A Question of Love by Elizabeth Sinclair

Author:Elizabeth Sinclair
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2013-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Moments later, Matt reappeared in the small bedroom, a navy blue sleeping bag clasped in his arms. He tore the dustcover from the bed, unzipped the sleeping bag and spread it over the bare mattress.

He kicked off his sneakers, took her hand and led her to the bed. Slowly, they sank to their knees in the center of the mattress, their gazes locked in heated invitation.

Haltingly, agonizingly, he unzipped her dress. With a whisper, it slipped off her shoulders, then fell slowly to her waist, its downward progress stopped only by the swell of her hips. Trailing his fingertips tantalizingly over the quivering flesh threatening to spill from the cups of her bra, he stared deep into her eyes.

Matt’s touch was new, yet familiar. The same, yet different. She stilled beneath it, unconsciously studying the changes. Calluses. Not the smooth fingertips of the young man who’d made love to her in the family pool.

But his touch…Ah, his touch. Mature, knowing, confident, yet tender, ever sensitive to her needs. He relentlessly explored the places on her body that had longed for his attention. She stiffened with the effort to keep from crying out.

Suddenly, when his roughened skin caught on the fine lace of her bra, Matt pulled his hand away. “My hands are too rough.”

She caught his fingers and laid them on her partially exposed breast. “Your hands are just right.”

His fingers contracted, kneading her softness, then he buried his face in her midriff. His warm breath feathered over her sensitized skin. She gasped. He kissed her quivering flesh. When he moved his face, the cool air hit her moistened middle and sent tingles of erotic pleasure dancing over her.

He inhaled deeply, then stood and locked his gaze with hers. “I always loved the way you smell. I didn’t realize until now how much I missed it.” Sadness invaded his eyes. “It’s been so long, Honey.”

Although she agreed and wanted to add “too long,” she couldn’t find the strength to form the words and force them from her lips. Instead, she dropped her hands to his hips, then burrowed them beneath the hem of his T-shirt. With the same tantalizing slowness he’d employed removing her dress, she inched the material up his chest, the backs of her hands lightly skimming his bare flesh.

By the time she approached his underarms, his patience had reached its limit. He grabbed the shirt from her trembling hands, then ripped it over his head. He threw it to the floor and turned his attention to her bra. For a moment, he fumbled clumsily with the delicate catch. Then, as if the memory flooded back to him, with one deft twist of his fingers he popped it open. The lacy garment slid down her arms and off her hands, to fall forgotten between them.

She knelt before him, fully exposed to his hungry gaze. A sudden bout of shyness accosted her and she reached to cover herself with her hands. “A woman’s body changes after childbirth,” she explained, when he looked at her in question.

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