“I haven’t been able to think about anything else but this for two weeks,” she murmured against his mouth. “I dreamed about you every night and hated waking up alone and aching.”
He closed his eyes while the silky heat of her words slid down his spine like the flick of her finger.
What was he supposed to say to that? She might have dreamed about it for a few weeks, but he’d been thinking about her for years.
He kissed her, overwhelmed all over again that Claire Tatum Bradford was here, in his arms, kissing him as if she couldn’t get enough.
That sentiment he certainly shared. None of this was enough. He should have known it wouldn’t be. He wanted more, he wanted their bodies tangled together, he wanted to lose himself in the sweetness of her skin, every lush curve and angle.
He eased up on one elbow, entranced by the fluttery pulse at the base of her neck. Thinking only to steal a taste, he dipped his head and flicked his tongue there. She gasped and arched her back a little. The cotton of her shirt was soft, warm from her body, as his fingers moved to the first button and worked it free, revealing more of that delectable lace of her bra underneath. Taking a chance, he unbuttoned the next one down, leaving the shirt only fastened by two or three buttons near the bottom.
His body was hard and heavy with need as he brushed his mouth along the slope of her breast above the lace. The scent of her here intoxicated him, strawberries and wildflowers, and he wanted to sink his face into her skin, drunk with her.
She made a tiny sound of arousal and he slid his mouth to the edge of the lace, licking and tasting as he went.
“More,” she murmured, her voice low and throaty, and with one hand she worked the fastenings of her front-clasp bra and pulled the sides away.
The world receded, everything else fading to nothing except for Claire and this moment and the surge of his blood.
He dragged his gaze away from those alluring curves and found her watching him with a shadow of nerves in her eyes. “I’m thirty-six and I’ve had two children. Just keep that in mind,” she whispered, a hint of color dusting her cheekbones.
“You’re beautiful,” he growled. “Look at me. I’m shaking, you’re so beautiful.”
He lowered his head and kissed first one peak and then the other, then he took his time there, flicking a tongue over the rosy nipple, tasting and exploring.
She made that sexy little sound again and gripped his head, holding him in place, her body shifting restlessly on the sofa.
When he couldn’t think straight another moment, he slid his hands across her abdomen, loving the way the muscles there contracted under his touch. He needed to touch her, to feel wet, silky heat. He slid a hand to the waistband of her skirt, but just before he would have worked the buttons free, she shifted restlessly and he caught a flash of navy blue.
Her cast.
The sight of that hard, bulky casing on her leg hit him like a bucket of snow dumped over his head.
He sat up abruptly, his breathing ragged and his heart racing and his body just about howling with frustration.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her eyes huge and slightly unfocused.
He scrubbed his face. “I... We can’t do this.”
She blinked a little and he thought he had never seen anything as beautiful as Claire half reclined on her sofa, tousled and undone, her lips swollen and her gorgeous full breasts white and lovely in the lamplight.
“You have a broken leg and a broken arm. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re a creative guy. I’m sure you can come up with some clever way to work around them.” She gave a tiny, sensual smile. “Those aren’t the critical regions anyway.”
All those delectable curves, that luscious expanse of skin, made him want to whimper.
“I can’t, Claire. Right this moment, I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. You are...everything.”
“Then why stop?”
He sighed. “Haven’t we been through this a few dozen times? I don’t think either of us wants to face the consequences.”
Her smile faded and after a moment, she grabbed the edges of her shirt and tugged them together. She eased up a little higher on the sofa. “Why do there have to be consequences?”
“Because that’s who you are, Claire. A woman who needs, I don’t know, some kind of a commitment before she takes such a step.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be that woman anymore,” she said a little wildly. “I’ve been alone for two years. Maybe I’d like to be the kind of woman who wears something besides boring white underwear. Who makes love under the stars or...or who lets a man lick whipped cream off her.”