Chapter 33
CHAPTER 33
The pent-up anger Max had carried, the intense need to keep his Miss Calico safe, all of these broke against the need to hold her. To hold her gently, so as to restrain his own desire. To kiss her gently, to?—
Her mouth pressed needily, greedily, to his, her mouth and his tasting of lemonade. Passion surged from her lips into his own, and throwing away his restraint, he pressed back, wanting her with everything he had, wanting her to know his love, from his kiss, from his body.
He pulled her against him, her cotton-covered breasts against his bare chest. He held her tight in his arms, her body warm and round and firm and lovely. The vitality he loved in her seemed to grow, in her kiss, in her touch, as if his holding her brought new life to her.
As if holding her brought new life to him.
Was she here in his arms because he’d changed time? Had Hugo been finally thwarted?
Should he step away from her now before he changed anything else?
A soft moan whispered from her soft mouth.
A rush of new need washed over him. The hell with time. The hell with Creede’s warning about changing the future.
The woman Max loved was in his arms, and that was all that mattered.
Cally held Max tight to her body, her body having alarming thoughts that nevertheless excited her. Her mouth lost itself against his, a multitude of feelings washing over her, relief he had survived his ancestor’s evil actions that day, joy that he cared enough about her to risk his own life.
Love, hers for him.
She didn’t say it. She couldn’t say it. It would make the parting that was inevitable too hard to bear.
But she could show him. “Max,” she whispered against his mouth and felt his lips smile against hers.
“Cally,” he whispered back, his mouth leaving hers to kiss her eyelids, first one, then the other, then his lips found her ear, then her jaw, then he was kissing her neck, Cally dropping her head back, her whole body heating, wanting, being womanly. Her thoughts faded, going a bit dizzy, lost to the sensation of his hot bare shoulders against her palms, and she want her skin to be as bare as his, his body to her body, his thigh to her thigh, her breasts to his hard, muscled chest.
As if he’d read her dizzy thoughts, he cupped her breasts through her shirt. “Cally,” he whispered again.
“Yes,” she whispered, wanting to know his touch.
Wanting to be a woman with him.
It was the sound of men’s voices outside on the drive that brought Max to his senses. What the hell was he doing, unbuttoning Cally’s blouse in her family’s stable in town, when the whole world was looking for her to congratulate her?
What the hell was he thinking?
She made a little sigh of protest as he grasped her waist and set her back, away from him. A dazed expression in her gorgeous eyes turned questioning, even as her arms reached for him again.
Little bits of sweat glimmered in the sunlight at her temples, dust from the race mingled with the dampness.
“Not here,” he whispered and nodded in the direction of the drive. Not now, he told himself.
Not ever.
The last thing he was going to do was leave her with her reputation smirched. Any one of those gossipy society mothers of her suitors would be only too happy to damage Cally if her son wasn’t chosen to be her bridegroom.
Leashing himself, he fastened the buttons of her blouse at arms’ length. Picked up her hat from where it had fallen onto a hay bale and carefully set it on her head. Tucked her braid back over her shoulder so that it hung down her straight back.
Brushed away the damp and dust at her temples, even as her hands continued to explore his chest.
He caught her fingers as they trailed down toward his trousers. Gave her a swift kiss. “Go,” he whispered. “Stop by Apollo first and make a big fuss over him. He’ll like that.”
“I’d rather make a big fuss over you,” she said and grinned, still looking a bit dazed.
“Don’t break Apollo’s heart,” he teased.
“I reckon I’ve thanked you, then,” she said, reverting to the tomboy.
“I reckon you have, though no thanks were necessary.”
“Yes, they were, prince,” and silently, she opened the feed room door and slipped out.
His anger spent, his body simmering now with something entirely more delightful, Max picked his plaid shirt up from the low hay bale where he’d tossed it and slowly put it on, one blue sleeve, then the other, giving Cally time to make her exit from the stable.
Giving himself time.
Max was shaken. At the depth of his need for her.
At the depth of Hugo’s depravity. As much as Max had been on his guard, he hadn’t expected the Evil Prince to try to have Cally shot during the race.
Good God.
He tugged the front of his shirt together, Cally’s rosewater scent on his skin, and buttoned the center button, thinking again of Creede’s words about changing time.
Had Max accomplished what he believed he’d been sent here to do?
Hugo’s attempt to kill Cally had been thwarted. Nor had Hugo won the trophy. Which meant the trophy wasn’t in his possession for him to take back to Zalgravia.
Then why did that damned foreboding that came to Max every time he thought of Cally’s future prickle across the back of his neck again, and slide down the back of his shoulders?