MARRIAGE MATERIAL Read online

  A deep noise rumbled from his throat at her actions. His hand on her thigh gripped tight and his tongue plunged deeper, his other hand cupping her skull. He kissed her as if he were drowning, and her mouth the lifeboat, with a kind of desperate and mindless need that sent thrilling jolts of excitement through her body.

  He felt so good, so right—the muscles of his waist, the sleekness of his flesh, the soft hair on his chest, the pinpricks of his nipples against her palms. She moved slightly, to kiss his chin, and his neck, and his chest. It smelled deeply of night and sin and promise—a man's smell. Never in her life had she felt this kind of mindless, pure hunger for a man. Never.

  He gripped her head in his hands. "You're making me crazy, Tamara," he said in a growling voice. "Crazy," he repeated. "I want to feel you."

  Tamara let go of him. "I want you to," she said, amazed and aroused by her own boldness. She began to struggle out of her jacket, and while her arms were trapped in the sleeves, he covered her breasts with his hands.

  She went still, electrified by the sensation. As he stroked her breasts, dizziness swirled through her mind, and a pulse beat in her lips and breasts and between her thighs, at once urgent and slow. He bent his head with a growl and put his mouth over one nipple, soaking the cloth of her shirt and her bra with enough heat that she gasped. With his teeth, he gently seized the aroused point and nibbled lightly. Tamara cried out, and without letting go, Lance shoved the jacket from her arms, nibbling and nudging until she thought she would scream in pleasure.

  The jacket went flying into the back seat. Lance pushed her against the far door. It was dark but for a single ray of light cutting a path over the top of one of the trucks, and very quiet.

  His hands, both hands, covered her breasts, as he lifted his head and kissed her. Lightly this time, with that devastating, exquisite talent. His hands, too, moved with expertise. He slid his palms over her flesh, spreading his fingers to caress and weigh and gauge. He stroked her nipples as Tamara had stroked his, with his open palm, and Tamara moaned softly against his lips, plunging her hands under his shirt to feel his skin, to touch his back and his hair and his beautiful face.

  He spread kisses over her face, pressing to her eye, her forehead, her chin, her cheeks, her lips again. And his thumbs and fingers splayed over her aching breasts, teasing and kneading ever so gently.

  And then he made a deep groan, and reached for the hem of her shirt. Tamara didn't think, she only moved forward, away from the door, and let him pull it off of her, lifting her arms so he could tug it from her body. Carelessly he tossed it over his shoulder, his face sober with intent.

  He lifted his head, and Tamara felt her breath go still and deep and very far away as he looked at her in the dimness. With the tips of his outstretched fingers, he skimmed the flesh over her bra, tracing the curves from her shoulders to the edge of the utilitarian undergarment she wore, then pressed a trail of nibbling kisses to the path his fingers had taken. A lock of his hair brushed her chin. He kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth, and lifted his head to look at her.

  Pausing, as if to give her time to tell him to stop.

  Tamara gazed back at him and touched his face, put her fingers on his mouth. "All I wanted, all night, was to touch you, and have you touch me," she whispered. "It's even nicer than I imagined."

  He did not smile, but only shifted his gaze, and moved his hands to her shoulders. Very slowly he slid her bra straps down over her arms, stripping the fabric from her breasts an inch at a time, until she was unveiled to his gaze. She trembled as he unhooked the garment and flung it, too, carelessly over his shoulder.

  It was not cold, but she shivered when his hands rose again, when his bare fingers touched her bare breasts, flickered over the tips. When he opened his palms and took the weight of her into his hands.

  A quiet, mildly profane curse stained the air, and suddenly, Lance moved, capturing her by her waist, turning so he could settle her in his lap, her legs straddling the fierce, pulsing heat of his arousal.

  "Tamara," he said, moving his hands over her back. His breath grazed her nipples and she shuddered violently against him, pressing the ache between her legs against the ache between his. "You're so beautiful and warm."

  His voice, gravelly with need, slayed her. She kissed his head, and touched his ears. And Lance, beautiful, skilled and wild, opened his mouth and suckled her breast.

  She would die of the pleasure. It was fierce and bright and almost painfully erotic to be with him like this, his thick hair under her fingers, his beautiful mouth skillfully nibbling and nudging and suckling, as if it were the finest thing he could imagine to taste, as if he could do it all night, as if there was nothing, nothing he would rather do than lavish that minute, perfect attention upon her breasts. Upon every inch of the longing flesh, the aching tips.

  All night. She rocked restlessly against him and heard him make a deep, yearning sound. Against her, he moved his hips. She clutched his shoulders fiercely, wanting it to never end, to never cease.

  A wild pulse pounded through her veins, rocketing from her breasts to her groin, jolting higher and higher with every touch of his mouth or hands, and the lost, rough, pleased, sounds he made. Her body trembled deeply and she found her hands moving restlessly over him, into his hair, over his shoulders, on his arms. He moved beneath her, his hips creating a relentless, rocking pressure.

  With a shock, she realized she was very near culmination. With a cry, she froze, but at that instant, he caught her flesh lightly between her teeth, and grasped her buttocks tightly in his hands. She made a soft whimpering noise, unable to stop the rising crescendo, not when he touched her like this, when he rocked against her like that, not when—

  "Let it go," he said in a raw voice. "Please, let go, Tamara. Let me feel you come apart."

  With a sob of release and mind-shattering pleasure, she did. She let him thrust against her, his fingers tight on her buttocks, his mouth slowing as if he knew. And when the spasm slowed, he pulled her close and held her, kissing her shoulder, stroking her back, his own need still raging and fierce against her showing body. "I'm sorry," she whispered into his neck. "I didn't—"

  He grabbed her head and kissed her into silence, his mouth as sweet and deep as a stream. "Never apologize, ever. It pleases me to please you."

  "But—"

  The sudden sound of glass breaking crashed into the still night. Tamara and Lance froze. A flurry of shouts could be heard.

  "Damn," Lance said, moving quickly. "Get down."

  Flung aside, Tamara crouched on the floor of the car, hearing the brutal sound of a fight spilling very close. Lance urgently started the car and backed out just as a bottle crashed into the side window. "Sorry, Tamara," he said, "hang on."

  For a moment, she was too stunned, too awash in the lingering haze of sensual pleasure, to even think. She simply stayed down, crossing her arms over her naked breasts. Lights flashed over the ceiling of the car, over Lance, his hair disheveled, his shirt open down the front. She was riveted by the sight of him, driving wildly, a frown on his face.

  The car came to a stop. Lance glanced down at her, and a wicked grin broke on his face. "Traffic light," he explained and grabbed her hand. Devilment sparked in his eyes as he leaned the slightest bit to brush his fingers over her breast. "This is a high-water mark for me, erotically speaking," he said with a slow grin. "How about you?"

  Tamara ducked her head as the reality of the situation crashed in on her. "I'm mortified!"

  He fell sideways. "Kiss me and you'll forget about it." Without waiting for her, he kissed her, his tongue sliding inside wickedly.

  A horn honked, and Lance popped up again, chuckling softly. "It's only for another minute or two, sugar. Hold on."

  The laugh tipped her off. She raised her head. "You're enjoying this!"

  "Hell, yes!" He glanced at her, eyes glittering. "A gorgeous, passionate, half-naked woman in my car? What do you think?"

  She crossed her arms. "I
think men are sick."

  Again his rich laugher filled the car, a heady sound that made Tamara wish she could enjoy it as much as he did, that she could overcome her sense of shame long enough to let down her guard.

  "Here," he said, and braced himself to shuck his shirt. "I'll be half-naked. You be covered."

  Gratefully, Tamara grabbed the shirt and put it on. "It isn't the same," she said.

  But it was. There he was, naked to the waist, all that supple golden skin gleaming in the streetlights, his chest glittering with palest gold hair. He shoved a hand through his unruly hair, and impossibly, Tamara's stomach flipped again.

  When he pulled out of the intersection, Tamara jumped up into the seat, trying covertly to fasten the buttons with her unsteady hands. The scent of his skin wafted out of the cloth, and the fabric felt like his hands on her. And she discovered, to her chagrin, that she had torn one of the buttons in her haste to touch him. The shirt gaped open in the middle, and Tamara tugged it closed, furious embarrassment flooding her like molten lead, burning away every second of pleasure she had known with him.

  The litany of her sins spilled through her with painful humiliation: necking in a car like a teenager, riding through town half-naked, tearing his shirt like some wild woman—and worst of all, coming apart like that when he touched her, like some wanton sex fiend.

  Faintly, she was aware of him next to her, aware of his body and his scent and the unfulfilled need that still hung between them. But she couldn't look at him—she was too desperately embarrassed.

  The car came to a stop, and Tamara realized he'd pulled over next to the park, deep in the shadows. "You can put your clothes on here," he said, his hands on the steering wheel.

  His expression was closed as he reached over the seat, scrambling in the back seat for her turtleneck, which he handed to her without a word, then her bra. He settled back in front of the steering wheel, face forward. "Go ahead and get dressed. I won't look."

  Bewildered, Tamara frowned at him. Had she hurt his feelings? She clutched her clothes to her, hesitating.

  Into her memory came a vision of herself, after Eric had rebuffed her attempts at foreplay. "Damn," he'd said, pushing her away. "All you ever want to do is go to bed."

  Once, she'd taken great joy in the absurdities and laughter inherent in making love. It always seemed to her that the act was worthless without a sense of fun, a sense of zest—though she supposed there were times it could be solemn. When you got right down to it, sex could be awfully silly.

  Tentatively she reached out and touched Lance's arm. He bowed his head, but said nothing. Something about the nape of his neck, displayed by the scatters of hair that fell forward, seemed vulnerable.

  "I'm sorry," she said quietly, moving close to put her cheek against his shoulder. His skin felt extraordinarily hot and smooth. "I got embarrassed. You made me feel so good, I went crazy, and when the mood got broken, I felt humiliated."

  He lifted his head. In the low light, his eyes were somber. He took her hand and put it flat against his chest, holding it there by putting his own hand flat over hers. "You feel how my heart is beating?" he said. The gravelly sound was back—that rough, low, ragged sound.

  She swallowed. "Yes."

  "You're the sexiest woman I've ever met," he said. "I'd let you feel what else you do to me, but we don't have time now."

  Tamara felt a wickedness of her own come to the fore, felt that lost sense of play returning. "You really won't let me feel?" With a smile, she moved her hand lower on his belly. "Even if I ask very, very nicely?"

  His jeweled eyes flamed, and he pushed her hand down, lower. Tamara clasped him. "Very impressive."

  "Don't tell me—" he said in a raw voice "—this is your revenge, right?"

  She laughed—and the sound caught in her throat when he moved suddenly, trapping her against the seat by her wrists. "Two can play at this, you know," he said.

  He kissed her, long and warm, and lifted his head. A perplexed expression kindled in his eyes. "I really like you, Tamara. I'm not exactly sure I think that's good."

  Her breath caught. All at once, she realized she liked him, too. Liked his gentleness and his vulnerability and his street-scorching sex appeal, but most of all his ability to enjoy himself. "Why?"

  "I don't know." He raised his eyebrows, and eased away. "I really don't know." With a sigh, he let her go. "Much as I hate to do it, we really should go check on Cody, see if he's going to spend the night or go home with you."

  "You're right." She started to unbutton his shirt, to give it back to him, but Lance stopped her.

  "Wait a minute." He swallowed and his fingers on her wrists drifted a tiny bit to touch her breasts below the shirt. "If you take that off, we won't be going anywhere."

  "But I can't wear it in to your mom's house."

  "No." He eased away. "I'll wait outside the car for a minute. Call me when you're dressed."

  * * *

  He needed the air, the air that had now gone chill with the mountain night, the air that filled his lungs and made him shiver without his shirt. He needed it to calm his racing heart, his raging libido, his soaring emotions.

  What a woman! As the cold air did its work, blowing away the strange, liquid hunger that had made mush of his thinking, Lance knew a sense of wonder. His instincts had not been wrong. Below that demure, slightly defensive and hostile exterior lurked a woman of singular passion.

  He liked that she'd been able to laugh about their misadventure. Her embarrassment had been fleeting and somewhat understandable—and he'd been relieved to find out it was because she'd been so responsive to him.

  He groaned, remembering. The taste of her, the way she threw her head back and clutched his hair, the furious, almost helpless explosion of her body.

  With effort, he shoved the vision away. They would have another night, another time. Next time, he'd take her slowly; he'd touch every inch of her bare flesh, taste every millimeter of that quivering body until she was out of her mind. Then he'd take his own pleasure.

  And start again.

  Shivering, he called out, "Anytime, sweetheart! I'm freezing out here."

  He couldn't remember ever feeling like this. It was a weird combination of things. There was plain, old-fashioned lust in the mix, but it went well beyond anything he'd ever felt. He didn't obsess about women like this. He didn't care that much, if the truth were told. He kept himself aloof. If he stayed aloof, he stayed out of trouble.

  The truth was, for all that he was outgoing, he was essentially private himself. A woman like Tamara protected her inner self with a hostile attitude. Lance had learned to act as if there were nothing below his friendly surface.

  And Tamara somehow reached below all that. When he was with her, he was aroused, but he also felt a strange kind of tenderness, a protectiveness. When he thought of being with her, he imagined holding her naked body close to his, but he also liked to think of holding her all night, next to him.

  "Okay!" she called from within the car.

  For a long, terrified moment, Lance didn't move—stunned by the clarification of his longing.

  Ah, hell. He hoped he wasn't going to end up falling in love after all this time. Not with a woman like Tamara, who needed a solid, steady man at her side, some man to be a husband and a father, someone reliable.

  Not a will-o'-the-wisp man like himself. He'd seen the damage his father's nature had wrought in the life of a woman who loved him. He'd vowed long ago not to ever do that to anyone. It was one thing to be a good-time Charlie, on your own. Quite another to drag a family down with you.

  With a thickness in his chest, he got back into the car. Tamara was dressed again in the alluring blue turtleneck, her hair shining. He resisted the urge to kiss her again, afraid he really wouldn't stop this time. "Back to normal, huh?"

  She lifted her eyebrows. "More or less."

  The impishness in that expression nearly shattered his control again. With hands shaking from the effort of
staying away from her, he started the car.

  It would be hard, but he had to stay away from her. She needed to find a man who was real husband material. Someone like his brother Tyler, maybe.

  His gut wrenched. No, not Tyler. Lance wouldn't be able to stand it.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

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  Louise sat in her rocking chair, watching the two boys sleep. It took her back to her days as a young mother, when all she'd ever had time to do was wash one face, fix another meal, break up a tussle, feed the animals and keep supper warm in the oven for her husband, who worked fourteen hours a day.

  She missed those days sometimes. She'd felt important, valued, loved. Her boys needed her. Her husband, at least back then, had needed her, too—to keep him fed while he worked himself into a fortune, if nothing else.

  A soft knock sounded at the back door. Putting aside the book in her lap, Louise went to answer it, expecting Lance.

  It was Mr. Chacon. "I am sorry to bother you so late," he said. "But I cannot find how to turn on the heat."

  "Come in," Louise said. Once again, she admired the thick black mustache, shiny and somehow sexy above the mouth that always seemed to be smiling. You couldn't tell exactly, but his eyes had a twinkle that certainly suggested smiles. "It's tricky, that furnace. You'll have to wait for my son to get back—he'll show you. Would you like some coffee, or maybe some hot chocolate?"

  He lifted a hand. "Oh, no. I do not wish to be a problem to you."

  "No problem. I'd be glad of the company."

  "You're sure?"

  Louise nodded firmly.

  "Well, then, I would like very much a cup of chocolate."

  "I like it with a little schnapps in it—how about you?"

  He shook head with mock seriousness. "No, I will not drink liquor in the company of such a beautiful woman. My passion might overtake me."