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Rose(100)

By:Leigh Greenwood


“Not anymore.”





George’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Rose had told him that this was the time when she could conceive, so for the third night in less than a week he lay in bed next to her, unable to kiss her, unable to touch her. The other nights he’d slept under the stars, dreaming of lying next to her, of holding her in his arms.

When he was away, it seemed that staying away from her was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But when he lay next to her, a forbidden zone of two feet between them, it seemed much harder.

For a solid week he’d tried not to think of her when he was in the saddle and an angry cow was coming at him. He tried not to remember the warmth of her eyes when he was about to place a red-hot branding iron on the side of a fifteen-hundred-pound bull already pushed to the point of madness by castration. He tried not to think of her as he made his plans or gave out the instructions for the day. He inevitably lost his train of thought and confused everyone.

The hardest task of all was trying not to think of her when he slept at the ranch because he knew he couldn’t have her. It had never seemed harder than tonight. She was awake. He knew it. He could tell the difference in her breathing. He knew she was lying there, waiting.

Waiting for what?

He didn’t even want to think about it. What would any woman want from the man she loved? The one thing he couldn’t give her. Maybe his father had been able to tell women he loved them in order to secure his momentary pleasure, but George couldn’t do that. When he told Rose he loved her, he would mean it.

But he wanted her. God, how he wanted her! His whole body was rigid with aching. He had to do something. He didn’t think he could lie there for five more minutes without exploding.

Maybe if he just touched her. He wouldn’t do more than kiss her or hold her in his arms. He might be burning with unsatisfied desire, but it wasn’t so strong he would forget himself and impregnate her.

“It’s still not safe,” Rose said when George reached out to her.

“I know. I just wanted to touch you. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Rose answered.

George felt himself relax. Despite his best effort, he had been thinking about her all day. He just wanted to feel her skin under his fingertips, feel the softness of her breasts, taste the sweetness of her lips. He wouldn’t do anything else.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to spend more time with you,” he said as he let his hands move across her stomach. The thin material of her gown felt soft and warm.

“I understand,” Rose said. Her voice sounded wispy, uncertain.

“It’s not much of a way to treat a wife.”

“I haven’t complained.”

She didn’t flinch when he moved his hand over her breast. But his own body hardened with desire. He could feel her nipple firm under his touch. That inflamed him more.

“You don’t feel crowded, do you?” she asked. “I told you I never would tie you down.”

“It’s not that.”

He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to let his mind bury itself in the sensations coming through his fingertips. He wanted to think of nothing but the one thing he had forbidden himself.

“What is it then?”

“I feel guilty,” George managed to say. “More guilty than I’ve ever felt about anything.”

“Don’t.”

But he did. He felt guilty about asking her to marry him when he knew he couldn’t give her children or the kind of home she wanted. He felt guilty about her loving him when he couldn’t love her back. He felt guilty wanting to make love to her so badly every muscle in the back of his neck was stretched tight. He felt guilty because his actions were out of sequence with his emotions.

His hand slipped inside her gown. Her skin was warm and soft. His breath caught when he found her nipple. He expelled it in a long, shuddering sigh as his fingertip teased the hardened peak.

He felt her body grow tense, and the tension in his body became even worse. But he couldn’t stop. He rolled up on his elbow. He let his head sink until his lips touched her warmth.

He could feel her chest rise and fall under his hand. She was breathing faster, not as deep.

So was he.

He freed the near breast from her gown, and while he continued to explore the other with his hand, his fevered lips began to circle one nipple. He let his lips brush softly against her skin as he moved in circles around her breast. She smelled of violets again. Faintly. He liked it.

With his tongue he began to trace circles around her nipple. She tasted warm and soft. His tongue found and teased her nipple. The sharp intake of breath, the sudden stiffening, the involuntary arch against him only inflamed his desire. Taking her nipple between his teeth, he gently nibbled at it.