Jennifer Greene - Tender Loving Care

Ruthlessly, his lips coasted down the long expanse of her right leg, then up her left. Where he kissed, she was his. He didn’t dare miss a spot-it was a superstition, like avoiding stepping on cracks in the sidewalk. Everything would be all right…everything had to be all right…if he labeled every inch of her skin Rafe Kirkland’s, if he did it gently enough, softly enough, lovingly enough.

Somewhere en route, he forgot the war.

It was Zoe’s fault. Her skin had this scent, all sleepy female, and the supple texture of her flesh yielded so readily to lips and fingertips. Kisses climbed up her sides to where her breasts were being cruelly crushed to the mattress. His tongue laved that plumpness. When he heard the hoarse little murmur that escaped her throat, he felt irritable. “Lie still,” he murmured. “I want you to wake up nice and slow.”

“It’s far too late for that,” she whispered, and twisted over in one lithe, feminine move that did nothing for his sanity. The rosy tips of her breasts were tilted up, as neglected as the firm white flesh around them. Her tummy…he hadn’t even touched her tummy yet, and below she had a lush pyramid of soft curls that needed finger-combing, teasing, kisses, the caress of a tongue…she still wasn’t used to that kind of caress. She took for granted that he wouldn’t want to. The lady had no idea how much he wanted to.

“Rafe…”

The single word drew his attention to her mouth, the curve and swell of her lower lip, the more fragile heart shape of her upper one. She tasted sleepy, possibly the most intimate taste a man could steal. There was only one spot on her body softer than the inside of her cheek, but he settled there first.

His hunger grew, the more sweetness he found with his tongue. Breathing was becoming an effort, and the temperature in the cabin seemed to soar. He had every intention of making this last for a good hundred years, but she wasn’t helping by responding like an abandoned, sultry, wanton, vibrantly sensual…

“Rafe?”

“Honey, I’m so busy. Could we talk later?” He had more work wiping off that perfectly wicked smile of hers.

“There seems to be something terribly wrong with me,” she murmured.

“Take my word for it, love. There is nothing wrong with any part of you.”

There was. Heat had replaced bones, and the surface of her skin was shimmering. She’d wakened to a man intimately, sneakily, lazily taking advantage of her, and she’d entered into that spirit of play. One look at his eyes and she knew he wasn’t playing any longer. Suddenly, neither was she.

Everywhere she touched, she could feel need rippling through his skin. His lips craved contact. Hands kneaded and clutched and held, suddenly not so gentle. Outside, lonely waves crashed endlessly on rock, the silkiness of water eroding the hardest stone over thousands of years. Zoe urged the man inside her where she could hold him, the deeper Rafe, the vulnerable Rafe, the Rafe who shouted with his touch how much he wanted and needed her.

When he claimed, she became silk. Flesh grew slick as they discovered their own desperate rhythm. The roar of endless loneliness was just outside, but not here. Her legs clamped around him, she drew him down into yielding softness, caring, hope, woman, love.

In claiming her, he drove in his need to have, to hold, to protect and care for, to love.

You can’t turn away from this, she told him with her lips.

See what we have, he whispered in his heart.

She fought the climax because it would have meant the end, and she had all of him for this moment. It didn’t work; it couldn’t. Waves of sharp, bright color rolled through her like the tide, powerful and inescapable and relentless. Her lips released a fragile cry, and then he folded her close and held her and held her…

And held her.

“I’m not climbing that, you overgrown bully.”

“You’re probably more fit than I am. Come on, Zoe, you’re no sissy.”

“I’m swim -fit. Not climb -fit.” Southern Oregon fashion, the sand dune facing Zoe was at least 150 feet tall. Rafe was sitting at the top holding a can of beer, the lazy good-for-nothing. She’d made it halfway. Considering how little sleep he’d allowed her last night and this morning, she evaluated that distance as reasonable. The weather bureau had reported the temperature as a cool sixty, but where sun beat down on sand Zoe could have testified to at least a hundred.

“Lunch is waiting for you at the top,” he called.

“Bring it down. ”

“Nope.”

“When…” She dug up fistfuls of sand as she crawled toward him. “ When I get up there, Kirkland, you’re going to be such dead meat. You’re going to be such cooked goose. You’re going to be such fried fowl…”

When she reached the top, panting and sweating, Rafe was lying flat on the sand holding his stomach. He seemed to have a small problem with laughter. That laughter ended up in a howl when she bent down and gave him a definite shove.

How the mighty do fall, and 180 pounds had so much momentum on the slippery sand. Moments later, she sat on the top of the dune with a beer can in her hand and waved down. “You can do it, Rafe! You’re no sissy!” she called down encouragingly.

“Listen, you turkey. I’ve got sand in my mouth.”

“No kidding?”

“Ah, Zoe. You’re going to be so sorry. When I get my hands on you…when I get my hands on you…”

“Uh…Rafe? Have you looked around recently?”

“Yes.” Rafe smiled. “I’ve never seen you look more lovely.” He’d found the dress in the back of her closet and packed it, so he considered himself partially responsible for her looks right now. The skirt was a simple black crepe, and the top a turquoise satin that draped to the hollow of her breasts. The sleeves seemed made of yards of material that cinched at her wrists, and the effect was alluringly feminine. He hadn’t yet figured out what she’d done to her eyes and hair. Something. Something that made her eyes look emerald green and her hair gleam with shafts of gold and silky softness.

Zoe let her eyes sweep over him as well. He’d brought his tux-she hadn’t known he owned one-and since the man had done the packing, the tux had a predictable wrinkle or two. Never mind that; black made his shoulders look impossibly huge, and it was his pride that struck her.

She ate the last bite of her fillet, and then took a sip of wine. “Rafe…” she started again.

He shook his head. “I wanted to see you dressed up, and I wanted to dance with you. Come on, Zoe.”

She placed her napkin on the table and stood up, letting him lead her to the crowded dance floor. With one hand at her waist, his other hand covered hers on his chest. He picked up the subtle rhythm of the song. Not once did he move to hold her closer, but deliberately he let thigh occasionally tease thigh, chest occasionally flirt with breast. His eyes never left hers. He told her she was lovely, priceless, precious and, so simply, that he wanted to be with her. He told her that without saying a word.

Sometime…sometime…she was going to mention to him that the band was playing country rock. That everyone else in the place was wearing jeans. That the only person with a candle on the table was the one who’d brought it, and that was Rafe. Southern Oregon didn’t exactly abound in elegant restaurants.

Since neither of them cared a hoot what anyone else was doing, it didn’t particularly matter.

“I hate to tell you this, little one, but you’re turning into a downright glutton for pleasure-and all those little hip actions aren’t going to do you a bit of good.”

“No?” Embers of a fire glowed in the corner, casting soft shadows in the pitch-black room. Swallowed in the depths of the featherbed, Zoe nudged her pelvis delicately against Rafe. “I’m not claiming to be an expert in this,” she admitted, “but I could swear I sense a certain effect.”