Hard Lovin' Man. Peggy Moreland
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hysterically.
“Aw, Lacey,” he said, his voice growing husky. He drew her against his side and squeezed. “Nobody’s worth this many tears.”
If she heard him, she didn’t respond. And she sure as heck didn’t quit crying. Heaving a frustrated sigh, Travis tipped her chin up. “Come on, now. Surely there must be something that I can do to make you feel better?”
The eyes that looked up at him were flooded with tears. “H-hold m-me.”
He shook his head to clear his ears, sure that he’d misunderstood her. “Hold you?” he repeated.
Her breath hitched as she bobbed her head.
“Okay,” he said hesitantly and wrapped his other arm loosely around her, drawing her within his embrace. When he did, she threw her arms around his neck on a strangled sob, and pressed her body against his. His eyes widened in surprise at the strength, the desperation with which she clung to him. Moments ago she’d been shoving him away, demanding that he leave, and now she was clinging to him as if she was drowning and he was the only lifeboat around.
Even as he thought this, he became aware of other things. How small and fragile she felt in his arms, how defenseless, unlike the image she’d projected earlier. Tough. Independent. That I-don’t-need-anybody-and-I’m-getting-along-just-fine-on-my-own attitude that she wore so well.
In spite of his reluctance to offer her comfort, he found himself drawing her more closely within his embrace. He could feel the heat of her body pressed against his, the almost manic beat of her heart against his chest. Her tears scalded his neck, and ran down his chest.
She needed him.
And Travis never allowed anyone to get close enough to need him for anything.
He swallowed back the emotion that rose in his throat. He knew what it was like to yearn for human comfort, to need so badly it hurt, and have no one to turn to with whom to share the pain. Though his was a self-inflicted banishment, one he’d orchestrated after Jack’s first marriage, a secret that ate like a cancer at his soul, he figured that his and Lacey’s situations weren’t all that different. Neither one of them had family they could turn to.
Over the years, he’d taught himself to do without the love and support of his family, and to take what warmth and comfort he could from whatever physical relationships he became involved in. But he did so without committing himself to anything or anyone in return. As a result, he’d developed a style that other men envied. He could sweet-talk his way into a woman’s bed and out of it just as quickly, without leaving any hard feelings behind when he left. Sweet talkin’, hard lovin’ man. That’s the name he’d earned. And that’s the image he wanted to keep.
But when he slipped his hand to Lacey’s hip to shift her onto his lap, he wasn’t thinking about sex, or how he might sweet-talk this woman into his bed. He was just doing as she’d asked. Holding her. Giving her the comfort she seemed to need so desperately.
Yet when he eased her across his lap, and his hand slid from her hip to her thigh, his palm meeting bare skin…his thoughts shifted away from comfort and came dangerously close to lust. Her skin was so soft, he thought in wonder, so warm to the touch. He could imagine it heating even more when aroused.
Her breath hitched once, and she buried her face in the curve of his neck, locking her arms more tightly around him. He could feel the fullness of her breasts flattened against his chest, the almost painful dig of her pelvic bone against his groin…yet another reminder of the intimacy of their position. It would be so easy to just ease her down onto the couch and stretch out beside her. To kiss her and touch her until she forgot all about her problems. To fill his hands with her ripe, full breasts, suckle them until she was begging him to make love to her.
Don’t even think it, Cordell, he warned himself. This isn’t the time or the place.
She shifted and he sucked in a raw breath when her hip grazed his manhood. He wanted to hold her there, feel the warmth of her femininity nestled around him…but he couldn’t. His conscience wouldn’t let him.
On a low, frustrated groan, he let his head fall back against the couch and squeezed his eyes shut. Of all the times to decide to become a Boy Scout, Cordell, he reflected miserably, you picked a hell of a good one.
With a resigned sigh, he continued to hold her, unconsciously stroking her thigh, his palm moving up and down her bare leg in slow, soothing strokes. When his knuckles hit the edge of the T-shirt she wore, he scrupulously reversed the movement, smoothing his palm down to her bent knee again, trying to keep his thoughts chaste.
He rubbed his cheek against her hair. “Don’t cry, Lace,” he whispered at her ear. “Come on, baby. Don’t cry anymore.”
But it seemed as if she couldn’t stop.
And Travis couldn’t let her go. He continued to hold her until his arms ached, his rear end grew numb and his voice was hoarse from whispering unintelligible words of comfort. He held her until, with a last shuddery sigh, she burrowed deeper against his chest, laid a hand over his heart, and grew quiet.
Fearing that any movement from him would make her start crying again, he continued to stroke her leg. With each slow movement upward, her T-shirt rose a little higher on her thigh, until his fingertips brushed the elastic of her panties.
Relaxed now, his mind dulled by exhaustion, he slipped a finger beneath the thin band and slowly traced its edge. Back and forth. Back and forth. The calluses on his palm chafing against her tender skin. From the inside of her thigh to the swell of her buttocks. Back and forth. Back and forth in a mindless journey to nowhere.
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