Target of the Heart by M. L. Buchman

Author:M. L. Buchman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Buchman Bookworks, Inc.
Published: 2015-03-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

“I’ve,” Pete huffed out the word and tried again. “I’ve never needed anyone so badly.”

Danielle wrapped her legs around his hips and crossed her ankles. Her arms were locked about his neck so hard he couldn’t have moved if there was an attack.

“I didn’t,” he’d kill himself if he had, “hurt you, did I?”

Her purr wasn’t one of contentment but rather of triumphant declaration. He’d take that as a no. By the sounds she was making, an emphatic one.

He lay against her and only slowly became aware of other sensations around them. One of her feet crossed over his butt was still clad in pants and an Army boot, the sole of which was digging in hard. The long Nevada grass wasn’t as soft as the lush Alabama grass of Fort Rucker. He’d imagined in a hundred fantasies bedding this woman outdoors on a lush soft bed of nature. This wasn’t soft at all. Dry, scratchy, and embedded in hardpan soil with all the give of fifty-year old concrete. But he couldn’t imagine moving just yet, not even to accommodate her comfort.

Pete noticed next how well they fit together and just how uninterested he was in moving. Her curves pressed against him and her Chinook-flying powerful legs wrapped around him. She shifted once or twice, but it wasn’t in discomfort, it was to settle their hips closer together.

He’d never just taken a woman like this. Not in high school, not drunk in college. He might have paid less attention to a woman’s pleasure than he should have at times, but he’d never simply needed to drive himself into one and declare that was where he belonged.

Pete spotted her discarded shirt off to the side. He gave them both a judicious roll that placed his back, at least most of it, on her shirt and shifted her off the itchy grass.

Ever since that first brush of lips a month ago he’d wondered what it would be like to make love to this woman. You still don’t know, Pete.

“What don’t you know?” her voice came out on a happy sigh.

“I’d, uh,” have to be more careful about thinking aloud, “pictured our first time together differently.”

“You pictured it?” No hint of disgust in her voice.

“Yes.”

“How often?” No hint of coy either. Or of letting him off the hook anytime soon.

He tried to get enough distance to look at her face. But since her arms were still crossed behind his neck and he was lying on them and then the ground, he could neither move downward nor she upward. Despite the crick her arms were putting in his neck, he wasn’t ready to release her yet. So they lay there speaking mouth to each others’ ear.

“Often.”

She did a thing with her hips that had him hissing with the sensations scorching up his body, and grinding his butt into the sharp grass.

“Very often,” he amended.

“How?”

“How what? How have I fantasized about you?”

“Um-hm.”

“No way am I answering that, woman.”

She did the hip thing again.

“No way,” he managed on a groan.

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