Amber’s heart ached for the boy who’d longed for
his parents’ love. Once she’d been there to fill the void, but now she was
gone, and the boy had become a man who hid his hurt well.
But not from her. From
Amber, Mac could hide nothing, and she found herself responding, reaching
across the chasm of fourteen years and wanting so desperately to heal his hurt.
The story she’d come to tell him was put away, locked back in her mind. Its
power to wound him further made Amber determined to forget it.
Her touch held
concern, sadness. But when her fingers found the planes of his face, warm and
rough from a day’s growth of beard, those emotions were replaced by others.
Dangerous ones.
Pull away. Take your hands off
him, turn and walk out of here. Don’t look back.
But her heart would
not be commanded.
Her fingers began a
slow exploration, traveling up to find the creases at the corners of his eyes,
wondering again if they were from laughter or worry. She traced his lips
lightly, and a low groan answered her touch.
“Amber.” Mac’s voice
was tight, choked. “What the hell are you doing? We said—”
“I know what we
said....now hush.”
Perhaps it was the
wine. Or a giddy sense of freedom once she’d made up her mind to forget her
plans to tell him what had happened so long ago. Or a simple desire to give, to
soothe, to heal through her touch.
Amber began to feel
bold, reckless. She marveled as her hands continued their exploration, down his
throat, easing under his collar, finding the muscles hard and tensed
underneath.
At seventeen, Amber
had lost herself in a first kiss with Mac, following his lead, meeting his
tender probing with new-found response. She learned from him, learned how lips
and teeth and tongue can turn a simple embrace into something dangerously close
to ecstasy.
She continued to learn,
always following, waiting for Mac’s tentative lead. He never pushed. When the
time seemed right, he questioned silently, offering new pleasures with a tug at
a button, a caress that strayed beyond known territory.
And always, always, he
stopped at the first sign of her discomfort. Through the long, delicious dance
over the course of a year, he led her slowly higher and higher until finally,
on her eighteenth birthday, he loved her as a woman, and she met his release
with cries of her own, cries of joy.
But always she
followed.
Now, for the first
time, Amber found herself leading, exploring, as she unbuttoned one button and
then another so she could slide her hands around Mac’s chest, burying her face
against his pounding heart.
It was reckless, she
knew. And promised hurt.
But it felt so right,
so irresistibly right.
“You told me it would
be a mistake,” Mac whispered hoarsely through clenched teeth. His senses were
so heightened that he could feel her eyelashes flutter against his skin. He
grasped at her hair, looping the silky strands through his fingers, meaning to
pull away.
Instead, he found
himself lifting her face to look at him. “I want you. God, how I want you,” he
managed to say. “But—”
Amber silenced him as
she met his lips with her own. In a single fluid motion their bodies met and
melted together, the sensory memories taking over where logic and reluctance
left off. Amber arched into him, sinking back against the counter as her thighs
gave way to his weight. He cradled her close, running his hands down her body
to cup her hips in his hands.
Amber parted her lips
to the explorations of his delving tongue, answering with urgent thrusts of her
own. She snaked a hand through his hair, her nails scratching his scalp, the
sharp sensation heightening his passion all the more. She lifted her chin, led
his probing mouth across her cheek, her throat.
She had never felt
such raw hunger. Mac’s beard scratched her skin, but she pulled him even
closer. Her back arched against the counter as he supported her with one hand,
the other sliding down the cotton of her dress,
his parents’ love. Once she’d been there to fill the void, but now she was
gone, and the boy had become a man who hid his hurt well.
But not from her. From
Amber, Mac could hide nothing, and she found herself responding, reaching
across the chasm of fourteen years and wanting so desperately to heal his hurt.
The story she’d come to tell him was put away, locked back in her mind. Its
power to wound him further made Amber determined to forget it.
Her touch held
concern, sadness. But when her fingers found the planes of his face, warm and
rough from a day’s growth of beard, those emotions were replaced by others.
Dangerous ones.
Pull away. Take your hands off
him, turn and walk out of here. Don’t look back.
But her heart would
not be commanded.
Her fingers began a
slow exploration, traveling up to find the creases at the corners of his eyes,
wondering again if they were from laughter or worry. She traced his lips
lightly, and a low groan answered her touch.
“Amber.” Mac’s voice
was tight, choked. “What the hell are you doing? We said—”
“I know what we
said....now hush.”
Perhaps it was the
wine. Or a giddy sense of freedom once she’d made up her mind to forget her
plans to tell him what had happened so long ago. Or a simple desire to give, to
soothe, to heal through her touch.
Amber began to feel
bold, reckless. She marveled as her hands continued their exploration, down his
throat, easing under his collar, finding the muscles hard and tensed
underneath.
At seventeen, Amber
had lost herself in a first kiss with Mac, following his lead, meeting his
tender probing with new-found response. She learned from him, learned how lips
and teeth and tongue can turn a simple embrace into something dangerously close
to ecstasy.
She continued to learn,
always following, waiting for Mac’s tentative lead. He never pushed. When the
time seemed right, he questioned silently, offering new pleasures with a tug at
a button, a caress that strayed beyond known territory.
And always, always, he
stopped at the first sign of her discomfort. Through the long, delicious dance
over the course of a year, he led her slowly higher and higher until finally,
on her eighteenth birthday, he loved her as a woman, and she met his release
with cries of her own, cries of joy.
But always she
followed.
Now, for the first
time, Amber found herself leading, exploring, as she unbuttoned one button and
then another so she could slide her hands around Mac’s chest, burying her face
against his pounding heart.
It was reckless, she
knew. And promised hurt.
But it felt so right,
so irresistibly right.
“You told me it would
be a mistake,” Mac whispered hoarsely through clenched teeth. His senses were
so heightened that he could feel her eyelashes flutter against his skin. He
grasped at her hair, looping the silky strands through his fingers, meaning to
pull away.
Instead, he found
himself lifting her face to look at him. “I want you. God, how I want you,” he
managed to say. “But—”
Amber silenced him as
she met his lips with her own. In a single fluid motion their bodies met and
melted together, the sensory memories taking over where logic and reluctance
left off. Amber arched into him, sinking back against the counter as her thighs
gave way to his weight. He cradled her close, running his hands down her body
to cup her hips in his hands.
Amber parted her lips
to the explorations of his delving tongue, answering with urgent thrusts of her
own. She snaked a hand through his hair, her nails scratching his scalp, the
sharp sensation heightening his passion all the more. She lifted her chin, led
his probing mouth across her cheek, her throat.
She had never felt
such raw hunger. Mac’s beard scratched her skin, but she pulled him even
closer. Her back arched against the counter as he supported her with one hand,
the other sliding down the cotton of her dress,
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