Lips That Touch Mine (31 page)

"I've shocked you," he said, but he had also
shocked himself. As much as he wanted her, she was not the sort of
woman to have an affair. He knew that.

She gripped the table and looked up at him,
her blue eyes wide. He liked that she was so aware of him, that she
felt his desire for her.

"I should be used to your teasing," she
whispered.

"You're no innocent, Claire." He stroked his
thumb across her jaw, enjoying the flare of passion in her eyes.
"You know I wasn't teasing." He enjoyed the blush that flooded her
cheeks. "Shall we finish our game?"

At her nervous nod, he stooped down to eye up
his shot. A tiny pearl button dropped onto the felt tabletop in
front of him. He glanced up and stopped breathing.

Claire was unbuttoning the bodice of her
dress.

Claire tugged at the neckline of her dress.
Sakes alive!
She was burning up. She released several buttons, then fanned her
bare neck and chest. She had to cool down, sober up, regain her
common sense. Her body had turned traitor, craving and yearning and
leading her astray.

Boyd was purposely testing her, as he had
from the moment they met. She knew that, and had even grown to like
matching her will against his—but tonight, he was too tempting.

Looking at him made her want to throw
propriety out the window. He was bent over the table, bracing
himself on one hand, the billiard stick forgotten in the other as
he stared at her.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice
oddly strained.

Glancing down, she realized her bodice was
gaping open. She was showing her body, revealing herself to him as
boldly as a tavern wench. She'd been desperate for air, but
suddenly Claire understood she needed more than air in her lungs.
She needed freedom. Living with Jack had suffocated her. Her fear
had suffocated her. She needed to breathe and gulp and gasp, to
sing and dance and laugh. She needed to
live
.

She hadn't meant to tempt Boyd, had only
meant to cool her flushed face, but now that he'd seen her
partially exposed, she was sure she wasn't imagining the hunger in
his eyes. Something wild whispered through her, daring her to shed
the harness of propriety, to embrace her freedom and this gorgeous
man for one glorious evening.

No one will know.

Her pulse throbbed beneath her fingers,
reminding her she was alive, that risk was part of living, that
tonight might be her only chance at passion. Needing to bolster her
courage, she picked up her glass of wine.

He lowered his billiard stick. "Are we
changing games?" he asked, his voice low and unsteady.

Yes. She had changed the game. And she liked
it. She liked the idea of seducing him. Especially in his own
saloon.

The idea was so wildly out of character for
her, and so wonderfully ironic, she giggled.

"You'd better not drink the rest of that." He
reached for her wine glass, but she stepped away from him.

The movement felt odd, like she was no longer
solid, but rather a wave of water rolling across the floor.

She gratefully sank onto the piano bench.
"Are you afraid of me, Boyd?"

"I'm afraid
for
you."

His genuine look of concern touched her.
Underneath his flippant and charming manner, he was a sincere, and
even honorable, man.

She set her wine glass on top of the piano.
"I'm fine. I just want to play a song for you."

He braced his elbow beside her glass. "I
thought we were playing billiards."

She waved a hand. "We'll get back to that."
Her vision blurred as she looked down. Maybe she wasn't fine. She
blinked and squinted at the black and white keys. "How about a
temperance song?"

"No thanks."

The disdain in his voice made her laugh. "I
was joking. I'm going to make up a song for you." Thankfully, her
fingers functioned better than her brain, and she managed to play a
verse of Cold Claire.

"I know that song."

"Not my version." She grinned up at him while
naughty words—new words, wild words—flitted through her mind.

"I can hardly wait to hear this." He gestured
for her to begin. "Show me how much nerve you have."

She lifted her chin and stroked the keys with
authority.

The sound reverberated through the room as
she began to sing.

I know a man who's impudent and bold.

He claims he's a prince, but I suspect he's a
toad.

"Charming," he drawled, his voice rich with
irony as a grin broke across his face.

She laughed and missed her next verse.
"Oops." She lifted her fingers from the keys, then started
over.

He is handsome and charming and a little too bold,
but there's something I like about that naughty toad.

His face scrunched as if he'd bitten into a
lemon. "Your lyrics are awful." She burst into laughter, and her
hands slipped off the keys. "I know, but I enjoyed making them up.
Play a song with me."

He sat and began the Moonlight Sonata.

"Oh, how lovely. My mother used to play this
song." Her heart sang with memories of being ten years old and
dancing with her father in their parlor.

She lay her palm on the piano, feeling the
vibrations radiate up her arm. The music moved through her, and she
ached to be held, to be touched, to be loved.

"This is so beautiful," she whispered.

"So are you, Claire."

Her breath hitched and he stopped
playing.

"Dance with me." He pulled her to her feet
and slipped his arms around her waist. "Hum your favorite song, and
I'll do my best to keep time."

She smiled and started humming a verse of
"Cold Claire."

He laughed and tightened his arms around her.
"You should drink more often."

"I do feel rather friendly tonight."

"Is that bad?"

"I don't know."

She lowered her head to his shoulder, hanging
onto him as their bodies swayed in the silence. "This doesn't feel
bad."

"It isn't bad." His strong fingers played
down the muscles of her back as if he were stroking piano keys,
sending delicious shivers down her spine.

She remembered this rush of excitement in her
blood.

She remembered love.

Fitting herself against him, she burrowed her
nose into the crook of his neck. He smelled of soap and bay rum
cologne, and warm skin, his own particular smell. "You smell so
good, I'm tempted to bite your neck."

He gazed down at her. "You're a silly but
amazing lady."

She was. In his arms, she was everything he
claimed her to be. They were amazing together.

She felt the unmistakable plunge of her hair
falling down her back, and knew he'd somehow pulled her pins free.
His full, tempting lips tugged up at one corner, like he was too
pleased with himself for words. "You said you were going to let
your hair down."

She had let her hair down, hadn't she? She'd
swallowed three glasses of wine, shed her boots, unbuttoned her
gown, and played a bawdy song on his piano. If that didn't
constitute letting her hair down, what did?

"It's just us, Claire. You can relax with
me."

"That could be dangerous," she said softly.
Couldn't he tell? She knew exactly how dangerous it was to relax
with a man. But she wasn't afraid. She liked being touched by Boyd
Grayson, charmer, rake, reprobate. She loved being caressed and
held tight, deliciously tight, against his tall, hard body.

A small, rational corner of her brain cried
out to be careful. He was a man, a strong man, a violent man when
angered, a man who had loved many women. She had loved one man, a
strong, violent man, who had tried to break her body and had broken
her heart.

Lord, her brain was reeling. She was at the
edge again, the very edge of loving a new man, her second man, a
man she did not fully know.

Would he change without warning? Would he
hurt her? Would he hit her? Would he mock her, punish her, desert
her? Would he make her wish she was dead? That he too was dead?

She'd almost wished for death, hers and
Jack's, at one point, but she survived. She was alive. And falling
in love again.

Oh, how her head spun.

Boyd was a man of experience. She'd shared
her bed with Jack and no one else, not ever. Early on, she enjoyed
it, but then her bed had become one more cage she couldn't
escape.

The tremor passing through her wasn't fear
though. It was desire, sharp and intense. It was passion, hot and
wild and demanding.

And what was wrong with desire?

She couldn't get pregnant. Why shouldn't she
experience desire and passion? Why couldn't Boyd be her Abe? He was
perfect for the position. He desired her, but surely didn't want
the bonds of marriage. He wouldn't hurt her. He wouldn't cage
her.

He would be content with passion.

He would keep their secret.

She could have one night of passion without
selling her soul.

Excitement shook her as he pulled her closer
to him. "Are you cold?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

"No." She was hot with need—her need, his
need. Heat radiated from his body and burned through to hers. She
lifted her hand and touched her fingers to his mouth.

He inhaled sharply and his eyes darkened. She
looked into those eyes and saw her freedom.

He lowered his head and kissed her, eyes
open, letting her see his, need, the way she was shaking his
control. Not an ounce of resistance resided in her as he pulled her
against him. She felt weightless and giddy, reckless and wild, and
oh, God, wonderfully free.

Nothing could possibly compare to the feeling
of his arms around her, the heat and hardness of his body against
hers, the slow, probing of his tongue in her mouth.

It was shocking.

It was sinful.

It was worse and better than anywhere she'd
ever been.

And so unbelievably fulfilling.

The loneliness and pain and isolation that
had cloaked her life fell away. Her thoughts and anxieties turned
to vapor and vanished on her breath. What a blessing to be free of
that voice in her head, to simply
feel
.

Warmth surged through her as she fit her hips
more tightly to his groin. A raspy groan rumbled his chest,
thrilling her, encouraging her.

No one would know.

And she would never tell.

In the pleasant haze, he broke away. She
kissed his neck and licked his earlobe. His breath rushed out, and
he buried his face in her hair.

No one would know.

She wanted to be free of her dress, free of
everything that kept her from being skin to skin with him, but he
gripped her arms and set her away from him.

"I'm taking you home," he said, but his voice
was hoarse, and his body did not make a move in the direction of
her boardinghouse.

"We haven't finished our billiard game," she
said, not caring a whit. This new game was much more exciting.

"We'll finish it in the morning," he said
firmly, but his unsteady voice gave him away. She'd turned the
tables on him, and now
he
was fighting the temptation she
was dangling in his face.

"It's my shot. Are you afraid I'll win?"

He sighed against her ear, his breath
spiraling hot sensations all the way down between her legs.
Perversely, he leaned back and gestured to the table "Go
ahead."

She sauntered over, swaying her hips the
provocative way Jack's lady friends used to do. The enhanced motion
tested her balance, but she kept her head high and steadied herself
by bracing her hand on the table edge.

She picked up her stick and eyed up her
shot.

"Claire?" She glanced up.

Boyd stood beside the table, feet spread,
arms akimbo, wearing a grin only the man's lover could
understand.

Was she to be his next lover?

She wanted to be, Heaven forgive her.

He nodded toward the ball she was aiming at.
She blinked, trying to focus on the bright red object against the
dark green felt.

"You need to shoot the ball with the higher
number to gain enough points to win." He pointed to the black ball
near the corner pocket. "You need to sink that one."

"Oh." She flushed at her mistake. "I knew
that. I was just...I was making sure I wouldn't touch your
ball."

He barked a laugh, then bit his lip.

Suddenly, she realized how he might have
taken her comment, and she bit her own lip to keep from smiling.
But she was past blushing now. She was committed to her night of
sin, to opening the door of the safe little cage she'd been hiding
in.

He leaned down and braced his hands on the
edge of the table. They were tan and manly beneath his white shirt
cuffs, and she imagined how good it would feel to have them roam
her body, squeeze her breasts, cup her hips and...Heaven help her,
touch her lower.

Her breath gasped out as if he'd stroked the
cradle of her thighs. She couldn't play this game with him a minute
longer! And how could he? Was he feeling this same glorious rush of
longing that was pounding through her body?

"You'd better sink enough balls to win,
Claire. If you don't, you're going to owe me a kiss, because I
won't miss my shot."

She was willing to owe him a lot more than a
kiss, but how could she if he wouldn't ask?

"I'll move away if I'm distracting you."

She didn't want him to move away. She wanted
him to pull her into his arms and kiss her until morning. Her
stomach fluttered as she angled her tortured body over the table.
"It's not necessary. A child could make this shot." The ball was
lined up for a direct shot into the corner pocket.

She drew the stick back, feeling the wood
slide between her fingers. Would Boyd's back and hips feel smooth
like that?