Good with His Hands(37)

He claimed her mouth in a scorching kiss. Later, he wanted to hear her  say it, that she loved him. Over and over, preferably when he was inside  her. But for now, he couldn't wait any longer to kiss her, couldn't let  her wonder any longer if he would forgive her or send her away. Never.  Her body was plastered against his, her breath ragged as his hands roved  her curves.

He broke off their kiss but didn't lift his head, saying the words  against her lips. A different kind of kissing. "I love you, too."

Her hold on him tightened, and she swallowed convulsively, battling  back tears. But her smile was full of sly mischief. "Then can I admit  that I actually am wearing something lacy under this, picked out just  for you? I should warn you, it's kind of complicated, though."

Scooping her up, he strode toward the bed. "That's okay." He smirked. "I've always been pretty talented with my hands."

He would happily spend hours demonstrating that. But he would spend years demonstrating how good he was with his heart.