moving down. As he squeezed her buttocks, yearning blazed, burning away all reason.
Breaking free of the kiss, he began unbuttoning her blouse. He wanted to see behind the veil. He could feel her trembling, hear her breathing growing heavy and ragged, as he moved from button to button, pushing the silk away. Even in the flickering light, he could see that her bra was black lace. He slipped a hand inside and softly rubbed a nipple. As it responded, she emitted a breathless moan, making him shudder.
“Where shall I sleep?” he rasped, brushing her cheek.
“Do you have to ask?”
Guilt gripped him, tightening like a noose. The fire in his groin flickered and began to die.
“A re you sure we should do this?”
“Yes ,” she said, dark-chocolate eyes shimmering with passion. “Aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” he whispered, looking away.
She set a hand on his chest , endeavoring to meet his gaze. “Is there some danger of that?”
He swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that, even if he could keep it up, which was unlikely, she’d be shagging an empty shell.
“ Only if you want it to mean something,” he managed at last, his voice cracking.
She pulled away, glaring at him. “How do you expect me to respond to a statement like that?”
He couldn’t bring himself to look at her . “With honesty, I suppose.”
“Fuck you,” she hissed, shooting to her feet. “Is that honest enough?”
Without another word, she stalked off toward the bedroom. W hen he heard the door slam, he heaved a sigh and sat back, feeling around the cushions for his flask. Finding it, he raised it to his lips, tipped it back, and took a long, deep swallow.
Chapter 10
Tuesday
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania
Thea lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, gnawing her lower lip the same way regret gnawed her insides. Bright sunlight filtered through the lace at the window, but her thoughts were dark. From the living room, she could hear Buchanan snoring like a bear. Regret stabbed again. Why had she kissed him? He’d tried to warn her he wasn’t emotionally available, but, as usual, she hadn’t listened.
She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but she had feelings for him—feelings she’d been harboring ever since that night they went out for a drink. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, that he was there with her, holding, kissing, touching.
With a sigh, she blew away the fantasy like dandelion down. Though she’d slept with her share of men over the years, she’d had few serious relationships. Just Mark Watkins back in high school; Spencer Conway, her history professor at Georgia State; and Steve Armstrong, a guy she met while out nightclubbing with friends.
Steve was a welcome relief from the professor, who at first seemed brilliant and intense, but turned out to be a narcissistic mess. T en years her junior, Steve worked in an envelope factory, played in a band called “Weeds,” and liked to stay out all night partying with his friends. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, but they also quarreled bitterly about his laid-back lifestyle and lack of ambition. One day, she came home from work to find a note on the table beside a single red rose.
I think we both know this isn’t working.
That was all it said. The note shook her to the core, and not just because he’d left her, which was devastating. Even more shattering was the fact that the message echoed the one left twenty years earlier by her father.
A muffled version of Come as You Are started playing somewhere in the room. She sprang up and glanced around. Where the hell had she left her phone? Realizing it was in the pocket of her slacks, now draped over a nearby chair, she bounced off the bed and fished it out. She checked the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number.
Apprehensively, she answered.
“Miss Hamilton, you
Breaking free of the kiss, he began unbuttoning her blouse. He wanted to see behind the veil. He could feel her trembling, hear her breathing growing heavy and ragged, as he moved from button to button, pushing the silk away. Even in the flickering light, he could see that her bra was black lace. He slipped a hand inside and softly rubbed a nipple. As it responded, she emitted a breathless moan, making him shudder.
“Where shall I sleep?” he rasped, brushing her cheek.
“Do you have to ask?”
Guilt gripped him, tightening like a noose. The fire in his groin flickered and began to die.
“A re you sure we should do this?”
“Yes ,” she said, dark-chocolate eyes shimmering with passion. “Aren’t you?”
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” he whispered, looking away.
She set a hand on his chest , endeavoring to meet his gaze. “Is there some danger of that?”
He swallowed hard to dislodge the lump in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that, even if he could keep it up, which was unlikely, she’d be shagging an empty shell.
“ Only if you want it to mean something,” he managed at last, his voice cracking.
She pulled away, glaring at him. “How do you expect me to respond to a statement like that?”
He couldn’t bring himself to look at her . “With honesty, I suppose.”
“Fuck you,” she hissed, shooting to her feet. “Is that honest enough?”
Without another word, she stalked off toward the bedroom. W hen he heard the door slam, he heaved a sigh and sat back, feeling around the cushions for his flask. Finding it, he raised it to his lips, tipped it back, and took a long, deep swallow.
Chapter 10
Tuesday
Lancaster County, Pennsylvania
Thea lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling, gnawing her lower lip the same way regret gnawed her insides. Bright sunlight filtered through the lace at the window, but her thoughts were dark. From the living room, she could hear Buchanan snoring like a bear. Regret stabbed again. Why had she kissed him? He’d tried to warn her he wasn’t emotionally available, but, as usual, she hadn’t listened.
She didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but she had feelings for him—feelings she’d been harboring ever since that night they went out for a drink. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, that he was there with her, holding, kissing, touching.
With a sigh, she blew away the fantasy like dandelion down. Though she’d slept with her share of men over the years, she’d had few serious relationships. Just Mark Watkins back in high school; Spencer Conway, her history professor at Georgia State; and Steve Armstrong, a guy she met while out nightclubbing with friends.
Steve was a welcome relief from the professor, who at first seemed brilliant and intense, but turned out to be a narcissistic mess. T en years her junior, Steve worked in an envelope factory, played in a band called “Weeds,” and liked to stay out all night partying with his friends. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, but they also quarreled bitterly about his laid-back lifestyle and lack of ambition. One day, she came home from work to find a note on the table beside a single red rose.
I think we both know this isn’t working.
That was all it said. The note shook her to the core, and not just because he’d left her, which was devastating. Even more shattering was the fact that the message echoed the one left twenty years earlier by her father.
A muffled version of Come as You Are started playing somewhere in the room. She sprang up and glanced around. Where the hell had she left her phone? Realizing it was in the pocket of her slacks, now draped over a nearby chair, she bounced off the bed and fished it out. She checked the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number.
Apprehensively, she answered.
“Miss Hamilton, you
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