Page 40 of Mistletoe and Molly
Determinedly she kept her face averted from his. The strong odor of horse liniment was clinging to his jacket. Bridget couldn’t avoid inhaling it as his arms made a smaller circle to draw her closer. The warmth of his breath caressed her skin an instant before his mouth brushed against her temple. Jonas made no attempt to capture her lips, content to explore the winged arch of her brow and her curling eyelashes.
Taking his time, he remapped the familiar territory of her nose and cheek and the lobe of her ear. By the time he was ready to seek her lips, Bridget was trembling with the need to feel the languid passion of his kiss.
Her defenses had crumbled under the slow and steady assault. His mouth closed over hers, tasting the sweetness of her lips. As before, his kiss made no demands of her, but when she responded to deepen the kiss, Jonas answered hungrily. The molding pressure of his hands arched her closer to him, crushing her breasts against the hard metal snaps of his jacket.
The flames of love leaped and spiraled inside her, seeming to join with his to blaze brighter and stronger until she was blinded to all but the rekindled desires that drove both of them. His hands slid beneath her blouse to trace her spine and she didn’t try to fight her immediate arousal.
When his fingers began tugging impatiently at the buttons of her blouse, she knew a momentary gladness that so slight an obstacle could be so quickly removed. With a flash of soberness, she also realized where that abandonment would lead. She knew she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let Jonas hurt her again and ultimately she would suffer if she gave in to her physical desires, because then she would love him as fully and completely as she had done ten years ago.
Hadn’t she learned anything? Hadn’t she learned that he couldn’t be trusted? She heard her mother’s voice in her head: he took what he wanted, used it, and when something better came along, he walked away. No, no, she wouldn’t fall under his spell again, not again.
“No!” Her surrender had been so complete that Jonas hadn’t expected resistance at this late stage.
Bridget twisted out of his embrace, taking three quaking steps before his hands closed around her waist to draw her back. The tormenting need to know his possession was agony. She closed her eyes in an attempt to shut it out, her shoulder blades rigid against his chest.
“You keep saying no while every other part of you says yes,” Jonas muttered hoarsely, his mouth moving against her hair.
His hands were spread flat over her churning stomach. Bridget tried to tug them away, without success. His seductive mouth was trailing over the curve of her neck to her shoulder, raising more havoc with her senses.
“The answer is no,” she insisted with a choked sob, “I’m not going to let you get to me again. Now let me go!”
Somehow she managed to find the leverage to pry her way out of his arms. This time Jonas didn’t attempt to bring her back but stood staring at her. He was breathing heavily, the frustration of anger and desire blazing in his eyes.
Bridget took a wary step backward in retreat, brushing the loose tangle of chestnut hair from her cheek. A fine mist glistened in her eyes from the torment of pain and love.
“Do you enjoy turning me inside out?” Jonas asked in a low voice.
“No!” she cried. “You started this!”
“Does it make you feel better to blame me?”
She stiffened. “No. But you have no right to walk back into my life and expect to take up where we left off, just like that.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Jonas taunted savagely. “Maybe that isn’t what I want. You’re not the only woman I ever made love to, you know!”
Something snapped inside her and the palm of her hand struck his lean cheek with a vicious slap, the hard contact shooting needle-sharp pains all the way up her arm.
“Get out!” she hissed.
His gaze narrowed. The livid outline of her hand marked his cheek; but his fists remained clenched at his side. For a long moment, Jonas stared at the fury in Bridget’s expression, then his long strides carried him to the back door. She closed her eyes as it slammed behind him, the violent action rattling the windows in their frames.
In some way, the slamming door released her own pent-up hostility, but the aftereffect was not pleasant. She felt weak and sick to her stomach. A pain more agonizing than she had ever known was filling her heart. Love-hate, love-hate—she wished she hadn’t heard those words in her life.
“Mom?” Molly’s drowsy but alarmed voice called out to her.
“I’m—in the kitchen,” she answered in a brittle voice, fighting for self-control, her fingers clutching the counter for support.
“What was that noise?”
Bridget glanced at the back door, Momentarily silent, unable to explain to Molly. “What noise?”
“That loud bang like something exploding.”
“Maybe it was the TV How do you feel?”
“Awful,” was the grumbling response, “I hurt all over. I’m one big ache!”
That makes two of us,Bridget thought briefly. “What about your head? How does it feel?”