Wild in the Field

Nine

The next morning, Camille carted two armfuls of laundry to the house. Unfortunately, Violet caught her scooping up more dirty clothes from the hamper.

“What’s this?” Violet said in shock.

“Hey. I’ve washed clothes a bunch of times since I’ve been here. Yours, too.”

“I know you have. But suddenly you’re toting junk to the dump. And you’re washing sheets every couple days. And your windows are clean. Could it be…you’re starting to feel a little sociable again?”

“Not willingly. More like, I’m working outside so much that everything gets dirty faster.”

“Ah. So it isn’t about a certain guy half living over at the cottage-”

“Pete is not half living over at the cottage.”

Violet’s eyebrows arched. “Did I say Pete’s name? My, we are defensive.” A rusted heap of a truck pulled up in the yard. Vi glanced out, and then hustled outside to greet the visitors.

Judging from the conversation, Violet had hired the two men to do some heavy-duty landscaping around the front of the house and Herb Haven.

Camille had just been considering murdering her sister. Man, no one could tease more mercilessly than a sister, and Violet was even worse than Daisy. But now, she watched Vi change personalities from a completely normal, pain in the neck sister into Ms. Brainless Ditz again.

It was the men. They were both late-twenties. Sun-bronzed. Their shoulders and arms were ropey with muscles, their jeans riding low, their hair shaggy. Cute enough, but young, and nothing special, really. Just guys.

Yet Violet’s whole behavior changed around them. Her laughter came out trilly; her movements mimicked an airhead; she chattered nine for a dozen and acted dense as a thicket.

Camille cocked her hands on her hips, thinking soon. She could hardly interfere in someone else’s life when her own was still in pieces. But soon, she simply had to figure what the Sam Hill was going on with her sister.

But right then, she scooped up her clean sheets and towels and laundry and hustled back to the cottage. Her goal was to be out in the lavender before lunch. In her mind, she’d set a goal-she was giving herself a maximum of one more week to finish the pruning. Really, it was ridiculously late in the season to be trying to do this kind of work now, but she was close to the end. Once the pruning was done, she’d have essentially done a needed job for her sister-something to earn her keep. What Violet intended to do with the damn stuff from there wasn’t her business or her problem.

The lavender was only a symbol, though. Camille knew full well that Pete was welling into a crisis, in both her mind and her heart. But where she didn’t seem able to handle Pete, she was determined to handle the things she could. The lavender, for one. For another, she was determined to set the cottage to rights-all things thrown out from her old life, a keeper pile established, the cottage cleaned up for real. And then…

Well, then she needed to make decisions about her life.

She’d been coasting long enough. And if she still wasn’t sure where to aim from here, she resolved to stop babying herself.

By the time she reached the cottage porch, her arms ached from the weight of the two laundry baskets. She used her elbow to open the screen door…but then startling her, she heard a mewling sound from somewhere in the living room.

Killer must have heard the same sound, because he immediately initiated a howl worthy of a banshee.

“Shut up, you dolt.”

Sometimes he obeyed. This morning, he didn’t seem inclined, so she bribed him outside with a dog cookie and closed the door-the fresh air had been welcome on this warm morning, but she couldn’t hear herself think with all Killer’s howling. And then she turned around to face the towel-draped cage on the floor.

Warily she pulled off the towel, and discovered a mournfully panicked cat. At least, she thought it was a cat. It looked like a pumpkin run over by a tar truck, with a torn ear, a gimpy leg and a face only its mother could have loved.

“Oh, no,” she said. “Dream on. This is not happening.”

The cat prowled a circle in the cage, mewling pitifully.

“No,” she said. “Practice it. Because it’s the only word you’re going to hear from me.” Fuming, she stormed into the kitchen, slammed a bowl on the counter and foraged in the fridge. Almost nothing was in there, no surprise, but there happened to be a couple slices of cheese and the leftovers from a sandwich the day before.

When she came back to the cat, she snarled, “I’ll feed you. Because you’re obviously hungry. But you’re not staying here. I’ve got one dog I’m not keeping now. There isn’t a prayer in the universe that I’ll take on a cat, so forget it.”

The minute she opened the cage, she assumed the cat would fly out, and either hide or dive for the food. Instead the mangy, hairy thing immediately started up a thunderous purr and tried to climb on her lap, nuzzling her nose into Camille’s tummy.

Obviously she had to pet her, but she still put the truth on the line. “I hate cats. Even before, when I was a nice person, cats were just never my thing. That’s just the way it is.”

The cat, who weighed somewhere around three ton, circled her lap and then settled down, eyes closed, claws kneading Camille’s skin through jeans. Probably drawing blood. She showed no signs of getting up. The torn ear looked scabby. It was a monster-sized cat, but Camille could still feel its ribs underneath all that matted long hair. The face looked as if someone had thrown black and orange paint on it in blotches.

“Look. You’re not staying on my lap. You’re not staying here at all,” Camille said irritably.

No response.

“Okay. Look. You can have something to eat and you can nap here for a few minutes. Then that’s it. So don’t get too settled in.”

Still, no response. Camille waited. And waited. But the cat showed no inclination to stop purring, much less to move, so eventually she shifted her onto a chair.

Faster than spit, she grabbed her car keys from the kitchen, jogged outside and snarled, “Killer, come with me.” The dog enthusiastically jumped in the front seat and sat down, shooting her a look of complete commiseration. “Yes,” she said, “that’s exactly what I was thinking. What low-down varmint would do this to me? What pond scum? What worm-brained, conscienceless, stone-headed…”

Cam was still frothing insults when she pulled into Pete’s drive. With Killer by her side, she marched to the back door like a soldier on a mission, shoulders arched, spine stiff. She pounded on the back door with a fist, then stepped in and yoo-hooed.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t know the MacDougal house. The Campbell household had been female to the core, where Pete’s family had been testosterone based. The guys likely wouldn’t recognize the sound of their own doorbell, so she didn’t hesitate to walk in and yoo-hoo. Still, when no one instantly answered, she propped her hands on her hips and looked around.

Nothing much had changed since Pete’s mom was alive. Newer appliances, but his mom had always been tuned to a practical channel. The kitchen reflected a floor prepared to cope with mud; the back hall had plenty of stow space for hats and boots; the table was big enough to serve serious-sized platters. Nothing inside had seen wax in a decade. Nothing needed wax. The coffeemaker was a size to give caffeine highs to a platoon, the glasses and silverware sturdy.

It struck her as odd, how she’d always felt more comfortable here than in the house she grew up in-but undoubtedly that was because of the decor, not the company.

When no one answered after a second yoo-hoo, she turned around, thinking she’d search out the bounders in the barns-but then Ian yelled a welcome. Pete’s dad caned through the door with a huge wreath of a smile. A gnarled hand scooped around her shoulder and trapped her in a hug. “There now, Camille, I haven’t seen you in a blue moon. Got a mug of coffee with your name on it, just isn’t poured yet.”

“I didn’t come for-” She couldn’t get that thought out, before both the boys thundered down the stairs.

“Camille! Hey! You never came to visit us before!”

“I didn’t exactly come to visit-”

She just couldn’t get a word in. First Sean pounded her on the back, then Simon. Ian took off with her sweater. A box of doughnuts was shoved in front of her-well, part of a box, anyway. There seemed to be two left, not looking too scarily stale. Coffee splashed over the side of the mug. Ian’s sneaky grin reminded her of his son’s-too much so.

“We don’t fuss much in this house. Paper towels do as well as napkins, you know? But you never were the kind to care about those kinds of things-”

“Well, no, of course not.”

“We told you, Gramps. She isn’t like a regular woman.”

Camille touched her forehead, thinking that if she heard that one more time, even one more small time, she might just shriek. Exactly. Like. A. Regular. Woman. “Mr. MacDougal, I’m really glad to see you, but honestly, all of you, I only came about the cat.”

“Cat? What cat?”

Sean said swiftly, innocently, “Dang. I wonder where Dad is.”

“Gramps, you should see what she did with Darby. He’s like this sweet old thing now-”

“The cat,” Camille repeated firmly.

Both boys stole another look at each other. “Yup, we’re gonna get Dad right away. Gramps, you talk to Cam, okay? Like make her have another doughnut, okay? Okay?”

“Okay,” Ian said peaceably, and smiled across the counter at Camille as if he’d been waiting years for her to finally visit. “I remember you from when you were knee-high, Pete carrying you on his shoulders, walking to the bus stop.”

“Yeah?” She heard a door open, Pete’s voice, the door closed, then the muffled sound of two cracked adolescent voices talking double time. “The boys got me the cat, didn’t they?”

“Sean? Simon?” Ian’s jaw dropped as if such an idea shocked him speechless. “They’re sure taken with you,” he said, as if the complete change of subject worked well for him.

“Mr. MacDougal,” Camille said warily, but he interrupted.

“Just call me Ian. You’re practically family.”

She intended to answer that, but her heart suddenly started thudding with such alarm that she could barely swallow. Family? Family? What in God’s name had the boys been telling their grandfather? What had Pete?

And then there was Pete loping toward her from the back study, flanked by his sidekicks. All three of them were wearing flannel shirts, holey jeans, and no shoes. Their feet-my God, apparently that size feet ran in the family. But never mind that; she could feel her pulse zooming off the chart just from seeing him again. It was enough to scare the life out of her.

“MacDougal,” she roared, “I am not keeping that cat!”

“What cat?” he asked amiably.

“You know what cat. No one else in the county would have done that to me but you-”

“Um, wait a sec, Camille,” Simon said honestly, “The truth is-I would have.”

“The truth is, I would have, too.” Sean added hastily, “I didn’t. And Simon didn’t. And Gramps didn’t. And Dad didn’t. But in principle, we would have, because we know you’re one of the few women on the planet who could actually love an animal the way we do. But the thing is, we just have so many animals around here that we can’t adopt any more strays.”

“Our dad would kill us,” Simon explained.

“Especially since he finally agreed to the horse.”

Pete lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “I did not exactly agree to the horse.”

“Yes, you did, Dad,” Both boys insisted, and their grandfather immediately took their side by saying, “Peter, I’m quite certain I heard you agree, myself.”

Pete shook a finger at each of them, then wrapped his arm around Camille’s shoulder and steered toward the door. “We’re leaving to discuss this so-called cat in some privacy.”

“That’s good, Dad!”

“Yeah, that’s real good, Dad!”

“You go, Cam!”

There was more of the same refrain, but once Pete closed the door, neither of them had to hear it. “I suggest,” he said, “that we drive somewhere totally away from the hearing range of my back door.”

“You’ve got that right. In fact, I suggest we go straight to my place so you can pick up the damn cat.”

“That makes sense,” Pete said.

He didn’t, of course, mean it. He managed to finagle the keys to Camille’s car, but only because she blindly assumed he was one of the guys who had to drive. Which was true, but in this case, his male thing about driving had nothing to do with it. He needed her to go along, and she did that because she assumed they were driving to her cottage.

They weren’t. But his mind galloped around a mental racetrack, a thousand miles an hour, figuring out what to do from here. To get her away from the boys and his father-that was a given. But what to do with her then was a complete unknown.

He turned the key on her car and heard the engine hesitate. He had to bite back a comment about her needing new tires and a tune-up. Only the man in her life had a right to nag her that way. To yell at her about stuff like that. To watch over her.

And that sure as hell wasn’t him.

She suddenly turned to look at him. “Pete, you passed right by the road to the cottage.”

“I know. I figured we’d go somewhere quiet for a few minutes. Not for long-but I’d like to talk to you where no one’s likely to interrupt us, and that includes both my family and yours.”

“Oh, well…” She looked as if she considered objecting, but then changed her mind.

That didn’t surprise him. There was showdown written all over her. Her eyes were snapping fire. Her jeans were as threadbare as everything else she wore, but there was attitude in her hips-pure female attitude, and she was tossing her hair every step-until she got in the car, when she folded her arms in that make-my-day-mess-with-me posture she could get.

He knew-he’d always known-that they couldn’t continue on the track they were on for long. Being a climb-in-her-bedroom-at-night-lover had been a lot of fun the first time. And the second. But a romantic impulse was one thing, and not being straight about something important was another. Subterfuge wouldn’t work in his life. She couldn’t tolerate it in hers. And he’d known a showdown moment was coming. He just wasn’t prepared for it at this precise instant.

He drove the back farm road that skirted the acres of the lavender, then farther back, past his McIntosh and Red Delicious orchards, then back to the far nestle of woods.

Several acres of old, virgin hardwoods scattered across a high knoll, then gently sloped down to a spring-fed pond. The MacDougal boys and Campbell girls used to sled that hill every year when they were growing up, the girls trying every girl flirting trick they knew to get the boys to carry their sleds uphill again. The tricks usually worked.

A smile whisked across her face. Although God knows she didn’t know it-or admit it-she was getting those unshakably sexy smiles of hers back.

“Yeah,” Pete murmured, as he braked and climbed out of her car. “I remember a dozen winters from when we were kids. Just this spot. In fact, I specifically remember Daisy begging my oldest brother to pull her toboggan. He couldn’t say no to her and breathe. Heck, he couldn’t say yes to her without stuttering and turning red as a brick.”

“Daisy could make any boy stutter. And oh, brother, I loved all those winters. I was the young one, tagging after all of you older kids, but I loved every minute. Skating on the pond. Sledding that hill.” For an instant she seemed to forget how mad she was, because she ambled next to him, looping her hands in her back jeans pockets. “You haven’t mentioned your brothers in a while.”

He wanted to mention that her asking such a question was a sign that she was seriously ready to join real life again. Weeks ago, she wouldn’t have given a thought to his brothers-or anyone else. It was all she could do to get up in the morning. Unfortunately, now that she was better, she seemed unquestionably in a fast hurry to throw him out of her life. And he was bracing for that-he’d expected that point to come for weeks. But temporarily, he hoped some general conversation would ratchet down the tension between them.

“Both my brothers are doing great. Webster’s standing in front of a classroom at Stanford. He’s married, got two kids and a station wagon kind of life. I don’t think his feet have seen mud since he left the farm. Griff’s just the opposite-he’s in North Dakota. Married a woman with a big ranch in her family. He seems to love the life and the work-and the two of them seem to attract kids like mosquitoes. Last count, they had four of their own and another three that seem to be just living with them.”

In spite of feeling like an axe was about to fall on his head, Pete almost started to relax. Both of them instinctively seemed to follow the trail down to the water, Cam so easily hiking next to him. No matter how hard she was trying, it just wasn’t an easy morning to stay mad. The temperature had already kicked up in the past hour. A warm breeze fluttered the leaves, allowing sunshine to shiver through the forest canopy in yellow polka dots. A rabbit scrambled across their path. The air was soft, tender with spring smells, and the farm pond was just below them, a diamond, with a whisper of morning mist still dawdling on the far side.

In a curve in the path, they startled a doe and her young fawn, who froze at the unexpected intruders. He glanced at Camille. It hurt his heart, how easily he could share a smile with her, share the magic morning. She belonged on this land no different than he did.

He’d fooled himself into believing she belonged with him. No one to blame for that, of course, but himself.

The mama deer finally freaked and bounded off, her fawn gamboling right behind her, breaking that moment of magic silence…but at least Camille was still talking to him.

“When I was growing up, I assumed all three of you MacDougals would end up back on the farm-same as I thought my sisters and I would never grow up and move off. This was home. I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else when I was little. But…you’re the only one of your brothers who actually did it, came back to the land,” she said.

“Actually, I was the only one who could come back, right at the time my dad needed help. Maybe I would have ended up back here sooner or later, anyway. I never wanted to farm the same way my dad did, but I always felt a draw to the land. I like the heritage and history. Can’t imagine working at something where I couldn’t sometimes get my hands dirty.”

“Neither of your brothers felt that way?”

“Not that they ever said. There are plenty of acres here. We could have found room for all of us. Maybe they didn’t care…but I think, more than that, most men just plain tend to settle where their women are. It seems to be one of those universals. Men wander around, unsettled and uncommitted, until they meet a certain woman. Web and Griff took up new roots from the day they got married.”

He knew the instant he used the word “marriage” that he’d royally screwed up. She stiffened up like a poker, fastened on a glower, and that was it for the peaceful conversation. “Damn it, Pete. I don’t want that damn cat!”

“No?”

“No. I don’t want a cat. I don’t want a dog. I don’t want your kids thinking that we-”

He cut in quietly. “Yeah. I know. They were trying to matchmake.” He thought being honest would help, but she looked even more frantic. So he tried to explain further. “Sean-like you would expect-is the one who brought home the cat. He brings home anything that’s still breathing. He knew I wouldn’t let him keep it-but he and his brother started talking about giving it to you.”

“You could have easily said No. Don’t do that to Camille.”

“Yeah, I could have. But the fact is, I thought it was a great idea.”

“How amazing. Why did you think that giving me a forsaken mangy cat was a great idea?”

He ignored that question temporarily and went back to the point. “The boys have talked more and more about the two of us getting together, being together. So has my dad. They think the sun rises and sets on your shadow-which is great, but I just couldn’t believe it when they first started with the matchmaking talk. As far as I can tell, you’re the only woman they trust-or have come close to trusting-since their mother took off.”

“But that’s crazy, Pete. I haven’t done anything to make them like me. Or trust me.”

He rolled his eyes to the sky. “I’m not sure you’d see good in yourself if someone slapped you in the face with it. And hell, Cam. That follows through with everything else as well. You can’t think of a single reason why I’ve been sleeping with you either, right?”

She edged back a step. “Of course I can,” she said testily. “Sex.”

“Camille.” He lowered his voice a full octave. “You’re coming close to pissing me off. And you don’t want to do that.”

“I’m ticking you off! Try and get this through your head, MacDougal. I’m the one who’s mad. You leave me this aggressive, killer dog that acts as if he’ll attack anyone who looks at him sideways. Then you leave me a cat that looks so bad its own mother would disown it. Like you think I need trouble, is that it? You really think I need more problems in my life?”

He warned himself that she looked ready to bolt and he needed to keep his cool. But just possibly, he was as ready for a showdown as she was, because he leaned over her, glowering as damn hard as she was. “I think you’ve done enough feeling sorry for yourself.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I think it’s time you kicked yourself in the keester and figured it out. You’ve been through hell, but you made it through to the other side. You don’t need more coddling.”

“Since when-” her finger started poking his chest, hard “-did you ever coddle me?”

“Since never. Because everyone else was doing it. And if all that coddling had helped you, it’d be fine. But it didn’t. In fact, it was turning you into a liar.”

“Liar?” Her finger poked him again. A totally enraged finger. “I never lie. I’m the most honest person you’ll know or ever know, MacDougal.”

“Horse hockey. When you first came home, you were beat up. You were like the lavender, full of weeds and tangles and too choked up to breathe…and way too scared to care about anything. I get it, Cam. I’ve been hurt. But these last weeks, it’s not that way…”

“Oh? You think you’re going to tell me what I feel?”

“Nope. But I’ll tell you what you’ve been doing. Lying. Making out like you don’t care-about anything or anyone. You’re nuts for that dog.”

“I am not!”

“And you’re going to be just as nuts for that derelict cat. You always did have a gift for animals, used to be able to talk down a scared cat or an injured dog, even when you were a scrawny little kid. Maybe you forgot that, but I didn’t. You’ve got to have something to love or you go nuts.”

“In your dreams, MacDougal. I’m not going to be nuts for that cat! Ever! I’m giving the dog away as soon as I find a home for it. And the same thing with the cat.”

“And cows fly. Furthermore, you’re totally nuts for my sons. You love them both. So why the hell can’t you just say so? What, do you think God’ll reach down and slug you if you admit to caring about things again?”

“I don’t care!”

“And you don’t feel anything. For anything or anyone, right?”

“Right. Exactly right!”

Aw, hell. Arguing with her was a complete waste of time. He didn’t know he was going to do it-he swore to himself!-but somehow he was hard as rock; somehow he was fighting this impossible, powerful urge to kiss her; and somehow he knew he was going to give into that temptation unless something drastic happened, fast.

So just as her forefinger was aiming to poke his chest again, he clamped both hands on her waist and lifted her in the air. She shrieked before her sandals even left the ground.

She was still shrieking when he turned her in a circle-she was light, but not so light he didn’t need to build up a little momentum-and then hurled her into the pond.

He knew the pond well. Off the shore edge, it went straight down for about five feet. It was a fantastic pond for swimming on a broiling day, because it was spring fed-which meant it was fifty-five degrees. Cold enough to make her nipples pucker, for damn sure. And thinking about her nipples puckering was enough to make his tighten like buttons.

She came up sputtering, and oh, man, was she mad. So, so mad.

He was in awe of the sequence of words she strung together. The only other person he knew who could get that eloquent with swearwords in a high temper was him. The amazing part, though, was watching all that passion and fire pouring from a woman who thought she didn’t feel a damn thing.

Before Pete could think twice, he heeled off his boots and dove straight in after her. The shock of icy water slapped every nerve awake. He came up two feet from her, gasping and sputtering. The cold water should have taken care of his arousal. Heaven knew why it didn’t.

He’d barely hauled in a lungful of air before he felt a punch of water splashed in his face. Cam splashed him a second time, then in one long stroke swam closer with the clear intention of drowning him-or at least dunking him good.

He deserved it, he knew. And normally he wouldn’t mind being emergolated-not by Camille-but just then, there was so much more at stake than her momentary temper. So when she clutched her hands on his shoulders, trying to push him down, he kicked them both several feet toward shore toward shallower water. The instant he could stand, he dragged her wet body against his.

She was right in the middle of reaming him out a new litany of insults when he plastered a kiss on her mouth. The kiss was so wet and hot that it made steam shoot up his veins, where seconds before he’d been shiver-cold. So had she. But she warmed up damn fast, too. When he got around to it, he tore his mouth free.

“Show me,” he said roughly. “Show me again how you don’t feel. How you don’t give a damn.”

He kissed her again. Again. He used his body to brace her, to walk her out of the water, climbing to the tall prickly grasses on the shore. Their clothes stuck to them like soggy glue, miserably cold, and still he kissed her. Still she kissed him back.

Out of nowhere, both of them paused-both heaving from lack of breath-and when they tried to gulp in a fresh batch, her eyes opened. Her gaze lost that sexy, foggy haze and suddenly sharpened as if she remembered how mad she was. Her fist came swooping toward his ears, so obviously, he had to kiss her again. Had to peel off her clothes. Had to peel off his.

Sunlight poured down on them as they sank down. The grasses were rough, tingly against bare flesh, and still both of them came together in a frenzy, rolling next to the pond edge, rolling away, the sun blinding him, then her, and always, nothing mattering more than claiming the next kiss, reaching the next level of hunger, inspiring the next touch.

It had never been like this for him. Not even close. His world centered around her taste, her kiss, her touch. For him, she was champagne and velvet, moon and sunshine both. She brought him light. She matched him, passion for passion, touch for touch, stroking him as intimately as he stroked her, braving ways to tease him, to take, as he braved ways to fuel sensations and needs in her.

“So you feel nothing, Cam? No cold, no heat. Especially you don’t feel anything for me, right? Beyond a little sexual urge. You don’t want anything to do with real life, right?”

“MacDougal?” She lifted up, her hands splayed in his hair, her eyes as fierce as black satin.

“What?”

“I’ve taken all the grief I’m going to take from you. Now shut up and kiss me.”

Sheesh. She was so impatient.

So was he. All right, maybe he was a little rough, but he could feel the desperation building inside of him. Not just the desperate need to have her, but the desperate instinct that he’d never have another chance. He knew she was healing. He knew she was growing stronger, physically and emotionally, becoming more like herself. She was only a blink away from not needing help anymore.

Not needing him.

And that was exactly what he wanted, Pete told himself fiercely. He’d never counted on more.

Never.

This was all there was. These moments, with her thick wet hair, tangling around his fingers, her soft luscious mouth feeding off his. Her naked body slipped and slid against his, her breasts so sweet to the touch, sweeter yet to the taste. Her slim legs were made to wrap around him, her hips made to tighten and take him in. When he first plunged inside her, she let out a soft, hoarse cry that echoed on the spring wind, carried into the canopy of leaves, rustled with longing and need.

“Oh, Pete,” she said, as he drove deep and hard…and then did his damnedest to drive deeper and harder.

He wanted to love her better than her husband ever had. He wanted her to remember a man who’d loved her beyond all reason, all sense, on a sunlit morning in the meadow by the pool, brazen with love, inspired by how much he wanted to give her, to show her, to be for her.

He understood she was going to always remember the man who died for her. But he wanted her to know irrevocably that there was a man who wanted to live for loving her, too.

Because her back had to be scratched up from the grasses and rough ground, he swung her on top of him, and gave her the power and the reins. There was a moment, in all that fierce coupling, all those sweaty limbs and teeth and hot wet kisses, when she lifted her head with a glorious smile for him. And just shook her head to the sun and let out a wild, joyful, sweet laugh.

But then she swooped right back down to him with a wicked glint in her eyes, and that was the end of the smiling. She took him ferociously, riding him as if she were determined to show this stallion what-for…for damn sure she was going to show this man what a woman could do when she was in the mood.

Needs sharpened, cried between them. Her need was his, no different than his need belonged to her. Hands clasped, lips glued, hips pumped to the same erotic rhythm. She crashed first, one spasm of pleasure cascading into another until she cried out, high and spent. Then it was his turn.

His eyelids closed in release, just needing to breathe for a minute. His arms folded tenderly, tightly around her. He didn’t want to let her go. Ever. Didn’t know how he could. Ever.

But of course, that was passion and love talking.

Not reality.

Pete really knew this was their last time-and knew that he had to face that. There was no other choice.

So he took this moment…and held on for as long as he could.