He’d managed to get her into the bedroom, began to back her toward the bath. “You need to get naked and wet. Let me help you with that.”
“You appear to be very determined,” she commented, when he pulled her shirt over her head.
“Oh, I am. I am.” And flicked open the catch of her bra.
“Then I suppose there’s no point in arguing.”
“No point at all.” Reaching behind her, he turned the shower on, then flipped open the button of her fly.
“Then I should cooperate.”
“That’d be the sensible thing.”
“I prefer doing the sensible thing.” She drew his shirt off, let it drop.
“Hallelujah.” But he started to hold her back when she would have moved into him. “Let me rinse some of this sweat off first.”
“I don’t mind it. It’s basic and natural, and…” She pressed her lips to the side of his throat. “Salty.”
“You about kill me, Abigail. That’s God’s truth.”
She wanted to, wanted to make him want and yearn andquiver as he made her. She embraced the musky scent of him, the good sweat of physical labor as she stripped off his pants, as he stripped off hers.
And the water ran cool over her head, down her body.
“It feels good,” she murmured.
So good when his mouth took her mouth, when his hands took her body. When she tasted his hunger for her, felt his need for her.
She imagined them sinking into cool, tobacco-colored water in the bend of a river where fiddlehead ferns grew thick and green and moonlight shimmered in rays through a canopy of trees.
“I want to go to your swimming hole.”
“We will.”
“In the moonlight,” she said, as her head fell back, as his lips skimmed over the column of her throat. “I’ve never been romantic, not before you. But you make me want moonlight, and wildflowers and whispers in the dark.”
“I’ll give you all of it, and more.” He slicked her wet hair back, framed her face to lift it to his. “And more.”
“Promises and secrets, and all the things I never understood. I want them with you. I love you so much. I love you. That’s already more than I ever had.”
“More still.” He drew her into the kiss, long and slow and deep, as the water showered over them. He’d have given her the moon itself if he could, and an ocean of wildflowers.
Promises. He could give her those. A promise to love her, to help her find peace of mind, a safe haven.
And moments like this, alone, where they could tend to each other, pleasure each other. Shut the world and all its troubles, its pressures and its demands away.
She washed him, and he her—inch by inch. Arousing, lingering, prolonging. Now the scent of honey and almond rising up, the slick, slippery slide of hands, of bodies, the quick catch of breath, the long, low sigh.
So when he braced her, when he filled her, there wasmoonlight and wildflowers, there were whispers and promises. And more.
There was, she thought as she surrendered, everything.
* * *
The sensation of contentmentstayed with her as she stood in the kitchen, contemplating doing something interesting with potatoes—Brooks liked potatoes—to go with the steak and salad. She glanced, a little guiltily, at her computer as she poured wine for both of them.
“I should try again, now that we’ve had our break.”
