A Man of Honor Read Free

couldn’t stop touching her. She stared right back, her own eyes piercing but unreadable.
    He’d meant to blow her cover, outrage her, and send her storming out his door. But life got complicated. Against his own usually iron will, he pushed his hands deep into the silky thickness of her hair and pulled her closer. Her warm, rapid breaths tickled his face. She swallowed hard as her head tilted back, her soft pink lips begging for his touch. Feeling the fine curve of her skull under his hands, he lowered his lips and kissed her.
    And oh God, what a kiss. Catherine Kingston’s kiss was a lethal weapon, one he’d imagined every day of his dark existence. Now that he started indulging, he couldn’t stop.
    She parted her lips, more in shock and surprise, and he took full advantage, crushing his own on hers, thrusting in his tongue and plunging deep. For a moment, she went still as the fight in her drained. In one quick movement, she wrapped her arms around his neck and clutched at him, her hands tangling in his hair. Her soft breasts pressed into his chest, her heat penetrating his T-shirt and lighting him on fire. She entwined her tongue recklessly with his, matching each stroke with her own.
    The taste of her shocked him, sweet, tinged with wine, as familiar to him as his own shoe size and yet forbidden. Off-limits. He knew this, but he was too far gone. Kiss after wet kiss, he devoured her, almost a full year of pent-up desire unleashing in one terrible flood.
    Their deadly attraction, one he’d fought for too many years to count, had erupted into a firestorm. He was helpless in the face of it, and too worn down to fight it. She’d found his Achilles’ heel, and it was her.
    He wanted to tell her everything. Confess that he’d lied to keep her away. Express to her how he’d used her—the memory of her—to fall asleep every night, to blot out the explosions, the cries of his men going down into the biting sand. When the nightmares awakened him, he’d used thoughts of her to calm himself down. She was his Ambien. His narcotic. Only he couldn’t ever tell her.
    His background, so different from hers, had kept him away from her for years. The war had changed him, inside and out, in ways he could never have fathomed. He’d never be the same man again. And he’d never be the kind of man she deserved, whole and strong, not physically and mentally crippled.
    She tugged on his shirt, her hands fluttering over his hot skin like butterfly wings, tracing random paths over the hills and valleys of muscle. Every erotic fantasy she’d starred in over the past year came to life with her tender touch. She was driving him crazy, and all he could think was that he wanted more. In one quick move, he pulled his shirt over his head.
    Her water-soaked raincoat hit the floor with a rustle. She wore a pink button-down blouse, the same color as her pretty, flushed skin. He fingered the lowest button, but his hands were trembling. To his amazement, she placed her hands over his and helped him make short work of the task.
    He drew back the panels of her blouse like a curtain. Her breasts were small, something he knew she felt self-conscious about, but to him, they were perfect. He traced one with his hand, teased a nipple with his thumb until it hardened through her lacy bra.
    One flick and the bra opened, freeing her breasts. He skimmed his hands lightly over them, learning by feel. When he kissed a pink tip, she let out a gasp and arched toward him, shifting her weight. Pain ricocheted through his leg, but he rode it out, more intent on other things. Like the sensations she stirred as her hands roamed freely over his naked torso, how they clenched hard in his hair.
    He swirled his tongue over the sensitive tip of her nipple, tugged and pulled. Her breasts were exquisitely sensitive to every touch. The small moan that escaped her told him she was as out of control as he was.
    When he looked up, her eyes were closed. She looked like a