Her fingers pressed gently against his lips, caressed his throat. "You said that already," she remarked.
"So doctors are no good at taking orders."
"Excuse me?"
He grinned at her indignant face. "I'll be right back."
He felt her hand like a brand trail down his chest and side as he levered himself away.
"Hurry," she said.
Kneeling on the floor beside his bag, he looked up at her rosy body. She was flushed from his loving, naked in his bed. A torrent of feeling sluiced through him: tenderness, appreciation and gratitude. And a good strong current of lust.
"Count on it," he said.
Sheathed, he returned to her, dropping another couple of packets on the bedside table. She wrapped him in her smooth arms and strong thighs, gloved him in her heat. He felt her stretch to encompass him and struggled not to lose it. But she was so tight, so hot and tight, he was blanking out. Concentrating fiercely on her face, he began to move.
He felt her tentative attempts to accommodate him, to pick up his rhythm, and strained to adjust his driving need. But her hands, her small, competent hands, were tugging at him. And then she did something complicated with her internal muscles and destroyed him.
He couldn't stop. He could barely breathe. He could only pound away at her, desperate, greedy, intent on his own completion. Grabbing fistfuls of her wavy hair, he fused his mouth to hers. She kissed him back, arching to take him, twining her legs with his. He felt the tremors begin again inside her, and battled for time, like a pilot fighting gravity in a wounded plane, shuddering with the speed of his descent and the force of his need.
When she convulsed around him, he flung back his head and went down in flames.
* * *
Kate sighed. Her body still vibrated in reflex rhythmic reaction to increased blood circulation and muscular tension. Knowing the physiological explanation, she discovered, didn't make those tiny shudders any less surprising.
Or lovely.
In gratitude, Kate turned her face into Patrick's throat and kissed his smooth, damp skin, stifling a giggle. Who would have guessed that at the advanced age of thirty-six Dr. Kathryn Sinclair would finally get it? Twice.
He stirred. "I'm mashing you."
She stroked a line down his back, tracing the strong curve of his latissimus dorsi muscle, delighting in her right to touch and the heavenly weight of him pinning her to the mattress. "I don't mind."
"I'll move. In a minute."
"I don't mind," she said again.
He sighed. She felt the lift and relaxation of his torso all the way up and down her body, and something fluttered inside her.
He lifted his head, his eyes dark and intent. Kate felt another funny flutter. Was this softening change in her, this incredible lightness of heart and the sweet heaviness of her body, somehow visible on her face?
"You okay?" he asked.
She felt better than okay, better than she'd ever felt in her life. "I'm fine." She had to ask. "You?"
His slow smile curled her toes. "I'm wrecked. I'm going to need a long period of recuperation before I'm fit to walk again."
She was absurdly flattered. "Poor man." Unable to stop herself, she touched his cheek. "I'm a doctor. Perhaps I can help?"
Answering laughter sparked in his blue, blue eyes. "Maybe some exercises?" He shifted between her thighs, making her gasp. "I think I'd respond to a little physical therapy."
"I thought you needed time to recuperate," she said primly. He rolled away, reaching for the nightstand. "To walk, I said."
She beard the foil packet tear, and then he pressed against her, slipped inside her.
She yielded around him, her hands reaching up into the short silk of his hair. "Oh, right, and this is no effort."
His face was suddenly so grave that doubt snagged her heart. But then he smiled and shook his head. "No effort at all."
Her breath caught and quickened as he moved again inside her in long, slow waves.
And it was just as lovely as before.
* * *
Chapter 11
«^»
Morning entered the room gently, in striped bars of dove gray through slatted windows. Patrick woke all at once, already hard and wanting Kate. He turned his head to find her. She slept with her cheek pressed to his pillow, her light brown hair tumbled over her shoulders.
The dim and private light, the peace of sleep, blurred her usual intimidating determination. Revealed between the rumpled hair and crumpled linen, her relaxed features were soft and surprisingly delicate. Her naked arm bore the imprint of his sheets.
His craving for her swelled. But with the hot and welcome rise of lust, emotion stirred, deeper than tenderness, more complicated than desire. Patrick refused to give it a name. After last night's uninhibited loving, he felt freer than he had in years. His mind was clear. His body hummed pleasantly with sexual tension, like a well-revved engine. He was reluctant to knot himself up by examining that elusive and troubling emotion.
A thread of hair had slipped forward onto her face. Caught on her lip, it billowed with each soft puff of breath. Gently, he trapped the strand between finger and thumb and smoothed it behind her ear.
Above the pillow, her eye opened. The light in it thumped into his stomach like a fist. He didn't deserve to have a woman, any woman, look at him that way.
Kate's lips curved. "My hero."
"Don't say that."
The words came out more harshly than he intended. It didn't seem fair to let her read more into the situation than existed. He wasn't anybody's hero. He was just an overworked air jockey with a four-year-old son who needed him.
Kate's brows pulled together as her analytical intelligence woke behind them. He tried, too late, to soften his reply. "I didn't do anything special."
"Mmm." Languorously, she raised her arms above her head and stretched. The dangerous dip and pull of the sheet over her breasts riveted his attention. His mouth dried. Did the innocent lady doctor have any idea what she was doing to him?
He wrenched his gaze back to her face. Her brown eyes were compassionate and aware. Of course she did. If she had any doubts at all about his response, the hard evidence at her hip offered ready proof. She was too damn smart not to know of his desire and guess at his emotional turmoil.
He tensed, waiting for her to start the assault on his psyche. That was, after all, what medical professionals did. Even his family found it hard to leave well enough alone.
"I thought it was pretty special," she said, smiling. "But then, what do they say? If you want to get the job done, send in the Marines?"
Her teasing tone loosened the slipknot around his neck, the chokehold of guilt and responsibility. His muscles relaxed with cautious relief. She was okay, then. He could have her without some messy postcoital dissection of his feelings.
"All part of the service, ma'am."
Surrendering to the urge to touch, he circled her nipple with one finger and then spanned her soft breast with his hand. Her breath sighed out.
This much, at least, be could give her.
He replaced his hand with his mouth, savoring her scent and the flavor of her skin. He had always been a soldier, more comfortable with action than words, more sure of his desire than his emotions, more accepting of her woman's pleasure than that unsettling glimpse of her woman's heart.
To please them both, to distract them both, he took her fast and rode her hard. Deliberately, he lost himself in physical sensation, letting urgency drive away thought, concentrating on the wet, hot clasp of her body and her eager movements under him. He plunged in deep, purging his brain, filling his ears with the slap of flesh on flesh and her soft, welcoming cries.
But even as he drove them both over the edge of pleasure, even as his mind blanked and his body shuddered and emptied into hers, he could not rid himself of that troubling sense of deeper connection.
* * *
Lying in bed, Patrick heard the gurgle and hiss of ru
nning water and the squeal of the shower doors. Kate, he thought, getting ready for work. He narrowed his eyes at the digital clock beside the bed. 0600 hours. He hadn't slept long, then. They hadn't slept much at all.
He felt the pull of unused muscles, a twinge of unexpected conscience. He'd never slept with any woman besides his wife, not even when be was serving overseas. Now he had one in his shower.
The soap thunked to the tiles. He imagined Kate's rosy butt as she bent to retrieve it and had to shake away the impulse to join her under the warm spray, to slide soap-slicked hands over her curvy body.
Rounds at seven, she'd said. He didn't know her morning routine, but he'd bet the lady doctor was running late already. Patrick frowned, scraping his thumb over his jaw. It would take some getting used to, being involved with a doctor.
Involved. He made a face at the dim room, as if someone could see him. What a word. He didn't have involvements. He was the marrying kind. He'd never been tempted to cheapen the memory of his marriage with a succession of one-night stands. Semper fi was the Marine motto. Always faithful.
And he had held true, first to his wife and his vows, and later to his grief. He'd had Holly, and then he'd had…
Nothing.
Jack.
Slowly, Patrick sat up, swinging both feet to the floor. How would his altered relationship with Kate affect his son?
You didn't think about that last night, did you, ace? You didn't think at all.
The running water stopped. Flinging back the covers, he stood. His gaze fell on his wife's photograph, smiling from its silver frame. Hell. Now he felt disloyal, almost as if she'd caught him in bed with the other woman.
He crossed the room, avoiding the eyes in the picture, and dug through his top drawer for clean shorts. Instinctively, he wanted to gird himself before Kate came back into the room. As if she hadn't already seen him naked. As if she hadn't already taken him into her body, blown his mind, and delicately peeled away at the armor covering his emotions.
As gently as possible, he had to find a way to get her out of his house. He pulled on the boxers.
And maybe Kate had had the same idea, because when she came out of the bathroom she was already zipped and buttoned up into one of those tidy blouse-and-khaki combos she favored. That gave him a moment's pause. She looked fresh and cool, her curling hair still damp, her face free of makeup.
She paused in the lit doorway, as if surprised to find him up, and smiled shyly. "Good morning."
Her hesitancy reminded Patrick that however uncomfortable he found this morning-after business, it was just as strange for her. Maybe stranger, given her touching confession about her lack of experience. Honor and kindness both dictated he make it as easy on her as possible.
And it wasn't that hard, after all, to slip his arms around her, to hold her fully-clothed body against his half-naked one until he felt her shoulders start to relax and her breath release against his chest.
He kissed her hair, which smelled of his shampoo. "You're up early."
"I need to leave for the hospital by six-thirty."
He'd expected to have to ease her along. He was taken aback by her apparent eagerness to go. "I'll make you some coffee."
"That would be nice."
For some reason, her polite acceptance ruffled him. He wished he could see her face. Maybe he hadn't slept with any woman since his wife, but he was pretty sure that after a night of steamy, mutually satisfying sex, Kate had a right to expect more from him than a hot cup of coffee on her way out the door.
"About last night…" she said against his chest.
Here it comes, be thought, and didn't know whether he felt dread or relief. Of course she would want more. And he had nothing more to offer her or any woman.
"I want you to know I understand that you're still in the grief recovery process," she said, all cool understanding.
His jaw unhinged at this analytical, early-morning dissection of his thought processes.
Precisely, she continued. "Please don't worry that I'll read too much into our … into last night. The stress of your father's illness after a long period of abstinence naturally made you reach out in a way that—"
Jolted, he gripped the back of her neck, turning her head to face him. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Her tongue darted over her lower lip, but her eyes were steady on his. "I'm trying to tell you I don't have any expectations."
"Is that a fact," he snapped.
"Yes. You said you hadn't—that I was your first sexual partner since your wife passed on. It's only natural for you to feel ambivalent this morning."
Ambivalent, hell. He was suddenly, surprisingly angry. "It didn't maybe occur to you that you should have expectations?" he bit out.
Now, why had he said that? She'd given him the perfect out. But he didn't want it. He couldn't make himself into a one-night Romeo, and he wouldn't treat Kate with less than the respect she deserved.
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Don't apologize. Call me names, slap my face. You gave me the best night of my life, and you're telling me I should pass it off as, what, therapy?"
She drew herself up, straight and cold as surgical steel. He admired her composure, even when it ticked him off. "You're deliberately misunderstanding me," she said.
"Only to make a point. Last night you said we weren't doing the pity thing."
"We weren't. We didn't," she protested.
"Then don't you think you deserve a little more than 'Thank you, Doctor, for the nice sex, I feel so much better now'?"
Even with the light behind her, he could see the color that flooded her face. But she pinned him with her cool doctor's gaze and asked in her clipped, light voice, "What did you have in mind?"
Frustrated, he dragged a hand through his hair. "This isn't about me."
"Isn't it?"
"Dammit, no. What do you want?"
"I told you last night. For just once in my life, I wanted someone like you to want someone like me." She shrugged. "I wanted you. Simple."
It wasn't simple at all. His gut churned. But when she looked at him like that, with that small, wry smile, he was forced to admit that this new complication in his life was damn near irresistible.
"So where do we go from here?" be asked.
Her eyes flickered. Maybe his lady doctor wasn't quite so composed as she wanted him to think. "I'm going to work. I guess anything else is up to you."
Fine. Let her see how she liked having someone invade her life.
"Dinner," he said decisively. "Tonight. I'll pick you up."
"That's not necessary."
"You want to take your own car?"
"No, I mean, you don't need to buy me dinner. Anyway, doesn't the meal usually come before the sex?"
Her quick, defensive sarcasm entertained him. Annoyed him. "If we get lucky," he drawled.
He saw the spark of comprehension, the answering laughter flame in her eyes, and suddenly the knot in his chest dispelled.
"I want to take you out to dinner, Kate. I want to spend the time with you. Say yes."
"I…" She chewed her lower lip. "All right. I get off at four. Give me another couple of hours after that to play catch up, maybe?"
"Six," he confirmed. "At the hospital?"
"No! My place."
"Fine."
He wondered how she'd react if he suggested they make love again before she left, and then grinned, shaking his head at his rampant libido and raging imagination.
He wasn't going to get that lucky.
"What is it?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nothing." He bent his head and touched his lips to hers in brief promise. "See you at six, Doctor."
* * *
For once, she might clock out on time. She'd just look over the tests ordered for the little girl in 816, Kate decided, and her notes from this morning's team conference, and then she was out of here.
Anticipation sang in the marrow of her bones, a rising cho
rus of joy and desire that nearly drowned out the shouting voices of caution, the low notes of fatigue. Don't take it too seriously, she reminded her heart. Don't take him too seriously. However complimentary or confiding, the man's not looking for a lasting relationship. Just look at the way he stiffened up when he caught you coming out of his shower this morning.
She shook her head, dispelling her gloomy thoughts. She didn't get nearly enough sleep last night. Remembering how and why, her heart stuttered, and her body clenched deep inside. She could feel the foolish smile that curved her lips.
Maybe she wouldn't sleep tonight, either.
Yawning, Kate propped her feet on one of the lounge's molded plastic chairs and eyed the staff coffeepot. Whoever had poured last had left it to the next shift to brew fresh. The viscous sludge at the bottom looked bad, smelled worse and was nearly undrinkable. Even for her.
That was all right. She didn't need caffeine. Patrick MacNeill was already in her system, pulsing through her blood, waking every fiber and nerve, jolting her heart. Last night she'd taken an irreversible step, an unforgettable lover. A sudden memory shivered through her of his intent blue eyes and fiercely concentrated face as he thrust inside her.
In two and a half hours she would see him again. She wanted to pinch herself, either to keep awake or to make sure she wasn't dreaming. She struggled to review the situation with her usual professional detachment.
The best night of his life, he'd said. Could she believe him?
You deserve more, he'd said. Could she believe that?
No, she decided. No one and nothing in her life had prepared her to accept that a gorgeous flyboy like Patrick MacNeill, with his stormy eyes and lightning grin, his strong sense of honor and his deep love of family, would attach himself permanently to brainy, plain trailer trash Katie Sue Sinclair.
She hadn't been good enough to make her father want to stay. Her mother told her repeatedly she didn't have what it took to hold a man. Even after Kate had clawed her way through medical school, Wade certainly hadn't believed she was deserving of more. But Patrick had made her feel beautiful and wakened a longing as painful as hope in her heart. Lord, how she wanted, just once, to believe she could have more.
THE PASSION OF PARICK MACNEILL Page 15