Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,38
could get with her mother’s foolish choices, Ivy still loved her and wanted the best for her. And she knew how hard Sutton had struggled with his conflicted feelings back when they were little more than kids. “How is he?”
“Stubborn. Foolish.” Sutton put the bottle down beside him and put his head in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. “I don’t even know what I feel, to tell you the truth. Horrified to see him that way? Relieved that he’s Seth’s problem and not mine?”
“Sutton—”
“I’m a real piece of work, aren’t I?” He looked up at the rising moon, his face bathed in cool light. He was smiling, but there was no humor in the expression, making it look like a twisted grimace. “Relieved that I don’t have to deal with my cripple of a father.”
“Your feelings about him are complicated. They always have been—”
“Stop it!” He whipped his head around to look at her, making her flinch. “Stop trying to justify my selfishness.”
She pressed her lips flat, anger flaring in her chest. She pushed to her feet. “Fine. Drink yourself stupid. I’m going inside.”
“Wait.” He reached out and caught her leg, his hand closing around her calf. Heat burned through the fabric of her cotton trousers to brand her flesh.
His fingers slid slowly upward, making her heart skip a beat.
“I’m sorry.” His voice was a caress. “I didn’t mean to snap.”
Oh, God. His fingers had stopped climbing, but they hadn’t stopped moving, drawing circles across the crease behind her knee. He looked up at her, his eyes combustive. She felt her body catch fire in response, heat flooding her from her breasts to her sex.
“Sutton—”
He rose to his feet with unexpected grace, lithe and sinuous like a cat on the prowl. Suddenly he was towering over her, his face cast in half shadow. Moonlight bathed the other side of his face, painting him in cool blue tones like a sculpture.
His hand trailed up her arm, his calloused fingers seeming to shoot sparks along her nerve endings. “I look at you,” he murmured in a low tone, “and I still see a shadow of that dark-eyed kid who used to watch me when she thought I wasn’t looking. I wonder now, what were you thinking?”
She couldn’t tell him that she’d thought he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, a wild buck kicking against the constraints of his small-town captivity. Part of her had known he’d have to run free, sooner or later, but another part had prayed he’d grow content with his confinement, so she would never have to see him go.
“My mama told me you were nothing but trouble,” she said, her voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “She always said, ‘Calhouns will break your heart.’”
He looked thoughtful. “Do you think she knew from experience?”
“Your daddy always was a charming old cuss, and you know how my mama is. Always looking for something.”
He brushed away a piece of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail and into her face, tucking it behind her ear. “I’m not drunk, Ivy.” His finger trailed along the curve of her jaw, making her shiver. “I just want you to know that.”
She had trouble finding her voice. “Why’s that?”
He bent toward her. “Because I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispered, sending her sluggish brain into a tailspin. Before she could regain her equilibrium, his mouth was hot and soft against hers, more seductive than demanding. But the effect was the same—fire raging out of control in her blood, molten heat pooling low in her belly and every nerve ending in her body on alert, aching for the brush of his skin against hers.
Not even in her most vivid adolescent dreams had she imagined how easily she could be conquered by his touch. No last-ditch effort to keep her head, no defiant last stand, just complete, eager surrender. When he snaked his arms around her waist, tugging her flush to his hard body, she melted into him, her hands driving through his crisp, dark hair to pull him even closer.
He tasted like Corona and sex, his tongue sliding over hers, demanding a response. She gave it to him, moving her hands under the hem of his T-shirt until her fingertips dug into the heated velvet of his back. She traced the valleys and ridges of his muscles, thrilling at the sound of his low groan in response. She wasn’t sure when or how they moved, but suddenly her