Allison Leigh - Montana Passions - Stranded With the Groom / All He Ever Wanted / Prescription - Love

He wanted to grab her and carry her up the curving staircase, to find a nice, big bed up there and never let her out of it. “I’m tempted,” he muttered, and they both knew damn well he wasn’t talking about her house.

He ached. All over. His damn skin felt too tight. He had only himself to blame for the state he was in. Not only for starting up with her in the first place, but for not taking care of his physical needs since he’d left her on Tuesday.

There were a couple of women he knew: willing, bright, beautiful women, who didn’t expect—or even want—anything beyond a nice evening and a good time in bed. But he hadn’t been able to make himself pick up the phone and call one of them.

His body burned for the satisfaction he hadn’t allowed himself to take four nights ago in that big, old bed in the museum. But he’d done nothing to ease the ache. The thought of touching some other woman for the sake of a much-needed release…

It made him feel vaguely ill.

His mistake. To add to all the others. He should have at least taken a few minutes in the shower to get the edge off, but he hadn’t even had sense enough to do that.

Somehow, he couldn’t. He wanted Katie. His body wanted Katie. Only Katie.

Though he knew damn well he was never going to have her.

“Oh, Justin…” Her voice was so soft, like the rest of her. His arms itched to hold her. With monumental effort, he kept his hands at his sides. She seemed to shake herself and then, shyly, she offered, “May I take your jacket?”

He shrugged out of it and handed it over. She hung it on the antique claw-footed rack by the door, along with her heavy coat. Then she turned to him again, those amber eyes alight, her smile so bright it could chase away the darkness of the blackest night.

Damn. He was gone. Gone, gone, gone. He kept trying to remember why he’d come here, what he needed to say to her. He should say it.

And go.

But he said nothing as she gestured toward a door at the back, past the foot of that impressive staircase. “This way…” He fell in behind her and she led him to a big kitchen with acres of granite-topped counters and cherrywood cabinets fronted in beveled glass. “Have a seat.” She nodded toward the cherry table in the breakfast area. “I’ll get the dinner started.”

He didn’t want to sit there at the table while she bustled around across a jut of counter fifteen feet away. “Let me help.”

“Well, sure.” She was already at the sink, washing her hands. “If you want to…”

He followed her lead at the sink and then turned to watch her as she tied on an apron, set the oven and began assembling the stuff she needed. He scrubbed the potatoes for her. She cut them into quarters and shook spices on them, then drizzled them with olive oil and stirred them with a wooden spoon.

In spite of the constant, burning ache to grab her and hold her, to kiss her and feel her body go soft and warm and achingly willing against his, in spite of the nagging awareness that he had a grim purpose here and once he accomplished it, he’d have to walk out the door.

And never see her again.

In spite of all of it, a strange sort of peace settled on him, just to be there, with her, in the big, well-appointed kitchen, handing her a spoon or an oven mitt when she asked for it, watching as she prepared their meal.

She battered the chicken, her soft mouth curved in a happy smile. “So. What have you been up to since we broke out of the museum Tuesday?”

He told her how busy he’d been, catching up, getting back on top of the job again. As he talked, she put the chicken on to fry and checked the potatoes.

As she shut the oven door, she asked, “How about some wine?”

“Sounds good.”

She went to the chef-quality fridge and brought out a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “Do the honors?”

He opened the wine and poured them each a glass. Then she started on the salad, keeping an eye on the chicken as she worked, and chattering away about the happenings at the library, about the Historical Society meeting she’d held on Wednesday.

“There was much concern over how the storm had ruined our ‘wedding reception.’ The society members were hoping the event would generate a few generous donations.”

“Understandable. Did you tell them how grateful we were that they left all those sandwiches—and what they’re collecting for a rummage sale?”

“I didn’t,” she confessed. “But I guess I should have.”

He knocked back a big slug of the excellent wine to keep himself from flinging the glass to the hardwood floor and hauling her into his arms. “Speaking of the rummage sale, I should have brought back that reindeer sweater—not to mention the ugly coat, the jeans and those beat-up sneakers. Sorry. I completely forgot.” His mind had been filled with her, with the shining central fact that he’d see her face again. One more time.

Before the end.

“No one’s even going to notice that stuff is missing, believe me.” She sipped from her own glass—much more daintily than he had. “But if you’re feeling really guilty, you could make a donation.”

“I’ll do that.”

“It doesn’t have to be much. And you’ll have the society’s undying gratitude.”

“Never hurts to build goodwill.” He knew he should have choked on those words. After next Tuesday, he’d be the lowest of the low in her eyes. No amount of goodwill would help him then.

She nodded. “Never hurts.”

Never.

The word got stuck in his mind.

Never to hold her again…

Never to see her smile at him…

Never to look into those wide brown eyes…

He set his wineglass on the counter—a stupid move, and he knew it. With both hands empty, the urge to fill them with her softness was nearly over-powering.

She watched him, her eyes tracking from his face, to his glass and back to his face again. After an endless few seconds of that, she set down her glass, too.

Behind her at the stove, the chicken sizzled in the pan, giving off a mouthwatering, savory smell. The salad sat, half-made, beside her glass.

And he couldn’t stop himself from thinking…

If she were someone different, or if he was.

If those vows they’d exchanged Saturday in the town hall had been the real thing.

If she were truly his wife.

This would be their life, here, in this graceful old house, her in her apron, the chicken on the stove, the salad on the counter and the potatoes in the oven.

The two of them, talking about what had happened at work, sharing the little details of their separate days, before they sat down to dinner.

Together.

And later, he’d take her to bed— their bed.

He’d hold her and kiss her—kiss every last inch of her. Until she was pliant and heated and ready to have him. He’d enter her slowly, by aching degrees…

“Oh,” she said quietly, the word like a yearning sigh between them. “Oh, I did miss you.”

It was too much. More than he could bear. His need to touch her took over. He reached out.

With a cry, she swayed toward him. And he wrapped his arms around a miracle.

Katie. Right here. In his hungry arms.

He rained kisses on her soft, flushed cheeks. “I missed you, too. So damn much.”

“Oh, me, too. I missed you. ” She let out a giggle and a sweet blush stained her cheeks. “But I already said that, I know I did. I—Oh, Justin. You should kiss me.” She tipped up that plump mouth. “You should kiss me right now.”

“You’re right.”

He took her lifted mouth. And she gave it, eagerly, sending a blast of heat exploding through him. She opened for him, so he could plunge his tongue inside and taste her—so sweet, so eager, flavored with wine.