Lauryn Chandler - Just Say I Do

“Annabelle,” he tried again when she didn’t answer, knowing from past experience that she didn’t like to talk about her financial affairs.

From what he had gleaned, her parents had left her the house, a 1979 Chevy station wagon and a modest bank account. Annabelle was determined to handle on her own whatever financial woes she experienced. He was just as determined to help her.

“I have some money saved.” It was money to fund his trip, but if Annabelle needed it…“If you need anything at all…” He wondered if she was listening.

The domed bottom of the bottle rested on her thigh. She turned it in slow circles while her legs swung back and forth.

“Let’s not even call it a loan—” he began again, but Annabelle interrupted him with a question he couldn’t have anticipated.

“Do you have a girlfriend right now?”

He stared at her profile a good thirty seconds before answering. “No. I don’t.” Even as he told himself that the question was casual—and the answer immaterial—his heart began to pump with interest. “Why?”

She shrugged as if it was of no consequence really, but under the porch light he could see her blush. “Well, because I haven’t seen you much, I was curious. I just wondered. I…” Her legs stopped swinging. Giving the chilled bottle one last rotation, she looked up at Adam and completed her thought. “I’m glad.”

Adam knew he should speak, make light of what she said, change the topic, but he couldn’t, any more than he could drag his thoughts from what that rosebud mouth would taste like.

So he didn’t bother to speak. And he didn’t try to stop wondering.

Annabelle straightened her bare legs, crossed at the ankle, and pointed her toes. Adam was treated to a lingering glimpse of her shapely calves.

The impulse to close the distance between them, to touch her temple or her cheek or her neck, was almost too much to resist.

“Belle…” His voice sounded rusty.

She was twenty; he was two years older. They’d known each other for years, and always they’d been friends, nothing more. But lately…lately…

She looked at him. The hopeful tentative expression in her blue eyes sent a jolt of surprise sizzling through him.

Her smile was shy, but meant to encourage.

Slowly and with a sense of unreality, as if he was watching somebody else do it, Adam raised his hand to Annabelle’s face. He meant to touch her upper lip, the sweet bow that looked like the top half of a heart.

It’s wrong, a voice inside him cautioned, and he ceased all movement abruptly. How could he do this, change their relationship, when he knew that if all went well, in a few weeks he would no longer be here?

Frustration and desire made his hand shake. Annabelle must have misinterpreted his hesitation as a request for permission, because she took the moment into her own hands.

“I want you to touch me, Adam.” Her voice was a whisper, low and breathy and sweet.

Any control Adam retained snapped then.

With an incomprehensible utterance, he closed the space between them, burying his hand in the blond hair that swung around her neck.

He pulled her toward him, and the scent of the wine mingled with the unexpected heat of their need.

Their kiss was long and hard and deep. Adam’s fingers threaded through her silky hair, his palm cupped the back of her head. That left one hand free, and he had no trouble deciding where to put it.

At the first touch of his palm against the side of her breast, something broke free in both of them. She seemed to swell in his hand, and he…

Adam groaned against her lips. The strength of his desire shocked him.

They were playing with fire. He should have stopped. He would have, he told himself, but when Annabelle’s lips parted, he wanted more, and he started to take it.

Annabelle…Annabelle…It occurred to him then that he’d wondered for years what this would be like.

When the kiss finally ended, he pulled back enough to see that she was clutching the champagne bottle in a choke-grip that turned her knuckles white.

Reaching down, he pulled the bottle from her fingers, took a sip, swallowed, then set the bottle on the porch, reaching for Annabelle again, pressing his lips to hers so she could taste the wine while he tasted her.

Freed, her hands moved tentatively at first, then more surely. One slid around his waist and up his back. The other rested lightly along his jaw.

He discovered then what he’d wondered earlier: her hands were cool, yes, but they fanned the flame inside him.

In the back of his mind, a voice commanded him once again to stop, to remember that this was Annabelle, but when conscience warred with desire, it bred a sense of urgency, a need to speed past the point of no return so there would be no question of stopping. He was changing his life here tonight, he knew it, and suddenly he didn’t care. No desire had ever felt so important.

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