He was her husband, but he sensed that logic wasn’t what she needed to hear. She needed to know that he didn’t care one whit about the scar. She needed reassurance.
“It doesn’t matter, sweet. I’d want you if you had a hundred scarred legs.”
She laughed softly.“If I had a hundred legs I’d be a centipede.”
“And I would kiss every single one of those hundred legs, Hallie-girl.” He kissed her, long and deep. His hands roved over her, soothing the tension from her taut muscles, and his mouth moved down to the tip of her breast, closing over it and flicking his tongue against her distended nipple until she was again limber with passion. He lay back on the bed, pulling her with him while he drew the tie from his collar.
“Help me, sweet,” he asked, struggling between kisses to remove his shirt. He moved her hesitant hands to his shirt studs, and while she removed them, he held her face in his hands and buried his tongue in her mouth. Her skin touched him as his shirt opened, and he turned with her, onto their sides, so he could get free of the cloth barrier.
In passion, he turned again, pressing his chest against her and feeling her nipples bead through his chest hair. When the hard tip of a breast brushed his own nipple, desire shot through him like a bullet.
He sat up, removing his boots, and then tore free the buttons of his trousers, pulling off the last of his clothes. Then he was kissing her deeply while their naked legs tangled. His hands stroked lower and lower with each caress, until his fingers threaded through her pale body hair. She moaned and turned her head to kiss his own ear with her small, flicking tongue. His fingers teased over her, grazing lightly against the point of her desire. She cried out, and the sound was so sensual, so exciting, that he touched her over and over again just to hear it.
In invitation, she pressed against his hand, and his finger entered, buried to his knuckle. She moved against it, her damp tightness wanting more. Her tears of desire wet his cheeks as he kissed her mouth and moved his finger in the very core of her. His hips burrowed between her legs and his hand left her body and grasped her thigh, pushing it outward and spreading her leg wider for his entry. He rose up on his elbows, poising at her entrance, and he looked at her. “Open your eyes, sweet. I don’t want to hurt you again. Your eyes will tell me if I am.”
Her lids opened, and their gazes met. Kit inched inside, slowly, watching for any sign of pain with each enveloping penetration. He took two deep, controlling breaths and penetrated more. When he was fully seated, he threaded his fingers through hers and bent to kiss her softly, with eyes open.
Her eyes drifted closed, and he pulled back. Her eyes opened.
“Watch me, sweet, watch me.” With gazes locked, Kit’s hips began the slow beat, drumming in and almost out of her hot core until the friction drove him faster and faster. Crying with passion, she strained toward him, innocently signaling her need, and he thrust hard, touching that elusive trigger that sent her release throbbing so hot around him that he came.
He lay there, spent and drained, but still looking at her. He unthreaded a hand and brushed a bit of hair away from her damp temple.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked, his lips feathering her hairline.
“No,” she whispered, her voice raspy from her cries.
Her chin and cheeks were bright pink from the dark stubble of his beard, and he traced the rashes gently with a finger.
Then she smiled, the sated, sensuous smile of a woman well-loved.
He looked at the love there on her expressive face, and something deep within him called out, as if his soul were crying. He closed his eyes tightly, fighting the emotion, fighting the feeling, and fighting against the chains that would bind his heart. Instead, he bent and kissed the deep crevice between her breasts, laying his head on her breast while her hand tentatively stroked his head. He lay there, wrestling with the hopeless feeling that he was no longer in control of his life.
Her fingers grazed his cheeks, his nose, and then his chin, feeling the dark, rough growth of his thick beard before those same slender fingers traced his lips. Her touch was so innocent, so gentle, that his desire quickened.
He opened his lips and stroked her fingertips with his tongue, which must have surprised her, for she lifted her head to better see him. He raised his head and his lips closed over hers as his hands held her ribs, stroked her breasts, and once again he was deep within her, driving their bodies over the edge. Again, and again.
22
Hallie floated down the stairs, smiling. It was something she did a lot lately. She paused near the walnut hall tree to pinch some color into her pale cheeks, but it wasn’t necessary. The face in the mirror glowed from something that went much deeper than her skin.
Three weeks, Hallie thought. It had been three weeks since the night in the kitchen and, she smiled, in the bedroom. Every night since had been more and more wonderful.
She looked in Kit’s study, but the room was empty, except for the cats, who had made the study their home. Liv had moved them, at Kit’s request, into the back room of the kitchen, but it hadn’t been a successful move.
Hallie grinned at the memory of Mrs. Skunk, parading past the dinner table, carrying a kitten in her mouth over and over, as she methodically moved her babies back into the study. After that display, Kit relented and shared his study with the cats.
She entered the kitchen, but Kit wasn’t there either. Maddie sat at the table, braiding Dagny’s hair and talking away to her just as the doctor had advised, but still there was no change in her sister. Liv was at school, but the twins were there, sitting with their noses wedged into separate corners. It was Maddie’s latest punishment.
She glanced from one to the other. “What did they do now?”
Maddie looked at Knut and called out, “Knut, turn around and show Hallie what you did.”
The little boy swirled around on his fanny and looked innocently at his oldest sister—as innocently as he could without any eyebrows.
“How?” she asked Maddie, biting back a laugh.
“Kit’s razor. It seems they’ve watched him shave and asked him why he did it—”
