Once Touched, Never Forgotten - By Natasha Tate Page 0,37
he brushed the juncture of her thighs, her breath stopped altogether. She wanted to press up against his fingers, to relieve the building tension that had her squirming and panting and wanting. Needing. And with the realization of her need she knew, as surely as she knew her own dreams, that if he made love to her now she’d lose herself entirely. Permanently. Only this time, she wouldn’t be strong enough to survive his rejection when it came.
“Stop,” she said with her last vestige of self-preservation. Gripping his wrists, she pressed his fingers away from the ache that clamored for release, from the silvery surge of heat that begged her to reconsider. “Stop,” she repeated in a shaky voice.
Her words didn’t penetrate at first. His taut focus was so centered on the shadowed evidence of her arousal that her meaning didn’t register for a long, interminable second. When it did, he felt like he’d swallowed broken glass.
She said stop. Stephen bit down against his back teeth, his fingers pressing hard against her thighs.
Stop.
She meant it this time. He could hear the panicked conviction in her tone. So he would stop. Even if it killed him, he would do the impossible. He sucked in a ragged inhale and closed his eyes, the sight of the long, freckled thighs spread before him begging him to forget civility and ravage her despite her protests. The sweet scent of her desire, the flush of arousal that turned her skin pink beneath the sunlight, the small whimpering sounds she made when he touched her … All of it fired a burn of need so desperate he didn’t know how he managed to contain the beast within. Every cell burned to devour her, to bite and suck and taste and consume until the flavors and textures of Colette were branded into his brain.
His breath hissed between his teeth as he slowly forced his fingers from her flesh. One more moment of touching her, of smelling her and watching her, and he’d explode.
Slowly, painfully, he stood and turned, his focus so blurred he had to grope for balance against the edge of his desk. Bracing his hands against its polished surface, he dropped his head between his hunched shoulders and concentrated on collecting what remained of his self-control. “Get dressed,” he told her between clenched teeth. “Or I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
He heard her rustling behind him, fumbling for her discarded clothing. He closed his eyes while he focused on his breathing. In. Out. He could still smell her, the salty, musky aroma of her flesh. He wanted to bury his face between her rosy breasts, to inhale her heat until she moaned and arched up beneath him.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a few torturous minutes. Her voice sounded small. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t!” he interrupted harshly. “Don’t apologize.”
Figuring it was safe, he turned to find her hair mussed and her skin flushed that lovely, kissable pink. He knotted his hands against the urge to haul her close again, to finish what they’d started.
No. Though he knew he could overrule her wishes and seduce her body into compliance, he found he wanted more than control, more than being in charge. He wanted her. Willing, pliant, and beneath him because she wanted to be there of her own volition. Suddenly the obligation he’d forced upon her tasted like ash in his mouth, and he had no appetite for it anymore.
His own arousal aside, he had to take her home, out of arms’ reach. Away from him. “Don’t think this is over.” She exhaled unsteadily. “I won’t.”
Swallowing back the desire that still clubbed within his chest and made his suit feel ten sizes too small, he adjusted his jacket and then collected his keys from his desk. He snagged the negligee from the floor as well, stuffing it deep into his pocket.
“Is Emma at home?” he asked, making his uncomfortable way to the open door.
“Why?”
“We’re going to tell her I’m her father.”
“Now?” she asked in a high, panicked voice.
“Yes. Now. She’s my daughter. It’s time she knew it.”
CHAPTER NINE
EMMA must have seen their arrival through the window, because she’d already pushed the screen door open before they’d finished climbing the porch steps. She wore a voluminous yellow gown that Stephen thought looked a little the worse for wear, making her look like a bedraggled fairy plucked from a picture book.
“Momma!” she hollered, launching herself at Colette’s waist with undisguised glee. “You’re home!”
Colette staggered a bit for balance, one arm