SAY AHHH...

by Donna Sterling

  "Absolutely."

  "But, how? I mean, wouldn't the barrier have broken?"

  He searched for a way to explain. "I didn't go in very far." After a few thudding heartbeats, he added, "Or … with much."

  Her color deepened. "It felt like you did."

  His arousal, still taut with need, pulsed to a painful hardness and his throat went dry. "Just a finger, and not all the way. It might have felt like more because…" His voice grew gravelly. "Because you're so tight."

  Her gaze roamed his face, then returned to his eyes with languid sensuality. "Go in with more," she whispered.

  Heat rushed to his head, making him dizzy. "More?"

  She slipped her hand into his hair and drew his head down. He met her in a luscious parry of erotic tongue-play. "Go all the way in," she further specified in a honeyed whisper, "with everything you've got."

  He didn't wait for a more explicit invitation. He didn't pause to let her reflect. He didn't ask if she was sure.

  He took her mouth in a hard, consuming kiss, burning with an emotion that thoroughly possessed him. He pushed his briefs down to his thighs, gripped her hips and levered himself slowly, forcefully—irrevocably—into her.

  No matter what memories might return, no matter who had shared her past, she would now be his.

  * * *

  7

  « ^ »

  She was gone from his bed when he woke up, which surprised and disappointed him. They'd fallen asleep holding each other last night, exhausted from their lovemaking.

  He'd never known lovemaking like that. He still felt shaken and awed. His need had reached a fever pitch, and when he'd finally entered her, a torrent of emotion had transported him to a dimension beyond reason or pleasure.

  Had that gut-wrenching emotional response been caused by the fact that he'd taken her virginity? He was sure that had at least something to do with it—the sharp, physical sensations of breaking through a barrier and embedding himself in hot, virgin tightness; the odd mixture of regret and reverence he'd felt at her initial start of pain; the honor and the wonder of being her first; the excruciating effort it had taken to move slowly and minimally within her; the deep, primal triumph that had built along with his climax and had rocked him just as much. He'd exploded with stunning force, unable to curb the deep thrusts and violent spasms of his release.

  And as he'd held her tightly afterward, he'd felt in his heart, in his bones, that she now belonged to him.

  The feeling had been factually groundless, of course. He'd taken her virginity, but in today's world, had staked no real claim on her.

  Unless she'd fallen in love with him.

  He shook his head at his ridiculous musings. He knew that sex alone did not produce love or guarantee a relationship. Sex, he knew, could be a double-edged sword.

  Why had she left his bed?

  With a glance at the clock, he realized it was only seven on a Sunday morning. Plenty of time to start their day. For now, he wanted to bring her back to bed, to show her how much better lovemaking would be for her now that she'd feel no pain. Or, at least, not as much pain. She would be sore for at least a day.

  A day suddenly seemed like forever.

  "Barbarian," he called himself as he climbed out of bed, belted his dark blue flannel robe and set out to find her. From the hallway outside his bedroom, he heard the shower running in the bathroom. The guest bathroom, not the one in his master suite.

  Nothing odd about that. She'd showered and changed in the guest bathroom yesterday evening. Why should she suddenly use his, just because it was more convenient to his bedroom?

  Determined to keep an optimistic outlook, he ambled into the kitchen and made coffee. In a few minutes, he heard the shower turn off. He did not, however, hear the bathroom door open, even after a long while had passed. He drank a cup of coffee, brought in the Sunday-morning newspaper, took a quick shower and shaved. Before he dressed for the day, though, he shrugged into his robe again and glanced out into the hallway to see if she'd come out of the bathroom yet.

  She obviously had. The bathroom stood dark and vacant, and now the door of his guest bedroom was closed.

  He knocked on the bedroom door. "Sarah, are you okay?"

  "Yes, I'm fine."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Of course."

  "Will you please open this door?"

  It was a while before the door finally opened. She stood with her hand poised on the doorknob, as if she might shut it again. She was dressed in slim-fitting jeans and a wide-necked mauve T-shirt that had slipped to one side, leaving a shapely shoulder bare. Her dark hair was drawn back in a French braid that lay over the one bare, tan shoulder. A hint of apprehension shone in her wide gray eyes.

  "Yes?" she said.

  He leaned against the doorjamb and studied her. She looked young, innocent and remarkably beautiful, and just a glance at her filled him with a warm craving. Her distant air sent a clear signal, though. He could no sooner touch her than if they'd been strangers. God … did she regret making love?

  "I, uh, made coffee," he mumbled, feeling as if he'd been sucker-punched in the stomach. "Decaf, after your caffeine overdose yesterday."

  "Oh!" A delicate pink climbed into her cheeks. "Thank you, but I should have made the coffee. My first day on the job and I haven't even thought about breakfast."

  "On the job." He frowned. "Sarah—"

  The doorbell chimed.

  They both glanced in surprise toward the front door. Before he could begin to guess who might be intruding at this early hour on a Sunday, Sarah slipped past him and scurried off into the kitchen. With his insides tying themselves in knots over the possibility that she regretted making love to him, Connor answered the door.

  "Connor, good morning!"

  "Mimsey." He managed not to groan. He didn't have time now to deal with the terminally perky blonde from his office. It was hard enough dodging her personal attentions there; he certainly wouldn't encourage her to visit his home. Besides, he needed to talk to Sarah.

  "Ham-and-cheese quiche." She lifted up a casserole dish he hadn't noticed in her hands. "Thought you could use a good breakfast after the rough time you must have had last night, poor dear." Pursing her crimson lips into an artfully sympathetic pout, she thrust the warm glass dish into his hands and stepped in the door.

  He stared blankly at her. Rough time last night?

  She cast a provocative glance at his chest, partially visible beneath the bathrobe, then down to his bare calves and feet. "I hope I didn't wake you, Connor." A dimple flashed in her cheek and her doll-blue eyes glinted. "Lorna told me this morning that you had some medical emergency to handle last night. I was s-o-o-o concerned when you two didn't show up at the dance. I know she was terribly disappointed, but I, of course, understand the demands of a doctor's job." She edged past him into the living room. "Was it one of our regular patients?"

  "Uh, no."

  She vampishly raked a long section of her blond hair back from her face with squared crimson nails and arched a brow in curiosity. "Nothing serious, I hope?"

  "Mimsey…" He handed the casserole back to her. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but I've already had breakfast, and I don't—"

  "We'll have it for lunch, then." With a slight roll of her bare shoulders, her breasts jutted into prominence beneath a thin, flowered halter top. She was wearing the tightest, shortest shorts he'd ever seen. "I'll just go put it in the refrigerator for later."

  "I'd rather you leave, Mimsey. I have a lot to do today."

  "But it's Sunday. You have to take at least one day off for—" She stopped and stared in the direction of the fireplace.

  He followed her stare to the two half-full wineglasses he'd left on the hearth last night … and to Sarah's handbag and sandals a short distance away.

  A ruddy flush rose beneath Mimsey's perfect tan. Slowly she turned to him with a perfunctory smile. "Since you're so … busy, I guess I'll be on my way. You probably need to rest af
ter your 'emergency' last night."

  He pursed his lips to stifle an unwise grin as he handed her back the quiche.

  This time, she took it.

  As connor entertained in the living room, Sarah cracked an egg into a bowl of biscuit batter and beat it fiercely with a wooden spoon. From the one quick peek she'd taken at Connor and his blond visitor, she knew that Mimsey had brought him breakfast.

  Which meant she didn't have to make the biscuits. She had to keep busy, though, or she'd feel like a fool. Mimsey might be staying to share that quiche with Connor.

  She almost whipped the batter right out of the bowl.

  This wouldn't do. This simply wouldn't do. She couldn't afford to care so much.

  The lovemaking—the feverish, exhilarating lovemaking—had been a mistake. She'd known it when she'd opened her eyes this morning and found herself curved intimately against his naked body, his arm wrapped around her and his hand cradling her breast as he slept. She'd wanted to stay that way forever, tucked safely in his arms, skin to skin, wonderfully sated from a night of lovemaking. Moments later, she'd wanted more than that. She'd wanted to wake him with kisses and start their lovemaking all over again.

  But then she'd gazed into his sleeping face and felt such an overwhelming tenderness that she could scarcely breathe.

  She could so easily fall in love with him.

  She couldn't allow that! The fear that brewed within the fog of her lost memories touched her again in grim warning. She would bring him harm—grave bodily harm. She wasn't sure how, where, or when, but she knew it would happen. She'd have to leave him before it did.

  And she couldn't even tell him about her fear for his safety because then he'd never let her go without interfering. His protective instincts would kick into high gear and he'd become even more deeply involved in her problems.

  But what if the danger isn't real? an inner voice asked. Maybe the fear was a symptom of the head trauma. As much as she wished she could believe that, she didn't.

  Stop, she commanded herself, retrieving a baking pan from a cabinet. Even without the nameless danger that stalked her, having a sexual relationship with Connor would cause far too many complications. She'd spent all morning musing over them.

  Realizing that the murmur of voices from the other room had stopped, she glanced toward the doorway and nearly dropped the pan.

  Connor stood leaning against the kitchen counter, his hands deep in the pockets of his robe, his solemn, hazel-eyed gaze fixed on her.

  "I'm making biscuits to go with the quiche," she managed to say.

  "There's no quiche. Mimsey's gone."

  Sarah forced her attention back to her baking. The relief she felt only emphasized how emotionally involved she already was. As she dropped dollops of batter onto the pan from a spoon, she asked without looking at him, "Would you like sausage to go with the—"

  "Sarah," he interrupted, his voice gruff and quiet, "do you regret last night?"

  She felt her heart rising into her throat. How could she truthfully answer that? She would treasure last night forever … and yet, she regretted it deeply. "No, no, of course I don't," she lied, turning to him with a smile meant to reassure. The smile wavered under the pressure of his stare.

  "Should I have stopped?"

  "Don't be silly! I asked you to keep on. I practically begged you." More reassuring words clogged in her throat, and she swallowed hard to dislodge them. "Even if I did regret it, I certainly can't blame you."

  He shut his eyes, and slowly reopened them. "So then you do feel there's cause for blame."

  "Oh, Connor, I didn't mean it that way." She set the spoon down and ventured a step closer to him, wishing she could distract him from this line of questioning. He didn't deserve to feel guilty, or to believe he hadn't pleased her. "Last night was wonderful, incredibly wonderful. Surely you had to know that I … I liked it."

  Unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes. "But?"

  She forced a smile and a lighthearted shrug. "But nothing. You told me some extremely important information about myself, which I'll always be grateful for. Arid of course, I also had a great time."

  "A great time," he repeated. His sober, steady gaze pressed past her smile in search of a deeper truth. "Then come here," he whispered, "and kiss me."

  Her smile slowly faded until she stood staring at him in pained dismay. A kiss would be too dangerous to her heart.

  He caught her hands and pulled her to him as he sat at the edge of a stool near the breakfast bar. "Tell me what's wrong, Sarah." His gaze delved into hers as he slipped an arm around her waist to stop her from escaping.

  "Making love to you has complicated things," she whispered, unable to resist the draw of his gaze and the warm strength of his arm around her.

  "What things?"

  "My role here, for one. I've agreed to work as your housekeeper, and you've agreed to provide room and board." She paused, trying to arrange her scattered thoughts into a coherent explanation. "It wouldn't be fair to either of us to expect anything beyond that."

  His brows knit together. "Are you concerned that I'm going to expect you to sleep with me as part of the job?"

  She blushed, hating for him to think she was accusing him of something so low. "Not as part of the job! But sexual involvement does complicate an employer-employee relationship, especially in a situation where we'd be living together. For instance, what happened just now with Mimsey," she pointed out. "You didn't have to make her leave, but I understand why you did. She wouldn't have felt comfortable with me here, especially if she knew there was anything more between us than a working relationship."

  "I didn't want Mimsey to stay, and our relationship is none of her business."

  Sarah couldn't help feeling relieved, which only added to her dismay. "Maybe you didn't want her to stay right now," she argued, "but sometime you might. Would you feel comfortable bringing her, or anyone, to your house while I'm here?"

  "A woman, you mean?"

  "Yes, a woman. You're a single man. You have the right to bring a date home with you."

  "Are you telling me that wouldn't bother you?"

  It would break her heart, she realized with sudden clarity. The realization frightened her. She couldn't expect his exclusive attention. She didn't intend to deserve it.

  "As your housekeeper," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady and reasonable when her throat kept wanting to close up, "I'd have no right to an opinion on the subject. I want to be fair to you, Connor. I don't want to intrude on your private life."

  "Would it make you feel better if I swore to bring another woman home once a week, or maybe twice? Heck, why stop at one woman? I grew up around people who believed in free love and open relationships and even multiple partners. Is that what you're saying you want?"

  "No!" She felt shaken, appalled and very near tears.

  "Good. Because I don't want you to feel okay with my bringing other women home. And I sure as hell wouldn't be okay with you having other men. I'm not open-minded about these things, Sarah. I don't take sexual involvement lightly, and since you were a virgin until last night, I doubt that you do, either."

  "I don't," she whispered. "And that's the problem. While I'm living here, sexual involvement with you only blurs the lines of what I can reasonably expect. It complicates things."

  "Things were complicated from the first moment I met you."

  The heat of his words and gaze kindled a familiar warmth within her. She couldn't succumb to this warmth. She couldn't allow her concerns to melt away in his fire—especially not the concern she hid from him.

  "It's like what you were telling me last night," she said, desperate now to convince him. "In the natural progression of things between a man and a woman, I would have gone home to my own place this morning, and you'd carry on with your own life. If you felt like calling me for another date, you would. If I felt like accepting, I would. But as it is, I'm living here with you. It's too big a departure from the natural orde
r."

  He lodged her firmly, possessively, against him. "Feels natural enough to me."

  Her breath caught. In her heart, she had to agree…

  "Sarah." He slipped his fingers into her hair and tilted her face to his. "I don't want anyone but you," he declared in a fervent whisper. "If you don't want to sleep with me, you know you don't have to. I'll find a way to deal with it. But please—" he closed his eyes and brushed his parted lips across her mouth in frustrated longing "—please don't hold yourself apart from me."

  She couldn't ignore his whispered plea. She gave in to a hot, yearning kiss. He tasted like coffee and minty toothpaste; he smelled like sandalwood; he felt like heat, hard muscle and heaven.

  Heaven. He could take her there, she knew. She wanted him to.

  With a gasp, she broke away from his kiss, her pulse thrumming and her temperature soaring. She couldn't trust herself with him! One kiss and she already wanted more. "If you don't want me to keep my distance from you," she cried, "then you can't kiss me like that."

  He stared at her in charged silence, his color high and his breathing hard. His jaw slowly squared. "Okay. I won't kiss you," he agreed. A disturbing sparkle entered his gaze, though, and he added, "Like that."

  With a flutter of her heart, she turned away from him and slid the biscuit pan into the oven, determined to ignore the chaotic reactions he provoked within her.

  "I'll go get dressed," he murmured, watching her as she adjusted the oven temperature. "And after breakfast, we'll explore."

  "Explore." Her gaze whipped back to his in alarm. The word evoked a warm rush of provocative memories from the night before.

  He seemed to read every one of them in her eyes. "The mountainside in my backyard," he clarified softly, "and the wooded trails along the river." The hint of a smile kicked up one corner of his mouth. "I'm sure I can take you to a few places you haven't been before."

  The huskiness in his voice brought to mind all kinds of ways to circumvent the natural progression of things.

  Dressed for riding in his light denim shirt, jeans, boots and Stetson, Connor escorted Sarah across the wooded, grassy backyard to his stable.