heart that went on every time they were in the same room. Even when they weren't.
No more words were spoken, but she raised her face to his, and reached for him.
"Chance," she whispered. "Please... I need—"
That was all it took, as though he had been waiting on edge for these very words since
the night on her couch over three weeks before.
She opened her mouth, invitingly, drawing him deeper.
He wanted her to give. Even as she took, she knew he did, the way he urged her tongue
to trail the path of his own. The haze beat wildly, mercilessly through the flame
coursing her veins. Damn the defenses, the plague of too much thought. She let him
take her to a place they had been before, where instinct and desire ruled; a place
where innocence was lost, where she embraced the joy, the exquisite fury of untender
love.
"Touch me," she moaned against his mouth, not caring if she pleaded. Take me. Burn me. Make me your own. He had to put his hands on her, to mold her curves to his sleek, hard thighs. She
had waited for too long, this slow burning to cinders and ash, this hollow want that
cradled her when all she really wanted was him.
In the agony of the small moment when his hand was moving, she caught it, brought
it to her lips, and kissed it. His hands, his beautiful, work-worn hands were hers
for now. She loved them, just as she loved him.
And she did love him. She didn't care anymore who he was to anyone else, only that
now he was hers completely. In all his goodness, his badness, his wonderful complexity,
she did love him. She'd never stopped. No, never...
"Oh, Micah," he groaned, his eyes slitting open. "Micah. I—"
He stilled abruptly, the fallen kerchief lying like an accusing, dead weight on the
floor.
His brows drew together, and his mouth, swollen from their kisses, slanted disapprovingly.
"You cut your hair." She heard the regret in his voice. The sound seemed misplaced
in the sudden, wilting stillness that continued to crackle with the hum of sexual
tension.
Micah touched the short-cropped curls, suddenly self-conscious. She hated the cut,
too, had hated it as soon as it was done. That had been the reason she had lashed
out at him earlier, trying to transfer the disappointment.
Too late, she wished for her long hair back.
She sniffled; she was being ridiculous. But Chance was looking at her with such visible
disappointment, while his hand, the one that even now should be caressing her breast,
hovered beside her head.
"I was so hot. Here, at home..." she lifted her chin. "Please don't look at me like
that. I hate the way it looks, and you're making it worse." She was still aching with
longing, and at the same time stinging with the knowledge that he didn't like what
he saw. His reaction was the most deflating blow of all. Worse than the heat, or the
frustration of her work. She wanted Chance to pretend he liked her hair whether he
did or not. And most of all she wanted to grab the moment back, so that he held her
until she didn't care about paint or the heat or especially not the cut of her hair.
"I'm vain." She looked away. "I wish I looked better for you. You only see me like
this these days, like a drudge. And now... you don't even want to touch my hair."
Her voice caught. She hated feeling like this, robbed of some feminine extension.
Silly. Vain. Where was her pride, letting him see her so emotionally naked over something
so trivial?
Chance caught her shoulders and pulled her to him as she pushed away. Then slowly,
very deliberately, he brought his hand to her hair. She tried to pull back in some
idiotic surge of pride when his touching her was what she really wanted.
One of his arms slid around to her back until he braced his hand at the nape of her
neck, immobilizing her head. His eyes searched hers as though he were looking for
something he'd lost, and then skimmed to the short, dark locks as his fingers lightly
touched their
No more words were spoken, but she raised her face to his, and reached for him.
"Chance," she whispered. "Please... I need—"
That was all it took, as though he had been waiting on edge for these very words since
the night on her couch over three weeks before.
She opened her mouth, invitingly, drawing him deeper.
He wanted her to give. Even as she took, she knew he did, the way he urged her tongue
to trail the path of his own. The haze beat wildly, mercilessly through the flame
coursing her veins. Damn the defenses, the plague of too much thought. She let him
take her to a place they had been before, where instinct and desire ruled; a place
where innocence was lost, where she embraced the joy, the exquisite fury of untender
love.
"Touch me," she moaned against his mouth, not caring if she pleaded. Take me. Burn me. Make me your own. He had to put his hands on her, to mold her curves to his sleek, hard thighs. She
had waited for too long, this slow burning to cinders and ash, this hollow want that
cradled her when all she really wanted was him.
In the agony of the small moment when his hand was moving, she caught it, brought
it to her lips, and kissed it. His hands, his beautiful, work-worn hands were hers
for now. She loved them, just as she loved him.
And she did love him. She didn't care anymore who he was to anyone else, only that
now he was hers completely. In all his goodness, his badness, his wonderful complexity,
she did love him. She'd never stopped. No, never...
"Oh, Micah," he groaned, his eyes slitting open. "Micah. I—"
He stilled abruptly, the fallen kerchief lying like an accusing, dead weight on the
floor.
His brows drew together, and his mouth, swollen from their kisses, slanted disapprovingly.
"You cut your hair." She heard the regret in his voice. The sound seemed misplaced
in the sudden, wilting stillness that continued to crackle with the hum of sexual
tension.
Micah touched the short-cropped curls, suddenly self-conscious. She hated the cut,
too, had hated it as soon as it was done. That had been the reason she had lashed
out at him earlier, trying to transfer the disappointment.
Too late, she wished for her long hair back.
She sniffled; she was being ridiculous. But Chance was looking at her with such visible
disappointment, while his hand, the one that even now should be caressing her breast,
hovered beside her head.
"I was so hot. Here, at home..." she lifted her chin. "Please don't look at me like
that. I hate the way it looks, and you're making it worse." She was still aching with
longing, and at the same time stinging with the knowledge that he didn't like what
he saw. His reaction was the most deflating blow of all. Worse than the heat, or the
frustration of her work. She wanted Chance to pretend he liked her hair whether he
did or not. And most of all she wanted to grab the moment back, so that he held her
until she didn't care about paint or the heat or especially not the cut of her hair.
"I'm vain." She looked away. "I wish I looked better for you. You only see me like
this these days, like a drudge. And now... you don't even want to touch my hair."
Her voice caught. She hated feeling like this, robbed of some feminine extension.
Silly. Vain. Where was her pride, letting him see her so emotionally naked over something
so trivial?
Chance caught her shoulders and pulled her to him as she pushed away. Then slowly,
very deliberately, he brought his hand to her hair. She tried to pull back in some
idiotic surge of pride when his touching her was what she really wanted.
One of his arms slid around to her back until he braced his hand at the nape of her
neck, immobilizing her head. His eyes searched hers as though he were looking for
something he'd lost, and then skimmed to the short, dark locks as his fingers lightly
touched their
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