Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,86

the scent of you, the taste of you.”

“Are you trying to seduce me?” she asked, her voice low and husky.

“Is it working?”

“Yes.” She moved closer, and he swept off his hat and pulled her into his arms, kissing her in the middle of the road to Wentmore.

Eighteen

Being in his arms again was like coming home—or at least what she imagined that would be since she’d never really had a real home to come back to. But his lips, his hands on her waist, his tongue teasing her until she was breathless, those were her home, her sanctuary, her refuge.

She’d tried to remember the pain she’d felt earlier. He had sent her away and made her feel unwanted, but try as she might, she couldn’t manage to summon those feelings again. Not when he was holding her tight and kissing her like he might die without the taste of her.

Her mother always said trouble followed her like a hungry puppy, but Pru knew trouble stuck around because she fed that puppy. She couldn’t seem to help it. She knew feeding him was a bad idea and yet, in the moment, she just couldn’t resist. How could she resist a puppy?

And how could she resist Nash Pope and his skillful lips and tender touch? If he didn’t care about her, would he treat her so gently? Behave as though she were precious and cherished?

He pulled away. “I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said, breathless. “I liked it.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to be a gentleman and not accost you in the middle of the road.”

“Then we’ll move out of the road.”

She took his hand and pulled him off the road toward a grove of trees that differentiated one large farm from another. Lifting her skirts, she traipsed through the tall grass between the fields, liking the way the yellow stalks swept softly against her skin.

Once in the cool shade of the trees, she moved to a small clearing where the sun cast a patch of warmth. She could not see the road and thus knew she couldn’t be seen. It didn’t mean they wouldn’t be discovered by someone surveying the fields or hunting in the grass, but she was willing to take that chance because she wanted to be with Nash again. Being with him wasn’t safe, but it made her feel alive. And she rarely took the safe path if a more exciting one lay ahead.

Nash turned toward her. “Where are we?”

“A clearing between the Watson and Stone farms.”

He nodded. “Are we surrounded by grand old oak trees?”

“You know it?”

He nodded. “My brothers and I used to come this way sometimes if we were out when we shouldn’t be and didn’t want to be seen on the road and have our misdeeds reported to my father.”

“And did you ever bring a girl here and kiss her?” Pru asked, moving into his arms.

“No. I never kissed a girl or a woman at Wentmore or Milcroft until you.”

“Then this can be our place,” she said. He nodded and unfastened his coat and pulled it off.

“Put this on the ground so we have somewhere to sit.”

She arranged the coat on the soft grass and pulled him down beside her on it. “What should we call it? This place?”

He leaned in, finding her mouth and kissing her. “Does it have to have a name?”

“It’s more romantic that way.”

His mouth drifted to her neck, and she shivered. His lips left a trail of heat in their wake. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of romance.” His breath on her skin was warm, and she closed her eyes and let herself do nothing but feel the brush of his lips, so warm in comparison to the weak sun of this autumn day.

He pulled her down, coming down beside her and propping his head on an elbow. She knew he had a little vision in his right eye, and the way he looked at her felt as though he could really see her. Perhaps he could, or perhaps he was just trying very, very hard.

She brushed the hair back from his face, and he barely flinched when his left eye was revealed briefly.

“What do you think of Cupid’s Clearing?” she asked, his face in her hands as she marveled at his straight nose and the arch of his brows, marred on the left by a scar that somehow made him look even more handsome because he wasn’t perfect.

“I think it’s trite.”

She laughed.

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