Chapter Eight
Savannah awoke with a moan and flung her arm over her eyes to shield them from the blast of sunlight. Her body felt as though she'd ridden a wild bronc over rocky ground.
And then she remembered she'd pretty much done just that.
Her lips curved as the night reeled through her mind. She had thought she knew what it was like to want—a home, a life, a man. She'd been certain she'd experienced every kind of hunger—for food, for shelter, for love. But nothing she had felt before matched what had churned through her for Jared MacKade.
There had been men in her life before—some had passed through, some had stirred her blood. But she had never needed one. And that, she realized, was both the risk and the wonder of this.
There would never be another man. He was the first, and he would be the last, to take her heart.
As both mind and body woke, she heard the song of the birds, the far-off yip of Shane's dogs. She felt the strength of the sun beaming through the spring leaves, and the chill of the early breeze. With her eyes still shielded, she stretched lazily, feeling like a cat waiting to be stroked.
"You have a tattoo."
She made a long, contented sound, flung her arm over her head, and at last opened her eyes.
He was sitting beside her. His hair was tousled from sleep and her hands, his eyes were heavy and focused thoughtfully on an area high on her right thigh. She wondered if there was any other woman in the world lucky enough to wake to such a sight.
"You look good in the morning," she murmured, reaching out to stroke him. "Naked and rumpled."
He wasn't sure how long he'd watched her sleep. But he did know that when he tugged the blanket away from her, to pleasure himself with a long study of her body in the sunlight, he'd discovered the colorful little bird on her thigh.
He simply hadn't been able to get past it.
"You have a tattoo," he repeated.
"I know that." With a little laugh, she rose on her elbows. Those dark-chocolate eyes were heavy and touched with humor. "It's a phoenix," she explained, amused at the way his brows drew together as he focused on it. "You know, rising from the ashes. I got it in New Orleans, when I realized I wasn't going to be poor for the rest of my life."
"A tattoo."
"Some men think they're sexy." Of course, she hadn't gotten it for a man, but for herself. A brand, to remind her that she could remake herself, rise above what she had been. "How about you?"
"I'll have to take it under advisement."
He couldn't say why he was so fascinated by it. So jarred. What other secrets did she have? What other permanent marks from her past? He looked away from it, into her face, and was shaken all over again. The sleepy smile in her eyes, the curve of those lips.
"How're you feeling?"
"Like I spent the night having wild sex in the woods." Laughing, she moved to link her arms around his neck. "I feel wonderful." Her lips found his and lingered, soft and warm. "How about you?"
"Exactly the same."
She hoped so, she hoped he could. She would have lived her life in bliss if he could feel for her even a fraction of what she felt for him.
He gathered her close and held her as no one else had ever held her. As if it mattered.
"I don't suppose we could stay here forever," she murmured.
"No, but we can come back." He needed to think, and knew it was impossible as long as he held her. There were responsibilities at the farm that he was neglecting, he reminded himself. "I have to go." But he buried his face in her hair, and his arms stayed around her. "Farms don't take Sundays off."
"I have to pick up Bryan soon." But her head nestled into his shoulder, and her arms stayed around him.
"Why don't you bring him over and.. .just bring him over?"
"All right."
"Savannah."