dive into his hair, grip there. And shivered with the dark delight of
knowing he was stronger.
He feasted on her mouth, her throat, while he tugged at the low, snug
bodice. He was desperate for flesh, the feel of it, the taste of it. Her
flesh, her flavor.
Her breast was small and firm, the skin smooth as satin against his
wide, hard palm. Her heart jackhammered under it.
She whimpered, stunned at the sensation of that rough hand cupping her,
kneading her, churning an echoing tug between her legs, where muscles
had gone liquid and lax.
And sighed his name.
She might have shot him. The sound of her voice, the hitch of her
breath, the shivers on her skin, slapped him back cold and hard.
He rolled away, onto his back, and struggled to find his breath, his
sanity. His decency. They were in her front yard, for God's sake. Her
baby was sleeping inside the house. He'd nearly, very nearly done worse
than the man in the pub. He'd very nearly betrayed trust, friendship,
and vulnerability.
This beast inside of him was precisely the reason he'd sworn never to
touch her. Now by loosing it, he'd broken his vow and ruined everything.
"I'm sorry." A pitiful phrase, he thought, but he didn't have any other
words. "God, Grace, I'm sorry."
Her blood was still flowing hot, and that wonderful, terrifying need
aroused to screaming. She shifted, reached out to touch his face.
"Ethan--"
"There's no excuse," he said quickly, sitting up so she wasn't touching
him--tempting him. "I lost my temper and I stopped thinking straight."
"Lost your temper." She stayed where she was, sprawled on the grass that
now seemed too cold, her face lifted to the moon that now shone too
bright. "So you were just mad," she said dully.
"I was mad, but that's no excuse for hurting you."
"You didn't hurt me." She could still feel his hands on her, the rough,
insistent press of them. But the sensation then, the sensation now,
wasn't one of pain.
He thought he could handle it now--looking at her, touching her. She
would need it, he imagined. He couldn't have lived with himself if she
was afraid of him. "The last thing I want to do is hurt you." As gentle
as a doting parent, he tidied her clothes. When she didn't cringe, he
stroked a hand over her tousled hair. "I only want what's best for you."
She didn't cringe, but she did, suddenly and sharply, slap his hand
aside. "Don't treat me like a child. A few minutes ago you were treating
me like a woman easy enough."
There'd been nothing easy about it, he thought grimly. "And I was
wrong."
"Then we were both wrong." She sat up, brushing briskly at her clothes.
"It wasn't one-sided, Ethan. You know that. I didn't try to make you
stop because I didn't want you to stop. That was your idea."
He was baffled, and abruptly nervous. "For Christ's sake, Grace, we were
rolling around in your front yard."
"That's not what stopped you."