Read Online Man of Her Dreams by Tami Hoag - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tami Hoag
Tags: Romance, Contemporary
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times. It would be, she sighed againâ¦wonderfulâ¦
Ry shifted positions and stared down at Maggie. She lay with her arms stretched out wide, her face turned away from him. Her shoulders beckoned, bare, lovely. Beneath the thick blue terry towel she wore, her supple back awaited his touch. He knew without being able to see it that it tapered sharply to a tiny waist that flared into womanly hips. A hundred years ago someone would have painted a reclining nude of her and hung it above the bar in the local saloon. Maggie didnât have a fashionable figure, but it certainly appealed to him.
In fact, it was appealing to him more and more. He slid his palms along her shoulders and began kneading the tender flesh, remembering vividly the way her breasts had felt. He wanted to do more than remember. All he had to do was turn her over. He wanted to. He wanted to see her breasts, touch them, taste them. He wanted to know what color her nipples were, what size they were, how sensitive they were.
He wanted her, period. She wanted him too. A man didnât miss the kind of signals Maggie had been sending out. He was denying them both because he thought he wouldnât be able to hold himself back once he touched her. That was probably ridiculous. The rationalization began in his head, growing louder in direct proportion to the intensity of the ache in his lower body.
It wasnât as if he were a randy teenager. He was a grown man, an experienced man. Certainly he would be able to shut out the fact that just looking at Maggie turned him half wild.
He slid one hand down her back to the bottom edge of the towel and slipped it beneath, groaning deep in his throat at the feel of her soft, rounded bottom.
âMaggie,â he whispered, bending over her. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, the scent of shampoo penetrating the scent of the liniment heâd rubbed into her muscles. âMaggie.â
He expected her to roll toward him, a feline smile gracing her mouth as she lifted the lids on those magnificent brown eyes of hers. Maybe she would open the towel herself, or watch while he did, then put her arms around him and pull him down.
She didnât move an inch.
He murmured her name again, anticipation pulling his nerves as tight as a bowstring. Was she nervous? Maybe she was having second thoughts. Maybe sheâd decided she couldnât make love with a big idiot farmer who had rubbed horse liniment over her when the situation had clearly called for something exotic like passion-fruit oil.
Ry stared down at her for a long moment. His senses honed razor sharp by sexual tension, he was acutely aware of the different shades of red in her glossy, tousled hair, of the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips, of the soft, unmistakable sound of her snoring.
Snoring?
Ry leaned over further to get a good look at her face. Dark lashes curved against her cheek. Her soft lips were slightly parted. She was sound asleep. The horseback ride had exhausted her, and the massage had relaxed her. Heâd finally decided to make love to her, and she was unconscious.
âWell, hell.â
FOUR
âW HAT ON EARTH is that awful smell?â Mrs. Claiborne sat at the head of the dining table, her fork hovering over a plate of scrambled eggs, her slim nose wrinkled in distaste. She brought her other hand up to smooth the lace collar of her dress, as if the odor might somehow disturb the delicate fabric.
Maggie stopped in the act of pulling a chair back from the table. The half bottle of perfume had obviously been a wasted effort. Now she simultaneously cursed Rylan Quaid and scanned her brain for an answer to Mrs. Claiborneâs question that would gracefully and quickly put an end to the subject.
Across the table, Miss Emma, dressed in a pink sweat suit, her fine hair mussed around her head, sniffed the air like an eager foxhound, mischief gleaming in her eyes. âSmells like a touch of Passionâs Promise
Ry shifted positions and stared down at Maggie. She lay with her arms stretched out wide, her face turned away from him. Her shoulders beckoned, bare, lovely. Beneath the thick blue terry towel she wore, her supple back awaited his touch. He knew without being able to see it that it tapered sharply to a tiny waist that flared into womanly hips. A hundred years ago someone would have painted a reclining nude of her and hung it above the bar in the local saloon. Maggie didnât have a fashionable figure, but it certainly appealed to him.
In fact, it was appealing to him more and more. He slid his palms along her shoulders and began kneading the tender flesh, remembering vividly the way her breasts had felt. He wanted to do more than remember. All he had to do was turn her over. He wanted to. He wanted to see her breasts, touch them, taste them. He wanted to know what color her nipples were, what size they were, how sensitive they were.
He wanted her, period. She wanted him too. A man didnât miss the kind of signals Maggie had been sending out. He was denying them both because he thought he wouldnât be able to hold himself back once he touched her. That was probably ridiculous. The rationalization began in his head, growing louder in direct proportion to the intensity of the ache in his lower body.
It wasnât as if he were a randy teenager. He was a grown man, an experienced man. Certainly he would be able to shut out the fact that just looking at Maggie turned him half wild.
He slid one hand down her back to the bottom edge of the towel and slipped it beneath, groaning deep in his throat at the feel of her soft, rounded bottom.
âMaggie,â he whispered, bending over her. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, the scent of shampoo penetrating the scent of the liniment heâd rubbed into her muscles. âMaggie.â
He expected her to roll toward him, a feline smile gracing her mouth as she lifted the lids on those magnificent brown eyes of hers. Maybe she would open the towel herself, or watch while he did, then put her arms around him and pull him down.
She didnât move an inch.
He murmured her name again, anticipation pulling his nerves as tight as a bowstring. Was she nervous? Maybe she was having second thoughts. Maybe sheâd decided she couldnât make love with a big idiot farmer who had rubbed horse liniment over her when the situation had clearly called for something exotic like passion-fruit oil.
Ry stared down at her for a long moment. His senses honed razor sharp by sexual tension, he was acutely aware of the different shades of red in her glossy, tousled hair, of the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips, of the soft, unmistakable sound of her snoring.
Snoring?
Ry leaned over further to get a good look at her face. Dark lashes curved against her cheek. Her soft lips were slightly parted. She was sound asleep. The horseback ride had exhausted her, and the massage had relaxed her. Heâd finally decided to make love to her, and she was unconscious.
âWell, hell.â
FOUR
âW HAT ON EARTH is that awful smell?â Mrs. Claiborne sat at the head of the dining table, her fork hovering over a plate of scrambled eggs, her slim nose wrinkled in distaste. She brought her other hand up to smooth the lace collar of her dress, as if the odor might somehow disturb the delicate fabric.
Maggie stopped in the act of pulling a chair back from the table. The half bottle of perfume had obviously been a wasted effort. Now she simultaneously cursed Rylan Quaid and scanned her brain for an answer to Mrs. Claiborneâs question that would gracefully and quickly put an end to the subject.
Across the table, Miss Emma, dressed in a pink sweat suit, her fine hair mussed around her head, sniffed the air like an eager foxhound, mischief gleaming in her eyes. âSmells like a touch of Passionâs Promise
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