A Mother for Matilda by Amy Andrews Page B

covering her flesh, at her mouth. ‘I don’t want this,’ he denied in a voice that was so husky with desire he was for sure about to be struck down by a lightning bolt for his obvious lie.
    Her fear of rejection melted in an instant at his denial. She could hear how much he wanted her, wanted this, in the way his voice trembled. In the way he looked at her mouth.
    ‘It’s okay. I want it enough for both of us.’ And she raised herself up, confident for the first time since she’d started just how much he actually desired her. She twined her hands around his neck and kissed him again.
    Her lips teased his, her tongue stroking along the seam of his closed mouth, begging for access, and his resistance lasted about ten seconds before he opened to her on a groan that must have come all the way from histoes. The kiss was deep and wet as he unleashed a torrent of passion that left them both clinging to each other. He grasped her face in his hands and plunged his tongue into her mouth as she met him with equal ardour.
    Beyond her conscious control her hands strayed to his back, clawing at his shirt, and before she knew it it was off and his chest was warm and bare beneath her touch. Even her injured palms were totally forgotten in the sensual exploration. She broke off to press her mouth to the hard ridge of his collarbone and the soft thrill of his carotid.
    With her lips elsewhere Lawson felt the fog clear and sense returned. How the hell had his shirt got on the floor? ‘Whoa. I think we’re taking this a little too fast.’
    Vic smiled. ‘I’m not a teenager, Lawson, and I’m not a virgin. I don’t want to court. Or go steady. I’m leaving in seventy days and tonight, I want this.’ She lowered her head and kissed one perfectly formed pectoral.
    Lawson shut his eyes as the huskiness of her voice combined with the tiny, almost innocent gesture travelled straight to his groin. Without further thought he snagged the hem of her shirt and dragged it over her head. He looked down at her nakedness, her perfectly shaped breasts with nipples the colour of her lips, brushing his chest.
    Vic blushed at the intensity of his gaze; it was as if he was working out the best way to devour them. ‘Not quite Boobylicious, huh?’
    ‘They’re perfect,’ he murmured, brushing a finger along one dusky tip, feeling its instant pucker. He dropped his mouth to hers, determined to show her just what an effect her body, her breasts, had on him.
    The kiss escalated and for Vic it just wasn’t enough. She wanted to press herself along the length of him, feel the breadth of him, she wanted to melt into him, absorb him. She wanted all of him, at once.
    His hands ran down her back and her skin was so responsive it felt as if he’d stroked an icecube down her spine and then trailed a burning coal back up again. When they wandered again it felt as if his hands were made of feathers dusting ever closer to the sensitive swell of her breasts at her sides.
    Her head was spinning. His hands forged havoc. His lips, ecstasy. Her pulse thundered, her breath barely kept up with the demands of his open-mouth kisses as their heads twisted and fought for the deepest angle. Emotions churned and mixed inside and popped behind her eyes like fireworks and Ferris wheels.
    So the pain, when it came totally ripped her out of the moment. She broke off, gasping and clutching at her side where Lawson’s hand had strayed seconds before. She doubled over as the pain paralysed her breath.
    ‘Oh, God!’ Lawson removed his hand as if it had touched an electric fence. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he panted. ‘I just…forgot. Are you okay? I’m so sorry.’
    ‘It’s okay,’ she whispered, shutting her eyes, riding out the pain that sucked at her breath. They’d both been out of control, not thinking.
    He sat on the lounge staring at her. Her nakedness didn’t register—just the livid bruise. He could hear the pain he had caused catching in her breath. Talk about the