He ran the tip of his tongue restlessly over the seam of her lips, and moaned low and deep in his throat when she opened for him without restraint. She tasted like honey and cream, natural and sweet, as he swept her mouth with his tongue.
The pain in his leg, an unbearable agony just a few seconds before, was now muted by the surge of desire thundering through him. Garrett shifted, laying on his back on the green carpeted floor, hauling Murphy with him. She didn't resist…and God that excited him! Her breasts felt full and firm, crushed to his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close as he intensified the kiss to a fevered pitch. Their tongues met and tangled wildly, her initial shyness now completely gone.
The hem of her sweater had ridden up, and Garrett's palm caressed the smooth, bare flesh of her back, exposed above the waistband of her jeans. He had to touch more of her. He had to.
Murphy trembled. The warm breaths puffing against his cheek turned ragged as his hand snuck under the hem of the sweater. And ascended.
His fingertips toyed with the hooks of her bra, even as his mind toyed with the idea of releasing them, of ridding her of it and the baggy sweater and snug-fitting jeans, of touching her more intimately.
His palm slid over the ladder of her ribs. The way she sighed and moved against him suggested she also wanted, needed, a more intimate touch.
Madness, Garrett thought as he moved, and found her breast suddenly nestled in the ultra-sensitive palm of his hand. That he barely knew this woman seemed not to matter at all…especially when he heard her moan, and felt her strain against him. He cupped her breast more fully, tested its firmness, even as his thumb flicked over the sheer material of her bra. Through the cloth, he felt her nipple pearl in response.
Garrett shifted his attention, distributed warm, moist kisses on the curve of her chin. He sipped his way over the line of her jaw, dipped his tongue in the curl of her ear and nibbled on the sensitive lobe. His senses filled with the scent of her; he'd never imagined the smell of Ivory Soap could be so damned erotic. But it was. On Murphy.
He wanted her.
The realization shocked Garrett to the core. Never before had he experienced desire this intense, for a woman he barely knew. Usually, passion built in him slowly, honing itself to a fine pitch before he even considered taking a relationship, any relationship, to a physical level.
It wasn't like that this time. Not with Murphy. Just the opposite. With her, the second their lips met, an intense need had cleaved through him, leaving Garrett breathless and shaky. Desire clawed in his gut, lower. A passion he'd never before felt to this extent built with incredible speed, manifesting itself into a ravenous hunger to possess—physically, completely. The urge was too strong to fight or deny.
She shifted, draping her left leg over his hips. His hardness pressed against the warm vee of her inner thighs. He tightened his hold on her, grinding the front of his hips against the front of hers. She pressed back and…
The heel of her foot grazed his right thigh.
A bolt of pain crashed through Garrett. He stiffened and groaned, barely aware of the way Murphy went rigid in his arms.
In that split second, the mood shattered.
Murphy scrambled off of him, kneeling by his side. Her hands hesitated in the act of wanting to touch him, but not daring to. “I hurt you again, didn't I? Garrett, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”
Gritting his teeth against the agony in his leg, he slashed a finger over her lips—puffy and moist from his kiss—to silence her. The color in her cheeks, he noticed through the fog of pain that was tearing at him, was unusually high, her dark green eyes glazed with equal parts unquenched passion and concern.
“I'm fine,” he said, knowing perfectly well his tone said he was anything but; it was made grittier by the question his mind refused to stop worrying over.
Just how far, Garrett wondered, would things have gone between them if Murphy hadn't moved and reawakened the pain in his leg?
The question, of course, would have to stay unresolved.
Maybe that's what made the illusive answer so intriguing?
Chapter 5
Murphy's Law #5: The easier it looks, the harder it is…
“ARE YOU SURE you didn't bang your head in the accident?” Murphy shook her own head in exasperation. At the same time, she strove to ignore the way her mouth—no, make that her entire body—still smoldered from Garrett Thayer's kiss.
Ah, his kiss…
If she closed her eyes, would she still feel his breath on her cheek, hot and ragged? Would she smell the pine-and-snow scent of him, feel the caress of his hard body against her, the grinding pressure of his mouth on hers?
The image chasing around her mind made it difficult to grasp what Garrett had just said. Surely she'd heard wrong. Hadn't she? Murphy frowned. “Are you serious? What makes you think my Rabbit could get through this snow when a police car—or truck, or whatever a town the size of Greenville would send—can't?”
They were sitting on the floor of Dana's bedroom. Well, no, that wasn't accurate. Murphy was sitting. Garrett was laying a mere foot of carpeted space away. The disturbing way her mind dwelt on how warm and wonderful it felt to be in his arms, to be lost in his kiss, had instigated her to inch back so no part of her body touched his.
The forearm he'd slung over his eyes blotted the upper portion of his face from view. But not the lower. His lips were drawn in a thin, tight line. The way he gritted his teeth made the muscles in his jaw bunch. Either he was angry or in a good deal of pain. Probably both.
Murphy thought that even more reason his plan to take her car and try to reach town was implausible. “Garrett, think about it,” she said, trying to reason with him, though she had a feeling reasoning with a man like Garrett Thayer had the same affect as talking to wool. “You can't even stand up under your own steam. You just tried and look what happened. If I thought my car could get through this snow—which I don't, but if I did—how would you be able to get to it in the shape you're in?”
“I'll manage,” he replied, his voice raspy and sharp.
“Yes, I'm sure you can do whatever you put your mind to.” Did she detect a trace of a cocky grin at one corner of his mouth? She most certainly did! “But that's not the point. What you can do and what you should do are two different things.”
He lowered his arm and opened his eyes. His attention swept over her lips, and his gaze darkened before rising to meet hers. Her heartbeat staggered.
“Murphy, whatever is stuck in my thigh should have come out hours ago. God knows how much damage it's done—will continue to do—until it's gone.” His tone, which started off harsh, softened. “Not to mention, the longer it stays in, the more chance there is of infection. And it will get infected. That's not an ‘if', it's a when. Now, I know you're no nurse, and I'm sure as hell no doctor, but even I know what will happen if an infection goes untreated for very long.” His gaze was narrow, probing. “Whether you admit it or not, so do you.”
He was wrong, Murphy didn't know. Not exactly. But she could guess. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. It took effort to find enough breath to speak. Her gaze dipped to the floor and, forcing herself to focus on one thick green fiber of the rug, she whispered, “I could take the metal out.”
Garrett shifted positions. Before she could guess his intent, he grunted and rolled awkwardly onto his side, closing the scant distance between them. His palm cupped her cheek. The contrast between the roughness of his skin and the softness of hers was jarring. And nice. Oh, yes, it was very nice.
“Thank you.”
The husky timbre of his voice snagged her attention. She glanced up, and was instantly ensnared by his deep blue gaze. “For what?” she asked, confused. “I haven't done anything.”
“Yes, you have.” He winced and, levering his weight up on one elbow, gently drew her mouth to his.
Murphy's breath caught. Unlike the last, this kiss was fleeting and tender; Garrett's li
ps barely feathered hotly over hers before they were gone. She felt a stab of disappointment, countered by a sharper pang of wanting more. Inappropriate or not, she wanted a lot more.
“Tell me something,” Garrett said. Was his voice huskier, and just the barest trace shaky? Did even an innocent kiss like this last one disturb him as much as it did her? “Will you help me get to the car, or do I have to do it by myself?”
Murphy swallowed hard. While she knew she should tell him to do it without her help, that she wanted no part in making his wound worse than it already was, two things stopped her. First, instinct said Garrett Thayer wasn't a man accustomed to asking for help. From anyone. It simply wasn't in his nature. Yet he'd asked for hers. How could she deny him? Second, she knew deep down that he was right. It had now been almost three hours since she'd called, yet the authorities still hadn't arrived. She was beginning to doubt they would.
Garrett knew what he was talking about when he said the metal in his thigh had to come out. If it was sharp enough to tear its way in there, it was sharp enough to do enormous damage. And the danger of infection was very real. Did he know she didn't have the stomach to actually take the metal out unless there was absolutely no choice? She would try, yes, but she was honest enough to admit her chances of succeeding were slim. As it was, she'd almost passed out twice just cleaning and bandaging his wound. The thought of…
He needed professional care. Not the kind of care Murphy McKenna was equipped or qualified to provide.
“Okay,” she said finally, and pushed to her feet. With trembling fingers, she raked the dark curls back from her face and glanced down at him. “You're right. If the police aren't here by now, they probably aren't coming. You need to get to a hospital, or at least a good country doctor—which I think is the best you're going to find in Greenville. Still, it's better than nothing.” She nodded, growing more comfortable with the decision now that it was spoken aloud. “I seriously doubt my car can make it into town, however I agree that we do have to try.” She shrugged nervously. “I mean, what's the worst that can happen? We find out the Rabbit can't get through the snow and turn around and come back, right?”
Garrett didn't answer. Instead, he lay there staring up at her. Something in his expression suggested that, while he wanted to agree, if only to reassure her, he also didn't want to lie any more than he already had.
He extended one hand up to her.
Murphy looked at that hand, remembering all too vividly how his palm felt skimming up her spine, cupping her breast, his thumb flicking her nipple to rigid life. With a shiver, she pushed the memory aside, if not the hot aftershocks that tingled through her. Crouching, she wrapped her fingers around his, then coiled his left arm around her neck, preparing to help him to his feet.
It wasn't easy. He was taller and heavier. Where her body was well toned from daily exercise, it retained it's more feminine musculature. Garrett's body, on the other hand, was rock-solid and brawny, male through and through.
“I'll need to get my pants on,” he said, his voice strained, his breathing harsh and irregular.
“Right.” Murphy turned and, the muscles in her lower back aching from his added weight, lowered Garrett onto the edge of the bottom bunk. His pants—what was left of them—were draped over the bed's footboard. She reached out and grabbed them. The denim felt cool and tough clutched in her fist. Her fingers, she noticed, were shaking. From exertion, she told herself, then almost laughed. If that wasn't a lie, nothing was!
She knelt on the floor beside the bed. Her breath caught, her heart set to hammering. She was on eye-level with thighs that were thick, rippling with muscle, the skin of which was coated with a touchably thin pelt of sandy colored hair.
“You'll have to help me,” she said, then cursed inward at the way her voice cracked.
He lifted one leg, his uninjured one, and she slipped the pants over his bare foot, up over his sinewy shin and calve.
“Now, the other,” she instructed, and realized that this time, in an effort to keep her voice calm and neutral, she'd over compensated and sounded cold and demanding.
Garrett grunted, leaned back, slowly lifted his right foot. Murphy had scissored off that pants leg all the way up to the waistband, making it was easier to work it up to his knee. He sighed—with relief?—and put both feet flat on the floor.
“The rest will be easier if I stand up,” he said.
She nodded, refusing to glance upward.
With effort, he slowly, painfully pushed himself up and off the bed. She only wished the twisting inside her stomach was a sympathy pang for the agony she knew he must be going through. It wasn't.
That Murphy should immediately have stood when Garrett did was apparent the second she realized where her gaze now rested.
Garrett's jockey shorts were intriguingly tight, the white cloth intimately hugging the bulge between his legs. The thin cotton left little to the imagination. That was probably just as well—Murphy had a very fertile imagination.
She tried to gulp, but there was no moisture left in her mouth to do it. Her fingers convulsed around the waistband of his jeans; it was a wonder her fingertips didn't bite right through the cloth, her trembling grip was that tight.
Garrett swayed.
“P-put your hands on my shoulders,” she instructed, her voice hoarse.
He did. The warmth of his fingers seared through the thick knit of her sweater, into her skin, into her bloodstream.
Her heartbeat accelerated as she carefully slipped the pants up over his heavily muscled thighs, his hips. Garrett sucked in a ragged gasp when her knuckles grazed his bandaged wound, but she was being as gentle as she could. She would have told him as much, if she'd had a voice. She didn't. It had clogged somewhere in her dry, tight throat, right along with her pounding heart.
The skin on his stomach felt hot, the muscles beneath tight as she eased the waistband into place. Murphy's fingers shook against the snap, and she knew there was no way she was going to be able to fasten the jeans, never mind zip them. It was with relief that she felt his hands brush hers aside. He completed the chore himself.
“Ready?” he asked huskily.
She stood on watery legs, and noticed her equilibrium was slightly off. Hoisting one of his arms around her shoulder, she coiled the other around his waist and nodded. “Ready.”
Garrett seemed to be trying to put as little weight on her as he could, but the fact was, walking was extremely painful. As they made their way toward the bedroom door, he seemed to be leaning more and more heavily against her.
This was the second time tonight she'd taken on the majority of this man's weight. The muscles in her back, arms and shoulders reminded her of the fact by aching in protest. She didn't complain. Her three-night-a-week aerobics class at the local Y had taught her that burning muscles, labored breathing and sweat were not fatal. “I'll get you into the car, then come back for our things, okay?”
His answer was a clipped nod.
It took forever to reach the front door. When they finally did, Murphy stopped and glanced up at Garrett. She would have been hard pressed to say which of them was breathing heaviest. Sucking in a shaky breath, and still trying to balance the majority of his weight, she kicked the front door open.
A blast of cold air slapped them in the face as, clinging to each other, they ventured into the snowy night.
THEY'D BEEN on the road for fifteen minutes. In that time, if they'd covered a mile, Murphy would have been surprised.
Not that she would be able to tell, even if she could afford to take her eyes off the road for the second it would take to check the mileage. Her speedometer had broken last month and she hadn't had a chance to fix it. As for the mileage do-hickey, that hadn't worked from the day she'd bought the car.
Murphy considered asking Garrett if a car minus those options was legal—if he was really a cop, he'd know, wouldn't he?—then decided against it. Driving in and of itself was eating up all her concentration.
&n
bsp; Trying to navigate the car with only one operating windshield wiper, during a severe snow storm, with no heat…well, all of it made a bad situation worse. It didn't help that the windshield kept frosting over on the inside, and she was constantly forced to slow down and wipe away the misty condensation with the sleeve of her coat.
Her nerves were raw.
Garrett's sneeze startled a gasp out of her.
Apparently, it also startled Moonshine, who'd curled up on Garrett's lap in the passenger seat.
“You know, I really wish you hadn't brought this thing along,” Garrett said. His voice was nasally, his nose stuffy despite the allergy pill she'd made him swallow down with a handful of snow scarcely ten minutes ago.
“You know,” Murphy countered, squinting when she lost sight of the road, then quickly found it again, “I really wasn't about to leave him behind. Except for my brother, Moonshine is the only family I've got. What if the power had gone off? He would have frozen to death.”
They lapsed into a stiff silence, which lasted for another half a mile—or eight minutes, depending on who was counting.
Garrett was the first to break the quiet. “What grade?”
Murphy frowned, never taking eyes off the road. “Huh?”
“What grade do you teach?”
“What makes you think I'm a teacher?”
That made him stop and think for a second. “Just a hunch.”
A hunch? Garrett was a stranger—she instantly pushed aside the memory of his kiss—how could he have any hunches about her?
The only reason Murphy answered him was because talking, she soon realized, was a nice distraction. That and, truth be told, she liked the rich, gravelly timbre of his voice. Enough, at least, to encourage more conversation. “I'm a social worker.”
His disbelief was palpable. “Really?”
“No, I'm lying,” she quipped, then grinned to soften the snap of sarcasm in her tone. “Yes, really. Well, I was until a week ago.” She scowled. “I'm not sure what I am now.” That wasn't true. Murphy knew exactly what she was. Unemployed. Rather, she would be come Monday unless she changed her mind.
Murphy's Law Page 6
