      And that was that.

      No more talk of the kiss. They’d shut the door on it, walked away and now they were laying waste to the jungle that had been his grandparents’ pride and joy.

      ‘Right. That looks better. OK, I’ve done the survey. I just want to walk you through these shrubs and agree which ones should come out and which ones we can prune and rescue.’

      ‘Is August the time to prune?’

      She shook her head. ‘No, not really. It’s too hot. We need to wait a bit, but we can trim them. There are rules, for spring and summer flowering shrubs, for roses, for evergreens. But I think when you’re talking this drastic, you just have to do what you have to do and hope they make it through. Most of them do. Right. Let’s make some decisions and mark them up.’

      And she picked up a can of yellow spray paint and headed down the garden, relentless.

      Ten minutes later and the yellow kiss of death was on many of the bushes. ‘Your job, I think. I’ll put them through the shredder and keep an eye on the children. Beth, put that down, darling, it’s sharp. Freddie, no!’

      She took the secateurs from Beth, the dirty stick from Freddie before he put it in his mouth again, and handed Harry some very businesslike pruners. ‘Get to it, then.’

      He СКАЧАТЬ