A Willful Marriage. Peggy MorelandЧитать онлайн книгу.
“I wouldn’t accept his money. After all, he provided me a home and never asked anything of me in return.”
Brett couldn’t decide if she was that foolish or that kind, but either way he figured Ned had come out ahead. “What about the bed-and-breakfast? How did that come about?”
“Need. Mr. Parker’s business had been on the decline for years before he was forced by his health to close it down. Bills had stacked up and he was having a hard time making ends meet.”
“Why didn’t he just sell the place?”
“Mr. Parker would never sell Parker House,” she said adamantly. “Turning it into a bed-and-breakfast offered us income without sacrificing the house.”
Brett snorted. “Stubborn old cuss, if you ask me. He should have sold the property.”
“Yes, he was stubborn, all right. But Parker House meant more to him than the money it would bring. It was his home. And in a way, mine, too.”
To Brett’s way of thinking, Ned Parker was a fool, and Gayla a bigger one for going along with him. He turned to tell her just that, but stopped when he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. As he watched, the tears brimmed over her eyelids and streaked down her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, ashamed that he’d made her cry again. He lifted a hand to cover hers. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” Heat from her hand seeped through his fingers, setting every nerve ending in his body to pulsing. Quickly, he snatched his hand back.
Unaware of the effect she had on him, she shook her head. “No. What you said is true. Ned Parker was a stubborn old cuss. But I loved him,” she said, her voice hitching. She turned to face Brett fully, tears streaming down her face. “He offered me what I’d always dreamed of. A home. Family and roots. And now he’s gone.”
Her tears grew in intensity until her shoulders racked with heartbreaking sobs. Brett felt wholly responsible, for he was the one who’d dredged up the memories by delving into her past. He knelt in front of her chair, but he kept his hands glued to his thighs, reluctant to touch her again.
“Gayla, I’m sorry,” he said, for those were the only words of comfort he knew to offer. A wisp of hair blocked his view of her face. Careful not to touch her, he caught it and tucked it behind her ear. “Please, don’t cry,” he begged her.
Brett couldn’t stand the sight of her suffering any longer. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against his chest. His eyes widened in surprise when, on a broken sob, she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his cheek. She clung to him like he was a life raft in a storm-tossed sea. Unsure what to do, he self-consciously rubbed a hand up and down her back, trying to calm her.
“Shh,” he soothed, his cheek moving against her hair. The silky tresses whispered against his unshaven cheek, unleashing the scent of roses. The combination of silk and roses was irresistible. He buried his nose deeper into her hair, filling his senses with the intoxicating fragrance. “Please, don’t cry anymore,” he murmured softly.
But her sobbing continued, growing in depth and intensity. She felt so small in his arms, so fragile. He knew she didn’t deserve this misery, any more than his mother had deserved what she’d suffered at the hand of Ned Parker. An unexpected need to protect Gayla welled within him. He gathered her closer, slowly rocking her back and forth.
She tightened her arms around him, and the swell of her breasts pressed seductively against his chest. His body responded in the most elemental way. Heat curled lazily in his groin, then surged upward to spread through his chest. His breath came in increasingly shorter bursts, stirring her hair.
He turned his lips to her temple. It was only a natural progression to her cheek. Her skin was soft beneath his lips, and flavored with the salt of her tears. Needing to see her, to anchor himself both emotionally and physically, he caught her chin in his hand and tipped her face up to his.
Her gaze met his—brown eyes flooded with tears, appearing like circles of molten chocolate against her pale skin. The utter hopelessness in her expression stabbed at his heart. So young, he thought sadly, to have the weight of the world heaped on her shoulders. All she’d done was care for an old man, and in doing so, had seemingly sacrificed her youth and her future.
She shouldn’t have looked desirable to him at that moment, with her eyes all red and puffy and her cheeks wet with tears, dressed in a tattered blue terry robe. Yet, she did. More desirable than anyone he’d met in a long time.
Full and moist, her lips were slightly parted and a breath away from his own, tempting him to draw closer. Without thinking of anything beyond the moment, he lowered his head.
The warmth of his breath touched Gayla first, followed quickly by the searing heat of his lips on hers. At the initial contact, she stiffened, then slowly she let herself go, melting into him, accepting his kiss, drawing from it.
He offered an easy path from grief to passion, one Gayla navigated without even realizing she’d made the step.
She needed his warmth, his comfort, the distraction from her grief, her worries. She clung to him, desperately absorbing the strength he offered so willingly, needing to feel the thrum of youth and vitality that pumped through his veins and the life that warmed her hands. The touch of his lips on hers was tender and giving. The shared breath, a renewal of life she needed in order to go on.
His arms tightened around her, the muscles in his back bunching and shifting beneath her hands, and their intimacy climbed to another level. She clawed at him, her nails digging into his back, flesh against flesh, heat drawing heat.
Her actions incited Brett, fanning the flames that already heated his blood to near boiling. He drew her closer still, until he’d dragged her from the chair and she lay sprawled across his knees, her face turned up to his, allowing him easier access to her lips. With her crushed against his chest, his lips on hers, he tugged the afghan free of her legs and tossed it in front of the fire. He followed, carrying her with him, gently laying her in front of the fire, then dragging his lips down the smooth column of her neck to the skin exposed in the veed opening formed by her robe’s collar. He soothed her not with words, but with his hands and his mouth, kissing away the salty tears, lighting fires where the chill of grief had threatened before.
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,