possessive manner that some women thought brooked no argument. But the moment they stepped outside the stuffy, overdecorated hotel, he was glad he had listened to the voice that had prodded him to follow her. Almost instantly, he felt the cloud squeezing his shoulders dissipate. Immediately, his muscles relaxed. He no longer had to be the proud big brother. Pretend he was happy with events when he clearly wasn’t.
Over the U.S. Treasury building across the way, the sun was setting. He realized Bronte had continued walking and followed again—this time across the street and into the park there. He hung back slightly as she leaned against a bench and slipped off first one, then the other, of her shoes. Her feet, like the rest of her, were long, slender and well-shaped, her toenails painted bright, scarlet red, contrasting against the dark navy-blue of her dress. The low-heeled pumps swinging from her fingers, she continued on, deeper into the park, away from the traffic on the street. Away from the hotel and the celebrating people inside.
She took a deep breath. He found his gaze drawn to the scooped neckline of her bridesmaid’s dress. The gentle curve of flesh there expanded, revealing a few more freckles he felt the desire to explore with his fingertips. “I can’t tell you how great it is to take a breath and not have your senses overwhelmed by somebody else’s perfume,” she said.
“Hmm?” Connor tore his gaze away from the top of her breasts. It was then he realized that he didn’t detect any immediately recognizable perfume coming from her. At least not of the store-bought variety. She smelled vaguely of something soft, somewhat like a white flower he’d picked once and taken home to his mother, who had been pregnant with David at the time. Just a couple years or so before she died.
“Connor McCoy, are you staring at my breasts?”
He grinned and slowly budged his gaze up to her face, half hidden in shadow. “Yes, I guess I am.” He cleared his throat and noticed the small orbs pressing against the shiny fabric. “And either you’re suddenly cold, or they’re staring back at me.”
Her burst of laughter surprised him and when he looked up he found the same startled expression on her face. “Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
“Good. Because it’s the first time I’ve said it.”
His gaze locked with hers. A strong undercurrent of exactly what he’d been trying to ignore flowed between them like a tangling web. Attraction. Full, strong, elemental attraction. He followed the line of her cheek down to her lips, finding the top one fuller than the bottom, unpainted, the natural dusky shade unbearably appealing.
“What would you say if I told you I wanted to grab you and kiss you?” he asked.
2
WHAT WOULD SHE SAY IF HE what?
Bronte stared at Connor, wide-eyed, wondering where exactly she had left her good sense, and how she could snatch it back…quickly. She rested her hand against the rough bark of a cherry tree in full bloom, balancing herself before she actually fell over.
The last thing she’d had on her mind when she suggested a walk was kissing Connor McCoy. She’d simply wanted to escape the claustrophobic hotel. Gulp some fresh air. Take time to convince herself that no one noticed the envious way she eyed Kelli’s dress. The way she breathed in the intoxicating scent from her tiny bouquet. The way she had clasped her hands together a little too tightly when the bride and groom had exchanged vows.
If Kelli wasn’t her best friend, she would never have agreed to come to the wedding reception, much less taken on the role of her maid of honor. The whole concept of weddings made her think of things better off forgotten.
She briefly closed her eyes. She had just gotten to the point where she woke up in the morning and didn’t immediately crush the empty pillow next to her to her chest and squeeze it between her aching thighs. She no longer jumped every time the phone rang. She’d even stuck his photograph into a box in her attic and had dived headfirst into a complete remodeling of her house to erase all evidence of his presence.
Then Thomas had left a message on her answering machine a couple of weeks ago. Then again last week. And yet again this morning.
It was bad enough her emotions were in disarray as a result. Now she was facing a clearly hungry Connor McCoy…and wanting him.
“What did you say?” she asked, finding her voice curiously breathless, her breasts tingling under the fine fabric of her dress.
Standing directly in the last remaining beams of the setting sun, she watched Connor’s eyes darken. “The hell with the question. I’m going to kiss you.”
“Kiss—”
Just that suddenly, Connor’s hands were in her short hair, his mouth was slanted against hers, and the hot wetness of his tongue was begging for entrance to her mouth by way of her startled, closed lips.
Connor McCoy’s kissing me. Bronte couldn’t seem to wrap her mind around the possibility even as it was happening. She’d have bet anyone her life savings that he’d never even noticed her in college, much less held an interest in her. And his demeanor toward her ever since Kelli had met David at the bar could only be described as civilly chilly.
Yet here he was, coaxing her lips open and delving into her mouth like a man seeking the sweet waters of the fountain of youth.
Bronte’s knees went weak and she melted against him for support. It felt so very, very good to kiss a man taller than her. To feel all her body parts nicely aligned against his without her needing to crouch skillfully lower. Thomas… She forcefully ousted the name, not wanting to think about him now. Needing to feel alive. Wanted. Desired. And desire-full.
She slowly realized Connor’s erection pulsed against her belly. She drew in a sharp breath. He groaned something, then launched a renewed attack on her mouth.
She sighed and collapsed against him again even as he backed her against the rough bark of the tree, well out of sight of any onlookers. The low-hanging branches creating a fragrant cocoon around them. The sun finally slipping over the horizon, leaving them in deep, secretive shadows.
Bronte felt a whimper gather at the back of her throat. Who knew quiet, brooding Connor McCoy could kiss so well? And who knew that she had it in her to respond so physically to another man so soon after her last relationship had failed so miserably?
She was aware of strong fingers against her rib cage, a prelude to a more intimate, probing touch. A man’s way of letting a woman know what he had in mind. A warning that if she wanted to prevent the progression, now was the time to act.
And Bronte knew she should do just that. This kiss was so totally unexpected. But she didn’t. Instead she found herself hungrily arching her back away from the tree trunk, telling him in her own feminine way that she wanted his touch as much as he wanted to touch her.
Then he did.
Bronte shuddered as his hand seared her flesh through her dress. His fingers expertly found and lightly plucked at her protruding nipple, causing desire to pool between her thighs and her breath to freeze in her lungs. Then he dipped his finger inside the low neckline and his hot skin made contact with hers. Amazingly, she found herself on the verge of climax, and they hadn’t even done anything yet.
Yet.
The word caught and held in her mind even as she pressed her breast into his touch, straining for a more complete contact.
Yet.
No, they hadn’t really done anything…yet. But if he didn’t stop—
Connor widened his stance and pulled her into the cradle of his thighs with his other hand. The hard, solid feel of his erection against her belly nearly sent her reeling.
Just one touch, she told herself. She just wanted to see if he was as turned on as he seemed to be. Needed to verify that he was indeed as large as she suspected.
She thrust her hand down shamelessly between them, cupping the long, thick ridge in her palm. Oh, dear Lord.