Free Tumbleweed Letters by Vonnie Davis Page A

breathing labored.
    How could she tell him she was on the edge when she didn’t know what she was on the edge of? Her hips rose and fell as if they were searching for something, too. Then finally—suddenly—she slipped off the edge and soared. Spasms so strong they bore a cutting sensation. So beautiful they stole her breath. So potent her body craved more. A cry escaped her lips. Stars exploded in vibrant colors before her eyes.
    It was then Cam entered her, filled her, stretched her. Something tore, but her focus was on the powerful, all-consuming spasms inside her most private space. Sweet heavens, don’t let them end.
    When she slowly floated back to earth like a feather on the wind, Cam’s face was contorted with focus as he continued moving. His eyes were closed, nostrils flared, jaw clenched. Sweat ran down his face. Her hands rose to his cheeks. “Look at me, Cam.”
    Stormy blue eyes opened, hooded with passion and searing with possession as his thrusts increased in speed. “You feel so good, sweetheart. So tight. So…” His head reared back, the cords of his neck standing out as he roared her name. Her effect on him was obviously as powerful and sweet as his was on her. She gloried in that fact and tumbled all the way into love.
    After he emptied himself into her, he collapsed against her neck, gasping for breath. With his arms around her, he rolled over and pressed her face to his shoulder. Strained breathing filled the room. His heartbeat was rapid under her palm. Hers pounded in her ears. Her throat was dry from breathing so hard. And she wondered if she’d ever felt so light, so relaxed, so close to anyone in her life. Possessiveness of this man rooted in her soul.
    When her lungs finally recovered, she knew she’d never be the same again. Cam had claimed her, well and true. She was his wife in every way now. Her mother’s remarks made her smile against Cam’s chest. “You never gave me the chance to think of Ireland.”
    He pulled back and studied her. “What?”
    Her fingers trailed through the mat of dark hair on his chest. “Momma always said when a man demanded his husbandly rights, it was best to close one’s eyes and think of Ireland.”
    Laughter rumbled from his chest, and she loved the sound of it. His fingertips tipped her chin upward, and he covered her lips with his. When he pulled back, he enveloped her in his arms and held her tight. “Sweetheart, thank God I found you.”
    ****
    Cam brought the coffee cup to his lips to hide his smile. He didn’t think his wife’s blush had dimmed from the time she woke up naked in his arms. Every time she looked at him, her face reddened even more. Damn, if she wasn’t something when she was flustered. He hardened; she’d certainly been something last night. They’d made love three times, and if he could he’d take her by the hand and lead her back to bed again.
    She wore her hair down today, secured with the pretty combs he’d bought her. His fingers itched to twine themselves in her long, curly tresses. Her lips—made for kissing, in his opinion—were pursed in concentration as her fingers made quick work of their various jobs.
    Sophie Catherine’s remark last night about thinking of Ireland during sex made him laugh, something he hadn’t done since before losing Amanda. This woman kneading bread dough while he ate the hearty breakfast she’d fixed was melting the ice in his soul. Watching her bustle about the kitchen was a tranquil pleasure he was loath to end. Yet chores beckoned.
    An approaching buggy snagged his attention. Cam stepped to the window in the parlor. “We’ve got company, Sophie Catherine. Madam Dora.”
    “What?” She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and parlor, wiping her hands on her apron. “She’s never up this early. Something must be wrong.”
    Cam opened the door to greet their visitor. “Good morning, Miz Dora. Awfully early for you, isn’t it? Come in and get warm. You’ve got to be