His eyes changed, and I sensed his intention before he even moved. He was going to kiss me. For the second time in my life Brogan Ramsay was going to kiss me. And I wanted him to—possibly even more than the first time. My heart beat out the plea and my lips parted a moment before his head came down and his mouth met mine. The contact immediately sent waves of pleasure radiating through me in an overwhelming rush of heat. I whimpered and wrapped my arms around his neck at the same moment he pulled me against him. His head tilted and his tongue swept into my mouth and my tongue met his, sliding against it in a delicious caress. It felt like a symphony rose in every cell of my body as I became reacquainted so easily with his taste, his touch, the way he reached his hands up the back of my shirt so he could run his fingertips over my skin. I gripped him, but kept my hands still so he could focus on exploring me. I remembered. I remembered the foggy, tortured look on his face when he was experiencing too much stimulation at once, the way he'd halt his movements based on mine. Not always able to give and receive at the same time. But there was a dance I'd begun to learn long ago and I heard the melody—felt the rhythm—as he pressed his body against mine. I heard it and my body responded as if it was sung only for me.
I know you, Brogan. I've never forgotten.
I moaned again, our tongues sliding and gently dueling. I loved the taste of him—mint and Brogan, that indescribable something that was only him and no one else.
Our kiss became urgent, Brogan's fingertips moving lightly over every part of my skin that he could reach as if he were trying to convince himself I was really there. I felt the hard press of his arousal against my stomach and pressed back toward him. He broke from my lips, panting. "I . . ." he said, looking down at me with glazed eyes. "I . . . God, Lydia." He brought his mouth back to mine again, and we kissed for long moments. I sagged against Brogan, my body limp with need. He took my weight, holding me up with one arm around my waist while he worked my mouth like he had been born to do just that, feathering his lips down my throat and sucking at the hollow spot at the base of my neck. I was throbbing between my legs, my underwear soaked. I wanted to beg him to lay me down on the ground, undress me, spread my legs wide and fill me with his hardness, and relieve the terrible empty ache within me. If I didn't stop now, I was going to do just that. I was going to beg and plead and demand.
Breaking from Brogan's mouth, I took in a big lungful of air. "We have to . . . we . . ." I panted, trying to organize what I was trying to say.
"I know." He pulled me toward him as we both caught our breath. I rested my head against his chest, trying once again to figure out what I was feeling. "I want you, Lydia," he said, laying his forehead against mine and letting out a shaky breath as if in this, he was admitting defeat.
I tipped my head back and looked up at him. Our gazes seemed to tangle before I looked away, off to the interior door behind him. There was still so much between us, so much unresolved, untold. I would not lie to myself; I wanted him, too. Desperately. But it wasn't enough. It hadn't been then, and it definitely wasn't now. Taking his hand I started toward it, pulling him behind me. He followed. When we stepped into what had once been a small, temporary bedroom, I let go of his hand and looked at him.
"What about this, Brogan? What about what happened here? Will you ever really forgive me? Is this," I swept my hand around, indicating all that had happened here that day, "really over and done with for you?"
His gaze broke from mine, and he looked around the now-empty room, his eyes lingering on the place the small cot had once been. The place where we'd both lost our virginity what seemed like so long ago.
I walked over and stood in the spot, a wave of melancholy coming over me as I thought back to my stupid teenage dreams. "I had envisioned it like this. You'd pull me close and kiss me." I brought my fingertips to my lips re-enacting the drama of my girlish imaginings. "Your lips would be so soft, so gentle. I'd imagined kissing you so many times. I'd lie in bed and think about it, my hands wandering over my skin, pretending they were your hands touching me, stroking me. I imagined how you might taste, how your skin might smell—like boy sweat and grass." I closed my eyes and inhaled and then smiled a small, dreamy smile, placing my hands over my heart. When I opened them, Brogan had a small baffled frown on his face. "Myles would burst in and demand to know why you were kissing his girl. 'Your girl?' you'd say, before you could even think too much about it. 'She's my girl. I claim her, right here, right now. My princess. She's mine and no one else's.' And then we'd . . . I don't know, hop on one of the horses and ride off into the sunset." I dropped my arms, sighing and looking around. "I never was very good at tying up the loose ends of a plan after I'd orchestrated the exciting part." I looked at Brogan, beseeching him with my eyes. "I was sixteen and stupid. I was young and spoiled and selfish. And I should have just told you I loved you rather than setting you up. I'm sorry, Brogan. I never meant to hurt you." I shook my head. "I never meant for things to turn out the way they did. I'm so sorry. I'm so very, very sorry." My words faded away to nothing.
Brogan's expression was a study in confusion. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it. Finally, he tilted his head and asked, "You wanted me? You pulled that stunt so that . . ." He ran his hand through his hair, looking down at the floor as if it might hold the answer he was apparently looking for. After a moment, he laced his hands behind his neck and just stood that way for several minutes, grappling with something. I waited, not understanding what he was so confused about. Finally, he dropped his arms loosely by his sides and met my eyes. "You did that for me? You did that so I'd fight for you?"