Chapter 13 #2
Before she lost her nerve, she tilted her head up.
Then quickly and decisively, she lifted onto her toes and touched her mouth to his.
She didn’t know a lot about kissing, had never initiated one with Charles, had always felt as though she was enduring his unwanted attention.
But this time, she needed to communicate something to Thatcher—perhaps that she was willing, that she wanted more, that she would do whatever he wanted so that she could keep him.
For a few seconds, he didn’t seem to respond and held himself motionless.
Was he merely surprised by her boldness? Or was he repulsed by it and wishing she’d kept to herself?
Mortification began to sift through her. Finding the letters yesterday and fearing losing Thatcher was foremost on her mind. But that didn’t mean she had to make a fool of herself.
She started to back up, removing her mouth from his. But before she made it more than an inch, he dove in and captured her lips with his, not letting her get away. His mouth was warm, almost deliciously so. And the pressure was firm and full but not overpowering.
He meshed his lips with hers in a motion that seemed to urge her to mesh hers back, to move against him in a sort of dance that was slow and tender and sweet.
It was a new dance—one she’d never learned or done before.
But Thatcher didn’t hurry her, letting her catch up and allowing her to move at her own pace.
His arm was still around her, but somehow hers had dropped from his back, and now she lifted both hands to his chest where his coat was open. She pressed her palms to his shirt, relishing the broad hardness beneath her hands.
His other arm encircled her so that she was standing in his embrace, one strong arm on either side of her. Surrounded by him on all sides, she felt entirely safe and cherished and somehow knew he would never hurt her, that he would protect her more than he would protect himself.
The realization brought a swell of emotion into her chest. She didn’t understand it, but she did know that she wanted to be closer to him, that she wanted to press her mouth forcefully to his, as if that could somehow satisfy a need for him that was building low inside.
She mingled her mouth against his more urgently, the need driving her.
As though she’d just given him permission to set free something inside himself, he responded by tangling his lips with hers more deeply and thoroughly.
Although the tenderness was still there—along with the delectable feeling of being cherished—his mouth moved with a passion and power that hadn’t been there before.
His kiss seemed to sweep her off her feet so that she was floating, weightless, clinging to him to keep from flying away altogether with a keen pleasure that swirled through her in increasing intensity.
She’d never experienced anything like it before, not even close. And she could only rise into him and kiss him harder, hoping her kiss was communicating everything she was feeling and just how much she loved the connection of their mouths and bodies.
Was this what he’d been hinting at when he’d said he wanted more than just duty and rights for their marriage bed? Was there a mutual passion that could be part of it? A passion that she hadn’t experienced yet but that could still be hers with Thatcher?
If he still wanted her when he found out about his real bride . . .
Eileen. She couldn’t forget about Eileen.
Amelia released her hold of Thatcher, pulled back, and spun away.
Her lungs were heaving. Her heart was racing. And her entire body felt like it was on fire—in a way that was a form of exquisite torture.
A part of her wanted to turn back around, fling herself into his arms, then kiss him again and this time never stop. But she had to stop. She had to keep their physical relationship from progressing too far until she had the chance to explain to him the mistake they’d made.
“I’m sorry, Amelia.” His voice was breathless, almost hoarse.
Just the sound of it sent a strange current of need skating along her nerves.
“I got a little carried away,” he continued. “I didn’t mean for the kiss to get so . . . so . . .”
“It’s all right, Thatcher.” Her voice was breathless too, and she lifted her hands to her hot cheeks.
“I should have used more restraint.”
She shook her head, then drew in a deep breath and readied herself. She had to say the words before she found another excuse.
“Mr. Hoyt!” Pounding horse hooves accompanied the shout from the front lane that led to the cabin. “Mr. Hoyt!”
Someone needed Thatcher’s veterinarian services. Amelia was beginning to understand what the visits and the calls meant. And from the urgency in this newcomer’s voice, she guessed the need was probably an emergency.
Thatcher began to stride down the lane in the direction of the visitor—a young man in cowboy gear who was obviously hired help at one of the nearby ranches. Rusty, who’d been sitting by the barn, rose and limped toward the horse and rider, barking a loud welcome.
Amelia didn’t quite know what to do, was still too flustered by the kiss with Thatcher to think clearly. So she stood unmoving next to the bucket of well water.
As the rider curved the bend that led to the barn, he reined in sharply, his worried eyes finding Thatcher. “Mr. Hoyt, glad you’re here. Beckett’s horse has colic and is in real bad pain and ain’t doing well. Sterling sent me to fetch you and see if you could come right away.”
Thatcher gave a curt nod. “Tell him I’ll be there just as soon as I can.”
“He doesn’t want the horse suffering any longer than it has to.”
“Neither do I.” Thatcher’s brow furrowed with concern. “I’ll saddle my horse and be right over.”
The ranch hand gathered up his reins. “Much obliged.”
Thatcher was already striding to the barn. He tossed Amelia a glance. “I’ll saddle your horse if you grab my bag.”
“I will.” She scurried toward the cabin, a surge of pleasure pouring through her. He hadn’t even questioned her coming along with him. He’d assumed she would and had included her. And she loved that, loved being a part of his work and his life.
Now she just had to find a way to stay a part of his work and life . . .