Slow Fever. Cait London
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could have frozen a forest fire.
“Dance?” he countered, dismissing her question and challenging her at the same time. Michael realized then that he’d wrapped his hand around her slender wrist, holding her.
He’d promised himself long ago that he wouldn’t need anyone. And now he needed Kylie. He studied his scarred and darkly tanned fingers against her fairer skin, shocked by the knowledge that he’d wanted to claim her for his own. He slowly released her wrist and removed his black leather jacket, tossing it to Gabriel Deerhorn.
The night he’d seen her in another tavern, a nineteen-year-old girl on a dare, determined to ride that mechanical bucking bull, he’d burned with the same dark anger. It was the only mechanical bucking bull in the countryside—miles from Freedom Valley—and Kylie and her friends had dressed older, just to get into the tavern. She’d rocked upon the bull, testing herself, swaying with the movements too slow to be dangerous. She’d concentrated on her task, her body flowing sensually as she moved around and stood and sat and tested her skill. The rhythmic symphony of curves had men drooling and had sucked away Michael’s breath when he’d first seen her. When he’d managed to pull his tongue off the floor, he told would-be takers that she was his wife and the baby needed her at home. Then he’d hauled her off that bull and she’d sulked at the lecture as he delivered her and her underage girlfriends each to their doorstep. The last one to reach her home, Kylie had simmered and then lunged at him. “Little girl,” he’d said, trying to distance his need to give her a taste of what she’d been asking from him. “Take it inside and don’t worry your mother.”
It was just the same now; Michael couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Kylie had always been his.
The thought zinged through Michael, shocking him as Kylie’s blue eyes darkened. His gaze slid to her lips and then slowly down her body, marking the sudden rise and fall of her breasts. “I asked you to dance. Yes or no?”
Kylie’s chin lifted and she spoke quietly, only to him. The color of her blue eyes had changed to steel flashing up at him. “Tell me first—do you have that woman living with you now or not? And is it your baby?”
“Interested in me?” he asked, challenging her as he took her hand, laced her fingers with his and led her the few steps to the dance floor.
“I’m older and I’m wiser. I don’t want to sit on the back of your motorcycle now. And you weren’t invited here, and just how much of my life did you tell your girlfriend?”
“Put your hands on me like you did on Brody and you’ll find out more than you want to know,” he murmured. His hand sought the curved indentation of her waist and hip to draw her close. For just an instant, his fingers dug in slightly to the soft curve, claiming her.
Michael breathed unevenly, stunned by his first experience to make certain this woman was his.
“Brody’s back injury needs a good stroking treatment to relax—I’m not explaining anything to you.”
“‘Stroking?”’ Michael repeated her term darkly, unfamiliar with the emotions storming him. The word brought the image of lovemaking slapping at him.
“Soothing him. It’s a technique in Swedish massage.” Her breath caught as his arm slid around her, holding her close against him.
She recognized that whipcord strength, moving too quickly for her to resist. He’d acted like that at the infamous bucking bull incident. His thigh pressed between hers, leading into a dance step, and Kylie tensed, moving stiffly to his direction. “The Women’s Council should have changed the rules that men always lead in dancing, too.”
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