Jennifer Greene - Can’t Say No

The sudden midnight gleam in his eyes filled her vision, and then cool, smooth lips rubbed at first gently on hers, then settled in like a famished man for a Christmas feast.

Bree made a muffled, startled sound. Hart ignored it. Silence suddenly vibrated through the night. Then in the distance, an owl hooted and the wind restlessly whispered through the new green leaves, but there was really just Hart, the sound of his uneven breathing. The sound of hers.

A dozen things made it difficult for her to regain her common sense. The grass, for instance. The sweet smell of grass and earth surrounded her. And other things also interfered with her mental functioning. Hart’s breath smelled like peppermint-she could taste it. She could taste the whispers in the woods. Really, she could. And her hair was all tangled in Hart’s hands, curling around his fingers, and her eyelids were suddenly too heavy to stay open. And his mouth…his mouth was the real reason she couldn’t move. His lips were slanted over hers, greedily sapping her common sense, making tender, wooing, teasing promises…

All blood drained to her toes and was replaced by warm whipped cream.

“So sweet, Bree…so sweet.” Shards of moonlight gleamed in Hart’s eyes as he tilted his head back. He just looked at her.

Only the way he looked at her made her skin flush. And her skin was already so hot she was plenty flushed. “Listen,” she said vaguely.

“Not just this minute, honey.” He bent to place a row of kisses, a very neatly aligned row, from the tip of her ear, down the vulnerable cord of her throat. Along the neckline of the peasant blouse. One finger slipped the blouse off her shoulder. His other hand was sliding up the calico skirt, from calf, to knee, to thigh, to…

“Hart.”

“Busy,” he murmured.

An understatement. Bree’s fingers tangled in his hair when his chin nudged the peasant blouse on the swell of her breast. She sucked in a shallow breath. Hart…knew what he was doing.

A rush of sheer hot-blooded lust cascaded through her bloodstream. Lust was just the kind of feeling that Bree had always avoided. Lust was sort of an animalistic craving; it was depraved, immoral, don’t-care-about-tomorrow, wicked.

Exactly the way she felt. Good old responsible Bree was deserting ship, and the waters were very deep, very dark, lusciously inviting. It was really all Hart’s fault. By rights he should have been a selfish, take-her-quick kind of lover. Instead, he was clearly trying to make her believe he’d never encountered a breast before.

He traced with a fingertip. He explored with his lips. Then his tongue. He fitted the orb in his hand; he rubbed the tip with his thumb; he took the tip in his mouth and sucked and lapped until-for absolutely no good reason, except that she’d never considered doing it before-she ducked her head and softly bit him on the neck.

Hart chuckled. “You like it just a little bit rough, Bree?”

Before she could breathe, he’d wrapped his arms around her and they were rolling, over and over, down the slope of the spongy lawn. Grass caressed her back, then caressed his. Moonlight played in her eyes, then his. Even as they tumbled, his lips claimed hers with a fierce, sweet pressure; their legs tangled and for seconds at a time she felt the intimate weight of him, the power of him, the man of him.

She breathed in that scent of danger, but there was no time. Roughly, swiftly, his hands were possessively traveling over spine and bottom and thighs; her heart was racing, racing…A shocking little tap on her bottom was followed by a soothing circular rub of apology. Breathless, they suddenly rolled to a stop. Bree was on top of him, her breasts crushed against his white shirt. She was breathless and dizzy and as on fire as she could ever remember.

And Hart’s eyes were open, a half smile on his lips. “And sometimes do you like it just a little bit soft, Bree?”

He pressed a kiss on her forehead, as soft as a butterfly and slower than a languid awakening from sleep on a winter’s day. Two more kisses settled on her eyelids, closing them effectively. Hart shifted, cradling her as he turned her on her side, his lips moving in slow motion, tenderly teasing, savoring. Very gently, he claimed her hand and coaxed it down to his thigh. Very gently, his palm glided over her stomach and ribs, pausing to cover and knead a breast, treating the swollen flesh as though it were infinitely fragile, infinitely precious. Very gently he kissed her nose, her lips, her hair, and traveled down to the nape of her neck. Her heart pounded, not gently at all.

“Tell me,” he murmured gruffly. “Tell me, Bree.”

She buried her face in the column of his neck, pressing kiss after kiss in the open throat of his shirt as she unbuttoned it. Her fingers were awkward, trembling still from the intimate contact with his hard manhood, sheathed not very effectively in his suit pants. Rock would have been softer. And the thought of him inside her sent shivers of anticipation up her spine.

Maybe she was stark raving out of her mind. But if she was…it had to be with Hart. No one else. Not like this. Ever, ever, ever…

“Tell me,” he repeated.

She felt as if he were depriving her of life, when he shifted back from her and stood up. With a small smile, he tugged at her hands and drew her up in front of him. Not the wisest of moves. Her legs were Silly Putty. And her leaning up against him didn’t make removing her blouse any easier for him. Seconds later, the delicate fabric lay in a soft white puddle on the grass. Warm night air whispered over her bare skin. Hart dipped down to taste her moonlight-bathed shoulders. And neck. And throat. She tossed her head back restlessly.

“ Now, Bree.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“It isn’t rational,” she said desperately, her eyes raised to his. “You want me to pretend there haven’t been moments when I…” Her voice broke. “I’m not sure I like you, Hart.”

“Honey.” There was patience in his tone, but his voice was strained, and husky to the point of hoarseness. “You’ve got… maybe …ten seconds to tell me what you want.”

“I…”

“You want me to walk away, Bree?”

He would; she could hear it in his voice. And Bree knew exactly what he wanted to hear. She’d sent him all the yeses in body language; it wasn’t enough. Hart just wasn’t the type to settle for stainless when he could have sterling.

Really, he was despicable.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” she whispered more clearly.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Hart, I want you!” she yelled irritably. “Do I have to shout it from the rooftops?”

Hart leaned back and offered her a very quick, very wicked grin. “Yes,” he whispered.

An instant later, he swung her up into his strong arms; his lips stayed crushed on hers as he carried her across the yard to the porch. The citronella candles flickered; she remembered that later. She remembered the look of Hart as he shed his clothes, as he fetched the sleeping bag from the grass where she’d thrown it earlier. She remembered the terrible attack of trembling she had when he finally stole all of her clothes. It wasn’t…that simple. She’d never played around.

You’d think he knew.

He was flame to her fluttering moth. He tempted her with the light, with the warmth, with the fire, never pressing. It was her choice, to mold herself closer to him. Her choice to touch him, to open for him, to invite him intimately inside her, to risk the aching fear that he would take her high but no higher. It was Hart’s choice to make intimacy natural between them, to ensure that she didn’t come back from the skies until she was exhausted, and sated, and flushed, and damp all over, and…so exhilaratingly well loved that there were tears in her eyes.