Pamela Britton - A Cowboy's Christmas Wedding

She held up the fork again. He eyed the piece she was about to feed him. After that last one, he should be more cautious.

“I’m not a big fan of cream fillings,” he admitted, eyeing the white cake and white frosting.

“Me, neither, but taste it just the same. You might be surprised.”

But she missed, her other hand instantly lifting to help push the cake into his mouth, her fingers grazing his lips.

He nearly gasped.

Zapped by an electric fence, that was what it felt like. As if a million joules of energy stole his breath away. He froze.

“Well?”

His taste buds failed to function, too. So did his heart. And his lungs.

“Good,” he managed to mumble.

“Just good?”

It took every ounce of control not to jerk away. Not to jump to his feet and dash away.

“I like the strawberry one better.”

She nodded. He sat there.

What the hell was that?

But he knew. That was more than mere sexual attraction. That was want. That was need. That was trouble.

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