stop. Struck by the sight and sound of her, he stood in the grass, his hands loose at his sides.
A garden hose in her hand, she moved around the patio, giving water to the flowers bursting out of the ground. All the while, she sang.
Her voice, though strong and sure, and without the slightest hint of a stutter, wouldn't overpower anyone. It was soft, sultry even, and heartfelt. Genuine and unassuming, like the woman. At the crescendo, a rasp came into her tone that grabbed him by the balls.
Her. He wanted her.
She sang of a long-ago lover, her song at once a celebration and a lament, a bittersweet mix of the joy and sorrow, and a flood of emotion—every emotion—rushed forth to drown him. Captured by her voice and her peaceful heart, he was unable to move toward her or run away.
He had to have her.
It didn’t make any sense, why he wanted her so badly. He could have any woman. Yet none of the other women had managed to do what the shy, meek Emily Cole had managed to do.
Get him hard and keep him hard with wanting.
Just then, she started and spun in his direction. The spray of water from the hose shot across the patio and he lunged to avoid its frigid shower.
“Luke!”
He showed his palms. “Don’t shoot.”
She let go of the nozzle. The water stream collapsed and disappeared.
He bounded up the porch stairs.
“I already m-made breakfast,” she called after him.
He turned slowly and narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you make?”
“I bought m-muffins and pastries.”
His lip curled. “Store-bought muffins? Are you serious right now?”
The screen door snapped shut behind him, his last glimpse of her tripping over the hose and scrambling after him.
He ate his smile, enjoying every moment he spent with her more than the last.
When she burst into the kitchen, he closed the refrigerator door, a carton of eggs in his hand.
“I’m perfectly capable of feeding a lone houseguest.”
“There’s a time and a place for processed junk food. Breakfast is not it.”
She opened the cardboard box from the bakery in town and chose a cinnamon roll smothered in white frosting.
Her moan of pleasure when she bit into the bun tugged at his groin. “You’re a cop. I thought baked goods were your weakness.”
“I’m watching my figure.”
Her gaze flitted down his frame and back up again. “Nice job.”
His bark of laughter surprised him. God, she was fun. He enjoyed everything about her. Her animated features and frequent blushes, her sharp mind, and even the way she talked. Not the stutter necessarily, though he found it endearing, but her slow, deliberate speech intrigued him more and more all the time.
She didn’t fight to be heard nor toss around careless thoughts or sentiments. Everything she said was specifically chosen for him, and he found himself hanging on each choice, awaiting the words she’d finally pick as worthy for his consideration.
His laughter died when her pink tongue darted out to lick a splotch of white frosting from her lower lip. The punch of lust stole his voice, and when she mentioned something about taking a shower, he grunted.
He focused on slicing a potato and tried to block out the image of her under the warm spray, water sloughing over her smooth skin and beaded nipples, and his mouth closing over one pink areola.
He slammed his mind back to the potato wedges. He’d always been able to get lost in the mechanics of cooking. The mix of flavors, the aromas, the precise timing.
Today, it wasn’t working.
She returned on a fresh-scented cloud that teased his nostrils. She’d dried her hair and pulled it into a ponytail that hung down her back in soft waves. As usual, she wore not a speck of makeup. A pair of blue jeans hugged her heart-shaped ass and a pale blue tank top exposed the ivory skin of her shoulders, still dewy with moisture.
He carried the dish of fried potatoes through the swinging door to the dining room. Her scent followed him.
When he returned to
A garden hose in her hand, she moved around the patio, giving water to the flowers bursting out of the ground. All the while, she sang.
Her voice, though strong and sure, and without the slightest hint of a stutter, wouldn't overpower anyone. It was soft, sultry even, and heartfelt. Genuine and unassuming, like the woman. At the crescendo, a rasp came into her tone that grabbed him by the balls.
Her. He wanted her.
She sang of a long-ago lover, her song at once a celebration and a lament, a bittersweet mix of the joy and sorrow, and a flood of emotion—every emotion—rushed forth to drown him. Captured by her voice and her peaceful heart, he was unable to move toward her or run away.
He had to have her.
It didn’t make any sense, why he wanted her so badly. He could have any woman. Yet none of the other women had managed to do what the shy, meek Emily Cole had managed to do.
Get him hard and keep him hard with wanting.
Just then, she started and spun in his direction. The spray of water from the hose shot across the patio and he lunged to avoid its frigid shower.
“Luke!”
He showed his palms. “Don’t shoot.”
She let go of the nozzle. The water stream collapsed and disappeared.
He bounded up the porch stairs.
“I already m-made breakfast,” she called after him.
He turned slowly and narrowed his eyes at her. “What did you make?”
“I bought m-muffins and pastries.”
His lip curled. “Store-bought muffins? Are you serious right now?”
The screen door snapped shut behind him, his last glimpse of her tripping over the hose and scrambling after him.
He ate his smile, enjoying every moment he spent with her more than the last.
When she burst into the kitchen, he closed the refrigerator door, a carton of eggs in his hand.
“I’m perfectly capable of feeding a lone houseguest.”
“There’s a time and a place for processed junk food. Breakfast is not it.”
She opened the cardboard box from the bakery in town and chose a cinnamon roll smothered in white frosting.
Her moan of pleasure when she bit into the bun tugged at his groin. “You’re a cop. I thought baked goods were your weakness.”
“I’m watching my figure.”
Her gaze flitted down his frame and back up again. “Nice job.”
His bark of laughter surprised him. God, she was fun. He enjoyed everything about her. Her animated features and frequent blushes, her sharp mind, and even the way she talked. Not the stutter necessarily, though he found it endearing, but her slow, deliberate speech intrigued him more and more all the time.
She didn’t fight to be heard nor toss around careless thoughts or sentiments. Everything she said was specifically chosen for him, and he found himself hanging on each choice, awaiting the words she’d finally pick as worthy for his consideration.
His laughter died when her pink tongue darted out to lick a splotch of white frosting from her lower lip. The punch of lust stole his voice, and when she mentioned something about taking a shower, he grunted.
He focused on slicing a potato and tried to block out the image of her under the warm spray, water sloughing over her smooth skin and beaded nipples, and his mouth closing over one pink areola.
He slammed his mind back to the potato wedges. He’d always been able to get lost in the mechanics of cooking. The mix of flavors, the aromas, the precise timing.
Today, it wasn’t working.
She returned on a fresh-scented cloud that teased his nostrils. She’d dried her hair and pulled it into a ponytail that hung down her back in soft waves. As usual, she wore not a speck of makeup. A pair of blue jeans hugged her heart-shaped ass and a pale blue tank top exposed the ivory skin of her shoulders, still dewy with moisture.
He carried the dish of fried potatoes through the swinging door to the dining room. Her scent followed him.
When he returned to
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