Last Year's Bride (Montana Born Brides) by Anne McAllister

zip, shucked all his clothes, then, not even giving her a chance to do more than glimpse the bare magnificence of Cole McCullough, he bore her down on the bed.
    God, she had missed this! Missed him. Her hands ran over his heated flesh, followed the small knobs of his spine to the dip of his lower back. Her lips nibbled the curve of his ear, the line of his recently shaved jaw.
    They ’d had so little time together, that she’d tried to tell herself that she couldn’t possibly feel as lonely as she’d felt these past months. But the truth, now that she was in his arms, was that the emptiness had been profound. It was like finding the other half of her self—her heart—and feeling able to breathe, to live once more.
    His hands were all over her as well, making quick work of her bra and pants, then tracing her curves with his fingers, relearning the slope of her breasts, the concavity of her abdomen, the slight swell below just before he reached the juncture of her thighs. His fingers walked the line, followed by his lips. His soft hair brushed her breasts as he worked his way down. Nell held her breath as she felt his warmth against her, felt his fingers part her, touch her.
    She twisted, shifted to make room for him, reached to draw him down. But he resisted, sat back on his heels between her knees and looked into her eyes.
    His expression was solemn, dark, unreadable, really. His skin was taut across his cheekbones. He looked almost in pain. Or in prayer. An anguished prayer.
    “ Cole?”
    His jaw clenched, his eyelids shut, and for a moment she feared that he would pull away, leave her there.
    But then he opened his eyes again. His abs tightened and his chest expanded as a breath shuddered through him. She saw him swallow and he moved to stroke his hands down the front of her, slowly, deliberately, watching her reaction as his fingers touched her, parted her, stroked her, made her shift her legs and open for him.
    His mouth twisted as he came down to her, as she touched him, made him suck a harsh breath at the stroke of her fingers along the length of him. “Nell.” His voice was strangled as he warned her, “Playing with fire.”
    Nell only smiled. “Burn me down.”
    It was half invitation, half challenge —and all desire. And need. And pent-up emotion. And now—now he was here—and coming undone at her touch.
    She was ready for him, and there was no doubt he was ready for her. He came to her, then, hard and hot, silk and steel. She could feel the tremor in him as he slid in, knew she was trembling, too, as she wrapped around him and she brought him home.
    She’d known coming to Marietta was a risk. Just like marrying Cole had been a risk. But you never had a life without taking a risk. Her parents had taught her that. They’d adopted five of their six children from far-flung parts of the world, had reached out— opened themselves and their hearts— to children they had never met.
    “ Best thing we ever did,” her mother had told her more than once.
    And her father had agreed, smiling at them both and adding with a long look at her mother, “It was—along with marrying you.”
    Nell had grown up wanting a marriage like theirs, wanting to know the confidence that came with making the right choice, finding the right man. “How will I know?” she’d asked them.
    They had looked at each other helplessly for a moment. Then, “You feel a connection,” her mother said. “There’s something there between you. You see the world in ways that complement each other. Not the same, but in ways that make it clearer, brighter, fuller.”
    “ You trust each other,” her father said. “You want the best for each other. You challenge each other. You make each other better. It’s just ... right.”
    This here, this now —whatever existed between her and Cole— Nell believed, was right. She had sensed it in the beginning, had against all odds felt it grow. The summer they’d met they’d only spent weeks