Samantha’s promiscuity had also soured her on sex, and Sidney began to think of most men as cowards, liars and cheats. She was just too tenderhearted to suffer a man’s embraces-reading his dirty mind, knowing he wished she was more experienced, more beautiful, someone better, someone else.
Marc had never given her the impression he’d rather be with another woman, but he was hard to read, like Bill. Younger men wore their hearts, and their fantasies, on their sleeves. If she didn’t know better, she’d believe Marc when he said he didn’t have any softer emotions. Instead she suspected they were buried so deep even he no longer recognized them.
The disappointment, this time, fell on her shoulders. Lost in sensation, she wasn’t sure where she’d gone wrong. Her cheeks burned as images of her wanton behavior assaulted her like hot flashes. She’d practically begged him to make love to her. After he’d succumbed to her advances, she’d been too wrapped up in her own responses to pay any attention to his. One moment she was lying underneath him, drowning in pleasure, the next he was heaving himself off her and saying he was sorry.
It had been the most profound experience of her life, and he was sorry.
She took at least half the responsibility for their unprotected sex, having instigated it. He’d felt so good she hadn’t wanted him to stop. Ever. She’d actually wanted him to come inside her. For a brief, monumentally naive instant, she’d entertained a foolish dream about them starting a life together.
Judging by the horrified expression on his face as he realized what they’d done, he would rather adopt a family of rabid dogs than tie himself down to her.
When they arrived at his house, she got out of the truck quickly, depressed about having to spend more time in his stilted company. As she stood, gravity worked its magic, and she felt an embarrassing wetness soak through her panties.
“Oh,” she breathed, touching her fingertips to the crotch of her shorts.
He glanced at her sharply, his features taut with tension. “What?”
“Nothing,” she said, taking her hand away. Face flaming, she walked gingerly, hoping the moisture wouldn’t spread until she was safely upstairs.
Alma Cruz would think she was such a slut.
Thankfully his mother had already gone to bed. Planning on doing the same, Sidney trudged up to his room and grabbed her tote bag.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Downstairs. To the couch.”
“You can sleep here.”
“Marc-”
“Goddamn it, Sidney, you can have the bed. Don’t make me feel more like a bastard than I already do.”
She stared at the ground, wishing he would leave her alone so she could wash and change clothes.
“Do you want to take a bath or something?”
“It’s too late, you know. The damage is done.”
He had the grace to look chagrined. More than that, he seemed stricken. “I just wanted to make sure you were-forget it,” he broke off in frustration. “Do you need anything?”
“Yes. Some privacy.”
“Fine,” he grated, leaving the room without another word.
When she got out of the shower, she found a fluffy white bathrobe on the bed, a cup of chamomile tea on the dresser, a cold pack and some over-the-counter pain relievers. What the hell? Her mother had coddled her less after she’d had her first period.
She put on the robe and drank the tea, ignoring the pills. Placing the cold pack against her hot forehead, she stretched out on top of the comforter, and just like that, she fell asleep.
When Sidney awoke it was late morning, judging by the sunshine streaming into the room and warming the bed. Sometime during the night, she’d gotten overheated and shed the robe.
Now she was covered by a thin white sheet.
Partially covered, anyway. She had it cuddled up to her front, leaving her naked back completely exposed. The bedroom door was wide-open, so anyone walking by could see her.
At the breakfast table on the opposite side of the room, Marc had a particularly unrestricted view.
With a tiny gasp, she sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest and pushing her short, tousled hair off her forehead. “How long have you been there?”
He transferred a mug and a glass of orange juice from a tray to the table. “A minute.”
“Did you cover me up?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes with a moan. “Your mother probably thinks I’m an exhibitionist.”
At that, he smiled. “She left before I checked in on you.”
Warm, wonderful smells were wafting across the room. Securing the sheet above her breasts, she climbed off the bed, lured by hunger. “What’s that?”
“French toast.”
“Mmm. You made it?”
“Yes.”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, she settled herself into a chair and started to dig in. “Aren’t you having any?”
“I already ate.”
As a mouthful of crisp, sugary French toast literally melted on her tongue, she closed her eyes in pleasure. When she opened them again, he was staring at her. “What?” she asked.
“I like watching you eat,” he murmured, his eyes on her mouth.
“And sleep?”
“Hmm?”
“You were watching me sleep?”
His dark gaze traveled over her. “Yes,” he said in a gruff voice, perhaps ashamed that he’d ogled her nude body during a moment of vulnerability. Again.
Her breasts tingled at the thought of his eyes there, and her nipples tightened, thrusting against the thin cotton sheet. She crossed her arms over her chest, plumping out her breasts, a movement that had the dual effect of easing her discomfort and increasing his.
“I have to take a shower,” he rasped, his eyes glazed. His arousal was apparent when he stood, but he made no move to touch her.
Obviously he’d rather go without than have her again.
Tears stung at her eyes, and she lost her appetite, but she forced herself to eat every bite, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hurt her feelings. After a few minutes, he came out of the bathroom, a dark god with a white towel wrapped around his waist.
Did he have to rub it in?
“I’m going to change,” he warned.
“Go ahead,” she challenged, sipping from her mug like she couldn’t care less. Then he dropped his towel, and she almost sputtered coffee all over the table.
Sidney thought she’d seen it all, but he hadn’t really undressed last night. She knew he had an awesome upper body. She knew the way he filled out his jeans could make a grown woman weep. What she hadn’t directly laid eyes on, she’d felt against her and inside her.
Even so, the entirety of his naked form was even more impressive than those extraordinary individual parts. He was muscular, but lean, and…very well proportioned. Judging by the lack of steam in the small bathroom, he’d taken a cold shower.
It hadn’t worked.
As he pulled a pair of snug boxer briefs up his hips, along with his jeans, she felt heat pool to her lower body.
Annoyed with her reaction to him, she walked across the room, stripping off the sheet she was wearing and throwing it on the bed. Intent on giving him a glimpse of what he was missing, she bent over to take a fresh pair of panties out of her tote.
