The Australians' Brides: The Runaway and the Cattleman

He was so tense, she could feel it, every muscle knotted tight enough to hurt. He breathed against her neck this time, then touched his mouth to her skin there, the movement dry and soft. He made a sound deep in his chest, imprinted his lips on her skin once again. They were so warm.

She waited.

For more.

Oh, Lord, this was unbearable.

Wonderful and unbearable.

Why didn’t he move?

You might have thought he was holding a grenade with the pin already pulled. They both stood turned to stone … except that stone was never as warm and alive as his body. She couldn’t hold on to this any longer; she wanted to force that mouth to move on her neck, to come and find her.

Tilting her jaw, she rubbed her face against him like a cat. She tightened the press of her body, rocked her hips a little. He was aroused. She could feel it. Finally—finally!—he moved to find her lips, only brushing them at first, then softening his mouth, tasting her.

“Yes,” she said. The word was part of the kiss. “Like this.”

It was such a relief to get there at last, such a release. She wrapped her arms around his neck, parted her lips, felt the pleasure spinning through her, tasted the faint notes of peach and vanilla in his mouth. He wanted this, so she didn’t disguise her own need, deepened the contact until they were drinking each other and tangling their tongues. She gave him everything with her kiss—thanks and hunger and happiness and hope.

That was what you had to do, at some point. You just had to give yourself to it and wait until afterward to see how it felt, what you wanted next, what the repercussions might be.

Yes, she and Carly were leaving in three and a half weeks, going back to Sydney. Two days after that, they’d fly out of the country, to a future she hadn’t begun to work out yet. But none of that was enough of a reason never to kiss this man, never to give or to explore.

She gave some more, slid her hands around and ran them down his back, over the tight curve of his denim-clad backside. She pulled him closer. Mmm. Their legs pressed harder together, and she knew he would feel her breasts, too, not Hollywood huge but neat and nice and female.

Mmm, Callan.

She let the hot mound at the top of her thighs squash against his hardness, the denim of two pairs of jeans diluting the intimacy. Oh, but she wished the denim wasn’t there! She wanted his fingers dragging aside the lace edge of her underwear, wanted everything he could do to her, wanted the words he would say, and the convulsive tensing of his whole body.

It was like jumping into the water hole. You started, you ran, you yelled, and you didn’t want to stop. She just hadn’t expected the idea of stopping to feel so impossible and wrong. She didn’t care that the air had started to chill, that the sand would be hard and scratchy and cold, that they might get spied on by mythical bunyips, she just wanted.

Him.

The escape.

The heat.

The newness.

How long did it take her to understand that he hadn’t traveled toward the same place?

Too long.

He had to drag his mouth and his legs away before she realized, before she sensed the change in him—she could practically hear the squeal of the brakes—and then she felt foolish … and a little too naked … because the zing in the air was more like a force field now. It pushed her away, didn’t draw her closer, and he’d already started to apologize before she had a chance to draw her first breath of non-Callan-tasting air.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry!”

“For what?” She blinked.

“This … I shouldn’t have done this.” He’d half turned back to the fallen log in a gesture of self-protection, and every angle in his body screamed regret. What didn’t he want her to see or know? She already knew he was aroused. So was she. Her body throbbed, her mouth tingled, and she was hot and moist and swollen. It shouldn’t be a source of shame for either of them. It was human … normal … wonderful.

“Why, Callan?” She felt too bewildered to keep it from showing. “It was—it was good, wasn’t it? Real nice.”

Real nice? Sheesh, no wonder she didn’t dare call herself a writer anymore! Real nice bore as much connection to what she’d felt in his arms as cheap hamburger meat bore to sirloin steak.

“It—it—Yes, it was nice. But it sets up—I shouldn’t have done it.” He circled around, his actions restless, erratic and unpredictable, like a freshly filled balloon escaping from somebody’s grip before they’d knotted the opening. Whoosh. All over the place.

“Kissed me?” she said. “What does it set up? It doesn’t set up anything.”

In her confusion, she came across as indignant to the point of anger, and way too aggressive. The whole atmosphere between them jarred her spirit. How could the physical connection have simply … evaporated?

“Not anything bad, anyhow,” she went on, trying to speak more reasonably. “Please don’t think I’m expecting—” She made some vague circles with her hand, not wanting to put her expectations or lack of them into concrete phrasing. She was only here for a few weeks. She hadn’t been thinking ahead, nailing down a prescribed pathway.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m not saying you’re responsible for any of this.”

Any of what?

“I don’t know what the problem is, Callan.” She said it gently because he looked so troubled.

“Yeah, neither do I.” The words came out on a growl. “But whatever it is, it’s mine, not yours. Okay?”

“Okay,” she echoed obediently. “Um, in that case, thanks for a fabulous kiss. Shall we leave it at that?”

He nodded, but didn’t look grateful that she’d let him off the hook. “Best to.” His circles around the creek bed grew wider. “We have to find that damned Game Boy,” he muttered. “They’re going to wonder what’s happened to us, up at the house.”

I’m wondering what’s happened to us, too, Jacinda thought. And I’m not up at the house. I’m right here. I’m looking right at you, Callan, and I have no idea.

She didn’t join in his search. Or not wholeheartedly, anyway. She was still too confused, didn’t know whether she should be burning with mortification, angry with him, or whether all of that would have been an overreaction. He looked as if he felt all of those same emotions on her behalf anyhow. He didn’t look happy with himself. Didn’t look happy with the entire universe.

He muttered something about Lockie’s carelessness … stupid electronic toys … shouldn’t ever have let him buy the thing in the first place … kids got spoiled with that stuff.

Then he found it, sitting in what was probably the first place they should have tried, on a rock near where the horses had stood in the shade. He expressed his relief in a profanity and headed directly for the four-wheel-drive, his strong shoulders hunched as if to keep Jacinda safely away.

They drove back to the homestead, the jolting of the vehicle echoing her jarred confidence. He’d said it wasn’t her fault, but that was such a classic line. It’s not you, it’s me. Did anyone ever mean it when they said that?

Wheeling around in the front yard, he eyed the lit-up house with a bull-like glowering stare. “Looks like Mum’s still getting the kids to bed.”

“Carly gets overtired sometimes, after a long day, and it’s hard to settle her down. I hope Kerry’s not having trouble with her.”

“We’re all tired. So please, just forget this ever happened. All of it.” He sounded angry, and she didn’t understand.

“Do you want us to leave, Callan?”

“What?” His eyes narrowed. “No! Heck, no! That would be even worse.” He struggled with himself and she decided that if he was angry, he wasn’t angry with her, which made her shaky with relief because the memories of Kurt’s veiled, terrorizing anger were still too strong. “Please stay,” he said. “If you can. If you can forget tonight.”

“I’ll try.” Then something made her add, touching him on the arm, “But no, Callan, I don’t want to forget it. It was—”

“But I do,” he cut in.