Page 85 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
“He’ll be okay.” He covered the little dog with another warm towel. “Dogs have incredible powers of recovery.” A dark shadow crossed his face. “Though I don’t know how much longer he would have survived if we hadn’t found him.”
“But we did find him.” Without conscious intent, Vicky laid her hand on his shoulder.
“Yes . . .”
He put his hand over hers as if to keep it there, his eyes dark as they gazed down into hers — so dark she felt as if she could drown in them. His forehead tipped against hers, resting there for a long moment as their breathing fell into the same slow rhythm.
She closed her eyes, letting herself absorb the emotions that were swirling through her brain, all the reasons why she shouldn’t be allowing this to happen.
It was far too soon. If she had a fling with him her heart would be far too vulnerable, and if she stayed she would have to go on living next door to him.
And that actress. Yes, she’d been a masochist — looked her up online, read all about her and watched several episodes of the detective series Debbie had mentioned.
But none of that weighed against the surge of temptation sweeping aside all rational thought. Nothing mattered but this moment — she couldn’t remember that she had ever felt this way. Out of control.
And then he was kissing her, his lips warm and enticing, coaxing hers apart, his languorous tongue plundering deep into her mouth. And she was kissing him back, her tongue sparring with his, her hands tangling into the crisp curls at the nape of his neck.
Her heart was racing so fast she felt dizzy. Pinned against the kitchen table by his hard body, she was made devastatingly aware of the rising tension of male arousal in him.
And she felt the same urgency. She slid her hands up over his chest, tracing through that smattering of rough, dark, curling hair, moaning softly as she felt the warmth of his skin and the ripple of hard muscle.
With little finesse he tugged her sweater off over her head. His work-roughened hands stroked up her back and round over her midriff, rising to encompass the ripe curve of her breasts, constrained in the tight lace cups of her bra, and she gasped as his thumbs teased over the taut buds of her nipples.
He laughed, low and husky. “Are you going to show me the rest of the cottage?”
“Uh . . . ?”
A glint of pure sensuous promise lit his eyes. “Let’s start with the bedroom.”
Vicky drew in the breath that had been trapped in her throat. Her legs felt so wobbly she wasn’t sure that she would be able to climb the stairs. But Tom solved that problem for her by scooping her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all.
She laughed a little unsteadily. “Tough guy, huh?”
“You’d better believe it. Wrangling a ten-stone calf who wants to go one way when you want it to go the other is better than hours in the gym.”
She smiled up at him, tipping her head against his shoulder. “I’m not complaining.”
He nudged open the bedroom door. Vicky was glad that all those roses had gone — this didn’t feel like a moment for pretty roses. The walls and carpet were a soft, rich plum that matched the satin bedcover, creating a sensuous atmosphere, enhanced by the scent of the fresh potpourri in the crackled-glass bowl on the dressing table.
As Tom laid her on the bed she wrapped her arms around him and drew him down to her. He reached over to switch on the bedside light, bathing the room in a warm golden glow. Propping himself up on his elbow he smiled down at her.
“Looks like we’re postponing the tour of the cottage.”
“Looks like it.”
“Maybe later...” He let his gaze wander down over her body. “Mmm — delicious.”
A bubble of laughter rose to her lips. “You make me sound like one of Debbie’s cupcakes.”
He shook his head, laughing softly. “No comparison.”
With slow deliberation he traced one fingertip along the lacy edge of her bra. Anticipation was sizzling through her veins. As she gazed up into his dark eyes it seemed as if all her wild fantasies had sprung to life.
With a deft movement he unfastened the clasp of her bra and tossed the lacy scrap aside, and began to trace lazy circles over her bare skin. His touch was slow and sure, lingering over every contour, and she moaned softly, aching for more.
He laughed, warm and husky, and lowered his head, his mouth claiming hers, hard and urgent. She slid her hands over his shoulders, savouring the smooth movement of those powerful muscles.
Then his hot kisses moved on, tracing a scalding path over her trembling eyelids, across her temple and around the delicate shell of her ear, then on down the slender column of her throat.
