Summer Heat

by Carly Phillips

  Her heart ached with it, and she felt she could not breathe, unless it was to breathe in Lance. The ache grew when she saw he stood there a little shyly, not proud and cocky as she might have expected. He waited, limbs loose, for her reaction, as if he were not sure she would be pleased.

  She raised her eyes to his face, and let her wicked thoughts show on her face. “I don’t suppose you’d consider just standing there so I could admire you awhile, would you?”

  He smiled, his eyes lighting with that sweet brightness that was boyish and freeing and so alive. He dived toward her, tumbling her backward in his naked embrace, covering her with his long, warm body. “I bet we can think of something better to do than that.”

  Tamara wanted to burst then, burst with the feeling of him all around her, his hair against her cheek, his lips skating over her jaw and her neck, his hands restless, stroking her arms and her back and her stomach. She clasped him close to her, inhaling the scent of his warm skin, touching his hair and his strong back and the erotic round of his forearm, hot and threaded with a thick, pulsing vein.

  “I need you, Tamara,” he said in a rough voice, his fingers on the waistband of her jeans. “I want to see you, feel all of you.”

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered.

  Deftly, he stripped her of her jeans and panties. When she was as bare as he, Lance paused, moving his hand up her bare thigh, over her hipbone and waist. He lowered his sun-gilded head and kissed her breasts. “You’re so beautiful,” he said quietly, and lifted his head to look at her. There was a great solemnity in his gaze. “I wish I knew some poetry right now.”

  Tamara’s heart caught. She opened her hand on his hard cheek. “You’re poetry enough.”

  He kissed her, deeply, passionately, with that same hungry need that had inflamed her earlier. He caught her body close to his, tangling his legs and hers, wrapping her in his arms. Any play that there had been between them fell away, leaving only raw need, pure and intimate and overwhelming. Tamara let herself flow toward him, let her heart and mind and soul become enmeshed in the fierceness of his need, of her need.

  When he moved over her, sliding his legs between her thighs, there came a quiet between them. Bracing himself on his elbows, he kissed her very gently, and plucked a condom from the pillow where he’d put it. “Will you do the honors?”

  “Yes.” There was a fine trembling in his limbs. She took the condom from his hands. He sat up to allow her to adorn him, and for one devastating moment, Tamara was overcome with him—with the feeling of him so close, and the expanse of his heated chest so close to her face, and the vulnerable trembling she felt all through him. She swayed forward and kissed his ribs, right over his heart. “Come home, Lance,” she whispered, and drew him down with her, opening herself to him.

  And she realized then that she was shaking, too, as if she were afraid. She trembled with such violence and aching want, that for a moment, she wanted to weep with it. Then Lance was around her, over her, in her. He moved with exquisite control, sheathing himself to the hilt. And stopped.

  He lifted his head and pressed an achingly gentle kiss against her lips. His blue irises were unstable, rolling with a thousand things Tamara could not read, and she had the sense that he wanted to speak, to say something, but instead he closed his eyes, supped again of her lips and began to move within her, his hands clasped with fierce gentleness around her head.

  Tamara could not think, could not breathe. She only moved with him, marveling at the fit of him to her, as his lips had fit hers, as his hands had fit her breasts. It was the most perfect moment she could imagine, embracing him deeply. Her precious, gilded, lost Lance.

  And as they moved, deeper and closer, yearning for wholeness, Tamara realized with an almost piercing sorrow that she loved him. As she tumbled into completion, feeling him come apart within her, she bit her lip to keep from crying out the words, and only clasped him tightly to her, his head against her neck.

  Because she could not love him. She could not.

  * * *

  Lance did not go home. He stayed in Tamara’s bed all night, holding her, loving her, until both of them fell into a sated sleep.

  Near morning, something awakened him, and he jolted awake into the stillness of the dawn. Cold, snow-tinted light pushed at the curtains over her windows, but he was warm next to Tamara. She slept on her side, her back to him, nestled close, and he had his arms around her. It was incredibly satisfying to simply wake up here, cozy under a heavy quilt, with Tamara in his arms.

  He closed his eyes with a sigh, pressing his forehead against the flesh between her shoulder blades. Her skin smelled faintly of their mingled scents, and it was soft against his brow. He simply reveled in the feeling, the sweet, deep sense of relief he felt, and hoped he could go back to sleep.

  But he couldn’t. He was too aware of her alluring nakedness, her soft skin just under his palms, the warm weight of a breast pushing against his forearm. He eased away, trying to resist the temptation to kiss her awake, and propped himself up on one elbow to watch her sleep.

  Pale light caught on her dark hair and made pearlescent tracks over her flesh. He let his gaze wash over the curve of her neck and the vulnerable place just below her ear. The lines of her back, the long curve of her spine and the exquisite arch of her shoulder blades, seemed at once to be almost unbearably graceful, and it was those simple lines that proved his undoing. At first he only touched her spine with his finger, very lightly, and traced the shoulder blades.

  But then he wanted to put his mouth against them, and he moved close to do it, just putting his mouth gently against each tiny rise, tracing her spine to the back of her neck. In sleep, she moved a little, nudging her bottom closer to him, bumping his arousal. Drawn by almost narcotic longing, he moved his mouth to her shoulder, then to the vulnerable place on her neck. She made a soft sigh and he ceased, waiting to see if she was awakening, but she was not. She only moved restlessly, and her foot moved against his shin.

  But her movements had put one rosy-crowned breast within reach. He bent his head to that crown and tasted it slowly, closing his eyes so only his mouth and her nipple existed. She shifted, and her hand fell in his hair, pulling him closer. He loved the taste of her, and let her know it, not hurrying, just tasting and nudging and rolling her flesh in his mouth, loving the low sounds of pleasure she made.

  She turned toward him, sleepily awake now. “Lance,” she whispered. “Cody will be awake any minute. We have to stop.”

  He pressed his face to the soft, fragrant valley between her breasts. “Okay,” he whispered, kissing her lightly. He moved his hand down her belly and slid his fingers between her legs, careful to be gentle. “One more time, to remember tonight,” he said, and it was a much more ragged sound than he would have liked. One more time for her? Or for him?

  He found her moist and ready, and he felt a jolt of almost dizzying need. She was the most responsive woman he’d ever known—deeply, genuinely passionate. And she didn’t take it all too seriously. All night she laughed and teased with him.

  As she did now. She moved closer, touching his chest. “Well, if you insist,” she said. Her hand closed around him.

  “I don’t have any more condoms,” he said, aching with the need to be in her one more time. Just one more time this morning—to see him through until tonight.

  She gasped softly as he captured a nipple that strayed close to his mouth, too close and tempting to resist. He grazed it with his teeth and she arched against him, her hand closing alluringly around him, making him groan.

  “We’ll just have to make do, then, won’t we?”

  And they did. She stroked him, and he stroked her and each coaxed the other to a fever, until she spilled over and he, fell, too.

  And this time, laying sated in her arms, Lance finally realized he was in trouble. Big trouble. Tamara Flynn was intelligent and strong and sexy. She had a sense of humor and a bawdy spirit that he doubted would ever tire him.

  S
he was exactly the kind of woman he always avoided. The kind of woman he didn’t want to hurt with his wandering ways. The kind of woman who deserved a lot better than Lance could give.

  And he’d taken her anyway, had given implicit promises he could never keep. A woman like this didn’t sleep with a man for fun. She didn’t just take a lover for the heck of it. Women like Tamara needed a man who would care for her and love her and her children for the rest of his life.

  With a crushing sense of despair, he realized she was already a single mother. Some other man had done this to her in the past. Someone had loved her and left her, leaving her to bear the consequences of that passion alone.

  Some other man. The thought of it gave him a sick feeling. He felt murderous and jealous and trapped all in the same moment.

  What a dog he was! Like a greedy rake, Lance had been unable to resist seducing her. Instead of simply allowing himself to enjoy her goodness, accept her friendship, he’d had to take it all.

  Guilt washed through him with a doomed clang.

  “Lance?” she said next to him, smoothing a lock of hair from his forehead. There was bewilderment in the word.

  Yeah, he thought miserably. I’m a first-class bastard.

  Just like dear old Dad.

  Playfully he patted her bottom, as if there was nothing wrong. As if he were the man she needed, rather than the worst thing that could possibly happen to her. “Cody will be up and around any minute. Better get dressed.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tamara peeked in on Cody and saw that he still slept deeply in the snow-dimmed morning. She was relieved to have a little chance in which to collect herself before the day roared to a start.

  She ran a very hot shower, letting the bathroom fill with steam. It was very cold, and she shivered in her thin bathrobe. As the room filled with steam, she let the full knowledge of the night that had just passed fill her. She let the rich memories glide through her, gild the edges of her mind.

  And then, as she took off her robe and stepped into the hot spray, she let it go. As long as she lived, she would remember this night. It had been precious and she knew on some deep level that it had been right. As right as anything she’d ever done.

  But now she needed to face reality.

  First of all was that terrible moment when she had realized that she was way past being infatuated. She was in love with Lance Forrest, with his energy and cheer, with his sweetness and passion. Even, damn him, with his freedom.

  She didn’t expect declarations of love this morning. She imagined he would be his usual cheery self when he emerged, and he would kiss her pleasantly, eat breakfast and be on his way. He might call her again— in fact, he probably would. He genuinely liked her. And last night, wounded and lonely, it had been to Tamara he’d come. She wasn’t foolish enough to discount that.

  But as she dressed, she knew she couldn’t see him again. She couldn’t bear to be in some middle place with Lance, never knowing when he would tire of her. She would grow shrewish and jealous, and all the fine beauty they had shared last night would tarnish.

  Far better to accept last night as the rare jewel it was.

  She looked at her face in the mirror and saw how solemn she looked. Because she loved him, there was one more thing she had to do.

  Lance had to know the truth about Cody. It was way past time to tell him, to give him a chance to be a part of his son’s life. She couldn’t lie to him anymore. Before he left this morning, she would take him aside and tell him.

  Buoyed by the decision, she went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee, shivering in the cold room. On the way to the living room, she turned up the furnace, then pulled the drapes.

  And gasped. It was still snowing, thick, fat flakes that seemed in no hurry. They fell from a leaden sky, floating dreamily in the windless air.

  But in spite of that airy look, everything was buried in the heavy, wet flakes—ground, street, houses. Her car was an unrecognizable lump. Trees drooped under the weight; the leaves that still clung to many branches held too much of the snow. Even as Tamara watched, a thick branch on the elm across the street gave way with a crack and joined several others on the ground nearby.

  They called these storms tree breakers for a reason. Every couple of years, an early-winter or late-spring storm blew through the state before the leaves had had a chance to fall or, in the spring, after they’d leafed out. The leaves caught far too much of the wet snow, and entire branches snapped like twigs. The falling limbs would take down power lines, block streets, crush cars and break windows. It wasn’t much of a problem in the mountain communities, but the cities along the front range would clean up the mess for weeks.

  “Wow!” said an awed four-year-old voice behind her. “Is it Christmas?”

  Tamara chuckled. “Nope. But maybe we can have snow ice cream this afternoon. What do you think?”

  “Okay! And can I go sledding?”

  “This might be too wet for sledding, but we can try.” She kissed her son’s blond head. “Let’s go get you some breakfast, huh? How about waffles and sausage and hot chocolate to get you warmed up to play outside?”

  “Cool,” Cody said, doing a little gleeful dance in his footed flannel pajamas. There was something searingly like Lance in the quick exuberance, and a sharp pain pierced Tamara. She should have told Lance the minute he appeared. He shouldn’t have to miss this boy’s growing up. She could think of few things crueler.

  She was putting the first batch of waffles on the table for Cody when Lance ambled out. “Smells good in here.”

  “Hi!” Cody said with delight. “Did you spend the night at our house?”

  Lance grinned at the boy. “I sure did. It’s a secret though. Can you keep a secret?”

  Tamara took a breath against the acute pleasure of having him there, in her kitchen, on a snowy morning. He looked appealingly rumpled, and for one tiny heartbeat, she allowed herself to imagine how it would be if he were her husband, if she had washed that shirt and folded it to put in a drawer in a bedroom they shared. If he were her husband, he would be with her every morning before work, and she would cook for him, and every morning he would give her that bright, mischievous look he was giving her now, and bend over, and say, “Good morning,” his mind clearly full of the night they had spent.

  As he did now. She held the mixing bowl in her hands, against her stomach, and imagined his hand would always curl around her neck and he would always give her a husbandly peck before breakfast.

  But the press of his lips was anything but a peck. He kissed her with more yearning that she would have expected to linger, with a heartbreaking sweetness. Slowly he lifted his head and she glimpsed in his eyes regret and longing in almost equal measures. “I always forget, between one minute and the next,” he said, brushing his knuckles over her cheek, “how very beautiful you are.”

  Before she could speak, he was moving away, taking up a place at the table, snitching strawberries from Cody’s plate. Tamara stared at the wide expanse of his back beneath green-checked flannel and knew she had to get him out of her life as soon as possible. She had to find a way to rebuild her walls.

  * * *

  Lance hated the way she looked at him all through breakfast. Warily, as if he were a dangerous animal who’d wandered in during the storm.

  He hated the way she avoided his gaze, lowering her eyes quickly if he caught her looking at him. He hated the way she kept the food or the dishes or Cody between them like a veil. He could see through it, but couldn’t reach her.

  It made it impossible for him to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. What she thought about last night.

  Last night.

  He didn’t know what had happened. How he’d gone from pacing in his faceless apartment to taking refuge in Tamara’s arms. He didn’t know why his feet had led him here, why it had seemed to be the only choice.

  All he knew this morning was that he’d never experienced anything like it. He hadn
’t know sex could feel like that, so rich and deep, so different.

  He also knew he’d done Tamara a great wrong. He’d lain in her bed, smelling the scent of her hair in the pillow, his hand roaming over the sheet where she’d lain, and told himself he had to let it all go. She wasn’t the kind of woman who could play his game. She’d told him that in the bar last night.

  Lying there, unwilling to leave the warmth of her soft bed, he’d listened to her talking to Cody and clattering pans, and told himself he had to cut this as short and clean as he could. As gently as possible, he had to find a way to tell her it had been a mistake, him coming here last night.

  Then he’d come to the kitchen to see her standing against the sink, and everything had flown out of his head. All his resolves, all his careful planning. She had been so beautiful he couldn’t resist her, and her eyes had carried such warning and suspicion, he’d wanted her to know he didn’t take her lightly.

  With a growl of frustration, he bent his head to his fists, silently calling himself every name in the book.

  Cody rushed through, bundled like a teddy bear. “Bye!” he said, clomping through, “I’m going outside to build a snowman.”

  Lance chuckled in spite of himself. “Build one for me, too.”

  “I will.”

  Tamara called out a warning to him. “Don’t stay out too long.” She closed the back door, and flipped the curtain aside to keep an eye on him. “Thank goodness for fenced yards.”

  She settled in the chair at the table and leaned over. “Lance, we need to talk,” she said.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t take it all apart.” He touched her hands and let go. “Just let it be.”

  “Lance—”

  “I don’t want to spoil it, Tamara. Please.”

  A curious and fleeting vulnerability danced over her eyes and was gone. “Listen,” she said.

  He looked down, feeling a thickness in his chest. Hadn’t he been going to tell her himself that he thought it was a mistake? Hadn’t that been in his mind all morning? So what difference did it make if she did it?