In Blackhawk's Bed. Barbara McCauley
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ready to go. “Actually, it was those muffins you’re baking.”
He hobbled to the large oak table in the middle of the spacious kitchen. Hannah quickly reached for a towel to wipe her hands.
“You shouldn’t be up on that leg,” she said firmly and rushed to his side to slip an arm around his waist.
“I’m fine, Hannah.”
But he let her help him into the chair, not because he needed help, but because he wanted to indulge himself, if only for a moment. He felt the soft press of her breasts against his side and nearly groaned at the rush of heat through his body. He breathed in the scent of apples and cinnamon on her skin, held on to her longer than was necessary or wise. When she moved away, it was all he could do not to snatch her back and see if she tasted as good as she smelled.
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