Kara Lennox - The Forgotten Cowboy

She wanted Hank.

He brought her coffee in a thick, blue ceramic mug, then sat next to her, close but not touching. She blew on the coffee to cool it and took a sip. “Good.”

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

Only if we watch it while we’re making love.

The thought shocked her. When had she become so wanton? She wasn’t even sure she would like sex. Her one and only experience with it had been so horrible that for a long time she thought maybe she should just become a nun or a hermit.

But her hormones insisted that making love with Hank would definitely not be unpleasant. Quite the contrary. She could tell just by watching him that he would be slow and gentle, patient with her clumsy efforts, seeing to her comfort and pleasure before his own. Just as he could gentle a wild stray cat, he would calm her skittishness.

The silence had stretched uncomfortably. Willow knew she needed to tame her wayward thoughts before she said or did anything foolish. Her hormones were completely ’round the bend.

“Do you want to watch TV?” he tried again.

No. That was something staid married couples did because they were bored with each other. She wanted to rip off that starched blue-gray shirt and see what his bare chest looked like. “Sure.” Since her injury she found TV almost intolerable, since everyone had the same face. The few times she’d tried it, she’d been hopelessly confused.

They both leaned forward and reached for the TV Guide sitting on the coffee table. They collided, and half of Willow’s coffee sloshed out of her cup and onto her thigh. She cried out more in surprise than in pain; the coffee wasn’t that hot.

“Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” Hank said, jumping to his feet. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just—”

“Your dress. It’s not ruined, is it?” He dragged her toward the kitchen. “Let’s rinse out the stain before it sets.” Once in the kitchen, he stuck a dishcloth under the cold water, then began daubing at the spot on her dress, which was perilously close to…well, to where he shouldn’t be touching.

Her body responded immediately, starting with a fireball between her legs that grew and radiated outward. Her breasts ached and felt too heavy, her insides quivered and her legs trembled. She leaned on the kitchen counter for support even as she closed her eyes and desperately wished that he would move his hand just a couple of inches to the left—

“Willow?”

She opened her eyes and saw Hank peering at her, concerned. But almost immediately his expression changed to one that more closely mirrored her own feelings. He’d seen the naked hunger in her face, in her eyes, and she feared—and hoped—he’d read her every lascivious thought.

And then she was in his arms and he was kissing her like he wanted to devour her, hot, demanding, commanding kisses, on her mouth and along her jaw and down her neck, his lips trailing fire wherever they went.

The comb fell out of her hair and the heavy mass tumbled down, making her feel even more wanton, like a virgin preparing for sacrifice. Not that this was any big sacrifice on her part. She’d wanted this from the moment this man had first taken her into his arms on the dance floor at the VFW Hall. Maybe she hadn’t consciously been aware that was what she wanted, but her body had known. Her body had been absolutely certain.

Willow wrapped her arms around Hank and buried her fingers in his hair. She would have melted into him if she could have, merged herself with him; that was how keen her craving for him was.

Finally, she understood everything. She understood the craziness that made some of her girlfriends go completely nuts for a guy, put up with being treated like dirt, or completely forget the rules of safe conduct. She understood taking a risk, fighting anything that got in a woman’s way.

It was for this, this feeling. A sensation that felt as if she were a soap bubble in the wind, about to burst.

“Willow.” Her name on his lips was more of a groan. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I swear.”

She knew that. She knew he had more on his mind than conquest. It had been her idea to come home with him, after all. She was the one who’d said she wanted to be alone with him. But her brain was short-circuiting, sending sparks everywhere in her body. She found it difficult to perform the mundane task of forming words.

But she wasn’t interested in words anyway. She pulled his shirttail out from his pants and shoved her hands inside, next to his skin. Oh, yeah. Smooth and warm, just like she’d thought it would be. Rock-hard muscles covered with velvet smooth skin.

Was he tan all over, like his face and hands? Did he sometimes work without a shirt, all hot and sweaty?

The thought almost made her swoon.

“Willow…”

“I want you, Ha—” She stopped herself just before she called him by the fictitious name she’d given him. How in the world would she explain that? He would think she’d gotten him confused with an old boyfriend.

“What?”

“I want your…your hands on me,” she improvised, though he was already touching her everywhere, caressing her breasts through her dress, squeezing her bottom. She could feel his arousal pressing against her pelvis, and her body twitched as her imagination conjured up an image of him inside her.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt, like it had before. The time she’d made love with Cal, she hadn’t been ready. She hadn’t been aroused because she didn’t even know what arousal was. She’d been tense and terrified, a little girl in a woman’s body who hadn’t been ready for sex.

She was ready now. She was past ready.

He worked the zipper of her dress down her back and slid his hands inside, doing exactly what she was doing to him. She knew that once clothes started to come off, it would be very hard to change her mind about this.

She wouldn’t change her mind. For whatever reason, this felt right to her. As if her body had been waiting her whole life to find this man. Maybe those were her hormones talking, rationalizing her outrageous behavior, but she didn’t care. She was entitled to act like a crazy fool once in her life.

“Willow.” Now her name sounded like a plea. “I feel like I’m rushing you.”

“You’re not.”

“We could wait—”

“I don’t want to wait.” Willow knew she needed to explain herself. So she pulled herself together long enough so that she could string a few coherent sentences together. “A couple of weeks ago, I almost died. You could have, too. If that experience has taught us anything, shouldn’t it be that we don’t know what the future will bring? Sometimes it doesn’t matter how carefully we plan for something or how cautious we are, it can all get screwed up in a heartbeat.”

“Oh, Willow.” He hugged her to him. “Nothing’s going to happen to us.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“We don’t have to rush.”

“We don’t have to wait,” she countered. If they waited, by tomorrow her sensible self might return and nix the whole thing. She simply couldn’t bear that thought.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, her eyes inexplicably moistening. Then she kissed him, pouring her heart and soul into the kiss. She felt like she’d known him forever. She’d always pooh-poohed the notion of soul mates, her scientific mind rejecting a notion that couldn’t be measured or proven. But if soul mates existed, she suspected she had found hers.

She didn’t need to know his name. She didn’t need to recognize his face. She knew this man on a deeper, elemental level.

Still locked in a kiss, Hank scooped her up in his arms and carried her out of the kitchen. She thought they were going to the bedroom, but they didn’t make it that far. He stopped near the sofa and set her down.