Backlash Tender Trap Aftermath - Lisa Jackson

Prologue

McLean Ranch, Montana

“I love you,” Tessa Kramer whispered. Lying on the summer-dry grass, staring into eyes as blue as the sea, she smiled, blushing a little at the boldness of her words. At nineteen she was certain she was in love. And no one, not her overprotective father, nor her suspicious brother, nor even Denver McLean himself, could convince her otherwise.

Denver’s thumbs traced the arch of her cheeks. Passion smoldered in his eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.” Her lips quivered anxiously. “So don’t try to tell me that I’m too young or too naive or too . . . whatever, to know what I’m talking about.”

“Am I arguing?” He kissed her softly again, his lips warm and filled with promise as they brushed tenderly over hers. Strong fingers tangled in her long, strawberry-blond hair.

Winding her arms around his neck, she felt the weight of his chest crush her breasts, could see blue sky through the shifting pine needles of the branches overhead. The summer sun hung low over lazy mountains, and insects hummed in the whisper-soft breeze that ruffled Denver’s coal black hair. Nearby, the horses, a buckskin gelding and a sorrel mare, were tethered together. The animals stood nose to rump, nickering softly and switching their tails at the ever present flies.

The afternoon was perfect.

“I love you, too, Tessa,” Denver vowed, moving gently above her.

Through her jeans Tessa could feel the heat of his body, the solid warmth of his legs entwined with hers.

Pressing eager lips against her neck, he groaned—a deep, primal sound that caused her heart to trip. Her breath caught somewhere between her throat and lungs as he said, “I want to make you mine.”

She believed him. With all of her heart, she knew he wanted to marry her, intended to spend the rest of his life with her. Her heart began to clamor, her pulse jumping wildly as he circled the hollow of her throat with his tongue. His breath was as warm as the summer wind, the honesty in his eyes clear as a mountain lake.

“I trust you,” she whispered.

She felt the buttons slide through the buttonholes in her blouse. The gauzy fabric parted, and sunlight warmed her bare skin. She smiled to herself, throwing caution to the wind. Today she would prove just how much she loved Denver, just how wrong her father was about him.

Shifting, he traced the sculpted lace of her bra with his tongue. Eager shivers darted down her spine. With ease he unlatched the fastening and tossed the scrap of white cotton into a clump of sagebrush.

She sucked in her breath. His hands moved protectively over her breasts, kneading each dark-crested mound until she burned inside with that same unsatisfied ache she felt whenever they kissed. He touched one nipple with the tip of his tongue and she moaned, wanting more and responding by instinct, holding his head against her, whispering his name as her blood, like wildfire, ran hot and fast in her veins.

She couldn’t think and didn’t want to. Her fingers moved to the waistband of his faded jeans and she released the button, pushing worn denim over his legs, feeling for the first time the downy hair on his thighs as he, too, stripped her bare.

Sunlight danced through the trees, dappling their naked bodies as they gazed upon each other in silent rapture. She wasn’t embarrassed and met his hungry gaze with her own. He swallowed.

She licked her lips. “I’ll love you for the rest of my life,” she said softly. Touching his bare chest, watching the muscles of his shoulders ripple and strain, she smiled up at him.

Her fingers traced a feather-light line against his ribs, and he groaned. “Tessa, don’t tease me—”

“Never,” she vowed, devouring him with her eyes.

At twenty-three, Denver had matured into a handsome man. Long and lean, with tanned skin, flashing blue eyes and hair as dark as the night, he was rugged and charming. His features were no longer boyish, but chiseled into manhood. He was everything she had ever wanted, and unless she convinced him otherwise, he was leaving.

“Oh, Tessa,” he whispered hoarsely, smoothing her hair from her face, his palms caressing her cheeks. “I want to make you happy.”

“Do I look so miserable?” she asked, chuckling deep in her throat.

He grinned crookedly. “You’re gorgeous.”

“So, Mr. McLean, are you.”

“I never want to hurt you,” he said, growing serious again.

“You won’t.”

Slanting his mouth over hers, he moved until he was lying over her, his knees between hers, his thighs rubbing sensually as he