Emily McKay: Always On Her Mind: Playing for Keeps / To Tame a Cowboy / All He Ever Wanted

“Not as often as I used to, but yes, every now and again.”

His shoulders rolled forward as he rubbed his forehead. “The concert tour was probably a bad idea. What was I thinking?”

“You had no way of knowing because I didn’t tell you.” She couldn’t let him blame himself. She stroked his forehead for him, nudging aside his hand. Just a brief touch, but one that sent tingles down her arm. “Staying home with some criminal leaving dead roses in my car wasn’t particularly pleasant, either. For all we know, I would have had more anxiety back home. You’ve taken on a major upheaval in your life to help me.”

“Are you okay now?” He reached for her, stopping just short of touching her as if afraid she would break.

“Please don’t go hypercautious with me.” She eased back to sit on the piano bench. “I felt much better after a good night’s sleep. The medicine isn’t an everyday thing. Not anymore. The prescription is just on an as-needed basis. And while I needed help yesterday, today’s been a good day.”

He sat beside her, his warm, hard thigh pressing against her. “When did the panic attacks start? Is that okay to ask?”

Gathering her thoughts grew tougher with the brush of his leg against hers. “I had trouble with postpartum depression after … The doctor said it was hormonal, and while the stress didn’t help, it wasn’t the sole cause—” she pointed at him “—so don’t start blaming yourself.”

He clasped a hand around her finger, enfolding her hand in his. “Easier said than done.”

“You are absolved.” She squeezed gently, her heart softening the rest of the way for this man. She’d never had any luck resisting him, and she wondered why she’d ever assumed now would be different. “And I mean that.”

“After what happened yesterday, I’m not so sure I can buy into that.” Guilt dug deep furrows in his lean face.

“You have to.” She cupped his cheek in her palm, the bristle of his late-day beard a seductive abrasion against her palm. Until, finally, she surrendered to the inevitable they’d been racing toward since the minute he’d walked back into her life again. “Because I desperately want to make love with you, and that’s not going to happen if you’re feeling guilty or sorry for me.”

Malcolm wondered what the hell had just happened.

He’d been turning himself inside out to come up with a plan to romance Celia back into his bed, except then he’d been derailed by thoughts that Rowan was a better man for her, then by concerns for her health and how best to approach her in light of all she’d just told him.

Instead, she propositioned him when he was doing … absolutely nothing.

God, he would never understand Celia Patel. He’d also never been able to turn her down. “Are you sure this is what you want? It’s been a stressful couple of days and I want you to be certain.”

“I may have had a panic attack yesterday, but I am completely calm and certain of this.” Her fingers curved around the back of his neck, her touch cool, steady … seductive. “You and I need to stop fighting the inevitable. I could have sworn you felt the same.”

“I do.” His answer came out hoarse and ragged, and that had nothing to do with hours of singing. No second thoughts, he reached for her. He gathered her against him. Finally, he had her in his arms again.

Kissing her was as natural as breathing. She sighed her pleasure and agreement, her lips parting for him. A hint of lemon and honey clung to her tongue. His body went harder, his need for her razor-sharp after so damn long without her. No matter how many years had passed, he’d never forgotten her or how perfect she felt in his arms. Better yet, how perfect she felt coming apart in his arms.

Pulling her closer, he stood, guiding her to her feet, as well. Her fingers plowed through his hair, tugging lightly, just hard enough to increase the pleasure. She took his mouth as fully as he took hers. Owning. Stamping possession of each other.

The press of her body against him, the roll of her hips against his, the soft give of her full breasts against his chest ramped up his pulse rate. The heat of her reached through their clothes, tempting him with how much hotter they would feel skin to skin.

His hands roved up her back, into her hair—this woman had the most amazing mass of hair. The curls tangled around his fingers as if every part of her held him, caressed him. He swept the tangled mass over her shoulder and found the top of her zipper. He tugged the tab down the back of her lacy black dress, stroking along her spine as he revealed inch after inch of the softest skin. The scent of her soap, her light fragrance, teased him, and he dragged in a deep breath to take it in.

Hungry to feel more of her, he tucked his hands in the open V of her dress and palmed the satin-covered globes of her bottom. He guided her hips closer as she rocked against him in response, the perfect fit sending his pulse throbbing louder in his ears. The sound of her ragged breathing stoked the heat in him higher, hotter as he kissed along her jaw, the delicate shell of her ear. She whispered her need for more, faster, and damned if he could scrounge the restraint to hold back.

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