focus.
“Good Lord, what was that ?” she breathed out loud.
Her mind had no answer. Her body, however, relived every moment from the first light touch of his lips on hers. The small, insignificant brush of his mouth had flung her mind into turmoil and her body to his. His deeper kiss had obliterated thought, leaving only the certainty she was in a hurricane, then swallowed up in a tornado. She could have sworn colored lights flickered and whirled all around them. She’d become giddy, dizzy with desire. She couldn’t get close enough to him, not enough to cool the heat or halt the lightning zinging through her body.
She’d had no control whatever, neither mental nor physical. He could have done anything to her, anything in the world. Ravished her on the floor. Torn her clothes off and taken her against the wall. Carried her into the bedroom and . . .
“No!” she cried aloud. Yes , her body reveled at the idea.
But he hadn’t done any of it. In fact, he’d calmly ended that devastating kiss and walked out the door. Cool, composed, unmoved. He’ d just walked out the damn door.
How dare he?
How dare he leave her in this . . . state, or . . . condition, or . . . whatever it was? How dare he reject her?
How dare he not give her a chance to remind him of their agreement? To tell him she wouldn’t kiss him again? To reject him first?
“Whatever it was” transformed itself into anger—hot, seething anger—and she beat her fists on her knees in frustration.
Didn’t the arrogant bastard feel anything at all? After reducing her to a pile of storm debris, how did the man have the gall to leave, saying only he’d call her tomorrow night?
Wait a minute. What was she thinking?
“Oh, God! Oh, damn, damn, damn.” As her brain finally clicked into its analytical gear, she realized how she was reacting. She wasn’t thinking straight. She hadn’t meant for another kiss to happen at all.
What was she angry about? Had he, in fact, rejected her? Why should it matter to her? She should be angry not at him, but at herself, for cooperating in that kiss. She hadn’t secured his actual, verbal agreement to her no-kisses rule, and the SOB had ignored her demand. And she’d given in.
What had happened to her willpower? Was she falling for another handsome, charming man? Was this going to be Walt all over again?
The last question galvanized her, stood her on her feet, and propelled her toward the bedroom. She told herself, “No,” several times down the hall, and she fussed and fumed while she removed her clothes, put on her nightgown, and washed her face.
Rubbed her breastbone, which was now aching, not itching. Aching, with little sharp pinpricks of pain every so often. Just what she needed, another problem.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered again through the toothpaste foam as she brushed her teeth and her mind traveled right back to Clay. She’d had such fun this night, enjoyed his company so much. And the things they’d talked about. She hadn’t had a chance to talk basketball with anybody in a long time. Her computer buddies didn’t care much about sports, and Tamara liked to watch the men, not the game.
But she and Clay together as a couple couldn’t go on, wouldn’t after they caught Kevin.
She couldn’t take many more kisses like the one tonight. Not and remain sane. Not and remain her own woman. Not and keep Clay where he firmly belonged, in the business side of her life. She had to end this confusion between her mind and body.
She could not let him touch her again when they were alone. Not let him kiss her. She would arrange the double date with Tamara and Kevin so Clay could meet the smarmy bastard. After that, she wouldn’t need to have anything to do with him. She’d tell Tamara they’d broken up.
That would do it, she told herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked at her image and realized she was rubbing that spot right between her breasts again. She had to stop; she was only
“Good Lord, what was that ?” she breathed out loud.
Her mind had no answer. Her body, however, relived every moment from the first light touch of his lips on hers. The small, insignificant brush of his mouth had flung her mind into turmoil and her body to his. His deeper kiss had obliterated thought, leaving only the certainty she was in a hurricane, then swallowed up in a tornado. She could have sworn colored lights flickered and whirled all around them. She’d become giddy, dizzy with desire. She couldn’t get close enough to him, not enough to cool the heat or halt the lightning zinging through her body.
She’d had no control whatever, neither mental nor physical. He could have done anything to her, anything in the world. Ravished her on the floor. Torn her clothes off and taken her against the wall. Carried her into the bedroom and . . .
“No!” she cried aloud. Yes , her body reveled at the idea.
But he hadn’t done any of it. In fact, he’d calmly ended that devastating kiss and walked out the door. Cool, composed, unmoved. He’ d just walked out the damn door.
How dare he?
How dare he leave her in this . . . state, or . . . condition, or . . . whatever it was? How dare he reject her?
How dare he not give her a chance to remind him of their agreement? To tell him she wouldn’t kiss him again? To reject him first?
“Whatever it was” transformed itself into anger—hot, seething anger—and she beat her fists on her knees in frustration.
Didn’t the arrogant bastard feel anything at all? After reducing her to a pile of storm debris, how did the man have the gall to leave, saying only he’d call her tomorrow night?
Wait a minute. What was she thinking?
“Oh, God! Oh, damn, damn, damn.” As her brain finally clicked into its analytical gear, she realized how she was reacting. She wasn’t thinking straight. She hadn’t meant for another kiss to happen at all.
What was she angry about? Had he, in fact, rejected her? Why should it matter to her? She should be angry not at him, but at herself, for cooperating in that kiss. She hadn’t secured his actual, verbal agreement to her no-kisses rule, and the SOB had ignored her demand. And she’d given in.
What had happened to her willpower? Was she falling for another handsome, charming man? Was this going to be Walt all over again?
The last question galvanized her, stood her on her feet, and propelled her toward the bedroom. She told herself, “No,” several times down the hall, and she fussed and fumed while she removed her clothes, put on her nightgown, and washed her face.
Rubbed her breastbone, which was now aching, not itching. Aching, with little sharp pinpricks of pain every so often. Just what she needed, another problem.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered again through the toothpaste foam as she brushed her teeth and her mind traveled right back to Clay. She’d had such fun this night, enjoyed his company so much. And the things they’d talked about. She hadn’t had a chance to talk basketball with anybody in a long time. Her computer buddies didn’t care much about sports, and Tamara liked to watch the men, not the game.
But she and Clay together as a couple couldn’t go on, wouldn’t after they caught Kevin.
She couldn’t take many more kisses like the one tonight. Not and remain sane. Not and remain her own woman. Not and keep Clay where he firmly belonged, in the business side of her life. She had to end this confusion between her mind and body.
She could not let him touch her again when they were alone. Not let him kiss her. She would arrange the double date with Tamara and Kevin so Clay could meet the smarmy bastard. After that, she wouldn’t need to have anything to do with him. She’d tell Tamara they’d broken up.
That would do it, she told herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked at her image and realized she was rubbing that spot right between her breasts again. She had to stop; she was only
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