Private Lives. Gwynne Forster
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“Come here, sweetheart,” he said, the soft words barely audible.
Her only thought was that he was tantalizing, all man, and she wanted him. Somehow, he had her in his arms, his fingers pressed into her flesh, and he continued to stare down at her. Why didn’t he do something?
“Open your mouth and let me in,” he said and plunged his tongue into her eager lips. She felt his hand at the back of her head as he possessed her and then his other hand fastened her hips to his aroused body. Heat spiraled through her. Tremors shook her and he tightened his grip on her buttocks. She wanted…She needed…Moans spilled from her throat as he let the wall take his weight and gripped her to him, possessing her as if he owned her, and in that minute she knew he did. Her hips moved against his, seeking, practically begging for friction, for anything that would soothe the burning inside her. He didn’t spare her when she pulled his tongue deeper into her mouth, but let his hand stroke her left breast until, besotted and weakened by desire, she slumped against him.
He looked at her for a long minute, kissed her forehead and her eyelids and said, “Don’t be upset, Allison. Some people live a lifetime without experiencing what just happened between you and me.”
“I know.”
He gazed steadily at her, almost as if he tried to read her thoughts. “If you need me for anything, even if you only want to say hello, you have my cell number. Be seeing you.” He patted Jack, picked up the dog’s leash and headed toward the road.
Allison watched him go, all the while wishing she had the courage to tell him to stay there with her. She carried the basket of fresh raspberries to the kitchen, placed them on the table and sat down. She had to get a hold on herself; falling for Brock Lightner could be dangerous. Who was he? He had the manners of a gentleman, the charm of a rascal and the bearing of a stud. And she had a feeling that when he wanted to, he could be honey sweet. He was trouble, all right.
In the darkest days of her marriage, she had fantasized about having a man like Brock in her life. But as she mulled over the past few days, she admitted that her daydreams fell far short of Brock the man. She’d never imagined what she had felt while he had her in his arms. Now that she had tasted him, felt his masculine strength and experienced his heat, she knew he’d give her what she had wanted and longed for all these years. But if she opened herself to him, would she risk her life and that of her child?
Her sister, Ellen, said that her willpower, for which Allison was famous, was about to be tested. Ellen didn’t know the half of it. When Brock Lightner held her in his arms, she’d had no willpower. She took a shower, not realizing that in doing so, she tried to wash away all that had happened to her that morning.
“He’s still in me,” she said to herself, as she sat down to work. But work held no interest, so she phoned the hardware store hoping to speak to the man who installed stoves.
“He doesn’t work here on a regular basis, miss,” the young male voice said. “He just comes when we tell him there’s an order. Did you call before?” She told him that she had and asked for the repairman’s telephone number. “I don’t have it,” he said. “We don’t have that many calls to install stoves. I’ll put a note on the board telling him to get in touch with you. You ought to hear from him sometime this week.”
She did not want to call Brock and ask him to install her stove. But what choice did she have? She had three months in which to test two hundred recipes, and every minute that passed was a loss of precious time. She remembered Brock’s offer to find a photographer for her, and used that as an excuse and called him.
“Lightner.”
“Brock, this is Allison.”
“Hi.”
He said nothing and the silence made her more annoyed. He could at least make it easy for her. “You said you knew a good photographer. Would you please give me his name and phone number?”
He immediately gave it to her. She realized that he’d memorized the number and reasoned that the man was probably a friend. The thought comforted her. She jotted down the number and weighed the idea of asking him to install the stove.
“Did you get someone to install your stove?”
“Not yet. They don’t know when he’ll be in town and no one knows his telephone number. It seems that installing a stove is a rarity here.”
“I don’t see the point in contacting the photographer until you know when you’ll have something for him to photograph. I was going to suggest that he come twice a week and shoot what you’ve prepared between visits. That would be cheaper than having him fly up here every time you bake a cake.”
“Are you trying to push my buttons?” she hissed.
“No. But I see I did just that. If you weren’t so damned stubborn, your stove would already be installed.”
“If I were near you, I’d poke you,” she said and kicked the garbage can.
“I imagine you would. Any kind of contact would be better than none. Right?”
“Listen, you! Oh, all right. Would you mind installing my gas stove? And you’d better live up to your promises, too.” She didn’t know why she was so angry, but she was, and he’d done nothing to cause it.
“I’ll be up there around four o’clock. I have to finish this chapter. And don’t worry, I’m not in the habit of letting people down, and I certainly have never disappointed a woman. Bye.”
“What did you say?”
He’d hung up.
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