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Authors: Ann Macela
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making it more sore. She busied her hands putting the toothpaste away.
Once in bed with the light out, however, her body reminded her again of its pleasure at being in Clay’s arms, of its certainty of being exactly where it was supposed to be, of its longing to be there again.
And her memory conjured up his words, “I think we’ve got this backward. About who’s sweeping who off whose feet.” And the look on his face, silver eyes so intent on hers; and his muscular body, so hard against her soft one; and the strength of his desire, so evident pressed against her aching sex. He had been as breathless and aroused as she was.
Good. Let him stew for a while. The pleasure that idea brought made her smile in the darkness. It even seemed to lessen the discomfort in her chest.
Maybe she was mistaken in her original conclusions. Maybe he had been affected. She was an analyst; she could look at the evidence, plot the sequence of events, map the procedure. He’d been breathing hard also. His voice had sounded like he had trouble getting the words out. And she remembered the way his hands had trembled on her shoulders. Separating their bodies had been as hard on him as it was on her.
Maybe his honor and integrity had stopped him from . . . from what? Pushing her over the edge? Taking her where she had implied she didn’t want to go? She’d been the one who wanted to keep it all businesslike, and she’d told him so.
But he’d been the one with willpower. How had he known to stop? Why had he? Thank goodness he had. She wasn’t ready for more. Wasn’t she? Would she ever be?
Her body told her it was ready now . Her mind just wallowed around in confusion, as if it had been possessed by aliens. And the pain in her solar plexus seemed to come and go on its own schedule. At this rate she’d be a candidate for the loony bin in no time.
Francie snorted at herself and punched the pillow into a more comfortable position. For a woman who’d always prided herself on her ability to think and act clearly, she certainly wasn’t doing any of that now. She’d come in a complete circle, from frustration to rage to frustration of another sort.
What was she going to do about Clay Morgan?
Put a stop to his kisses, somehow. Keep her distance. Live through this debacle.
Survive.
Hoping daylight would bring respite from her problems, she closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow. Her last memory of the effect the kiss had on Clay caused a small smile of satisfaction to cross her face before sleep overtook her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sunday afternoon, Francie was about to turn on her computer to check her e-mail when the doorbell rang. She was almost afraid it was Clay at her door and she still hadn’t decided what to do about or with him. It was Tamara, thank goodness.
“Hey,” the redhead said when Francie let her in. “How was the date?”
“What, no ‘Good afternoon,’ or ‘How are you?’” Francie teased.
“You know me, I cut right to the chase,” Tamara grinned back.
“Well, come on in. You want something to drink? I was going to make some tea.”
“That sounds good.” Tamara followed her into the kitchen and plunked herself down at the table. “So, give.”
“The show was great,” Francie said as she filled the kettle and put it on the stove. She described what they had seen and where they had eaten dinner. “We had a great time talking about basketball. He played on his high-school teams just like I did, and we had a lot of fun arguing about the NBA versus the WNBA.”
Tamara rolled her eyes. “You two must be made for each other. Computers and now basketball. I don’t know any other woman who would have argued with her date about sports. Are you going to see him again?”
Francie prepared the teapot and placed cups on the table as she answered, “We didn’t make any firm plans. I’m sure we both have plenty of work to do. I was assigned to a special project last week, and I’ll have to work late
Once in bed with the light out, however, her body reminded her again of its pleasure at being in Clay’s arms, of its certainty of being exactly where it was supposed to be, of its longing to be there again.
And her memory conjured up his words, “I think we’ve got this backward. About who’s sweeping who off whose feet.” And the look on his face, silver eyes so intent on hers; and his muscular body, so hard against her soft one; and the strength of his desire, so evident pressed against her aching sex. He had been as breathless and aroused as she was.
Good. Let him stew for a while. The pleasure that idea brought made her smile in the darkness. It even seemed to lessen the discomfort in her chest.
Maybe she was mistaken in her original conclusions. Maybe he had been affected. She was an analyst; she could look at the evidence, plot the sequence of events, map the procedure. He’d been breathing hard also. His voice had sounded like he had trouble getting the words out. And she remembered the way his hands had trembled on her shoulders. Separating their bodies had been as hard on him as it was on her.
Maybe his honor and integrity had stopped him from . . . from what? Pushing her over the edge? Taking her where she had implied she didn’t want to go? She’d been the one who wanted to keep it all businesslike, and she’d told him so.
But he’d been the one with willpower. How had he known to stop? Why had he? Thank goodness he had. She wasn’t ready for more. Wasn’t she? Would she ever be?
Her body told her it was ready now . Her mind just wallowed around in confusion, as if it had been possessed by aliens. And the pain in her solar plexus seemed to come and go on its own schedule. At this rate she’d be a candidate for the loony bin in no time.
Francie snorted at herself and punched the pillow into a more comfortable position. For a woman who’d always prided herself on her ability to think and act clearly, she certainly wasn’t doing any of that now. She’d come in a complete circle, from frustration to rage to frustration of another sort.
What was she going to do about Clay Morgan?
Put a stop to his kisses, somehow. Keep her distance. Live through this debacle.
Survive.
Hoping daylight would bring respite from her problems, she closed her eyes and snuggled into the pillow. Her last memory of the effect the kiss had on Clay caused a small smile of satisfaction to cross her face before sleep overtook her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sunday afternoon, Francie was about to turn on her computer to check her e-mail when the doorbell rang. She was almost afraid it was Clay at her door and she still hadn’t decided what to do about or with him. It was Tamara, thank goodness.
“Hey,” the redhead said when Francie let her in. “How was the date?”
“What, no ‘Good afternoon,’ or ‘How are you?’” Francie teased.
“You know me, I cut right to the chase,” Tamara grinned back.
“Well, come on in. You want something to drink? I was going to make some tea.”
“That sounds good.” Tamara followed her into the kitchen and plunked herself down at the table. “So, give.”
“The show was great,” Francie said as she filled the kettle and put it on the stove. She described what they had seen and where they had eaten dinner. “We had a great time talking about basketball. He played on his high-school teams just like I did, and we had a lot of fun arguing about the NBA versus the WNBA.”
Tamara rolled her eyes. “You two must be made for each other. Computers and now basketball. I don’t know any other woman who would have argued with her date about sports. Are you going to see him again?”
Francie prepared the teapot and placed cups on the table as she answered, “We didn’t make any firm plans. I’m sure we both have plenty of work to do. I was assigned to a special project last week, and I’ll have to work late
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