The Bride of Willow Creek(73)

“I can’t move,” she whispered. “I feel weak and heavy.”

“I know.” He kissed her eyelids, her temples, her mouth. When his hands found her breasts and cupped them gently, she stirred and her breath quickened.

“Can you see me? Please don’t look at me.”

“You’re beautiful, Angie. So beautiful.” He jerked the blankets back, then gently drew her to the pillows. “Just lie there.”

His touch was light but his hands were callused and rough on her skin. The roughness made her shiver with pleasure and twist beneath his caresses, offering herself like a wanton. She had imagined this so many times, and she had been so wrong. She had imagined something gentle and dreamy with tenderness, but it wasn’t like that, and she didn’t want it to be.

His mouth burned on her skin, and his hands moved on her body, teasing, coaxing, touching, withdrawing only to approach again, tease again, until she was panting and twisting to follow his fingers. He kissed her mouth, her breasts, her belly. Her head thrashed from side to side on the pillow, and she whispered a mindless, “Please, please, please,” not knowing what she begged for but needing whatever it was, needing him.

When she was bathed in sweat and wild with wanting more than his mouth and hands could give, when she thought she would surely die if he didn’t come to her, Sam rose above her and thrust forward. A sharp pain caused her eyes to fly open and her fingers dug into his damp shoulders.

The pain was fleeting and swiftly forgotten, swept aside by a tide of passion that overwhelmed thought and mind. Her hands flew over his chest, his back, his hips, then to his lips and mouth. Her body lifted with the rhythm of his thrusts, and a great joy burst through her.

This was the mystery that had hovered beyond reach for so many years. Now she knew. Now she had felt a man’s heartbeat pounding next to hers, had felt his breath hot on her lips and bare skin. She had discovered an unsuspected emptiness and known the astonishment and bliss of fulfillment.

Angie fell asleep in Sam’s arms with a smile on her lips.



At first light she awoke with a start and bolted up in bed. Good Lord, she was as naked as the day she was born. Snatching the sheet, she held it over her breasts and stared at Sam, appalled. She gave his shoulder a rough shake.

“You’re still here! You’ve spent two nights in the house this week and both times the girls were gone. What will the neighbors think!”

Sam opened one eye. “They’ll think Sam Holland slept in his own bed with his own wife. That bastard. He should be tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail.”

“I’m serious.” Angie jumped out of bed, pulling the sheet with her. “Get out of that bed. . . . Oh!” He was naked, too. Spinning around, she faced the bureau, struggling to pull the sheet behind her to cover her exposed fanny. Fire blazed on her cheeks. He was very naked, and now she’d seen his very nakedness in the daylight. Lordy. “Sam, get up right now and get out of here. Molly and the girls could arrive any minute.”

If he got out of bed as she was demanding, he would walk naked past her and walk naked into the kitchen to find his trousers. “Wait.” Swallowing hard, she clutched the sheet to her breasts. “Stay there for a minute. I’ll fetch your trousers.”

When she saw the kitchen she groaned aloud. Pieces of clothing were strewn everywhere. After tossing several items aside, she found his trousers. Rushing back to the bedroom, nailing her gaze firmly to his face and nowhere else, she threw the trousers across his lap and spun again to face the bureau.

Her reflection in the mirror made her sigh. Wild loose hair curled down her back and over the slope of her breasts. Her lips were still swollen from passionate kisses, and recalling those kisses caused her nipples to bud and stand out beneath the sheet as plain as day.

In less than twenty-four hours she’d fallen from dull respectability to a state of disheveled wantonness. Narrowing her eyes, she studied her image, wondering if Miss Lily looked like this in the mornings.

Sam appeared behind her and met her gaze in the glass. “Having regrets?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” she said after a minute. “Are you?”

“Me?” He laughed and kissed the top of her head. “Can a man regret heaven? No.”

“What happened between us . . .” She hated the violent pink burning on her cheeks. “It was a one-time event, Sam. I guess I don’t regret what we did. I always wondered about, well, you know. But this can’t happen again.”

“I understand.” He placed his hands on her bare shoulders and spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “Well actually, maybe I don’t understand.”