Part 4 (1/2)
”Yes. But-it's embarra.s.sing.”
”To who? There's just me and you out here.”
Annie glanced back at the light pouring from the windowpanes of the social hall. The strains of the music reached them, sounding faraway and off-key. No one would see.
She stepped across the wooden footrest to reach the ground, and pushed against the arms of her chair for leverage. Slowly, she lifted her weight until she was upright. The chair remained safely behind her.
”Have you ever stood outside at night before?”
”Not for years.”
He rolled the chair completely away, surprising her. She stood in the open, nothing to fall onto except the hard earth. Her heart hammered and she felt quite vulnerable.
Luke reached for her hand.
She grasped it like a lifeline.
”Let's walk away from the tree and stand under the stars,” he coaxed.
”But there are roots.”
”If you fall, I'll pick you up.”
She pictured herself falling, pictured him picking her up, dusting her off, as she'd seen Diana do to little Will so many times. She laughed out loud.
Yes, he could pick her up. What was so awful about falling? What was the worst thing that could happen to her? A skinned knee? A dirty dress? A bruised ego?
Holding his strong, callused hand, she moved forward across the gra.s.s with her ungainly limp. Since her childhood, she'd stolen only secret steps in her room, never outside on the ground. She'd forgotten how the gra.s.s felt beneath her shoes.
”Wrangler's over here,” he said, leading her toward the penned horses.
”Is he? You rode him?”
Luke clucked and his horse stepped away from a cl.u.s.ter of animals and walked over to the pine pole fence.
Annie placed her left hand on the fence for support. Luke released her other hand and turned it over, placing her palm on Wrangler's soft nose.
Annie smiled and stroked the horse's bony forehead. He nuzzled the front of Luke's s.h.i.+rt. Luke took something from his pocket and opened his palm. The horse bit it delicately and crunched.
”What was that?”
”A sugar cube. They were on the table with the coffee.”
”I think those were intended for the coffee,” she said with a grin.
”I had punch, which was delicious, even without whiskey, because you poured it.”
She turned toward him. Moonlight bathed his black hair and his broad shoulders, now only an arm's length from her touch.
”I wanted to taste the sweetness on your fingers,” he said softly.
Annie's heart kicked against her ribs at his words, at the thought of his lips, his tongue on her fingers. This wasn't just flattery, it was a wicked thing to say, she was sure. ”Did you gentlemen drink whiskey and smoke cigars at your gathering?” she asked, to change the subject.
”We did.”
It sounded sinful, but not as sinful as him tasting her fingers. Her fingertips tingled at the suggestive thought.
And then Annie did the craziest, boldest, most spontaneous thing she'd ever done in her life. She reached across the distance between them and touched his mouth. He had a small scar on his top lip that she remembered seeing in the sunlight, and she traced his lip, searching by feel. ”You have a scar on your lip...here.”
”Mm-hmm.”
Beneath her fingers, his lips were warm and smooth, pliant, and ever so sensual. ”Where did you get it?”
His mouth formed the word she felt from her fingers to her heart. ”Burdell.”
The image of that day burst into her mind with cruel vengeance. Luke hadn't stood a chance against her much larger and stronger brother, not to mention his crowd of friends. She vividly remembered the trickle of crimson at the corner of his mouth. She'd cried her heart out night after night, wondering if he was all right. If he hated her.
”Did you hate me, Luke?”
He raised a hand and circled her wrist, his long hard fingers gently enveloping. ”Of course not.”
”I'm sorry.” The words were so inadequate, she was ashamed to have said them.
”The only thing I was ever sorry about was that your family hated me after that. I never got close enough to talk to you again.”
”They just meant to protect me,” she said, knowing that she was defending them, and not meaning to excuse what had happened to Luke.
”They mean well,” he agreed against the sensitive pads of her fingers. A moment later, he opened his mouth and touched his warm damp tongue to her skin.
Annie's arm jerked, but she didn't draw away. His breath, hot and moist, sent a s.h.i.+ver up her arm to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and tightened them. Her whole body tingled with unfamiliar antic.i.p.ation.
”I probably taste like horse,” she said in a shaky whisper.
”I eat and sleep horses, so I wouldn't notice,” he said. ”I think you taste like peppermint ice cream.”
She laughed then, an expression of nervous release and tactile enjoyment.
Luke cupped her hand and pulled it away from his mouth at the same time he stepped in and drew her close with his other arm. ”I want to kiss you.”
Annie'd seen her father give her mother pecks on the cheek. She'd seen Diana kiss Will. But she'd seen Guy Halverson kiss his new bride after they were p.r.o.nounced man and wife that afternoon, and she knew the kiss Luke intended to give her was more like that one. And she wanted him to.
She moved her hand from the pine rail to his shoulder for support. Beneath her palm he was strong and solid, the arm around her waist muscled, yet unrestricting.
She raised her face expectantly. Luke lowered his head and covered her lips with his, a sweet press of flesh and a gentle bonding of souls. She felt beautiful and desirable and feminine in his arms, heady emotions she'd never felt before.
There was no pity in this kiss, no embarra.s.sment, no condescension. The moment was filled with honeyed yearning, joint appreciation and desire. All the loneliness of a lifetime welled up to be purged by this one kiss.
He raised his head, separating their lips, and Annie almost cried with disappointment that it was over. But he made no move to pull away, placing a palm along her cheek, grazing the curls at her temple with his fingertips. ”You're delicate, Annie,” he said, his breath against her cheek. ”But you're stronger than anyone thinks.”
”I'm not so delicate,” she said, denying the frailty she so detested. ”I'm not delicate at all.” She threaded her fingers into the satiny cool hair at the back of his neck and tightened them as though to hold him captive with that gentle grip.