He tipped up her stubborn chin. "Kiss me, Molly."
"Just shut up and kiss me."
Chapter Eleven
With an ardent cry, Molly lifted her sweet, plump mouth.
Tate took it. Hard. He speared his tongue against the tender seam where her lips met. She opened instantly. He swept the secret inner surfaces, claiming in fact what she wouldn't give him by law, bending her body back, leaning over her, holding her so tight he squeezed the breath from her chest, grinding himself into her...
His hard kiss proved nothing, and he knew it.
He was bigger and stronger and richer. And male. He was supposed to be the one with the power.
Yet somehow, Molly O'Dare foiled him royally at every turn.
He went on kissing her, guiding her backward over his cradling arm. She didn't struggle, didn't squirm, didn't put up the tiniest squeak of protest.
Not Molly. Oh, no.
When Molly gave her body, she gave it all the way. She grabbed for the ruffles on his half-open shirt and she dragged him down with her.
He fell the last few feet, ending up bracing them both on one hand. Slowly his mouth locked hard with hers, he lowered them the rest of the way. They stretched out on the old red Kelim rug.
Now that he knew for sure she wasn't going anywhere, he dared to lift his mouth from hers enough to offer, "Here—or the bed?"
She laughed. The sound echoed through him, making every nerve vibrate with hunger and heat. He pressed his hips harder against her. He was fully erect and aching to bury himself deep inside her.
She pushed at his shoulders, guiding him over, wanting the top position—which was no surprise. He let her have it, rolling to his back so she could climb on and straddle him. She took the sides of his shirt— and ripped it wide.
Buttons went flying. One just missed hitting him in the eye.
"Watch it," he warned.
She was yanking at his sleeves, first one and then the other. "Here first," she whispered, a half smile curling her kiss-swollen lips. She got the shirt off him and shoved it away, then splayed her hands flat on his chest and caressed him, rubbing back and forth on him with her hips as she ran her hands over his exposed chest. His heart was exploding—and so was what she was sitting on. "Bed later..." She groaned, grabbing his arms, pressing them wide and down to the rug and then lowering her head to lick at his chest. She bit his left nipple.
And he groaned, too. "I was... getting kind of fond of that shirt."
She sat up tall on him then. He let out a low cry at the sweet agony of her feminine heat, pressing down all around him. "Shh," she said, "shh," her fingers on his mouth. He sucked those fingers inside. "I'll...buy you another one," she promised, as he teased her fingers with the tip of his tongue. She was still rocking her hips on him, hard and sweet and slow.
He knew he had to get her naked pretty quick—or he would lose it just from the burning friction all that rubbing created. He grabbed for her tight little shirt and hauled it upward. She got the message, taking the sides of it from him, yanking it over her head and throwing it halfway across the room.
She slid back a little, onto his thighs, and she pulled her wet fingers from his mouth and got busy with his fly. She yanked it open and then rose to her knees so he could lift his hips, ease his boxers over his rock-hard erection and get his pants down.
They hung up on his boots. Swearwords echoed in his shattered mind. It was ridiculous, this business of getting out of their clothes. It took too long. Much, much too long.
Molly was already handling the problem. She scooted off him and took one boot and then the other, bracing herself and falling backward as each boot came free of his foot. After the boots, she whipped his socks off, twirling each one like a lasso and sending it sailing with a husky, "Yahoo!"
They laughed together—it was slightly frantic and very hungry, their laughter. She got rid of his pants and boxers and then fell forward, onto all fours, arms braced on either side of his knees. She gave him the once-over, her gaze moving up his naked body. When she met his eyes, she winked.
"Get back here," he commanded.
She didn't put up even token resistance, only slid up his body and planted herself smack on top of the crucial equipment.
Neither of them was laughing by then.
He reached behind her, got a hold of the twin hooks at the back of her bra. A quick flick and those hooks fell open. He got the bra by the front and pulled. She curved her shoulders in and straightened her arms forward. He pulled the thing off and tossed it away.
"Yeah. Oh, yeah..." He reached up. She leaned in, giving him the weight of those beautiful coral-tipped breasts to hold in his eager hands. Were they fuller than he remembered—fuller and riper, somehow?
He thought so. Pride welled in him. His baby was doing that, changing her, rounding and softening her body even more than before. He rolled her nipples between his fingers as she tossed her head back and rocked harder on top of him.
It was urgent that he get inside her.
But suddenly, it was absolutely vital that he explore her body first, that he see and feel for himself any changes his baby might have been making since the last time he'd laid claim to her. Molding her rib cage, he brought his hands downward, first pressing them open just beneath her breasts. He loved her breasts.
And they looked so white and full and soft in contrast to his man-sized tanned hands.
Molly moaned. She wrapped her fingers around his wrists and she went on rocking, driving him wild. He caressed his way downward. She shut her eyes and tossed her head back, releasing her grip on him, laying her hands on her spread thighs, rocking away. Below her rib cage, the hollow that dipped to her navel wasn't quite as pronounced.
She was filling out. No doubt about it. He unbuttoned her shorts and pulled the zipper wide. She wore her usual satin bikini panties—purple ones this time. Above the satin, her belly was soft and gently rounded.
He placed his hand there, on the silky skin of her stomach. Amazing. His child was inside there.
He'd taken biology in high school. He knew that right now the baby was smaller than the palm of his hand. But would he have passed that stage where he looked like some strange little frog—with webbed hands and a tail?
Tate wasn't sure. Still, he couldn't help picturing a perfect, fat little baby, like the ones you saw in TV commercials. A perfect, fat little baby, curled in a ball and sucking his thumb...
Molly stilled in her rocking. She dipped her head forward, opened lazy eyes—and smiled at him.
"Fuller," he whispered, pressing more firmly against her stomach.
She braced her hands on his shoulders, her wild hair falling forward to tickle his nose. She kissed him, a quick kiss. "Soon I'll be fat as an old heifer, you just watch."
"You'll be beautiful. Always," he said. He moved his hand on her belly—to one side and then back. "When will I be able to feel him kick?"
She kissed him again. "It'll be a few months yet— and didn't I tell you? She's a girl."
He'd always figured his first kid would be a son. "We'll see..."
"You don't want a girl?" She was trying to be cool about it. But he could see in her eyes that his answer would matter.
He gave her a slow smile. "I suppose I'd end up getting used to a daughter as good lookin' as you."
She kissed his nose. "That was absolutely the perfect thing to say."
"And, hey, it's just possible she'll get my grandmother's disposition."
She faked a glare. "Oh, you..." And she fell on him, tickling.
He squirmed and laughed and pretended, for a minute or two, to be at her mercy. But then he managed, even with all her slithering around, to work his fingers under the elastic of her panties.
She let out a sharp little sound of excited surprise and the tickling stopped. With her crotch pressed to his, her legs folded along his thighs and her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, she lay still, breathing in sharp, ragged gasps. He nuzzled her
hair, so soft and warm, smelling of fragrant shampoo and also faintly of chlorine from the dunking tank.
Oh, yeah. This was good.
This was just right...
He slipped his hand farther down into her panties. She gasped in his ear as he petted the silky curls that covered her mound. And when he dipped his middle finger into the satin wetness between her spread thighs, she groaned.
He urged her hips upward. She lifted a little, giving him easier access so that he managed to slip the rest of his fingers down into that hot, wet groove. He parted the folds, at the same time rubbing at the nub of her sex with his thumb.
Molly panted harder. She was moving again, rocking against his hand. He slipped a finger all the way in—and then another after it. She rocked faster, moaning into his ear. He turned his head enough to nibble on the skin of her temple.
"Oh, Tate," she whispered between ragged breaths. "Oh, Tate. Oh, yes..."
He realized he could last a little longer, after all— now she'd lifted her hips off him and she was doing her rocking against his hand. He could last long enough to bring her over the brink at least one time ahead of him. He liked that, liked pleasuring her. Liked the feel of her silky wetness, the scent of sex and woman that radiated off her. He liked her moans of need, growing ever more urgent, and the ragged, hungry sound of her breathing.
Most of all he liked that right now there was no question where she belonged. She was wild and willing now—all his—rocking in his arms.
He pleasured her and he whispered encouragements, naughty words of what it felt like for him to be touching her like this; rough words of his own need and how he planned to satisfy it; silky words of promise that he would never stop...
She rocked harder, all the more frantically—and then she froze on a strangled little gasp. He felt her tender inner surfaces contract around his fingers and the sudden spill of silky wetness. She reached down between them and grabbed his wrist. He kept his hand still, fingers unmoving within her, letting her have it her way at the last, until the tiny contractions faded down and she went limp on top of him.
"Um," she said, rubbing her breasts against his chest, stretching like a satisfied cat. "Oh, my..."
"Don't get too comfortable," he commanded huskily. "I'm not through with you yet...."
She tipped her head back and licked the side of his jaw. "Your wish—" she swiped her tongue against his ear "—is my command."
"Hold that thought." He wrapped his arms around her, surging up, cradling her to him as he rolled them both over.
He was on top again.
She looked up at him, lips red, cheeks flushed, hair all wild, crackling with static, electric-gold against the deep-red rug. "Oh, Tate," she whispered. And at that moment, his only desire was that she might always say his name that way.
As though she wanted only him, as though she couldn't get enough of him, as though he could have all of her.
Any time, any place, any way that he wanted.
He rose to his knees between her spread thighs and laid both hands at her waist. Slowly, he moved his hands downward, hooking his fingers under the waist of her shorts, catching the panties beneath, as well.
She lifted her legs straight up. He whipped them off. And at last, she was every bit as naked as he was.
He sat back on his haunches and admired the glorious, all-woman shape of her, found pleasure in the gleam of desire in her eyes, in the willing, soft smile on her oh-so-kissable mouth. It came to him powerfully that she satisfied him—and not only when it came to the two of them naked doing what they were doing now.
No. It was something else. Some other, deeper, more mysterious kind of satisfaction. When he had her like this, naked and soft and watching him with that melting take me look in her eyes, well, he could do anything. Pass any test. Win any challenge.
All things were possible and all was right with the world.
"Tate?" she said, looking at him sideways, catching her lower lip between her white teeth. "You okay?"
He looked at her some more. He could never get enough of just looking at her.
A little crease had formed between her smooth brows. "Tate?"
"Molly," he whispered low. "Why can't it always be this way?"
She had no answer—only a tiny smile and a low cry and slim, eager arms, reaching up for him.
He went down to her, let her wrap him in her silky embrace. She lifted her long legs and wrapped them around him, too. Her hand slid between their bodies, finding him, guiding him home.
He let out a guttural cry as he entered her. There was nothing—nothing, like the feel of her. So tight and wet and slick and hot, all around him now.
He had to hold completely still for a second or two.
He knew if he moved, he would lose it. And he didn't want that.
Not yet, anyway...
When he felt he could bear it, he pulled back slowly—and then bucked into her, hard. She took him eagerly, with a glad cry.
After that, there was only the hot, pulsing river of his own need, driving him harder, sucking him down...
Chapter Twelve
It would be a kind of...trial ran," Molly explained with a sweet, hopeful smile.
They were sharing their first breakfast together— in bed.
Tate sipped his strong black coffee and suggested dryly, "This isn't Hollywood, Molly."
That sweet smile went slightly sour. "Well, Tate. I know that—not that Hollywood has a thing to do with this conversation."
He clarified, "I'm only saying, a trial ran at marriage sounds like something they might do in California. Or New York City. But not here in Texas. Here in Texas, you're married or you're not. When it comes to the state of matrimony, this state has no trial runs."
"What a clever way to put it." She picked up a triangle of toast and her butter knife. "And isn't it wonderful that we've got no strange or nonsensical laws here in Texas?"
"You bet it is," he blustered, sensing a trap, barreling into it anyway.
She hit him with the punch line. "What about common-law marriages, then?"
He gave her a lowering look. "What the hell about them?"
"Haven't you heard? Right here in Texas, if you live together and call yourselves husband and wife and neither of you happens to already be married to someone else, you are considered to be legally wed. That's as weird as anything that could happen in Hollywood, if you ask me."
Okay, so he never should have made that crack about Hollywood. "Molly, why are we talking about this?"
"Because you said—"
"Look here." He set down his coffee and put up both hands, palm out. "I surrender. I'm sure every state has a strange law or two."
"So big of you to admit it—and I have to say, it does send a hot little thrill all through me, hearing you say you surrender..."
"I'll bet." He had a thought. Against his own better judgment, he voiced it. "Is that what you want, then?"
"Surrender?" She wiggled her eyebrows.
"Nice try. I meant a common-law marriage."
She stopped wiggling her eyebrows and frowned. "Why would I want that? Didn't I just explain to you that I'm not ready for marriage right yet?"
Valiantly he tried to get her to be more specific. "When, exactly, do you think you will be ready?"
She studied the toast she'd been carefully buttering. "I'm only saying that for people like us, there ought to be a trial run when it comes to something as serious as getting married."
"People like us? What the hell's wrong with us? Never mind. I don't think I want to know. Instead, why don't you try answering the question I asked a minute ago? You know, the one you skipped right on by, the one where I asked you when we could get on with it and get married?"
She gave him a pained look. "Okay, okay..."
"Still waiting..."
She made a couple of delicate snorting sounds and then finally admitted, "I just can't say for certain when I'll be ready."
There were a lot of th
ings he could have said right then, most of them consisting of strings of four-letter words. He held those things back. While he was restraining himself, Molly set her knife on the edge of her bread plate and took a big, crunchy bite of toast.
Tate watched her chew, thinking that she was the kind of woman who even looked good when she was eating. A man needed that in his wife, to be able to look at her doing something that wasn't ordinarily all that attractive and still want to keep on looking.
He glanced toward the window, where the morning sun slanted in through the open curtains.
Aside from the current topic of conversation, it was a damn good moment. Sharing breakfast in bed with Molly. It was almost as good as waking up an hour ago and finding her asleep beside him. During their secret affair, she was always up and gone well before daylight.
She looked so sweet in the morning—all rumpled and soft and pretty. And she had beard burn on her jaw.
He couldn't resist leaning over and kissing the tender spot. "Does it hurt?"
She gave him a devilish smile. "It's nothing. Last night, though. Now, that was something...'""
"That's what I like to hear."
She kissed his lips—a quick, sweet peck. Then she picked up her cup and sipped the herbal tea Miranda had brewed for her. "Back to us living together..."
"I've got it." He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Why don't we just get married instead?"
She bit off more toast, chewed it and swallowed. "Were you born with a thick head—or did it get that way gradually?"
"I don't see the sense in this, that's all. What good's it gonna do for us to try out being married?"
"Well, we'll learn more about each other, for one thing. We'll see if we can stand to be together, day in and day out. And we'll do it without being locked into anything too permanent."
"What's wrong with permanent? You're having my baby. You need something permanent."
"Tate, we're not going to get anywhere if you start telling me what I need."
Marrying Molly Page 12
