Page 37

The Temptation of Savannah O'Neill Molly O Keefe 2022/8/3 13:52:48

She kissed him to shut him up. To shut herself up. To feed the growing ache in her body.

It was awkward, off-kilter, her lips lopsided against his. She was actually kissing a good portion of his cheek.

Mortified but committed, she stood poised ready for rejection.

But it didn’t come. His low growl fanned her flames and his arms curled low around her back and she was surrounded by his strength. His heat.

His lips, thick and full, were slightly chapped against hers, and the kiss was featherlight, a breath of sensation that roared through her like a flood on dry land.

It was chaste, innocent, but with a delicious promise of more.

He pulled her closer until she felt his heartbeat against her chest, his erection hard against her belly.

His tongue tasted the corner of her lips, fleeting and careful, as if beseeching entrance and she opened her mouth, letting him in.

It was so sweet, the slide of lips, the wet lick of tongues. His breath warmed her cheek.

Suddenly, it was more. The kiss grew rougher, his hands bolder. Her fingers pushed into his hair and held on to the coarse silk for dear life.

Her breasts rested against his hard chest and she arched, torturing herself with pressure. Nothing but silk between them and it was somehow hotter than if they’d been naked.

His hands roamed her back, sliding over silk to find the nape of her neck and he held her, owned her.

Savannah wanted to laugh. She wanted climb into his skin. She wanted this kiss to never ever end. Heat pooled between her legs and her breasts were so hot. So heavy. She ached without his touch there.

They kissed and kissed. A thousand kisses. Hotter and faster. Harder. His teeth raked her tongue and she slid her hands all over his bare skin, memorizing the muscles, flirting with the back waist of his pants.

And she could have done it forever, stayed locked in his arms for the rest of her life, but she could only go so far.

The past created a line in the sand and she would not cross it again, not with a man she didn’t know very well, no matter what the moonlight did to them.

She pulled away. A kiss was as far as she could go, and as if they’d agreed on the boundaries Matt eased off, his fingers dragging over her hips slowly, milking the moment for all he could until they were no longer touching.

She panted, her lips cold, but she was grateful for his sensitivity.

His smile was wicked and sweet and she wanted to fall right back into him. But if she did, she knew down to her bones they would not stop. Not until her robe was gone and he was deep inside her.

His eyes flared, his hands fisted as if he knew it too.

“Good night, Matt,” she said, her heart afloat in her chest. Her feet, as she went to her bedroom, hardly touched the ground.

He watched her walk away, the most elegant, sensual woman he’d ever kissed and realized that leaving was his only option.

Too many lies. Too many secrets. There was no way he could explain himself, not after what had happened tonight. It would all seem like a lie. He’d come here trying to make one thing right and he’d only wreaked more havoc. Brought more pain.

He was a curse, a blight, and they were better off without him.

He pulled on his shirt, ripping the neck in his frustration. Why had she followed him? It had taken every ounce of will to leave her in the library, but he’d done it because he knew it was right.

He was lying to her, for crying out loud. Using her for information, like a key to a lock, and as much as he’d wanted to kiss her in the library, he couldn’t do it. Not after all the things she’d told him. The way she’d opened up, dropping all that chilly distance she’d been keeping between them.

But then she’d appeared in his doorway, practically trembling and he could no sooner turn her away than he could rip off his skin.

So sweet and awkward. Innocent, practically.

Regret filled him with dirt and sand, weighing him down.

He tore at his hair and growled. What was he thinking, telling her about Jack? About his mom? He’d blame the piano for that.

Matt felt sick again. He would leave, and send them money. Not that it would repair what he’d done. Sending the girlfriend money wasn’t going to change her lover’s death, but he’d done that anyway.

It made him feel better. As though he was doing something. Fixing something. Anything.