Peggy Moreland - A Willful Marriage

Before he realized what was happening, he’d nudged the panels of her robe farther apart, exposing more and more skin for his ministrations until he’d bared a breast. Bathed a rosy hue by the glow of the fire, the delicate translucency of her skin lured him on. He touched a finger to the budded nipple that had taunted him through the thin robe, and felt the shudder of desire course through her. On a groan, he closed his mouth over the pebbled orb, drawing it deep within his mouth. Gayla arched beneath him, framing his face to hold him close.

Desire became something fierce, threatening to consume them if not sated. Moving quickly, Brett caught the tie of her robe and yanked it free, pushing the folds of her robe away. Shucking out of his jeans, he angled himself between her legs. His gaze locked on her face, slowly, rhythmically, he rubbed his groin against the pillowed softness of her femininity, teasing her, taunting her until her chest heaved and her breath came in ragged gasps.

“Oh, God, please,” she whispered, begging for release.

He rose above her, sliding his hands down her back until her buttocks rested in the breadth of his hands. He lifted, his own breath rasping, and guided her to him.

Her breath caught at the joining, and then escaped in a low, guttural moan as he moved inside her, carrying her farther and farther away from the sadness, the grief, the fears.

She slept like an angel.

Brett lay beside Gayla, watching her, his head propped on his bent arm, his elbow buried in the tangled folds of her robe. With a gentleness that was totally uncharacteristic of him, he caught a wisp of blond hair and tucked it behind her ear to better see her face. Her features were well-defined, patrician almost in their design, yet totally and undeniably feminine. He traced the lines, beginning at her forehead, trailing down her nose, across the slash of cheekbone to the delicate curve of her ear.

His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh as he let his palm cradle the elegant contour of her jaw. He’d never felt so…so soft toward a woman before, almost as if his heart had melted in his chest. How had this happened? he wondered again. How had his offer of comfort to this woman turned into the wild play of lovemaking that had resulted?

He brushed a knuckle along the thick curl of lashes that fanned beneath her eyes. At the moment, he didn’t care what had transpired. He was too weak, too sated to care much about anything.

A shiver shook him and he cut a glance at the dying embers in the fireplace. Not knowing where more firewood was stored, he heaved a resigned sigh. If he didn’t get them to a bed and under some covers, they were liable to both catch their death of cold. Pushing to his feet, he pulled on his jeans, then carefully tucked Gayla’s robe around her shoulders.

Kneeling, he gathered her into his arms, then stood. Moaning softly, she nestled against him, seeking the warmth of his chest, but her eyes remained closed, her sleep undisturbed.

His heart swelled at her unconscious seeking of him as her fingers curled into a soft fist against his chest. Smiling tenderly down at Gayla, Brett carried her up the stairs to his room.

Gayla awakened with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. Disoriented, she pushed to her elbows, and the bedcovers slipped to her waist. Mrs. Parker’s room? she wondered in confusion. What was she doing here? Suddenly chilled, she looked down and was shocked to find herself naked. A movement beside her made her whip her head around. Brett lay on the bed at her side, groping for the covers she’d robbed from him when she’d bolted upright.

Although she had no memory of coming to this room, the events of the previous night came rushing back.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered against trembling fingers. “What have I done?”

Inching carefully to the edge of the mattress, she slipped from beneath the covers and grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed where Brett must have draped it after carrying her to his room. Ramming her arms through the sleeves, she yanked the belt tight around her waist and all but ran to the door. Opening it slowly, she slipped through the narrow opening and closed it softly behind her. Once free of the room, she collapsed against the wall and covered her mouth with trembling hands.

How will I ever be able to face him in the morning? she wailed inwardly.

Brett rolled onto his back, stretching his hands to the headboard and his toes to the foot of the bed. With a growl and a shudder, he sank back against the pillow and reached for Gayla. His hands came up with only air. Opening one eye, he lifted his head and cut a glance to the other side of the bed and found it empty. Her absence both angered and saddened him.

He dropped his head back onto the pillow and covered his face with his hands. You fool, you fool, you fool, he cursed himself inwardly, as he dragged his hands roughly down his face. What were you thinking!

He tried to convince himself that she was as guilty as he, for he certainly hadn’t forced her—but he knew that was only half the truth. She couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. He’d taken advantage of her grief-stricken state. He’d played on her vulnerability, taken what she’d so innocently offered, and given her—What? he demanded of himself. What had he given her in return?

Nothing, he told himself, but a momentary escape from her misery. And to add insult to injury, now he was about to strip her of her home.

But he could give her one thing, he told himself as he levered himself from the bed. He would save her the embarrassment of having to face him in the light of day. He would take a quick shower, pack his bag and slip out before she knew he was gone. He could grab some breakfast at the diner he’d eaten at the day before, put in a call to his grandfather’s attorney, take care of the legalities of settling the estate, and get out of town.

He strode to the window and pushed back the drapes. Sun glistened off the trees’ ice-covered branches, already melting away winter’s ravages of the night before. But he knew bad weather wouldn’t have stopped him from doing what he had to do. Nothing could.

Gayla stood in the doorway to the room where Brett had slept, one hand braced against the doorjamb to keep herself from succumbing to the dizzying sensation that dragged at her. The bedcoverings hung crazily from one side of the bed. His duffel bag was gone, as were the clothes and boots she’d stepped over as she’d stolen from his room in the middle of the night. The bathroom door stood ajar, allowing scents of soap and a manly after-shave to mingle with the fragrance of the lavender potpourri she kept in a crystal bowl on the dresser.

That he was gone was obvious.

She’d suspected as much when he hadn’t responded to her call for breakfast, had even prayed he had left so that she wouldn’t have to face him after what had happened the night before. But the proof of his hasty departure saddened her in a way she couldn’t explain.

She entered the room slowly, stooping to pick up a damp towel from the floor. She drew it to her face, inhaling the scent of him as she crossed to the bed. Tears of regret burned her eyes as she accepted the fact that he was gone and she would never see him again. In leaving, he took with him any hope that Gayla might secretly have harbored for a second taste of their passion.

Her fingertips trailed the high, polished footboard, remembering the comfort, the passion she’d experienced in his arms, knowing that in the lonely nights to come, she would resurrect that memory and draw comfort from it again.

With a sigh, she scooped up the bedspread and tangle of blankets and tossed them back across the bed. A flutter of paper on the pillow caught her eye and she froze as she stared at the crisp bills that settled in the dent on the pillow left by Brett’s head. Two one-hundred-dollar bills. More than twice the price she’d named for the room. Humiliation seared her cheeks and burned through her chest as she realized he’d left the money for more than the cost of his lodging.