Jennifer Greene - Wintergreen

“Misha-”

“It was fun, being a nymphomaniac,” she said bitterly. “It was a short-term illness, but it was wonderful while it lasted. Just anyone who asked me…ah, well, those certainly were the good old days. And it was certainly wonderful seeing you again, Matthew. As in good night.”

He hadn’t moved. She could see the coal-black sheen of his eyes from clear across the room. Then he started moving forward, slowly and deliberately. She could almost feel the tautness of his control, yet his voice sounded low. Velvet low. “You were a beautiful lady, Misha. I never saw you as anything other than a beautiful, sensitive, very special lady. Very, very young. Butterfly shy, easily frightened…” He was very close now, and she caught her breath as she realized he was reaching out for her.

“No.” The word was almost inaudible.

“Lonely…”

“Matthew-”

His fingers started, very gently, to thread through her hair. His thumb idly caressed the tender line of her jaw, raising her face to his. Through a blur of tears, she could see the smoldering passion in his charcoal eyes. “You were a girl then. Not nearly as beautiful as you are now. I wanted to protect you like an older brother when I saw things going so wrong. Don’t think I would have touched you then, Misha, because I never would have. Never,” he echoed.

Yet he did now. His lips gently met hers, soft, teasing, giving the briefest taste of him, hinting evocatively at the passion he was holding back. His huge palms cradled her face, and tenderly he brushed away the moisture beneath her eyes. Move away, Lorna, she told herself, but somehow she couldn’t obey that inner command. Nothing made sense. A sudden rush of disturbing emotions whispered through her, sensual feelings that couldn’t possibly belong to her. She’d never wanted Matthew. He’d never wanted her. Yet something crazy in his voice, that low, hypnotic, velvet voice of his, stirred up yearnings and desires and promises, the most irresistible of promises…

“So beautiful,” he murmured. “I’ve missed you, Misha. Not the girl you were, but the woman you are. Can you understand that? It has nothing to do with another place and time. It has to do with now, the way you smile. The look in your eyes, Misha, the way you flare up, the way you vibrate with emotion…”

His coat was between them; then suddenly wasn’t. Ever so slowly his mouth captured hers again, but this time he didn’t release her. His lips lingered, increasing their pressure as his arms enfolded her; her senses reeled, and she was helpless under the assault of textures and scents and sounds that were uniquely Matthew. He liked his shirts starched; she knew no other man who wore starched shirts anymore. The fabric was slightly abrasive against the soft flesh of her palm, its stiffness a denial of the warm, mobile muscle and flesh of his shoulders. The collar had no give to it at all; she felt she had won a battle when her fingers finally reached the yielding flesh of his neck, so vital, like Matthew, so electrifyingly virile, like Matthew. His hair curled around her fingers, thick and silky. Everything-the soap he used, the aftershave he splashed on, the shampoo he favored…they were all Matthew. Not Richard. Not any other man. And suddenly, neither past nor future existed.

With increasing hunger, his mouth covered hers; his tongue dipped inside, and they shared the ultimate taste of each other. One of his hands cradled her head, and the other stroked down her neck and her back to the base of her spine, urging her closer to him. She felt a crazy series of shivers run through her body, as if every nerve ending had suddenly responded to this unique man, to what he was feeling, to what he needed, to what he wanted.

His mouth captured hers with such intensity that she could sense his own conflicting emotions. He had not come here for this-she knew it; he had not intended to touch her…yet he didn’t stop. His hands tattooed desperate, almost savage messages into her flesh as he kneaded it through the soft knit dress, firing the same explosive feelings in her. It was all wrong…and so impossibly right. Never had she imagined such sweet, fierce hunger as she now felt.

He wrapped his arms tightly around her, as if he could lock her to him, mold her body to his. His heart was pounding against hers; between her aching breasts, pounding so hard she could feel his urgency, his desire. The hard pressure against her stomach and the thrust and parry of his tongue inside her mouth conveyed a fierce need that was getting out of their control, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care…

“Oh, Matthew…”

“Hush, Misha. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not…just let me hold you.” His evening beard grazed her cheek as his lips nuzzled her throat. “Just let me hold you,” he repeated more softly. He cradled her head, urging her cheek to his shoulder, and his lips pressed into her hair. Her arms circling his waist, she closed her eyes, feeling very close to tears.

If subconsciously she had felt this way about Matthew before, she’d had no inkling of it. He had always been strong and protective and gentle with her, but she had never conceived of him as anything but a friend; she’d never have believed that she could want Matthew so badly, that she’d feel a need to inhale him the way her lungs needed to inhale oxygen. Richard had nothing to do with it. It was Matthew, pure and simple. Only it was far from simple.

She hadn’t forgotten Johnny. She hadn’t forgotten that Matthew still believed Johnny was conceived in adultery…and it mattered, desperately, but not now. Now, it seemed like a century since anyone had held her.

“Misha…”

Reluctantly, he was trying to put space between them, and her arms tightened as she raised her face to his. “No,” she whispered fiercely. Don’t move away, her heart cried. She knew all the reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this. She had been cautious and careful for years, backing out of every relationship long before she risked getting hurt. She knew better than to take such a risk with Matthew; she was conscious that he had the capacity to hurt her. It didn’t make sense. “Just for a minute,” she murmured.

His answer was a ghost of a smile as his lips descended on hers again, this time courting her pleasure with tenderness. With a lazy, slow movement, his palms traced the shape of her, molding, exploring her hips and then her waist. One hand slid up to cradle the orb of her breast, then trailed higher to simply caress the soft skin of her throat. Simply? The hollow in her throat suddenly felt as soft as satin, as fragile as a rose petal, as sensitive as the pulse that beat so erratically within it. His lips tasted, savored, promised, deliberately coveting her response, taking pleasure from it. “Always so loving, Misha,” he murmured. “So much love in you. So sweet…”

He slid the back zipper of her dress halfway down, then pushed the material aside, baring her neck and shoulders. He kissed the hollow above her collarbone, his lips so smooth and warm on that sensitive skin that a shudder rose from deep inside her. His tender mastery stirred sensual yearnings so strong that all her blood seemed to rush to her head. She felt dizzy, lightheaded, feverish. She couldn’t seem to keep her hands still, wanting to touch him, wanting to explore his skin. “Misha,” he murmured, “you know damn well what you’re asking for…”

Yes. Him. Matthew. An hour with him, a day. She felt richer where he touched; her skin felt cherished; she felt a freedom to touch and explore that she had never felt before, a need to please and to know… Her lips clung to his, groping to tell him. It was not just sex, but she didn’t know what it was. She was a little frightened and very, very high, and she drank in his warmth, her hands roaming his back.