Summer Chaparral by Genevieve Turner

Author:Genevieve Turner [Turner, Genevieve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penny Bright Publishing, LLC

Chapter Twelve

“If you turn off here,” Catarina said sometime later, all innocence, “there’s a sandy bank along the creek that’s pleasant for sitting and watching the water go by. If you’d like to, that is.”

Before she finished, he’d turned off the road.

As they passed through the tall buckwheat lining the trail, she smiled at the sight greeting them on the other side. A field of golden-orange poppies waved at them in the late afternoon breeze, an endless carpet of brightness to warm her soul. She reached a hand out of the cart to brush along the flowers in greeting, the softness of the petals welcoming her in return.

When they arrived at the creek bank, protected from the road by a thicket of overgrown cottonwoods, one brave male quail poked his head out. He peered this way, then that, searching for any danger, the little black question mark upon his head bobbing with each movement. After a few moments, he raced to another clump of brush, his little harem of females following closely behind. Their distinctive ha-HA-ha came from deep within the brush as they called to one another.

Jace pulled the donkey to a stop, then swept her out of the cart.

“Wait,” she cried, giggling breathlessly, “you can’t just set the brake—you need to hobble that donkey, or he’ll run off and we’ll be stuck here.”

“Goddamn that donkey,” he grumbled, dropping her into the soft sand and marching back to the offending animal.

“There,” he said, stalking back to her. “Are you happy now?”

Happy? No, the intent lines of him as he bore down on her didn’t make her happy. Happy wasn’t the hot shivers racing along her skin, quivering into open flames.

Before she could turn to ash, his arms were around her and his mouth was on hers, but not like before. No, this time he was slow, almost tentative, as if he was unsure how to kiss a fiancée instead of a dripping wet girl on a summer’s day.

His mouth coaxed hers open, with a teasing promise of more to come if she allowed him in.

I want more.

Around her waist, his arms held her loosely—tight enough to keep her from falling, but not allowing the full length of him to come against her. The kiss was so different from the ones they’d shared at the dance or by the water trough; she marveled at how many varieties they came in. If she had to give this kind of kiss a name, it would be a wooing kind. A kiss that asked, instead of took. A kiss that was open, instead of furtive. A kiss that was slow, instead of stolen.

She loved them all, but this was her favorite so far.

She sagged a little more in his arms, hoping he would gather her close so she could feel him, his hard chest against her aching breasts, his hips against the desire pooling in her lower belly.

Instead of taking her hint, he moved a hand slowly up her back, his fingers tangling in and destroying her upswept hair in order to capture her more firmly under his mouth.

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