Panting with exertion and excitement, she ran into the dining room, where Jase almost cornered her behind the mahogany table at which they had dined just the night before.
They dodged back and forth twice. She feinted to the right but ran to the left, past the tall china cabinet and down the hall to the drawing room. There at last, in the jungle of Victorian furniture, Jase caught one of her arms and hauled her against himself, bearing her down to the thick oriental carpet, half under the piano.
Laurel wound herself around his neck and kissed him as if the world was coming to an end.
“You vixen.” He nibbled at her ear and tossed her robe out of reach. “I’ll fix you so you never try to get away from me again.”
She gave him a challenging look. “How?”
His eyes glowed with wickedness and his voice was a dark, hoarse whisper. “By fucking you so thoroughly that you never want to get up from this floor again.”
Chapter Ten
Fuck—when Sarah had first discovered the silly-sounding word and told her what it meant, they’d snickered about it for weeks. By the time they hit high school, it had become a casual adjective Laurel heard every day, but Dave had been surprisingly squeamish about using “dirty words,” so this was the first time she’d ever heard the word used in context. It was delicious, shocking—and exciting.
Jase held her in place with his big body and lowered his head to her lips. When his tongue snaked into her mouth, she drew back with a scowl. “Ummph—you taste like peanut butter!”
“I thought you liked peanut butter.”
“To eat, not to—to—”
He raised his head, and his black eyes glittered at her in wicked amusement. “Then let’s just try it the other way around.” He reversed himself on her.
Laurel was startled. “No, Jase, I—I…”
His mouth claimed her body as it had her lips, and she caught fire. Her flesh didn’t exist anymore, and neither did her mind. The only thing left was a burning, shimmering heat consuming all that lay in its path.
“Jase, Jase,” she chanted mindlessly. “I want—I want—” But she didn’t even have the words for what she wanted, because there were no words.
But he knew, Jase knew.
Then it was her turn. She opened her mouth to his male flesh.
*
An hour later, Jase lay exhausted on the floor, watching the dust motes dance in a sunbeam. It was a good that those lacy curtain things were drawn, but he wasn’t sure it would have mattered one way or another. He wasn’t acting sanely as far as Laurel was concerned.
What was it about her? He rolled onto his side and studied her as she slept, curled up on the jewel-toned carpet, the afternoon sun dappling her skin.
Her eyes were gray, he knew, her nose straight, and her mouth soft and inviting. She was pretty, but in a quiet, subtle way, not like the brassy, come-hither looks that dominated beauty pageant runways. And she was—well—nice, that much-overused word that covered everything from her loyalty to him sixteen years ago to her kindness to Lolly this weekend. There was a certain aura about her too—almost a regal air. That came from her heritage, of course. She was a lady, from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes, but she was also sexy as hell. And she was all his. He smiled in satisfaction, stretched a little, and sat up partway, leaning back on his elbows.
Damn. This was a first—the front room floor.
What if Laurel had after-church visitors? He snorted to himself, picturing a mad scramble as they ran upstairs to get some clothes on. Or maybe he’d saunter down the hall and answer the bell with a pillow strategically placed and inform Mr. and Mrs. Hoity-toity that the notorious Jase Redlander was back in town, thank you, so they’d better lock up their wives and daughters.
He bent his legs and leaned forward to rest his arms across his knees. The sad fact was that, at one time, a warning like that would have been accurate. Marguerite had awakened an appetite in him that, in the beginning, needed constant appeasement. The second he hit Dallas, he took every female he could get, with a decided preference for older women. It started out as a winning combination on both sides, but the relationships were never more than physical—and fleeting.
He was damn lucky that one of the women he’d had a fling with not only told him off good and proper, but also gave him the name of a top-notch therapist. Otherwise he might have been on the town forever, perpetuating Marguerite’s legacy. He’d tried to be more selective of his bed partners from then on, more considerate, but he’d never developed deep feelings for any of them.
The only woman he’d ever loved was Laurel Harlow, the most popular girl in the sophomore class.
So why wasn’t her doorbell ringing? Why weren’t people calling on her after church?