Free Commitment by Margaret Ethridge Page B

she prayed he wouldn’t give it to her. Her prayers were answered.
    Tom snatched the can from the counter and slid it across the floor. Fred chased after his late-night snack, but Maggie stood still. Waiting. Wanting. He was just behind her, his body warm, solid, and tempting. Oh-so-tempting.
    Without warning, he pushed both hands into her hair, loosening the bobby pins that anchored the elaborate twist. A moan tangled with a groan and cushioned by a sigh filled the room. A full ten seconds passed before she realized it came from her.
    His breathing grew rough and raspy, but his fingers gentled. His lapels brushed her shoulder blades with each rough inhalation, sending shivers down her spine. He plucked each pin from her hair one by one. Hairspray starched tresses tumbled to her shoulders, their natural wave tamed by hours of captivity. She closed her eyes when she heard the patter of pins pinging off the floor.
    Long, strong fingers massaged her scalp, trailed the length, and fanned tickling ends across her bare back and shoulders. “Your hair is beautiful.”
    Unabashed desire weighed his words with knee-buckling gravity. Maggie clutched the counter and bowed her head, surrendering to the master. “Keep talking.”
    He gathered her hair with both hands, winding the ends around his fists as he leaned forward, letting his weight pin her to the counter. His breath bubbled over the exposed skin of her neck, raising goose bumps. She felt him tug at the bow tied at the nape of her neck. It wasn’t until the knot gave way that she realized his hands were still tangled in her hair. His tongue brushed her skin, lifting the fabric. Moments later, he growled low in his throat as the black satin fell away from her breasts, pooling on the counter in front of her. She blinked in astonishment, gaping at the inky fabric.
    His mouth claimed the spot the bow had covered. He drew her flesh against his tongue, sucking gently. This time she flat-out moaned, and she’d admit as much before a judge and jury. His teeth scraped the sensitive skin and his hands tightened in her hair. Tom unfurled his fingers and slipped away.
    A strangled sob rose in her throat. Her mangled hair swirled around her shoulders. She relinquished her grip on the counter and groped behind her, determined to hang on to him. Her fingers closed around his forearm. He chuckled. The vibration of the laugh boomeranged inside her.
    “Not a princess,” he murmured, nipping playfully at the curve of one shoulder.
    “No,” she breathed.
    His hot, wet tongue swirled around the tip of her spine. He began to slide down, licking, kissing, and teasing his way to the thick elastic strap that bound her long-line bra at her waist. Maggie flew into panic mode. Visions of her writhing on the bed earlier that night sprang to mind. The span of super-sucking-spandex encasing her body from waist to mid-thigh could be a deal breaker.
    He knelt behind her, his hands spanning her waist. “Turn around.” Maggie swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut as she forced her feet to move, turning to face him. His thumbs traced the boning of the bra, skirting along her stomach to the curve of her breasts. “Maggie.”
    When had her name become a question, an order, a plea? She clung to the safety of her closed eyelids, desperately searching for an excuse, any excuse, to excuse herself long enough to lose the gargantuan girdle he was about to encounter.
    The blunt tips of his fingers pressed into the curve of her waist. “Maggie,” he said more forcefully. She pried her eyes open only to find herself rendered speechless at the sight of Tom Sullivan kneeling before her. The desire in his eyes scorched her, a bright blue flame setting her blood to simmer. “Not a princess.” He pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the silky fabric covering her stomach. “A goddess.”
    The words soaked through to her skin. Maggie broke, giving in to the urge that gnawed at her since he caught up to her in that