"Wait!"
And Ross fell still.
He still held her, very tightly, and that should have frightened her too. So should his gun, his boot knife. So should his size, his strength, his hardness, his very maleness, and the certainty that if he wanted to push her to the ground and muffle her cries . . .
But he didn't frighten her at all, and not just because of Duchess standing beside them, looking concerned. The idea of what he could do didn't frighten her because he was Ross, and he wouldn't. Something instinctive, deep inside of her sensed something vulnerable, deep inside of him, and she trusted it at least as much as she trusted herself.
Which wasn't implicit.
He was still cupping her breast, after all. And she was, she realized, arching into that touch. Heavens!
Feeling clumsy and lost, she planted her hands on his shoulders and pushed back from him, pushed him off her. He sat back in the dirt, staring downward. His eyes burned, but not at her. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.
Victoria sank back against die big rock's support, dizzy and flushed and excited about what had just happened, even if it shouldn't have. Even if it must not happen again.
Ross Laramie, sitting on the ground, looked mussed, and lean, and handsome. Even now her palms, her fingertips, tingled with the memory of him. But he did not look excited.
When finally he lifted his burning gaze to hers, he looked hurt, accusing —and almost suicidal.
Clearly, she would have to speak first. She licked her lips in preparation —and tasted him on them. Golly.
Words had never failed her before, and they did not this time. Not exactly.
"No wonder you clench your fists."
Chapter Nine
Laramie stared at her for several long, shuddering breaths before he was sure he'd heard her correctly. Even once his ears were sure, his mind wasn't.
His lips felt strange, traitorous as he tried to shape them into a word. His voice only half complied. "What?"
Wasn't she going to slap him? Sic the dog on him?
If she sat up, reached across to him, drew his pistol and shot him with it, he doubted he would fight her. It was a double-action. She wouldn't even have to cock it.
What had he done? Worse, what would he have done if she hadn't stopped him? Clearly there was no purity powerful enough to cleanse him —only more innocence for him to ruin.
"The way you clench your fists when we get close." Victoria pushed brown curls from her face, and Laramie truly saw what he'd done to her hair. "You were trying not to let yourself do just this, weren't you?"
Trying not to?
His breath rasped from his chest, the rush of his blood nearly deafening, and what he felt —
What he felt. . .
He'd been safer feeling nothing, because this was just too much. Soft hair and skin and lips and tongue and starched, white dress and round, warm curves —and that was just from her. The sensations that surged up from inside him, past the discomfort where her fingers had clutched at his wounds, past the ache he'd never admitted, deep in his chest. . . past the needs that had surged up from inside him were hungry and greedy and debased.
It was far too much, so he only let himself feel numb. He'd learned long ago how safe numbness could be. He could think through numbness. And what he thought was, I've been trying not to let myself do this?
For a reporter, Victoria Garrison wasn't always terribly observant.
"I have to go," he murmured, rolling onto his heels. He didn't know where. He didn't care. He just had to get away from this, his latest and most monumental mistake.
He had to get away from her before he destroyed her.
"Go? Don't be silly. I'll just let you keep your hands closed from now on. Now that I understand. I agree — of course we can't be doing this. We hardly know each other, and even if we did, there's a right way
And Ross fell still.
He still held her, very tightly, and that should have frightened her too. So should his gun, his boot knife. So should his size, his strength, his hardness, his very maleness, and the certainty that if he wanted to push her to the ground and muffle her cries . . .
But he didn't frighten her at all, and not just because of Duchess standing beside them, looking concerned. The idea of what he could do didn't frighten her because he was Ross, and he wouldn't. Something instinctive, deep inside of her sensed something vulnerable, deep inside of him, and she trusted it at least as much as she trusted herself.
Which wasn't implicit.
He was still cupping her breast, after all. And she was, she realized, arching into that touch. Heavens!
Feeling clumsy and lost, she planted her hands on his shoulders and pushed back from him, pushed him off her. He sat back in the dirt, staring downward. His eyes burned, but not at her. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.
Victoria sank back against die big rock's support, dizzy and flushed and excited about what had just happened, even if it shouldn't have. Even if it must not happen again.
Ross Laramie, sitting on the ground, looked mussed, and lean, and handsome. Even now her palms, her fingertips, tingled with the memory of him. But he did not look excited.
When finally he lifted his burning gaze to hers, he looked hurt, accusing —and almost suicidal.
Clearly, she would have to speak first. She licked her lips in preparation —and tasted him on them. Golly.
Words had never failed her before, and they did not this time. Not exactly.
"No wonder you clench your fists."
Chapter Nine
Laramie stared at her for several long, shuddering breaths before he was sure he'd heard her correctly. Even once his ears were sure, his mind wasn't.
His lips felt strange, traitorous as he tried to shape them into a word. His voice only half complied. "What?"
Wasn't she going to slap him? Sic the dog on him?
If she sat up, reached across to him, drew his pistol and shot him with it, he doubted he would fight her. It was a double-action. She wouldn't even have to cock it.
What had he done? Worse, what would he have done if she hadn't stopped him? Clearly there was no purity powerful enough to cleanse him —only more innocence for him to ruin.
"The way you clench your fists when we get close." Victoria pushed brown curls from her face, and Laramie truly saw what he'd done to her hair. "You were trying not to let yourself do just this, weren't you?"
Trying not to?
His breath rasped from his chest, the rush of his blood nearly deafening, and what he felt —
What he felt. . .
He'd been safer feeling nothing, because this was just too much. Soft hair and skin and lips and tongue and starched, white dress and round, warm curves —and that was just from her. The sensations that surged up from inside him, past the discomfort where her fingers had clutched at his wounds, past the ache he'd never admitted, deep in his chest. . . past the needs that had surged up from inside him were hungry and greedy and debased.
It was far too much, so he only let himself feel numb. He'd learned long ago how safe numbness could be. He could think through numbness. And what he thought was, I've been trying not to let myself do this?
For a reporter, Victoria Garrison wasn't always terribly observant.
"I have to go," he murmured, rolling onto his heels. He didn't know where. He didn't care. He just had to get away from this, his latest and most monumental mistake.
He had to get away from her before he destroyed her.
"Go? Don't be silly. I'll just let you keep your hands closed from now on. Now that I understand. I agree — of course we can't be doing this. We hardly know each other, and even if we did, there's a right way
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