Baby Love

  Maggie gave him a wary look. He chuckled and grasped her arm. “Come on. I’m only going to nibble on that ear, not chew it off.”

  As she rose to her knees, he released her arm, straightened his legs, and patted his thigh.

  “This seems like a lot of preparation just so you can kiss my ear,” she grumped, trying to inject a blasé tone into her voice, even though her insides were quivering.

  “Just?” His chest rumbled with a low, vibrant chuckle. “Maggie, Maggie. Ear kissing is an art, and I am a master.”

  She believed it.

  After a good deal of twisting, grunting, and elbowing each other, they finally got comfortably settled with her astride his hard thighs. Silence. They regarded each other.

  “Can I ask you something?” she ventured.

  “Shoot.”

  “What is it about my ear that you find so appealing?”

  “The way I know you’ll feel when I kiss it,” he said with a mischievous grin.

  Maggie couldn’t fault him for lack of honesty. “How will I feel?”

  “Let me kiss it and find out for yourself.” He reached up to push a stray curl out of the way. “You ever done this?”

  He’d barely touched her yet, and already she was having trouble thinking. “No, I’ve never done this.”

  “Well, I feel duty-bound to tell you you’re in for an experience.” His velvety warm mouth was at her temple. “Dear God, you smell so wonderful.”

  “I do?” she asked, her heart lurching as his lips tantalized the sensitive places along her hairline.

  “Absolutely,” he replied in a whisper that jangled all her nerve endings. “Bathing soap and shampoo and another scent that’s uniquely yours.”

  She probably needed a shower.

  “Oh, Maggie, have you any idea what you do to me?”

  His lips found her ear. Maggie curled her hands over his shoulders, whether to hang on or shove him away, she wasn’t sure. A tingling warmth settled low in her abdomen as his breath wafted softly into her ear canal. The tingling became electrical shocks of melting heat when he drew her lobe into his mouth and teased it lightly with his tongue.

  She couldn’t move. The sensations were mesmerizing. A restrained breath shuddered from her.

  “Oh, Maggie…Maggie…I love you so.”

  His voice seemed to radiate clear through her. She clutched his shirt in tight fists, tipping her head to accommodate his mouth, so focused on the feelings he elicited within her that she no longer even felt nervous. Heaven. No one had ever kissed one of her ears. Over the years, she had regarded those twin body parts mainly as things that needed to be scrubbed on a regular basis.

  Now, suddenly, that ear seemed central to her being, the multitude of nerve endings making her whole body tingle.

  She forgot everything. Lonnie. Her dread of sex. Even her name. His mouth moved to the hollow beneath her ear, his teeth nibbling and teasing the spot, his lips grazing her skin like warm, wet satin. Oh, dear heaven. He made her want. Way low in her belly, she started to ache—a throbbing ache that transmitted itself to her skin and breasts, making her toes curl inside the floppy socks she wore.

  All this, just by kissing her ear?

  She blinked when she felt him lightly run his hands down her arms, then back up to grip her shoulders. She let her head fall back as he began to kiss her throat. “Oh, Rafe…”

  A sudden dizzy sensation made her head swim. She moved back a bit, needing a moment to collect her wits. He made no attempt to restrain her, just allowed her to push away and then gazed up at her, the hue of his eyes smoky and warm.

  “Afraid, Maggie?”

  It came as a surprise to realize she wasn’t. Still bracing her hands on his chest, she said, “No, not really.”

  “Going somewhere?”

  “No,” she replied shakily and knew she meant it.

  She gazed down at his mouth, yearning for him to kiss her. When he made no move to do so, she leaned hesitantly closer until her lips hovered a scant inch from his. Her heart went wham-wham inside her chest. Her stomach tightened, making it difficult to breathe.

  This time she scarcely thought about how to kiss him. She just pressed her mouth to his.

  Unwilling to let this kiss end as the last one had, Rafe curled a hand over the back of her head, aware as he tightened his hold that even her skull felt small to him. He slanted his mouth over hers, taking control. When he first touched the tip of his tongue to her lips, she stiffened. But after a moment, she opened her mouth ever so slightly.

  It was all the encouragement Rafe needed. Sweetness. It seemed to him he had waited forever to taste her again, and he wasn’t disappointed. Remembering an old song, he thought, Kisses sweeter than wine. It was no exaggeration. She was intoxicating.

  Yearning hit him, fast and hard. He wanted to lay his hands on her satiny skin, to slowly trace every curve and plane of her body, to suckle her breasts. Maggie. This went beyond desire. He burned with such a fierce need to have her that he felt afire.

  She pressed against him, her slender body soft, deliciously warm, and trembling with what he hoped was desire. Maggie. He slid his hands beneath the hem of her top and found bare skin. To actually touch her felt so wonderful his guts knotted.

  At the edge of his mind, warning bells clamored. He had to go slowly. It was just so damned difficult when he’d wanted her so badly for so long. Never for a minute had he dreamed she might respond to him like this, or with such abandon. Slow down. Don’t rush her. He wanted their first time together to be perfect. She had experienced less than perfect too many times as it was.

  He tamped down his rising passion, afraid he’d lose control and frighten her. As if she sensed his tension, she suddenly drew back, her beautiful eyes slightly unfocused, her lashes fluttering. “What is it?” she whispered throatily.

  His hands anchored at her waist, he feathered his fingertips over her silken skin, the yearning within him to skim his palms upward so intense that he clenched his teeth. He let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to relax. Honesty. His rule. No more secrets between them, he’d told her.

  “I’m scared to death,” he confessed.

  An incredulous bewilderment entered her eyes. “Scared? Of me, you mean?”

  “For you,” he whispered. “Scared for you. And for me. I’m afraid of screwing this up. Of doing the wrong thing.” He drew his hands from her waist to frame her face with his palms. He trailed the pads of his thumbs over her cheeks, reveling in the silky smoothness, knowing full well she’d be just that soft everywhere—if not softer. “I love you so much, Maggie. I want to make this perfect for you, and I’m afraid I won’t. That I’ll blow it, and you’ll never want me again. That—” He released another shaky breath and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m so nervous, I couldn’t spit if you yelled fire. Can you believe it?”

  She sat back, her soft bottom settling on his thighs just above his knees. Even in that, he found sweet torture. The heat of her. The alluring way her lush roundness molded to his firmness. Curling her slender hands over his wrists, she gazed at him for a long moment, saying nothing. Then her eyes filled with tears, and a tremulous smile touched her swollen lips.

  “I thought for a moment you’d decided you didn’t want me.”

  “Oh, I want you,” he assured her. “That’s the problem. I want you so much, it’s scary, and I’m—” He didn’t want to alarm her, even with words. “I’m afraid I’ll lose control and—” He swallowed. “I just don’t want to do anything that reminds you of Lonnie, you know?” He tried to inject a note of humor into his shaking voice. “The old monster in the closet, jumping out at you.”

  Maggie had never loved him more than she did then. She searched his eyes and knew he actually was afraid. Bone-deep afraid. He was shaking slightly, whether with nerves or the strain of holding back, she wasn’t sure. And it didn’t really matter, for either way, it told her how very much he did love her. She thought of all the nights that he’d held her
, the hardness of his need pressed rigidly against her. Night after night, needing and never taking. Now, when he could finally have her, he still held back? That meant more to Maggie than she could say. In fact, out of all the things he might have said or done to make this easier for her, his doing nothing at all was the most disarming. It nearly broke her heart.

  The old monster in the closet. Her words, and she realized now that she’d been inadvertently cruel, telling him she had a deep-rooted fear that there was a little of Lonnie in him. Now he was afraid to be himself for fear she would draw comparisons. Not this man. Never. He was so sweet and dear, the very antithesis of Lonnie Boyle in every way. Granted, Rafe was big—and he was definitely strong, his body roped and padded with steely tendon and muscle. He embodied all that was masculine and all that Lonnie had taught her to fear. But Rafe Kendrick was more than just that, so very much more. Hard as he might be on the outside, he was a softie at the center, the most gentle and caring man she’d ever known.

  And he loved her. For keeps. Not just a physical attraction, though that was undeniably interlaced with his feelings for her. But he loved her beyond that, more deeply than that, in a way that transcended the physical and would persevere even if she denied him the physical. She could bring this to a halt right now, tell him she wasn’t ready and might never be ready, and he would accept it. She could see it in his eyes. More than that—she felt it in her heart.

  Knowing that gave her the most incredible feeling. It was madness, she knew, but she felt like a prisoner being miraculously released from manacles and chains. A heavy weight, slipping off her shoulders. A wondrous, almost giddy sensation of lightness. Nothing to fear. Nothing to hold her. Knowing Rafe, loving him—he had somehow set her free, yet in doing so, he had also bound her to him.

  Maggie didn’t allow herself to think it through. She just drew her hands from his broad wrists and grasped the hem of her undershirt. When he saw what she was about to do, he tensed, his forearms turning rock-hard and his palms pressing more firmly against the sides of her face.

  “Maggie,” he said in a gravelly whisper, “don’t bite off what you can’t chew. Please, be sure you’re ready first.”

  She could only pull the undershirt up so far with his arms in the way. “Let me, Rafe. Please?”

  He darted a glance downward, glimpsed her bared breasts, and said, “Jesus. Didn’t you hear me? I’m inches away from—” He closed his eyes, his larynx bobbing, the tendons along his throat distended. “Holy hell.”

  Maggie twisted to escape his hold and jerked the shirt off over her head. As she tossed it aside and felt cool air washing over her skin, a wave of embarrassment hit her, and right behind it came a rush of insecurities. That maybe he’d find fault with her. That she wouldn’t be what he had expected. That once he saw her, he might not want her.

  She caught her breath, waiting for his reaction, and all he did was continue to sit there with his eyes closed, his shoulders pressed hard against the wall behind him. An airless pounding began in her temples. She waited. Waited. Finally she had to draw in oxygen.

  “Rafe?” she said shakily, fearing that he’d not liked what he saw when he glanced down. “Aren’t y-you going to l-look at me?”

  A muscle rippled along his jaw. In a taut, gruff whisper, he asked, “Do you want me to lose it? Damn, Maggie. I’m not made of stone. One look, and you’ll be flat on your back in two seconds, tops.”

  “Just as long as you’re there with me.”

  He didn’t say anything for a beat. Then he narrowly cracked open one eye. “What?”

  Maggie laughed tremulously. “You’re torturing me. Would you please just look and get it over with? I’m scared to death you won’t like me.”

  The crack of his eye widened a hair. He looked down. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  Maggie crossed her arms over herself. “I’m sort of saggy.”

  He opened both eyes. “You’re sort of what?”

  “Um…saggy. And there’s stretch marks. Do you hate stretch marks?”

  He searched her gaze as if he couldn’t quite believe she was seriously asking. Suddenly his expression softened. “You’re worried I might not—” He chuckled, albeit a bit shakily. “Sweetheart, don’t hate me, all right? But I’ve already checked out the terrain.”

  “You have? When?”

  He smiled slightly. “In the motel when you were so sick.”

  “Oh.” Maggie hugged herself more tightly. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Did you—well, you know—like what you saw?”

  He did laugh then—a full-blown rumble of laughter that rocked his broad shoulders. “Like? Did I like what I saw? I’m here, aren’t I? Maggie, you’re beautiful. Gorgeous. Perfect. I didn’t see any stretch marks.”

  “Then you didn’t check very close. It must have been a sneak peek, and you missed the bad stuff.”

  He sighed. “The bad stuff?” He dropped his gaze to her arms. “The moment of reckoning. Let me see.”

  Maggie forced herself to lower her arms. It was the most awful moment of her life, just sitting there while he looked her over. Every place his gaze touched, her skin burned. And why didn’t he say something? She imagined he was thinking all kinds of awful things—that they were shaped like balloons that had lost some of their air, maybe. And that the stretch marks, silvery white, were ugly. Oh, God. If he didn’t like her, she’d die.

  “Well?” she demanded, hearing the quiver in her own voice.

  He drew his gaze back to hers, his face so solemn she just knew he was going to say something terrible. “Those,” he said slowly, “are, without question, the most beautiful, perfect, gorgeous thingamajigs I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  The next instant, he hooked an arm around her waist, and before Maggie knew quite how it happened, she was flat on her back with him braced on his arms over her.

  “I warned you,” he said huskily. “You can’t say I didn’t.” He bent his dark head to nibble below her ear. “Oh, God, Maggie, forgive me. I know you need me to go slow.”

  At this point, Maggie was just pleased to have him go forward at any speed. “I guess I should warn you. I’ve got some stretch marks on my tummy, too. And a couple on each hip.” When he just kept kissing her neck, she added, “Not real bad ones. Just little white lines like I’ve got up top.”

  “Does that mean you probably won’t ever wear a string bikini in public?”

  Maggie wouldn’t wear a string bikini anywhere. Just the thought made her cringe. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

  “Good,” he growled, the deep timber of his voice seeming to rumble through her. “I’d kill the first man who looked twice at you. You’re mine, Maggie girl.” He trailed feverish kisses along her throat, suckling her skin as if to savor her taste. “Mine,” he repeated fiercely.

  You’re mine. The words echoed through her mind, calling up memories. For an instant, everything within her recoiled. But then she turned her gaze to the man who’d said them. The blurry darkness of his profile, the glint of lantern light playing over his jet-black hair. Rafe. Not Lonnie. Rafe. She wanted to belong to him. Needed to belong to him. And just hearing him say the words filled her with joy. She was his now, not Lonnie’s. His. And that made her feel absolutely safe.

  “Yes, yours,” she murmured.

  He groaned deep in his throat. “Say it again.”

  “Yours,” she said more loudly. “Yours, Rafe.”

  His mouth burned a searing path over her collarbone, his teeth nipping lightly at her skin. His tone throbbing with need, he said, “If I do anything you don’t want me to, just tell me. I give you my word, I’ll try my damnedest to stop.”

  Try? That should have alarmed her, but oddly, it didn’t. He would try. No guarantees. No promises. He wanted her so badly, she could feel him shaking. But if she asked him to stop, he would try.

  She smoothed her hands over his shoulders, wishing she could feel his skin and the play of steely muscle beneath. “R
afe, could you take off your shirt?”

  He reared up, grabbed the hem of the undershirt, and peeled it off over his head. He knelt astride her hips, and as he tossed the shirt aside, Maggie took in the bronze splendor of his upper torso—the broad, well-padded shoulders, the striated belly, the mounded pectorals and biceps. The skin of his upper body, more frequently exposed to the sun, was the color of rich caramel, one of her favorites, and looking at him made her want to taste him just as he had her.

  He raked at his hair to settle the tousled waves, his gunmetal-blue eyes glinting as he gazed back at her. “Anything else you want off?” He gave her a mischievous wink. “Be careful what you ask for. I believe in equal opportunity.”

  Maggie giggled. He was mercurial, this man, hotly passionate one second and teasing her the next. “Does that mean you’ll demand I remove any articles of clothing I ask you to take off?”

  “Damn straight.”

  She pretended to consider. “That isn’t equitable. You’ve got no thingamajigs.”

  He chuckled and ran a hand over his chest, ruffling the light dusting of black hair that she yearned to run her fingers through. “Thank God.”

  He fell forward, catching his weight with his hands, his chest a scant inch from hers. Maggie gave a startled squeak. He smiled and dipped his head. His silken mouth settled over hers. Maggie moaned, her breath spilling into him in a rush when his chest lightly grazed hers. Sensation ribboned from the tips of her breasts like jolts of lightning, streaking fire into her belly.

  His lips molded gently to hers. Wet heat. He traced the shape of her lower lip with his tongue, then drew the sensitive flesh between his teeth to lave it and suckle. The fire in her middle turned white-hot. She clung to his shoulders, overcome by the feelings.

  He suddenly drew his mouth from hers, plucked one of her hands from his shoulder, and began kissing her fingertips, his gaze locked with hers. When he drew the tip of her forefinger into his mouth, she was sure she’d never felt anything like that warm, wet, incredibly soft pulling on her flesh. He worked his way down the underside of her finger to her palm, tracing the lines there with his tongue. Then he moved on to her wrist. Then up to the bend of her elbow. Every touch of his mouth struck a chord within her, enlivening and torturing nerve endings she hadn’t realized existed. She felt like a delicate string instrument being played by a maestro.