For the Taking by Lilian Darcy

and tears flooding down her cheeks, what else could he do? He slid his arms around her, cradled her head on his shoulder and soothed her like a little child.
    “Shh! Stop this! It’s okay. Relax!”
    But she didn’t. She couldn’t. He could feel how stiff and tense her muscles were, and her fingers were digging into his back like crabs digging themselves into the sand. She had her forehead pressed hard into his shoulder, and he just had to get her to slow down, let go. Breathe, in fact.
    “Criminy! You’re at the end of your rope, aren’t you?” he whispered. “What can I do? What the heck can I do to get you to let go a little?”
    He stroked his fingers lightly over her head, releasing the sweet smell of her shampoo into the air. He did it again, sensing an infinitesimal easing of those knotted muscles. Her neck was warm, the skin there tender and covered in a light down of hair.
    It was a long time since a woman had needed this tenderness from him, and a long time since he’d allowed himself to give it. When his hand reached the middle of her back, she turned her head a little, andshe wasn’t burrowing anymore, nor was she butting his shoulder like a lamb with sore horns. She was nestling.
    And still shaking.
    “Shh,” he whispered again, and pressed his mouth to her temple.
    She made a little sound in her throat. At first he thought it was a sob or a protest, but then he realized, no. No… This was the thing she needed. Not words. Not even sleep. And certainly not solitude.
    This.
    He turned her face up to his with a hand cupped around her jaw, and kissed her, pressing his mouth on hers, imprinting her lips with sensation. She made another sound, stronger, and he felt her lips part, sighing a puff of warm breath into his mouth.
    Her arms wound around his neck and she swayed, suddenly heavier against him as she let his strong body take her weight. He held her, touched to his depths by her need. Her stomach was pressed against his arousal, and yet she seemed unaware of it.
    That wasn’t possible, was it? Could she be so very innocent, at the age of thirty-three?
    Testing the idea, he dropped his hands to her hips and pulled her gently but firmly closer. He kept on kissing her at the same time, running the tip of his tongue across the sensitive inner skin of her lower lip, softening his mouth on hers so that he could drink her sweet taste.
    Her response was immediate and strong. She deepened the kiss and slid her fingers back through his hair, loosening its customary braid until the strand of leather knotted at the end of it slipped off.
    Maybe she wasn’t the only one who could still betray her innocence, he thought, stunned at the way she was touching him.
    He’d made love with more than one woman. He’d been married, and yet he’d never known that his scalp was such an erotically sensitized part of his body. Her fingers were cool and gentle, combing through his hair so that it tickled his neck and shoulders.
    Still, she gave no sign that she was aware of the extent of his arousal.
    For a few moments longer, she remained lost in their kiss. Her breasts were full and soft against his chest, and he was so tempted to dip his head lower and cover the swollen shapes with the heat of his mouth, through her thin, clingy tank top. Resisting the temptation, he pulled her closer still, and rocked his hips from side to side in a slow arc.
    Suddenly, she went still and then stiffened. At last she’d registered the significance of the ridge of pressure bumping her stomach. She tore her mouth from his, looked down for half a second, then up into his face, her eyes wide. Her pupils were huge and black, and her breathing high and shallow.
    He didn’t know what he had expected. Another kiss, maybe? Even longer, deeper and better than the first. An apology? Instead, she fought her way out of his arms without a word and backed away, one hand closing against her throat as if she could barely breathe.
    “Lass—” he