More Than Friends (The Warriors) by Laura Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

had been his so long ago, his lips and tongue seeking and finding the sweet, hot passion that only Leah could give him.
    Her lips parted almost instantly. Her tongue darted into his mouth. She tasted like the finest wine. She gripped his shoulders, her nails scoring his flesh. He experienced nothing even close to pain. A heartbeat later, he registered the restless movement of her legs as she kicked free of the covers, drew him down beside her, and molded her body to his. He didn’t know where she stopped and he began. And, in that moment, he couldn’t have cared less.
    He’d lost his mind, he realized. There was only now and Leah and his need, the latter a steady, consuming force coursing through his veins with blazing intent.
    She utterly seduced him as she answered each thrust of his tongue with one of her own. He felt whole because her arms were around him, her hands frantic as she clung to him and moaned his name against his lips and into his mouth like an unending mantra of need too long unquenched. He felt loved for the first time in years, and the shock to his emotions churned like a tornado in the depths of his heart.
    And then, as if turning on a dime, he felt like the worst kind of bastard on the planet, because she was vulnerable and he was on the verge of taking advantage of her. He froze, aware right down to his soul that he didn’t deserve her.
    She wouldn’t want you if she remembered you
, his conscience jabbed.
She’d reject you, just as you rejected her.
    Brett tore his mouth free, air raging in and out of his lungs. Leah groaned in protest, reaching out to him, blindly trying to reestablish contact. He held her away from him, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, and his body in agony as he tried to reclaim some fragment of his sanity.
    He rolled away from her once he found the strength to move. When he finally met her stunned gaze, he saw the blush of passion that flushed her cheeks and the dazed look in her eyes that spoke of bewilderment and thwarted desire. Cursing himself, he jerked upright and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands covering his face as air gusted in and out of a body that shook and screamed with need.
    He felt her fingertips glide down his spine, her touch tentative, uncertain. He flinched when she spoke his name. Brett knew if he glanced at her now, he’d find concern, not recrimination, in her expressive features.
    He forced himself to his feet. He straightened slowly, still trembling as he turned to look down at her. Propped up on one arm, she stared at him. His gaze fell to the cotton t–shirt twisted about her body, and he saw the swift rise and fall of her full, hard–tipped breasts, the thin cotton that sheathed her serving as an enticement rather than a shield. He thought, too, of the pregnancy and delivery she’d faced alone, and a new, even more powerful, wave of self–loathing swept across him.
    "I’m sorry," he managed in a voice that sounded like gears grinding. He headed for the bedroom door, moving swiftly and without his usual predatory grace.
    "I’m not sorry, Brett," she declared in a voice far stronger than he would have ever expected. "I’m not sorry at all. We’re adults, not children. Denying the obvious seems pretty damn stupid to me. Even though I don’t understand what’s going on between us, I still trust you and feel safe with you. That’s not going to change. One thing does need to change, however, and that’s your refusal to stop fighting the feelings we apparently share." She paused briefly, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You aren’t wearing a wedding ring, but that doesn’t mean anything one way or the other in this day and age, does it?"
    Still gripping the doorknob, he half turned to look at her. "I’m not married, Leah. Neither are you."
    "That’s encouraging," she said, her tone tinder dry. "You care about me, don’t you, even though you don’t want to?"
    "Yes, I care about you, but that’s self–indulgence on my part.