Today we have a smooch from Undone By His Touch by Annie West, but first ...
and she'll send you a copy of The Man Who Saw Her beauty.
He yanked her hand to
his face.
A tremor hit her as he
pressed her finger on the damaged flesh so she felt the ridge of healed tissue.
But her overwhelming impression was of heat and excitement – an illicit thrill
that skirled in her abdomen, clenching muscles.
Slowly, oh so slowly,
he dragged her hand down, her fingers to the scar, her hand dwarfed by
his.
Through the shaving
cream, centimetre by centimetre the skin to skin contact continued. It was a
punishment, a challenge, yet to Chloe it had the force of a caress. Potent,
provocative, drawing out hidden longings and exposing them, raw and unvarnished,
to the light of day.
His warm skin scent was
inside her, his heat infused hers. The prison of his long legs evoked a
delicious, terrible thrill she fought and failed to conquer.
Now her hand was beside
his mouth, pressed there, feeling the supple skin stretch as he
spoke.
‘You have the gall to
call that character?’
She opened her mouth
but before she could speak he dragged her hand away.
‘Or this?’ He slammed
her hand, palm down on his thigh, right up near his hip.
Chloe’s heart galloped
high in her chest as she looked at her fingers splayed under his, moulding the
wide muscle of his upper leg. Her breath came in raw, shallow gasps at the
intensity of the contact.
His fury. His
frustration. Her regret and sorrow and still, through it all, the unrepentant
hum of sexual energy that furred her nape and drew her breasts tight and full
and heavy.
Under his guidance her
hand slid down over soft denim that covered hot flesh and uneven scar
tissue.
‘What would you call
that, Chloe?’ The jeering note had faded from his voice, replaced by a weariness
that betrayed the effort it took to face the world as if it was his for the
taking.
Now, feeling the
tremors running through his thigh, the fierce clench of his hand, she glimpsed
what it cost him to appear in control.
Her heart missed a beat
as another protective layer crumbled. Soon there’d be nothing left to keep her
safe.
‘Well, Chloe?’ His
voice dropped low, reverberating through her. ‘Is that full of character too?
Should I be grateful for the accident
that blinded me?’
‘Maybe it sounds trite,
but there are lots of people worse off than you.’
‘You’re right,’ he
snapped. ‘It does sound trite.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Not for
speaking the truth, but that he obviously wasn’t ready to hear it.
His sightless eyes
glittered with barely leashed emotion.
‘Do you have any idea
how infuriating it is to be lectured about looking on the bright side? About how
lucky I am? To have false hope of
recovery held out like a holy grail?’
‘No.’ She stood
stiffly.
‘No.’ His expression
was grim. ‘How could you?’
Abruptly he stood.
Still, he held her hand and she wondered if he’d forgotten
it.
But then, with unerring
accuracy, he lifted their joined hands to her cheek. Together they stroked the
contour of her cheekbone and her skin came alive at the incredible intimacy of
their joined touch.
‘You’re whole,’ he
said, so low it was like a vibration rather than a sound. ‘Your life hasn’t
turned upside down so that everything you took for granted, everything, is now exponentially more
difficult if not downright impossible.’
Their hands traced down
to the corner of her mouth and a ripple of awareness took her by
surprise.
‘You’re not dogged by
regret over what you couldn’t do,
that you failed the one person who above all relied on
you.’
Suddenly he loosened
his hold and let her hand fall. It tingled as blood rushed
back.
His tall frame crowded
her into the corner, making her acutely aware of how her wayward body responded
to him. Even tipping her head up to look into his face shot a tiny thrill
through her.
His hand settled on her
face, fingers spreading to mould her jaw.
Chloe sucked in a
startled breath as he slid his hand over her, cupping her chin and circling her
cheek almost as if he could picture her face through
touch.
Each stroke reinforced
the urgent, eager need for more. It was all she could do to stand still, not
tilt her head into his hand.
‘How old are you, Chloe
Daniels?’ His voice hit that low, rich note that made something curl inside
her.
‘Twenty seven.’ She
straightened and tilted her chin higher, only to find his hand dropping to her
throat as if she’d invited his feather light caress there.
Whorls of lazy heat
eddied at his touch and her head eased back.
She gulped, desperately
trying to regain her composure. ‘How old are you?’
Long fingers stroked
her lips, cajoling her into silence.
‘Thirty four.’ His head
tipped towards her as if, even blind, it was important that he look her in the
eyes.
‘Thirty four, blind and
scarred. Not the man I was.’
His voice was an
indictment, as if he saw himself as less a man than before.
He leaned towards her
and her breath caught.
‘And you, Chloe, are
smooth and young and unscarred.’ He paused while his hand traced her pedestrian
nose and returned with heart-stopping intent to her mouth. Her lips felt swollen
and pulsing, as if waiting for more than the touch of his
hand.
Fire sparked in her
veins and she found herself straining towards him.
‘You’re whole,’ he
murmured, ‘and I’m…’
He shook his head, his
mouth grim, even as he framed her face with his fingers, letting them slide
through her hair. Tremulous delight filled her at his gentle massaging
pressure.
Then, with an
abruptness that floored her, his hands dropped and he stepped back, his
shoulders stiff, his face a forbidding mask not even the smear of shaving cream
could humanise.
‘I don’t want you
here.’
The statement, so
simple, so unambiguous, stuck in her dazed mind as if he spoke a foreign
tongue.
When she didn’t move
his brow pleated in a ferocious scowl. His hands curled into tight
fists.
‘Get out of here,
Chloe.’ Words spat from him like bullets. ‘Now!’
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