“And then he said you donated the entire amount to the charity he started to help get it off the ground. Something about sponsoring underground safe houses in Mexico to help in the fight against child trafficking.”
She was nearly in tears.
“Gretchen, what on earth?” Chase couldn’t imagine why such a thing would upset her so much. This was precisely the reason women needed an instruction manual. He slipped from the embrace enough so that could read her eyes for clues, but she still had her mayoral mask up from her time with Gabriel. She gave away nothing.
“Don’t you see? All this time, I was able to explain you away—that you couldn’t possibly think of the town or of others because you selfishly climbed up on animals who wanted to kill you for sport, that you manipulated people because that’s the one lesson fame taught that you didn’t get from a small town, that your shallowness prevented you from looking at someone like me who champions the important things in life—safety and honor and charity—and possibly finding anything of value beyond a Disney punchline.”
His head was spinning. He pleaded the fifth because he had no idea where this was going.
“But I was wrong. About all of it. About you. I can’t explain you away anymore. And I don’t want to.”
Her speech had left her breathless, chest rising and falling as if she had run from the main house. Quite possibly, this was good for him. Or she might want to use the fireplace poker on him. He couldn’t tell—she was so fucking intense.
Chase’s brain finally mustered up something neutral to say: I put your things in the other cabin. But Gretchen never gave him the chance. He got as far as I before she leaped against his body, legs wrapped around his hips, lips siphoning off all chance of him finishing his sentence.
His dick charged into hyperawareness like the first second out of the chute.
10
The blanket fell to the floor and tangled up Chase’s stocking feet, desperately trying to gain enough traction against the area rug to close the door and plant her back against it. It wasn’t that Gretchen was heavy—she wasn’t, not even close—but the sudden gravitational shift below his buckle nearly toppled him off his axis. With his hands occupied, spread wide on her ass and doing their damnedest to hike up her pencil skirt so that their cores could meet, and his mouth doing its damnedest to answer the ravenous pressure of her kiss, he kneed the door closed and drilled her against the thick oak with his hips.
She tasted like flavored water—fruity and woodsy—and brought with her the scent of rainwater and faint perfume and the heady musk of arousal the moment her skirt encircled her waist. With every urgent probe of her tongue against his, riding every labored exhale, she ground the tiny little strip of panties between her legs against his thick fly. The cold metal back of his buckle pressed against his abdomen.
“Take my belt off. I don’t want to hurt you,” he pleaded against her kiss.
She set to work right away, her brow knitted in glazed concentration. He pulled in two lusty gulps of oxygen and watched her: lips parted and swollen and natural; pupils engorged, the green all but vanished; cheeks the flushest shade of Chase red; and her hair—Christ—down and untamed, a scorching shade of red. And he knew—without question—she was the same mysterious girl who had tried to rip his jacket from the locker all those years ago, the same contradiction that had haunted his fantasies the moment he landed back into town, the same firecracker who set herself apart from every other woman who had ever caught his eye simply by being who she was—genuine, principled, good.
And he promised to be the best steward of that goodness that she had ever known.
Belt unbuckled, leather slipped free of his denim loops, she surprised him by looping the belt around the back of her neck like a scarf. His fantasy, recreating itself with every passing second, projected ahead to naked breasts on either side of his championship buckle, and his cock engorged even further.
“Just like the hat,” he said. “Looks better on you.”
Before their clothes littered the floor in a trail of passion, before he denied her every bit of sleep for every ounc
e of pleasure he could give her, he had to be sure. Chase suspected what she thought of his history with women, largely Texas tall tales, greatly exaggerated by those who knew nothing. But his reputation for being allergic to relationships—not entirely unfounded—might lead to morning regrets. And he’d have none of that on his watch. Especially not with a woman as special as Gretchen.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked. “I have protection. But we just made things a whole lot more complicated.”
She smiled, the sweetest, most vulnerable smile he had seen to date. “I’m learning to like surprises.”
He loved her answer so much, he kissed all other chaser words from her tongue. Gretchen was a politician, a talker. But this night, she would learn an entirely new language of elation that had nothing to do with words.
While his fingertips roamed the apex of her legs, zeroing in on damp cloth and fleshy cusp constricted by silky fabric, while he ground his erection against her pubis, encouraged by the soft and unguarded moans escaping past her jockeying tongue, she occupied her hands with the removal of her suit jacket and silky shirt. One pearl-like button then two, three. When button four did not cooperate, she abandoned his every notion of Gretchen de Havilland, fastidious hard ass, and forced the two halves apart, tearing the button off, stripping the jacket clear of her arms, and bringing forth a muted laugh that teased a most playful night.
A red, lacy bra to match her power suit did a most upstanding job of holding her breasts tight, high, erect, and to a perfectly rounded shape—all while giving a tantalizing peep show of the dusky center peaks straining to poke through the intricate detailing.
He leaned forward and whispered, lips gently skimming her ear, “You make me forget how to breathe.”
Much as she had the night in the field, she kissed her way down his scratchy jawline until she answered him with a combustible exploration of lips and tongue and mouth.
Muscles in his arms tweaked. He had to get his hands free and roaming or he would never forgive himself for torching up and spilling out right then and there, before he had fully explored every bit of her terrain. He fingered the crotch of her panties aside and set his digits to work, tangling in her damp curls while he carried her to the kitchenette—nothing more than a sink, a few open shelves and a butcher-block island held in place by enormous structural beams that supported the overhead loft. His mouth watered at the plan taking shape around his instincts: flicking his tongue across her clit, inciting her to riot against the counter and open herself wider, the visual feast of red hair awaiting him at her mound, and climbing the goddamned ladder. Every. Single. Step.
He placed her gently on the small island. Instantly, she spanned her chest wide and reached for the beams to hold, total surrender. Chase wanted no part of her stuffy political suit to compromise the heights he intended to take her to, so he shimmied her skirt free, opting to leave her panties and heels in place. They were matching reds, and the sight of them against her pale, creamy skin made him want to test the fabric as dental floss.
She traced the lines of his chest and abdominal muscles with her manicured fingernails, almost reverently, as if she had never explored a peak male physique. For not the first time, he wondered about other men she had been with. Most likely the scholarly type, more likely to philosophize about the weight of political decisions than to bench press the weight of three politicians. He allowed her the time, cherishing the hours laid out before them in a place where Gretchen would feel safe. No photographers. No judgment. No decisions beyond those that chased the ultimate arousal.
At her collarbone, he began a meandering trail of kisses lower, lower, lower, until the firm, rising crest of her left breast pressed against his lips.