Free Tasting Fear by Shannon McKenna Page B

touched, and commenced a slow, careful dance of advance, retreat. Feeling her breath against his cheek, stroking her jaw. Tracing that elegant jut of delicately sculpted cheekbone beneath her smooth skin.
    He waited, sensing her caution and her longing. Waiting patiently until the two found their perfect balancing point, and…ah.
    Her eyes shut as he tasted her lips. So lightly. So carefully.
    He gasped at the contact. Oh, Jesus, she tasted like light. Incredible, electrifying. Her lips, so soft and shy beneath his.
    He explored her face with his fingertips, stroking her jaw, her pale throat. She dragged in a sharp breath as he slid his hand down her back, settling on the curve of her hip. Her nipples poked against her blouse. His fingers ached to caress them. He touched the first button, tugged it. It came loose, revealing the hollow of her throat, a warm cloud of some exotic, woodsy scent. He wanted to gulp it in. Lick it up.
    He pulled her closer, kissed her jaw, then her throat. His lips brushed the warm gold of the little pendant Lucia had given her. His hand brushed down over her breast, just close enough that the nipple barely brushed his palm. The little nub was hard, tight.
    His arm tightened. He felt it, the second that it happened. A door, slamming down between them in her mind. One moment she was melting in his arms, fingernails digging into his shirt. Out of nowhere, tension gripped her, and she arched away, stiff and brittle as a stick of balsa wood. He was so in tune with her, he actually felt alarm jangling through her, like warning bells clanging. As if the fear were his own.
    He forced himself to let go. It was as hard as bending metal.
    He eased back, hands clenched. Giving her the space she needed. He was doing it again. Pushing her. It was a piss-poor time for this. She was a complicated woman, grief stricken, stressed out, and he was a jerk-off for forcing the issue. Out of his fucking head. He struggled not to pant. Fists clenched. Slow breathing. Don’t even look at her. Don’t.
    He looked away. Minutes ticked by, measured by drops of water making their meandering way down the window of the truck, by ragged, labored breaths that he struggled to keep silent.
    At length, he heard her rustling, the soft sounds of fabric shushing together. Buttoning her blouse, getting herself in order. A cough. Clearing her throat. “Ah…um, Liam? That was, ah—”
    “Amazing.” He stared fixedly at the lean-to, the pattern of the carefully stacked wood for his fireplace. “But you choked.”
    She looked at her lap. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on. Look, I need to get back. I need to talk to the cops about that letter, and the jeweler, and clue my sisters in, and you’ve been really great, and I appreciate the company, but I…but I’m, ah—”
    “Scared,” he said.
    She sighed. “Not of you.” Her voice was muted. “You’re a really good guy. I know that. It’s just…well, everything.”
    “Yeah?” Anger twisted in him, hard to wrestle down. “Everything’s not here in the cab of this truck, Nancy. It’s just me in here with you.”
    She looked at him with big, beseeching eyes. He stared back, unrelenting. “It’s just a cup of tea. It’s not the end of the world.”
    She made a sniffing sound. “Right. You know exactly what would happen if I went into your house, Liam.”
    “Do I? Yes, actually,” he said reflectively. “I can see it. I’d pull up a chair for you. Put the kettle on the stove. Rummage around in the pantry for that tin of ginger butter crisps. Ask if you take milk or lemon. Ask leading questions about your childhood. Say nice things about your eyes, your hair, your earrings. Try my best to be witty and charming.”
    “Really?” A smile flickered on her face. “Is that what you’d do?”
    He nodded, willing it to be true.
    “It sounds nice,” she said demurely. “But I…oh, never mind.”
    Yeah, she didn’t have to say it. He saw that alternative