Look before you leap. Think before you speak. Analyze before you act.
She would not be foolish like her mother or trusting like her sister, both of them mothers and alone before their thirties. But how could she examine her options when all she could see was Patrick's intent face? How could she hear herself think over the drumbeat of her blood?
He was the worst man in the world for her. A patient's father, a grieving husband. A man too used to getting his own way and too aware of his effect on women.
But he had granted her rights, given her welcome, shared his house and his son and a piece of his soul with her. She admired him, perhaps more than any man she'd ever met. His utter reliability, the way he supported his mother and loved his son and was simply there for every member of his family in a way that no one had ever been there for her— Oh, she liked that a lot. It made her want him. It made her want to be there for him.
Kate might have held out against her own desire. She could not resist Patrick's need.
She shivered, thinking of Wade Preston, the blond Apollo of Jefferson University Medical School. He'd told her he needed her. He'd even claimed to love her. But his need hadn't outlasted their shared residency, and his love hadn't survived the discovery of her background, so unsuitable for a doctor's wife in Baltimore.
This is different, she thought, rubbing her hands nervously on the goose-bumped flesh of her thighs. Wade, pledging his future, had been miserly with praise and stingy in bed. Patrick promised her nothing. But she suspected, with a newfound feminine instinct, that he would be generous with his passion. At the very least, he seemed really to want her. And she wanted him.
The door opened, and he was there.
Surprise sliced across his face, and something hotter surfaced in his eyes before his iron control returned. He retrieved his bag from outside the door and set it beside the dresser.
"Guest room's down the hall."
She swallowed. "I've been sleeping here," she said as briskly as she could.
He closed the door and leaned against it. The faint chink of the lock reverberated in the quiet room.
"I sleep in here," he said.
What are you going to do about it? his attitude proclaimed. She hadn't exactly expected him to sweep her into his arms with cries of gratitude and gladness, but this cold, guarded response wasn't what she was looking for, either.
Kate stiffened her spine. She knew only one way to meet challenges. Head on. "Well, then, you'll have to share."
He continued to lean against the door, watching her with half-lidded eyes, his expression unreadable. Her heart hammered. "I told you I don't need your charity, Kate. Let's not do the comfort-the-poor-widower routine, okay?"
She thought she bid her flinch, the involuntary recoil from pain, but her already-heated face flamed.
"This isn't a routine for me. I wanted you, and I thought you wanted me." She stood. Deliberately, she flung his own challenge back at him, covering her hurt with proud words. "If that's not enough for you, if I misunderstood you, just tell me no."
He pushed away from the door at his back and caught her before she could take herself and her injured feelings out of the room. "Wait. Honey, hey."
His finger sought her chin and lifted it. She glared at him, hating that her eyes were wet and her nose was probably red.
He stroked her hair, her arm. "I'm sorry. I'm a jerk, all right?"
Kate wavered between relief and doubt. His big hand glided up her arm to her shoulder. He rubbed small circles at the base of her neck, gradually spreading reassurance with his touch. With one hand at her nape, he pulled her closer, enveloping her in his strength, his scent, his warmth.
"I thought you wanted time to think this thing through," he rumbled.
She let him draw her head down against his chest. "I'm a fast thinker," she muttered into his shirt.
His laugh quaked them both. He wrapped his arms tightly around her. "Smart girl."
Tentatively, she rubbed her cheek over his heart, absorbing the weave of the cotton, the rhythm of his pulse. He was big. So big and hard, built of solidly compacted muscle. Desire uncurled in her stomach.
"Not that smart," she forced out. "I didn't plan for this. I don't have any birth control."
"I do. I bought some in Boston."
Kate lifted her head to look at him, unsure whether to be pleased by his consideration or offended by his assumption.
Patrick shrugged. He wouldn't apologize for taking care of her. "Before I joined the Marines, I was a Boy Scout."
Her eyebrows raised. "Be prepared?"
"You got it."
She smiled, a sweet, wry curve to her lips. "I guess I do. Or I will soon, anyway."
Her surprising innuendo tickled and touched him. Her unexpected presence in his room thrilled him. Patrick wasn't certain what implication it had past this moment, but now that he knew she wasn't there out of pity, he for damn sure wasn't sending her away. For the first time in years, be was flying without filing a flight plan, and he couldn't bring himself to care. Not with Kate half-naked in his arms. He bent his head to taste her smile, to seek her sweetness with his tongue.
Her lips were soft and uncertain. They met his, parted, pressed, and then withdrew. She was trembling, he realized, and tightened his hold protectively.
"Cold?" he asked, hoping it was cold and she wasn't changing her mind. What did she have on under her cotton top, anyway?
"A little. I'm not very good at this," she added.
There was a rip at his heart that should have warned him that more than his body was involved here. He shunted the thought away, concentrating on the clinging silk of Kate's hair as it wrapped around his fingers, the quick stutter of her breath against his mouth. He ran his tongue over her lower lip and watched her eyes darken.
"Not good at what? Kissing?"
When she opened her mouth to reply, he took it again, gently, nibbling at it as if she were some ripe fruit. Peaches, maybe, sweet and juicy.
"No, you're good at kissing," he decided.
"Sex," she said, so firmly he nearly laughed. One look at her scared, resolute face dissuaded him. "I'm not much good at sex."
"Really?" he asked mildly. His mouth cruised from the determined point of her chin to the soft, perfumed hollow under her ear. He felt her pulse go crazy against his lips and smiled. "Why is that?"
"Well, I…" She arched her throat to give him better access, her eyes drifting shut. He noted that, rewarding her with a string of tiny bites down the sensitive cords of her neck to her shoulder. She shuddered. "I've only had one other, um, partner."
He blew softly on the damp trail left by his kisses, lifting the fine blond down on her pale skin. Against the thin blue top she wore, her breasts peaked. No bra, he thought, and nearly groaned.
"Same here," he said, angling for her mouth again.
She raised one hand against his chest, stopping and stroking. "You?"
"Yeah, me," he confirmed. He smiled down into her dark, shocked eyes. "You're just going to have to go easy on me, honey, okay?"
He kissed her open O of astonishment, gently urging her participation. He felt her start to relax, to return his kisses, and then she pushed again at his chest.
"But…"
Her active brain had clicked on behind her eyes, putting creases between her eyebrows.
"You're analyzing again," he observed. "Don't think. This isn't about thinking. How does it make you feel?"
His hands skimmed up her sides and down, the heels of his palms barely brushing her breasts.
He watched her throat move as she swallowed. "You want vitals?"
There it was again, that dry note she used as defense. He brought his hands together, creating a deep cleavage between her breasts, rubbing his thumbs gently over their crests.
"Whatever you want," he said.
"Well, um…" Her eyes were dark and cloudy. "I'd have to say my temperature is definitely up."
"That's good." He circled the swe
et, tight points of her breasts until they swelled against her medical top.
Kate breathed out through her mouth. "And respiration … that's probably up, too."
"Yeah?" he bent and captured one peak in his mouth, teasing it through the soft, overwashed cotton. He suckled, dampening the cloth, making it cling to the engorged nipple. Damn, she was sweet.
Her hands drifted to the back of his neck, encouraging him. Readily, he obeyed their silent urging, turning his head, laying the other nipple with attention. Her fingers tightened in his hair, sending bolts of heat to his heavy loins. He wanted to eat her up.
With his touch, he molded her, her ripe breasts, the column of her waist, the lush flare of her hips. He stroked down and reached up to her round, tempting buttocks. Panties. She wore thin cotton panties. He kneaded her through them, fighting the urge to rip them off and plunge to the hilt in her wonderfully female body.
He throttled the flow of images to his brain, trying to regulate the speed of his desire. Not this first time. After nine years, she deserved better than quick. He felt a strong responsibility to please her, to pleasure her, to short out her busy intellect with an overload of pure sensation.
Kissing his way down her body, he knelt and pressed his face to her stomach. She still trembled. No longer from cold, he was certain. Her lips were open and wet, her eyes slumberous. Her hips swayed in unconscious invitation.
Slowly, he drew up the hem of her short blue top, exposing her tempting mound under plain blue panties, and the luscious curve of her pale belly, and the cute hollow of her navel. He kissed it and heard her sigh. He moistened a trail down the center of her abdomen and felt her gasp. He slid his tongue daringly under the frail barrier of cotton, moving the elastic out of the way with his fingers, and stopped at her choked protest.
He looked up. Her face was worried and excited, her lower lip caught in her teeth. Tenderness punched him hard. Clearly she wasn't ready for everything he had in mind. Maybe her medical education hadn't included such intimacies. He could hush, he knew. And the sight of her through the thin cloth, the scent of her skin and her heady response, tempted him to ouch, to taste. But he didn't want to make her uncomfortable, this first time, he wanted her with him all the way.
"You don't want to play doctor, honey, that's okay."
He stood, cradling her against his torso, giving her time to get accustomed to him and the feel of his insistent arousal. She wasn't used to this.
Patrick grinned into her hair. Hell, he wasn't used to this, either. If he got any hotter, he'd be finished before they got properly started.
How was it possible, Kate wondered, to feel both perfectly contented and almost unbearably impatient at the same time? She could have stayed forever on the bulwark of Patrick's chest, in the haven of his arms. And yet inside her, every molecule danced.
He felt so good, hot and hard, rough denim rasping her crumpled hospital top where he pressed against her belly. The surprising smoothness of his throat, the prickle of his beard, the movement of his breath, in and out, filled her senses. They streaked along her nerve endings like raindrops on a windowpane at night, leaving silver tracks of excitement in their wake. She felt awake, aware and very, very restless.
Her hips nudged his thighs. She slid her palms over the long muscles of his back, as if she could draw him closer, and mashed her cheek on a shirt button.
"I could take it off. My shirt," he said.
Oh, glory. Her mouth went dry.
"Maybe that would be a good idea."
He kissed her forehead and set her gently aside. Without fuss or show, he flicked open the buttons and pulled the shirttails free. And then, shrugging out of the sleeves, he looked at her, just looked at her, and the blue flame of his eyes melted her insides like candy.
"You want the pants to go, too?" he asked.
A more experienced woman could have made some sexy, teasing reply. A more confident woman would have stripped off his pants herself. Kate hesitated, despising her own inadequacy.
"Got to keep things fair," Patrick said.
Puzzled, she frowned.
"You let me see your legs," he explained.
Laughter bubbled inside her, washing away her doubt. "Then, yes, the pants should definitely go."
He shucked off his jeans and stood before her in nothing but navy blue boxers and soft yellow lamplight.
Her breath sucked in. She saw naked men all the time, she reminded herself. Old and young, sick and broken, she examined and handled and healed them.
But Patrick's body was special, broad and vital, fully mature and potently male. With a doctor's knowledge and a woman's appreciation, she admired the strength of his long hones, the power of his solid muscles. Dark hair covered his well-developed pectorals and dusted his abdomen and thighs. His arousal stood out boldly under his boxers.
Kate exhaled, returning her fascinated gaze to Patrick's intent face.
"All right?" he asked her quietly.
She knew he was asking if she were all right, but she couldn't find the courage to tell him that she had never in her life felt as right as she did at this moment. She wanted him, wanted this, with a surety that flowed from the marrow of her bones, and she couldn't find the words to say it. Even if she managed the words, she didn't know whether her feelings would be acceptable to him.
She smiled, forcing lightness. "I don't have much to compare it to. But you look perfectly healthy to me."
His eyes glinted. "I'll show you healthy," he promised.
He caught her close. Laughter shimmered and dissolved between them. She felt the slow rise and fall of his chest and heard the thunder of her own heart. Under her hands, his skin was hot. She flexed her fingers wonderingly on the texture of body hair.
He hissed. "Careful, honey."
Kate tilted her head to one side, considering. "Maybe," she said deliberately, "I don't want to be careful anymore."
His face stilled. His hands tightened. And then his mouth took hers.
He used his teeth to excite, his tongue to soothe. He made her crave his flavor. He taught her to follow his rhythm, in and out. Her breathing hitched. In and out. Distracted by the demands of his urgent mouth, she didn't register the movement of his hands under her loose top until they closed, warm and sure, over her naked breasts. Desire whipped through her, and she cried out.
The sound startled her. She struggled for composure, but it eluded her, battered away by his forceful mouth, his seeking hands.
"Patrick," she protested, "I don't think—"
"Good. Don't think, Kate." Relentlessly male, he moved against her, drugging her with the promise of his taut body. "Feel," he whispered. "Feel me."
She was helpless to do anything else. She thrilled at the wealth of sensation at her fingertips, firm flesh, smooth skin, rough hair. He slid his thigh between her legs, lifting her gently, and heat pooled at the contact. He pulled her top up, and the hair on his chest licked her breasts. With each fresh assault on her senses, her customary restraint slipped further. She felt it steal away, and passion rush in to take its place.
He lowered them both to the edge of the mattress, urging her legs to either side so that she straddled his lap. His big, warm hands cupped her buttocks. She gasped and arched into his waiting heat.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Like that."
He rolled with her, pulling at clothes. She lifted and tugged, smoothing his shorts from his tight hips, kicking her panties off one ankle, trying to get closer, needing to feel him skin to skin. He pressed and stroked, probed and caressed, drawing out her response, driving her from peak to peak. She couldn't breathe. She opened her mouth to tell him so and all that came out was a high, weak moan.
He swallowed it, his hands moving with deliberate power between her legs. He urged her up, up a steep mountain, into unknown terrain where her senses were clouded and her footing uncertain. Sensation pierced her as sharply as cold. For all her brave words, she was frightened by the force of it. Too high. She was too high,
and afraid of falling.
His voice was warm in her ear. "It's all right, honey. I've got you."
She quivered, shaken by the thudding of her heart, by the pounding of his. Their bodies were sleek with sweat where they rubbed together. His shoulders gleamed. His hands were slippery. She closed her eyes against the vibrations set off by his hands.
Inhaling sharply, Patrick pushed her off the mountaintop.
And she flew.
Patrick covered her, body poised and screaming like a jet held on the ground. He knew he'd pleasured her. Now he waited until she dragged her eyelids open before he finished the job.
Her lashes lifted, and the open welcome in her eyes released his steely control. Lacing their fingers together, he thrust firmly inside her. She tightened around him like a fist, all wet, clinging heat, and forced the air from his lungs.
Need pulsed inside him. He held perfectly still, embedded in her, immersed in pleasure so deep he couldn't string two thoughts together. One thought. Think, you moron.
"Oh, hell."
She touched his clenched and aching jaw. "Patrick? What is it?"
"Birth control," he rasped.
Brown eyes widened. "Do you have it?"
"In my suitcase."
He watched her face as she absorbed that information, her soft yearning plainly at war with her hard intelligence. She was a doctor, he thought. She wasn't going to invite him to take chances with her.
"Oh." Experimentally, she moved under him.
Patrick swore. "Don't do that."
She subsided, and that was just as bad. He could feel her against him and around him, her pebbled nipples, her moist sex. She smelled of citrus and woman, and he wanted her so bad he thought it might possibly kill him to leave her.
"Sorry," she said.
She didn't look sorry. She looked pleased and anxious and maybe a little amused. Her humor caught and tickled his. Four years, he thought, and his first time at the party he forgot to dress.
Carefully, taking his weight on his elbows, he separated from her. They both groaned.
"Don't move," he told her.
THE PASSION OF PARICK MACNEILL Page 14