Can’t Say No

if it weren’t the most luxurious Italian linen Bree had ever seen and hurled it at the moon.

She lost a little of her momentum, having completely run out of breath and being slightly stunned to see his expensive jacket decorating a bush at the edge of the woods. When she glanced back to him, her eyes narrowed warily and she folded her arms protectively across her chest. He was advancing very slowly, with a devilish grin that boded trouble for her sanity. She backed up a step. And then another. “Hart. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but don’t.”

“You, lady, owe me a thank-you.”

“A thank-you!” she sputtered incredulously. “All you’ve done since I’ve met you is interfere and order me around and act like a patronizing, chauvinistic-”

“Hey. You’re talking, aren’t you?”

Actually, she was still retreating, until the back of her skirt rubbed against the porch step. Her tormentor continued to stalk. She put out her hands in a gesture pleading for mercy that would have made a hardened criminal turn chivalrous. Hart kept coming. “Now just listen-”

He raised his arms, clearly with every intention of snatching her. She ducked before he could and, grabbing her skirts so she wouldn’t trip, darted out of his reach and down the porch steps. She lost a boot in the process. Feeling like a perfect fool, she raced across the grass and promptly lost the other boot. She had more speed barefoot, but when she glanced over her shoulder, Hart was gaining on her. “Listen. We’re two grown people, for heaven’s sake. You behave-”

“You stand still.”

Maybe when it snowed in June. Bree ducked and circled and dodged, moonlight streaming through her hair and her heart pounding. Hart might be a powerhouse, but she was faster. The chase sent an exhilarating high through her blood; she felt as if she’d just showered in champagne. It was so silly, so childish…

And when Hart snaked an arm around her waist from behind, she collapsed on the grass-not because he’d used any force, but because she couldn’t continue to run, she was laughing so hard.

They lay sprawled within feet of each other on Bree’s haphazardly mowed grass. Hart’s chest was heaving as hard as hers; his roars of exultant laughter filled the night. His husky chuckles were catching-worse than chicken pox, Bree thought wildly, but he was so crazy, and she felt such deep, endless relief that her speech had returned, and the night was sultry and warm, with no one around-

And she was totally unprepared when Hart’s hands sneaked across and grabbed her. One minute she was flat on the grass, and the next she was sprawled in an ungainly mass on Hart’s belly.

The sudden midnight gleam in his eyes filled her vision, and then cool, smooth lips rubbed at first gently on hers, then settled in like a famished man for a Christmas feast.

Bree made a muffled, startled sound. Hart ignored it. Silence suddenly vibrated through the night. Then in the distance, an owl hooted and the wind restlessly whispered through the new green leaves, but there was really just Hart, the sound of his uneven breathing. The sound of hers.

A dozen things made it difficult for her to regain her common sense. The grass, for instance. The sweet smell of grass and earth surrounded her. And other things also interfered with her mental functioning. Hart’s breath smelled like peppermint-she could taste it. She could taste the whispers in the woods. Really, she could. And her hair was all tangled in Hart’s hands, curling around his fingers, and her eyelids were suddenly too heavy to stay open. And his mouth…his mouth was the real reason she couldn’t move. His lips were slanted over hers, greedily sapping her common sense, making tender, wooing, teasing promises…

All blood drained to her toes and was replaced by warm whipped cream.

“So sweet, Bree…so sweet.” Shards of moonlight gleamed in Hart’s eyes as he tilted his head back. He just looked at her.

Only the way he looked at her made her skin flush. And her skin was already so hot she was plenty flushed. “Listen,” she said vaguely.

“Not just this minute, honey.” He bent to place a row of kisses, a very neatly aligned row, from the tip of her ear, down the vulnerable cord of her throat. Along the neckline of the peasant blouse. One finger slipped the blouse off her shoulder. His other hand was sliding up the calico skirt, from calf, to knee, to thigh, to…

“Hart.”

“Busy,” he murmured.

An understatement. Bree’s fingers tangled in his hair when his chin nudged the peasant blouse on the swell of her breast. She sucked in a shallow breath. Hart…knew what he was doing.

A rush of sheer hot-blooded lust cascaded through her bloodstream. Lust was just the kind of feeling that Bree had always avoided. Lust was sort of an animalistic craving; it was depraved, immoral, don’t-care-about-tomorrow, wicked.

Exactly the way she felt. Good old responsible Bree was deserting ship, and the waters were very deep, very dark, lusciously inviting. It was really all Hart’s fault. By rights he should have been a selfish, take-her-quick kind of lover. Instead, he was clearly trying to make her believe he’d never encountered a breast before.

He traced with a fingertip. He explored with his lips. Then his tongue. He fitted the orb in his hand; he rubbed the tip with his thumb; he took the tip in his mouth and sucked and lapped until-for absolutely no good reason, except that she’d never considered doing it before-she ducked her head and softly bit him on the neck.

Hart chuckled. “You like it just a little bit rough, Bree?”

Before she could breathe, he’d wrapped his arms around her and they were rolling, over and over, down the slope of the spongy lawn. Grass caressed her back, then caressed his. Moonlight played in her eyes, then his. Even as they tumbled, his lips claimed hers with a fierce, sweet pressure; their legs tangled and for seconds at a time she felt the intimate weight of him, the power of him, the man of him.

She breathed in that scent of danger, but there was no time. Roughly, swiftly, his hands were possessively traveling over spine and bottom and thighs; her heart was racing, racing…A shocking little tap on her bottom was followed by a soothing circular rub of apology. Breathless, they suddenly rolled to a stop. Bree was on top of him, her breasts crushed against his white shirt. She was breathless and dizzy and as on fire as she could ever remember.

And Hart’s eyes were open, a half smile on his lips. “And sometimes do you like it just a little bit soft, Bree?”

He pressed a kiss on her forehead, as soft as a butterfly and slower than a languid awakening from sleep on a winter’s day. Two more kisses settled on her eyelids, closing them effectively. Hart shifted, cradling her as he turned her on her side, his lips moving in slow motion, tenderly teasing, savoring. Very gently, he claimed her hand and coaxed it down to his thigh. Very gently, his palm glided over her stomach and ribs, pausing to cover and knead a breast, treating the swollen flesh as though it were infinitely fragile, infinitely precious. Very gently he kissed her nose, her lips, her hair, and traveled down to the nape of her neck. Her heart pounded, not gently at all.

“Tell me,” he murmured gruffly. “Tell me, Bree.”

She buried her face in the column of his neck, pressing kiss after kiss in the open throat of his shirt as she unbuttoned it. Her fingers were awkward, trembling still from the intimate contact with his hard manhood, sheathed not very effectively in his suit pants. Rock would have been softer. And the thought of him inside her sent shivers of anticipation up her spine.

Maybe she was stark raving out of her mind. But if she was…it had to be with Hart. No one else. Not like this. Ever, ever, ever…

“Tell me,” he repeated.

She felt as if he were depriving her of life, when he shifted back from her and stood up. With a small smile, he tugged at her hands and drew her up in front of him. Not the wisest of moves. Her legs were Silly Putty. And her leaning up against him didn’t make removing her blouse any easier for him. Seconds later, the delicate fabric lay in a soft white puddle on the grass. Warm night air whispered over her bare skin. Hart dipped down to taste her moonlight-bathed shoulders. And neck. And throat. She tossed her head back restlessly.

“Now, Bree.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“It isn’t rational,” she said desperately, her eyes raised to his. “You want me to pretend there haven’t been moments when I…” Her voice broke. “I’m not sure I like you, Hart.”

“Honey.” There was patience in his tone, but his voice was strained, and husky to the point of hoarseness.