The feeling was delicious. Mitch was delicious. And the rush of desire kept coming, her inhibitions jettisoned like the unwelcome cargo they were. Before, his embraces had been so preciously careful. She was not fragile and didn’t need to be treated as if she were, and his swift, drugging kisses, the strain of his lean muscles against her, the wildly possessive caress of his hands-well, she reveled in them. No man had ever made her feel so infinitely needed, as if the touch of her actually inflamed him, as if her closeness was something he could not get enough of.
His features were in shadow. Still, she could see the etched grooves in his forehead. She reached up to touch, wanting to erase whatever had caused those mysterious pain lines. With even that simple caress, she heard his ragged intake of breath. When he lifted his head for air, her lips felt abandoned, still trembling from the wanton pressure of his mouth on hers.
“Mitch,” she murmured, raising her eyes to his, “has anyone ever told you that you’re a lethal kisser?”
His brows lifted just slightly. “No,” he said shortly, but there was a curious sound of unexpected laughter in his voice. It was gone when his mouth hovered over hers again. “Did anyone ever tell you exactly what you do to a man when your eyes look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like a witch’s promises. Like spells. Like this.” He hovered only a moment before tenderly claiming her lips again. And if she’d just lain perfectly still, he might have been able to control it at that. But she didn’t lie still; her fingers curled in his hair and gently tightened, inviting the sweet ravishing of her mouth. He could feel the groan rumbling from deep in his throat even before he heard the sound.
She was so…responsive. He’d never intended to make the pass; something had just happened when he touched her. And he’d never intended to drag her down to the carpet like some uncouth caveman… He had to regain control. Otherwise he’d risk losing her when she suddenly discovered herself grappling with a hurricane rush. No. There was no way he wanted to push making love.
He just wanted to revel in the sheer luxury of wanting her.
Her spine curved toward him when his hand smoothed down the back of her soft angora sweater. Her body lay pliant, infinitely moldable, her breasts fitting to his chest, her thighs suddenly grazing his. Like a banked fire that suddenly burst into flame, he felt every muscle clench in response to her closeness. Control slipped.
“Mitch?” she murmured. Eyes closed, she savored the nuzzling of his mouth on her throat, the lush sensations of his hand rubbing up and down her back. She kneaded his rough wool sweater at his shoulders, guessing at the smooth, warm skin that would be beneath it, feeling the powerful muscles tense beneath her hands. It wasn’t enough.
Her hands slipped down to his waist and slowly skimmed up again inside the sweater, her fingers delighting in the first contact with his skin. It was like hot satin under her fingers as they splayed on his flat stomach. Her palms crept up just a little farther, but before they reached his chest Mitch swiftly stole her hands and swung them around his neck.
Her lashes lifted. She found herself staring up into an incredibly dark pairs of eyes, brilliant-dark with desire…but there was something else. Something beyond those rapid-fire kisses he suddenly pressed on her mouth, one after the other.
“Kay?”
“Hmm?”
“What other plants do you grow?”
Her hands stilled. “Pardon?”
“What other plants?”
He was crazy. “Ivy. Philodendron. But it’s only the fig tree I get violent about.” She felt his forefinger very gently trace her profile, from forehead to nose, down to the exact shape of her lips. Yet when his mouth once more hovered over hers, she said gently, “What’s wrong? A minute ago, you-”
“Nothing.” But the kiss didn’t happen. He just looked at her, and then away, his hand smoothing her hair over and over, his touch as whimsically elusive as the kiss of a butterfly. “There’s a scar on my chest,” he said quietly. “A large one.”
So that was the reason he’d so brusquely pulled back. “It hurts you?”
“No. But you might not have wanted to…”
Touch it? “Fool, Mitch,” she whispered fiercely, almost angrily. Questions about what had happened to him burst in her head; she ignored them. Not now. Now it didn’t matter.
She raised herself up, kneeling over him, ignoring his sudden harsh breath. As her fingers pushed up his sweater, her lips teased kisses on a straight line up from his navel. She felt the odd smooth skin of the scar that started between his ribs. She couldn’t see it in the semidarkness; she didn’t need to see it. Her lips pressed the length of that soft blade of a scar, right over his heartbeat…and that heart of his turned wild for her lips, a fierce pulse that leaped at the stroke of her tongue.
His hands slid under her arms, lifting her, pushing her back down on the carpet. More control was slipping. His loins were on fire, aching with the need to make love to her, and the rush of heat in his bloodstream kept surging faster. The flood rose higher until the dam was ready to burst. The touch of her lips on his bare skin was too explosive; he couldn’t handle it. A stark feeling of inadequacy jammed him in the stomach, a fear he wouldn’t be lover enough, a fear he’d never be able to satisfy this richly giving woman. He had to stop.
Yet she murmured a fierce yes when his mouth found hers again. He couldn’t deny himself one last kiss. He couldn’t stop his hands from slipping down her back to mold her bottom, cradling her to the aching heat of his arousal.
“Mitch?” She was suddenly feverish, her whole body aching. The smell of him surrounded her, warm and male. A rampant drug seemed to have taken hold of her body and left it trembling. Mitch was the name of that drug. She’d known the first minute she’d laid eyes on him that touch would be different with him…but not that she would feel borne away to some place where she didn’t give a damn if it was too soon, or if it was right, or if it made sense to crave his loving with such abandon.
His palm curled over her breast, cradling the orb through her sweater, rubbing and kneading it until she thought she’d go mad. He was a sorcerer, a magic man. He touched her as if she were precious. He touched her as if he wanted to ingrain desire in her flesh. He touched her as if every response she gave were a delight he wanted to give back tenfold.
And to her shock, she was deprived of that touch abruptly. Her eyes flickered open, startled to see his face hovering above her. His brow was dotted with moisture. His breath was coming unevenly and he looked like a man suffering torment.
In contrast, she’d never heard a more gentle voice. “When,” he murmured firmly, “was the last time you played football?”
“Touchdown!” Kay shouted gleefully. “I did it again!”
Her voice echoed in the empty stadium. Bleachers stood hollow, sucking in the moonlight, while the long grassy playing field lay shrouded in darkness.
Mitch’s eyes gleamed at her, dancing with amusement. “So let’s see if you can throw it this time.”
“I threw it last time.”
“A foot and a half.”
They had flung their coats in the grass somewhere. It had to be past midnight, and although it had stopped snowing, the temperature was at least freezing, yet Kay was hot as a firecracker from running so hard. Exuberantly, she whipped back her hair, planted her feet just so, grabbed the football firmly and wiggled her rear end.
“You’re not supposed to be pitching, you crazy fool. You’re trying to throw a football.”
She hurled the football. It landed behind her. “Just wait a minute,” she shouted, and got ready to throw again. This time she threw the ball at least ten feet; Mitch naturally caught it, damn him, but then he had to get past her.