She knew that he had followed her into the living room of her cottage, that he’d closed the door behind himself and carefully locked it. All too aware of him, she started down the hallway to the bathroom.
“Sam—”
She stopped, dead still, staring at him. “What?”
“Sam, you can’t stay alone.”
“What did you find at the Steps, Adam?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re a liar, Adam.”
“I can’t leave you alone, Sam.”
Maybe it was a little bit of both.
It didn’t really matter. She had lost. Lost what, though, she wasn’t quite certain. A battle with herself, she supposed. Longing was rising over dignity.
“Sam, you’ve got to realize, I can’t leave you—”
“Fine.” She turned again, peeling down the straps of her damp blue bathing suit as she went.
She stepped out of it completely in front of the bathroom door and left it lying in the hall.
He couldn’t leave her alone. Well, if he was going to be with her constantly, she couldn’t bear it if he left her alone.
He never attacked without an invitation. Well, now he had his damned invitation. She stood in the hallway for a moment with her naked back to him.
Then she walked into the bathroom and into the shower, turning the spray on full, allowing it to sluice through her hair. She moved mechanically, scrubbing her body, then her hair, rinsing, not opening her eyes, hearing only the thunder of the water.
He was there, she thought. He’d followed her. Into the bathroom. He was near her, now.
Because he couldn’t stay away.
Because he’d been invited….
And any minute, he would step in beside her. He would touch her.
He was near.
Wasn’t.
Was….
Oh, God…it was wrong, she tried to tell herself. What she was doing was wrong. Justin Carlyle had taught her all the right things about life. He had taught her that love was the greatest emotion. He had taught her to be considerate, caring, fair and honest. He had taught her to see the world through the eyes of others, to be just and understanding. He had taught her that sex wasn’t something to be engaged in lightly. He had taught her that it was an expression of love to be shared between two individuals when there was commitment and caring between them.
She had believed him. And she had been deeply in love with Adam O’Connor the first time she had ever made love with him.
Now…
Now, she just remembered.
The way he’d touched her.
The way he’d made her feel.
Now…
Now the man had scarcely come back in her life, and here she was, fantasizing. He didn’t know what her past few years had been like, and she didn’t know about his.
Of course, she could guess….
But that didn’t matter. The things her father had taught her didn’t matter. The look Adam had given her in the water did.
Just as her early years had been too sheltered, her last years had been too isolated. She wanted Adam. She didn’t want to think about right or wrong. She didn’t want to assess her feelings for him, and she most certainly didn’t want to think about the emotional hell she would endure once things were over. Her every action seemed to be ruled by her nearly desperate desire for him. She wanted to be held. Touched, stroked. More….
She opened her eyes at last, feeling the water pouring over her head and hair and shoulders.
He was there, standing just outside the shower door, arms crossed over his chest, silver-gray eyes hard on her. She stared at him. He opened the shower door, still in his trunks, stepped into the stall and stood before her. For long moments the water splashed and poured and rioted around them as he continued to stare at her.
She could tell him to get the hell out, and he would go.
But she had nothing to say.
Neither did he.
Suddenly he pulled her into his arms. His lips ground down on hers, hard, with the same anger that had radiated from him all day. It didn’t matter. She was just as angry. And she was glad of the rough feel of him, of his hands, hard as they moved down her back, crushing her shoulders closer, then her hips, then rounding over her buttocks until she was so intimately close against him that she could feel the rise of his erection through the material of his bathing briefs. He drew her even closer, kissing her all the while, openmouthed kisses, as hot and wet as the water streaming around them. Finally he stepped back ever so slightly, and his hand slipped between them to thrust her thighs apart, his fingers moving supplely over the riot of short red hair at her pubis, then drawing a gasp from her as they thrust inside. His lips remained on hers, his tongue moving within her mouth, his fingers within her, his thumb rubbing a tender nub of outer flesh. Weakness pervaded her, sensation spilling through her like the burning rays of the sun. She clung to his shoulders, nearly shrieking aloud.
His lips parted from hers, but his hands remained on her.
His eyes demanded, challenged or mocked, she wasn’t sure which. It didn’t matter. She still didn’t have anything to say.
Neither did he.
She leaned her head against his soaking chest, afraid that she was going to fall.
He whispered to her at last. “How many times do you think we made love?”
“I don’t know…maybe thirty, maybe—”
“Let’s make it thirty-one.”
“I…”
“Yes?”
“I thought we were already doing that.”
“Getting there,” he murmured. He slammed the faucet, and the cascade of water came to an abrupt stop.
She stared at him, hoping she wasn’t going to have to stand too much longer. She couldn’t breathe at all. Rivers of liquid heat were flooding her limbs. Her throat was dry, her knees incredibly weak.
Pathetic! she taunted herself.
Seduced.
“I thought—” she began.
“We’re both just too damned tall for a shower stall,” he said.
And then she didn’t have to stand any longer, because he picked her up.
And she was in his arms, her eyes on his….
Pathetic behavior, she warned herself.
No. Just…
God, yes.
Just so
10
