His Cousin's Wife. Lynsey Stevens
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“Didn’t you marry the first man who came along after I left?” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN Copyright
“Didn’t you marry the first man who came along after I left?”
“Left is the operative word. You had left, Alex,” Shea threw at him.
“And barely a month later you married Jamie. My own cousin,” he said with heavy contempt.
“Well, it’s all in the past now. Jamie and I had a good marriage and—”
Alex grasped her arm. “Jamie told me how happy you were. And I died a thousand deaths over the years thinking of you with him, then hating myself because I envied him when he was just like a brother to me. I used to torture myself imagining you together, you kissing Jamie the way you used to kiss me.”
Shea’s mouth was dry. Her whole body wanted to move toward him, but with steely control she held herself rigidly apart.
“When you were making love with Jamie, did you ever imagine it was me?”
LYNSEY STEVENS was born in Brisbane, Queensland, and before beginning to write she was a librarian. It was in secondary school that she decided she wanted to be a writer. “Writers, I imagined,” Lynsey explains, “lived such exciting lives: traveling to exotic places, making lots of money and not having to work. I have traveled. However, the taxman loves me dearly, and no one told me about typist’s backache and frustrating lost words!” When she’s not writing she enjoys reading and cross-stitching and she’s interested in genealogy.
Lynsey Stevens writes intense, deeply emotional romances—with vibrant, believable characters. Her powerful writing style is highlighted perfectly in our FORBIDDEN! series....
In His Cousin’s Wife Lynsey gives a moving insight into the poignancy of forbidden passion...when two people have been in love with each other for years, but circumstances keep them apart!
His Cousin’s Wife
Lynsey Stevens
CHAPTER ONE
HIS strong, tanned body loomed over her, shutting out the shaft of moonlight that had been dancing between the rustling leaves above them, the light salty breeze playing along their naked bodies.
Her hands rose to touch his sleek skin, to slide over his taut buttocks, along the indentation of his spine, around his narrow hips, upwards over his firm midriff. The soft mat of fine hair on his chest curled damply about her fingers as her hands rested there for long moments before continuing their erotic expedition.
She exalted in the heady knowledge that she was exciting him, and she luxuriated in the rippling contours of the smooth flexing muscles of his shoulders and arms as he held himself poised above her.
She followed the tensed sweep of his neck, fingertips tracing the shape of his ears, the line of his square jaw, his firm chin, to settle on his full lips.
He took her fingertips into his mouth then, nibbled gently with his strong white teeth. When his lips released her, her hand went instinctively to her own mouth, tasting the dampness of him still lingering there, and then she trailed a path downwards over his chin, his throat, his chest. Her other hand, which had been delighting in the thick texture of his fairish hair, joined in again, returning to tease his small, sharp nipples.
He groaned, a low, primitive, so masculine sound that echoed in his chest, escaping to mingle with, to compliment, the murmur of the steady ebb and flow of the waves on the beach beneath them.
Then he drew a shuddering breath, his lips descending to cover hers, his body settling over her as they began to move as one...
Shea woke with a fright, clutching at the light sheet that covered her. She fought to draw air into her aching lungs as she gulped shallow breaths. Peering agitatedly into the darkness she blinked until her eyes gradually became accustomed to the night.
Her heartbeats were racing in her chest and she gazed about her, seeking and then finding the familiarity of her bedroom. It was her bedroom, she told herself. There was her wardrobe, her dressing table, her curtains stirring in the cooling breeze.
And this was her bed.
Yet still her band slid tentatively sideways across the tousled sheets, feeling, seeking, and eventually relaxing just a little as she convinced herself that she was indeed alone.
The curtains shifted again and a ray of moonlight skittered across the wall, the breeze making her shiver as it touched her damp skin. Shakily she brushed back her tangled fair hair and dried her damp forehead on the sleeve of her old cotton nightshirt.
With a soft moan she rubbed at her eyes. She hadn’t had that particular dream in years. Dream? She reproached herself unsteadily. No, it was definitely a nightmare, one she hadn’t experienced since she’d heard he’d married.
Somehow the knowledge that he’d committed himself to someone else had seemed to lay that specific ghost, had generally allowed her to get on with her life to some extent. And over the years she’d doggedly convinced herself it was all behind her. But it appeared that this evening’s disturbing events had proved her so terribly wrong.
She squinted at the glowing dial of her bedside clock: 1:00 a.m. Less than eight hours since her comfortable life had been shifted so disturbingly off its equally comfortable axis.
And yet she’d had no premonition, no inkling of what lay ahead as she parked her car in the garage and walked up the front steps. In fact she was even humming a tune she’d heard on the car radio as she deposited her briefcase in her room and continued down the hallway towards the back of the house.
‘Tell me that’s not the decadent odour of cooling Anzac biscuits?’ she beseeched her mother-in-law as she stepped into the kitchen. The room was light and airy, filled with warmth from the large old stove and the homey aroma of baking.
‘I cannot tell a lie,’ laughed Norah Finlay, wiping her floury hands on her apron. ‘I know how much you like them, love.’
Shea groaned. ‘To which my spreading hips will attest,’ she said as she sat down, reaching out for one of the still warm biscuits.
‘Spreading hips indeed,’ Norah