“I’ll manage, Sam. Don’t worry about me.”
There was a long silence. They both knew there was nothing more to say, but he didn’t move. He glanced around the room, as though reluctant to leave. Almost as reluctant as she was to see him go.
“It’s a long drive back to the city,” she said. “You should eat before you go. Can I interest you in dinner? Say, a gourmet repast of macaroni and cheese?”
He grinned. “Make it anything else and I’ll say yes.”
In the kitchen, they rummaged through the groceries they’d bought at a supermarket on the way. Mushroom omelets, a loaf of French bread, and a bottle of wine soon graced the tiny camp table. Electricity had not yet made it to this part of the lake, so they ate by the light of a hurricane lamp. Outside, dusk gave way to a darkness alive with the chirp of crickets.
She gazed across the table at him, watching the way his face gleamed in the lantern light. She kept focusing on that bruise on his cheek, thinking about how close he’d come to dying that afternoon. But that was exactly the sort of work he did, the sort of risk he took all the time. Bombs. Death. It was insane, and she didn’t know why any man in his right mind would take those risks.
She took a sip of wine, the whole time intensely, almost painfully aware of his presence. And of her attraction toward him, an attraction so strong she was having trouble remembering to eat.
She had to remind herself that he was just doing his job, that to him, she was nothing more than a piece of the puzzle he was trying to solve, but she couldn’t help picturing other meals, other nights they might spend together. Here, on the lake. Candlelight, laughter. Children. She thought he’d be good with children. He’d be patient and kind, just as he was with her.
She reached across to pour him more wine.
He put his hand over the glass. “I have to be driving back.”
“Oh. Of course.” Nervously she set the bottle down again. She folded and refolded her napkin. For a whole minute they didn’t speak, didn’t look at each other. At least, she didn’t look at him.
But when she finally raised her eyes, she saw that he was watching her. Not the way a cop looks at a witness, at a piece of a puzzle.
He was watching her the way a man watches a woman he wants.
He said, quickly, “I should leave now—”
“I know.”
“—before it gets too late.”
“It’s still early.”
“They’ll need me, back in the city.”
She bit her lip and said nothing. Of course he was right. The city did need him. Everyone needed him. She was just one detail that required attending to. Now she was safely tucked away and he could go back to his real business, his real concerns.
But he didn’t seem at all eager to leave. He hadn’t moved from the chair, hadn’t broken eye contact. She was the one who looked away, who nervously snatched up her wineglass.
She was startled when he reached over and gently caught her hand. Without a word he took the glass and set it down. He raised her hand, palm side up, and pressed a kiss, ever so light, to her wrist. The lingering of lips, the tickle of his breath, was the sweetest torture. If he could wreak such havoc kissing that one square inch of skin, what could he do with the rest of her?
She closed her eyes and gave a small, soft moan. “I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered.
“It’s a bad idea. For me to stay.”
“Why?”
“Because of this.” He kissed her wrist again. “And this.” His lips skimmed up her arm, his beard delightfully rough against her sensitive skin. “It’s a mistake. You know it. I know it.”
“I make mistakes all the time,” she replied. “I don’t always regret them.”
His gaze lifted to hers. He saw both her fear and her fearlessness. She was hiding nothing now, letting him read all. Her hunger was too powerful to hide.
He rose from the table. So did she.
He pulled her toward him, cupped her face in his hands, and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss, sweet with the taste of wine and desire, left her legs unsteady. She swayed against him, her arms reaching up to clutch his shoulders. Before she could catch her breath, he was kissing her again, deeper. As their mouths joined, so did their bodies. His hands slid down her waist, to her hips. He didn’t need to pull her against him; she could already feel him, hard and aroused. And that excited her even more.
“If we’re going to stop,” he breathed, “it had better be now….”
She responded with a kiss that drowned out any more words between them. Their bodies did all the talking, all the communicating.
They were tugging at each other’s clothes, feverish for the touch of bare skin. First her sweater came off, then his shirt. They kissed their way into the next room, where the fire had quieted to a warm glow. Still kissing her, he pulled the afghan off the couch and let it fall onto the floor by the hearth.
Facing each other, they knelt before the dying fire. His bare shoulders gleamed in the flickering light. She was eager, starved for his touch, but he moved slowly, savoring every moment, every new experience of her. He watched with longing as she unhooked her bra and shrugged the straps off her shoulders. When he reached out to cup her breast, to tug at her nipple, she let her head sag back with a moan. His touch was ever so gentle, yet it left her feeling weak. Conquered. He tipped her back and lowered her onto the afghan.
Her body was pure liquid now, melting under his touch. He unzipped her jeans, eased them off her hips. Her underwear slid off with the hiss of silk. She lay unshielded to his gaze now, her skin rosy in the firelight.
“I’ve had so many dreams about you,” he whispered as his hand slid exploringly down her belly, toward the dark triangle of hair. “Last night, when you were in my house, I dreamed of holding you. Touching you just the way I am now. But when I woke up, I told myself it could never happen. That it was all fantasy. All longing. And here we are…” He bent forward, his kiss tender on her lips. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I want you to. I want us to.”
“I want it just as much. More. But I’m afraid we’re going to regret it.”
“Then we’ll regret it later. Tonight, let’s just be you and me. Let’s pretend there’s nothing else, no one else.”
He kissed her again. And this time his hand slipped between her thighs, his finger dipping into her wetness, sliding deep into her warmth. She groaned, helpless with delight. He slid another finger in, and felt her trembling, tightening around him. She was ready, so ready for him, but he wanted to take his time, to make this last.
He withdrew his hand, just long enough to remove the rest of his clothes. As he knelt beside her, she couldn’t help drawing in a sharp breath of admiration. What a beautiful man he was. Not just his body, but his soul. She could see it in his eyes: the caring, the warmth. Before it had been hidden from her, concealed behind that tough-cop mask of his. Now he was hiding nothing. Revealing everything.
As she was revealing everything to him.
She was too lost in pleasure to feel any modesty, any shame. She lay back, whimpering, as his fingers found her again, withdrew, teased, plunged back in. Already she was slick with sweat and desire, her hips arching against him.
“Please,” she murmured. “Oh, Sam. I—”
He kissed her, cutting off any protest. And he continued his torment, his fingers dipping, sliding, until she was wound so tight she thought she’d shatter.
Only then, only as she reached the very edge, did he take away his hand, fit his hips to hers, and thrust deep inside her.
She gripped him, crying out as he swept her, and himself, toward climax. And when it came, when she felt herself tumbling into that wondrous free fall, they clung to each other and they tumbled together, to a soft and ever-so-gentle landing.
She fell asleep, warm and safe, in his arms.
