Suzanna's Surrender

He'd watched her sleep. And as he had watched her sleep, the need to touch her had boiled inside him until his blood was like lava. She'd looked so perfect, the sleeping princess, creamy skin dappled by hazy shade, her cheek resting on her hand, her hand on the grass.

He'd wanted those soft, warm lips under his, to feel that long, fragile body molded to him, to hear that quick little catch in her breathing. So he took, feverishly.

Disarmed, disoriented, she struggled back. Her blood had gone from slow and cool to rapid and hot, Her body, relaxed by sleep, was now taut as a bow. She dragged in a single ragged breath. All she could see was his face, his eyes dark and dangerous, his mouth hard and hungry. Then all was a blur as his lips brushed down on hers again.

She let him take what he seemed to need to take so desperately. Under the shade of the beech she pressed against him, answering each demand. When the dizziness came again, she reveled in it. This was not a weakness she had to fight. It was one she had wanted to feel as long as she could remember.

On an oath, he buried his face at her throat where her pulse jackhammered. Nothing and no one had ever made him feel like this. Frantic and shaky. Each time his mouth came back to hers it was with a new edge of desperation, each keener than the last, Dozens of sensations knifed into him, all sharp and deadly. He wanted to shove her aside, walk away before they cut him to ribbons. He wanted to roll with her on the cool, soft grass and drive out all the aches and jagged needs.

But her arms were around him, her hands moving restlessly through his hair while her body trembled. Then her cheek was against his, nuzzling there in a gesture that was almost unbearably sweet.

“What are we going to do?” she murmured. Wanting comfort, she turned her lips to his skin and sighed.

“I think we both know the answer to that”

Suzanna closed her eyes. It was so simple for him. She rested against him a moment, listening to the bees buzz in the flowers. “I need time.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back until they were faceto – face. “I may not be able to give it to you. We're not children anymore, and I'm tired of wondering what it would be like.”

She let out a shaky breath. The turmoil wasn't only hers, she realized. She could feel it, shimmering out of him. “If you ask for more than I can give, we'll both be disappointed. I want you.” She bit back a gasp when his fingers tightened. “But I can't make another mistake.”

His eyes darkened and narrowed. “Do you want promises?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I don't But I have to keep the ones I made to myself. If I come to you, I have to be sure it's not just something I want, but something I can live with.” Reaching out, she laid a hand on his cheek. “The one thing I can promise you is that if we're lovers, I won't regret it.”

He couldn't argue, not when she looked at him that way. “When,” he corrected.

“When,” she said with a nod, then rose. Her legs weren't as shaky as she'd thought they would be. She felt stronger. When, she thought again. Yes, she'd already accepted that it was only a matter of time. “But for now, we'll have to take things as they come. We've got a job to finish.”

“It's finished.” He pulled himself to his feet as she turned.

The plants were in place, the ground smoothed and mulched. Where there had only been rocks and thin, thirsty soil were bright hopeful young flowers and tender green leaves.

“How?” she began, already hurrying over to study his work. “You slept three hours.”

“Three –” Appalled, she looked back at him. “You should have woken me up.”

“I didn't,” he said simply. “Now I've got to get back, I'm running late.” “But you shouldn't have –”

“It's done.” Impatience shimmered around him. “Do you want to rip the damn things out and do it yourself?”

“No.” As she studied him she realized he wasn't just angry, he was embarrassed. Not only had he done something sweet and considerate, but he'd spent three hours planting what he still sneeringly called posies.

So he stood there, she thought, looking very male and ruffled in the streaming sun, the charming rockery at his feet and his rough, clever hands stuffed in his pockets. Thank me and I'll snarl, he seemed to say.

It was then, facing him on the rocky slope, that she realized what she had refused to admit in his arms. What she had insisted was only passion and need. She loved him. Not just for the hot – blooded kisses or the demanding hands. But for the man beneath. The man who would run a careless hand over her son's hair or answer her little girl's incessant questions. The man who would leave paint splattered on the floor in memory of his grandfather.

The one who would plant flowers for her while she slept.

As she continued to stare, Holt shifted uncomfortably. “Look, if you're going to faint again, I'm going to leave you where you fall. I haven't got time to play nursemaid.”