“Take your shirt off and let me see what you’ve done now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured sarcastically as he unbuttoned his shirt and obliged her.
Catherine opened her basket, then made the mistake of glancing back to him.
His slow, languid movements captured her gaze as those long, strong fingers of his worked the buttons through the black cambric. She had always loved those hands. The way they felt laced in hers, the pleasure and comfort they had always managed to give her.
Her throat dried at the memory.
He opened his shirt, then set to work on the buttons of his white union suit. And with every white button that opened, she saw more and more of his perfect, tawny flesh.
She had forgotten just how nerve-wracking the sight of his bare skin could be. The years had done nothing but make his muscles leaner, more defined. And all too well she remembered what it felt like to slide her hand over those taut ripples. The way his hard stomach felt sliding against her own as he held himself above her and drove her into paradise with long, luscious strokes.
Her body growing hot, it took all her concentration to force herself to reach for the makeshift bandage on his right biceps. His arm flexed seductively as her fingers brushed his skin, and a jolt of molten lust tore through her. There were few things on earth that felt better than those hard, strong biceps flexing beneath her hands.
Catherine clenched her teeth in frustration. How could he make her so breathless after what he had put her through?
Why was her body so determined to betray her? And right then, she wished desperately for an off switch to stop the overwhelming desire coursing through her veins.
Tend his wound, tend his wound – she mentally repeated the words over and over, hoping to gain some control over herself.
I will not succumb to him!
By all that was holy, she wouldn’t.
Untying his bandage, Catherine immediately saw the bullet wound. “You’ve been shot?”
“And can you believe it wasn’t by you?”
She stiffened at his playful tone. “You’re not funny.”
“Not even a little?”
“I told you, Mr. O’Callahan, I’m immune to your charms.”
Don’t you wish! If only she could live up to those brave words.
“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” he snapped at her. “I have a name and you used to use it.”
She didn’t dare use it right then, because if she did, she had no doubt she would be his to do with as he pleased. Just the sound of those syllables on her tongue would be enough to finish her off.
She struggled to bring herself under control. “I used to do a lot of things with you that I don’t do anymore.”
“Such as?”
“Use your imagination.”
That silver-gray gaze dipped to her breasts, which drew tight and heavy at his heated perusal. “Oh, I’m using it, all right. And I can well imagine the sound of your sighs of pleasure in my ear as I nibble the flesh of your neck. Do you remember?”
“No,” she lied, her voice amazingly calm.
But in spite of her denials, she felt her body melt against the heat of that silver-gray stare. Even worse, she could smell the warm, uniquely masculine scent of him. It was all she could do not to bury her face in the crook of his neck and inhale the intoxicating scent.
Tend his wound, tend his wound! She forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand.
“Is the bullet still in there?” she asked as she examined the hole in his arm.
“Woman,” he said huskily, his gaze never leaving her breasts, “right now I have a loaded gun just waiting to…” his voice trailed off.
He finally looked up and met her gaze, but she couldn’t read anything in the smoldering depths of his eyes except the raw hunger that scorched her through and through. “Did I just say that out loud?”
She nodded.
He cleared his throat and looked across the room. “No,” he said quickly. “The bullet passed clean through.”
Disregarding his answer, she gingerly examined the wound to see for herself. As he predicted, it looked to be clean. “It needs to be stitched.”
He met her gaze again. Only three inches separated their faces and she could feel his breath on her face as he spoke. “Then by all means, have at it. I’m sure nothing would give you greater pleasure than to take a needle to my hide.”
She should take pleasure in it, but she knew she wouldn’t. How could she ever delight in hurting the man who had stolen her heart?
But she would never let him know that. Not after he’d hurt her. No, she’d never let him know just how much power he still held over her.
Never.
“Actually, I won’t feel anything,” she said, reaching for her basket.
O’Connell clenched his teeth in repressed frustration.
I won’t feel anything, he mocked silently as she reached for a needle and thread.
You stitch the wound, and when you’re finished, I promise you you’ll feel something, all right. She was going to remember his touch if it was the last thing he did.
O’Connell felt himself harden even more as she placed the thread between her lips and licked it. The tip of her tongue poked out as she threaded the needle.
I can’t stand this. His mind screamed from the needless torment. If he didn’t know better, he would swear she did it on purpose.
When she set to work on his wound, he felt no pain, only the pleasure of her soft hands against his bare flesh. Her breath fell against his shoulder as she leaned so close to him he could smell the fresh sunshine of her.
Over and over he could envision letting her hair down and burying his hands in the thick waves. Feeling it fall across his chest as he placed her above him and feasted on those plump, luscious breasts.
Catherine could barely steady her hand as she closed the wound. Her memory of touching his hard, hot muscles couldn’t compete with the reality of her hand against him now.
Her head swam at the contact. Worse, she could feel his heat surrounding her, feel his breath against her neck. His shoulder pressing against her right breast.
A thousand chills shot through her. It was all she could do not to moan and demand he take her right then and there. Oh, it was torturous. Especially after all the years she had yearned to see him again, all the years she had lain awake remembering the feel of him lying against her. The feel of him sliding inside her.
After what seemed an eternity, she finished the four tiny stitches that closed the wound. She had barely tied the knot off when he reached up, cupped her face in his hand, and took possession of her lips.
Catherine sighed at the contact.
He’d been the only man who had ever kissed her and the taste of him had been branded into her memory long, long ago.
He pulled her to him possessively and sat her down on the bench before him as he plundered her mouth.
Catherine buried her hands in his silken hair and pressed her breasts against his hot, naked chest. She should stop him, she knew it. But for her life she didn’t want to. All she wanted was to savor him like she’d done all those years ago.
Volcanic heat poured through her body, pooling itself between her legs as she ached for him in the most primitive of ways. She wanted him desperately. And only he could pacify the aching heat that demanded his body inside hers.
He was her husband and the part of her that still loved him came rushing to the forefront. Under the assault of his scorching kiss, that part of her took possession of her common sense and forced it to flee her mind.
Before she knew what was happening, she felt her hair fall down around her shoulders and it was only then that he pulled back from her lips to kiss her cheek, her eyelid, the tip of her nose. His lips were hot and moist as they branded a fiery trail over her face.
“My precious Catherine,” he whispered in her ear. “Let me love you the way you deserve to be loved.”
She felt his hands unbuttoning her shirtwaist. She wanted to tell him no, but in truth she couldn’t. The words lodged in her throat because deep down she wanted him. She had always wanted him, and no matter how badly he had hurt her, there was still a part of her that needed him.
And she gave herself over to that part.
He opened her shirtwaist, then buried those hot lips against the tops of her breasts as his hands reached around back to unlace her corset. She sighed in pleasure as she buried her face in his hair and inhaled the wicked, warm scent that was her husband.
O’Connell’s head swam from the scent of her as he buried his face between the soft mounds of her breasts and licked her salty skin. It had been so long since he tasted her, felt her, and he knew that he would spend the rest of this night making up for the five years they had been apart.
The five long years he had been without a woman.
In her arms, he had always felt that anything was possible. That he could do anything, be anything. No other person had ever lifted him to the heights of goodness and pleasure that she did.
She was the one truth in his life that he could depend on. The one person he truly needed.
He ran his tongue over the tops of her breasts, delighting in the way she shivered in his arms as he struggled with the corset laces.
And at that moment he despised whoever had invented the cursed thing. It had to be some old, doddering matron seeking to preserve her daughter’s virtue, for no man would ever design so inconvenient a contraption.
At last he loosened it to where he could free her breasts to his hungry mouth.
Catherine cupped his head to her as she stifled a moan of pure pleasure. His hand caressed her swollen breasts, drawing the taut nipples so tight she could barely stand it. Heat tore through her body as an ache started deep in the center of her. It was a familiar longing that she only felt in his presence.
No other man had ever aroused her the way he did. No one. And she doubted if anyone ever could.
And then his hands were under her skirt, stroking and teasing as they skimmed over her calves and thighs. One hand cupped her buttocks as he wrapped his other arm around her and drew her up tight against him.
He reclaimed her lips for one hungry, pulsating kiss, then pulled back.