Healing Hearts (The Challenge Series) by Liz Crowe Page A

restaurant was attached to a very nice bed and breakfast, emphasis on the bed end of the equation. But he would not do that to her, not again. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them. He cut and fed her pieces of the amazing steak, scooping out bites of butter-infused whipped potatoes and olive oil-dredged green beans.
    “Damn,” she said, sitting back and patting her lips with a white napkin. “Nice foreplay, I must say.”
    “Oh shit, busted.” He smiled at her, his cheeks and lips getting used to the movement.
    “Oh, I’m kidding, lighten up.” She winked and leaned in on her elbows giving him a breathtaking view of her cleavage. He gulped down some water then noted an older man in a tux step up to the mike and a few musicians settle in behind him. “Oh, God, that’s Mr. Henry!” She raised her hand and the dapper old guy saluted her then launched into the most amazing rendition of Minnie the Moocher he’d ever heard. They listened, smiling, and clapped with the rest of the full restaurant.
    “Okay, ladies and gents,” the man declared. “Time to dance.”
    Jay raised an eyebrow at her, ignoring the pounding in his heart. Christy had made him take dancing lessons. It had been one of her “marriage trades,” used to convince the other partner to participate in something they otherwise might not. His were more along the lines of blowjobs, but he’d suffered the waltz, the two-step, and even the tango once or twice. They’d been good at it, too. He shut his eyes against the looming onrush of memories. A hand on his shoulder startled him.
    “So?” She stood, arms crossed. “What’cha got, Longmire?”
    “You have no idea.” He rose to his feet and took her hand.
    After three songs’ worth of guiding her around the dance floor, the rest of the crowd had taken their seats. Jay stood, holding Abigail close, alone in the middle of the room. He felt released, free of guilt, of sorrow, of anything but the perfection of her small form in his arms. The band launched into a Sinatra song. She smiled up at him through her thick black lashes.
    “Stop flirting with me. That’s a personal bubble violation,” he whispered, letting his lips graze her earlobe, loving how her whole body shivered against him.
    “Fine, then stop pressing against me so hard I can feel how much money is in your pocket.”
    “Touché.” But he gripped her closer. The candlelight flickered, the music embraced them, and she nearly brought him to his knees with her next words.
    “I can’t be what you want me to be, Jay. I have goals. I need my independence. I want to make it on my own.”
    He sucked in a breath, slid the hand he had on her hip around to the small of her back. He didn’t need this. But he wanted it so much he was about to explode. “I’m never going to be what you want me to be, either. Let’s just be…what we are…tonight.”
    She laid her head against his chest, and he shut his eyes, trying not to let the moment overwhelm him, send him screaming into the night. Christy’s face at their wedding, at the birth of their children, and that last moment when her eyes clouded over after she told him not to blame himself while he watched her die—they all rose, clear and bright. He swallowed, leaned down into Abigail’s thick riot of dark curls, sucked in a deep breath. “What do you want me to be for you…tonight?” he asked.
    She put her hand to his face, went up on her tiptoes, and met his lips, urgent and needy. He kissed her, listening to the crowd clap and catcall. Then broke away. “Well?” he asked, his body zinging.
    “I want you to be the guy who fucks me again.” The simplicity of her words took his breath away. “I don’t want to be made love to, not now. I need you, Jay. With me, inside me, all over me. And you need it, too. No strings, no emotion. Only physical urges met. I’m willing. Are you?”
    He stepped away from her, a little shocked and a lot horny. “Give me two minutes.” Grateful