Adam's Kiss

by Mindy Neff

  Funny how she just now realized that she’d never been to Jason’s house the summer they spent together, the summer they’d loved so completely.

  Getting out of the car, she shook out the folds of her dress and took a deep breath. She’d dressed with care…to seduce. For that, she’d chosen feminine rather than vampy. The scoop neck showed just the right amount of cleavage and drew attention to her heart necklace. A rosebud print in soft yellows and blues, the fabric was incredibly soft and invited touch.

  And she intended to invite Adam’s touch at every opportunity.

  Grabbing the pizza box and her satchel of papers to grade, she climbed the steps of the front porch and rang the bell.

  He must have been watching for her. The door opened immediately.

  And Molly simply stood there and stared. His navy pin-striped suit fit him to a tee, emphasizing his broad shoulders. A stark white shirt complemented his tanned skin and dark hair. The collar button was undone, his striped tie loosened, the knot pulled down, as if he’d changed his mind about the formality but had been caught before his decision could be reversed.

  “You look—” she had to clear her throat “—very handsome.”

  He took the pizza box from her, unsmiling. There would be barriers to cross this night. His brooding expression told her so.

  “You’ve seen me in a suit before.”

  “Yes. I just didn’t expect it tonight. Here.”

  He turned and headed for the parlor. “I smelled like tire rubber. And I had an appointment.”

  With whom? she nearly asked. Destiny? Me?

  The way he’d evaded her eyes told her he hadn’t really had an appointment. She wondered if he’d worn the suit as armor. Jason hadn’t worn suits. Did he hope that the clothes and the face would camouflage a connection so strong it fairly screamed?

  If so, she’d be glad to tell him he was deluding himself.

  He glanced back at her, and Molly reminded herself of her vow to speak her thoughts before he could read them.

  “So, do we eat first, or do I get to take a tour of this great old house?”

  “There’s not much to see.”

  “Oh, come on. You might take possessions for granted, but this is a treat for me. I told you I’ve been dying to tour the homes in this area.”

  His eyes kept straying to her neckline, where the heart charm flirted with her boosted breasts. Wonderbras weren’t just for small-busted women. They did incredible things for people like her who had generous proportions.

  “Explore all you want,” he finally said, dragging the knot of his tie down another inch.

  Molly knew she was getting to him. So far, her plan was working well. She was here, in Adam’s house. And he’d just given her permission to poke in the corners.

  He hadn’t been kidding when he’d said it was sparsely furnished. The foyer looked cavernous, with its flow of black-and-white marble squares, high ceiling and sweeping staircase curving upward. It was a fabulous old house with two kitchens and two wings of living quarters. She could picture teenagers living here, a place of safety. A haven from the violent storms of the streets and dysfunctional families.

  It would need sturdier furniture, though. She glanced at the ladies’ fainting couch visible through the parlor door, then at the chandelier above. First rule would be no sliding on the curving banisters or swinging from fixtures.

  “I’ve just moved in,” Adam said dryly, “and you’re already ousting me in favor of teenagers?”

  She laughed. “Sorry. I have a habit of being fanciful, of dreaming big. Someday I’d like to have a place like this, a refuge for my kids.”

  Adam watched her, enjoying her verve and her enthusiasm. He had a hard time keeping his mind off what she wore under that filmy dress and on the tour she was obviously conducting in his house. There was something different about her tonight, an air of steadiness that made him sweat.

  “That’s important to you, isn’t it? Kids having a refuge.”

  “Yes. Everyone should have a place to go to where they feel safe.”

  “Did you?”

  She shrugged. “Most of the time. My folks died when we were in high school.” She stopped, turning to look at him. “You remember me telling you about my brother, Sam, don’t you?”

  It was a trap. Adam shook his head, hating himself for the implied fabrication.

  “Oh, I thought I’d told you.” She watched him, waiting for a reaction. He steeled himself against giving that reaction.

  “Why don’t you tell me about him now?”

  She turned back around slowly, ascending two of the stairs, running a finger over the dust on the portrait of the old guy he’d dubbed “George.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  She was referring to the portraits. Hell, was ESP contagious? And what happened to the brother stuff? Never mind that he knew all about Sam Kincade. Molly had raised him after her folks were killed in an accident, had battled to keep him off the streets and in school. A tall order for a fourteen-year-old girl. But she’d won. She might appear delicate and sweet, but Molly had a wealth of determination and a core of steel.

  “I call that one George,” he finally answered, then pointed to the remaining four photos. “That’s Abe, Dwight, Ronnie and Waldo.”

  Her laughter swept the cavernous room, ricocheting off the walls and settling right in his heart.

  “Waldo? How’d you come up with that one?”

  Adam couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. Molly’s shining eyes and sweet dimple invited company. “Look at that crazy haircut and tell me he doesn’t look like a Waldo.”

  “Or an Alf,” they both said at the same time.

  Molly got so tickled she had to grip the banister to keep from falling. Adam’s hand shot out, wrapping around her waist.

  And in that instant, time stood still.

  Molly felt her heart thump against her chest, felt her palms perspire, felt Adam’s hands tremble at her waist. She gazed into his light brown eyes. So many secrets, she thought. So much pain.

  He started to draw back, but she wouldn’t let him. She cupped his cheek in her palm, her eyes begging him to stay. The word love flipped through her mind, over and over. Just the word. Nothing else.

  “What?” His deep voice rasped along her skin, warming her and chilling her at the same time. “What do you love?”

  Adam knew he shouldn’t have voiced the question. Knew he should be running as far and as fast as his supercharged body would take him. Yet he couldn’t move, was mesmerized by her voice, her scent, the feel of her tiny waist beneath the soft fabric of her dress.

  “I love to teach,” she whispered. “I love kids. I love to read and write in journals. I love to dance.”

  Her cinnamon eyes took on a faraway look, as if she’d forgotten he was here, forgotten she was telling him her innermost secrets.

  “I love to make love….” Her sultry voice whipped through him, jolting him like a zap of 110 house current. “I love a man with a slow hand and an easy touch.”

  He groaned and her gaze sharpened, spearing him, holding him in a spell no amount of strength could break.

  In that instant, he knew what her game was, knew she wasn’t lost in thought after all. She knew exactly what she was saying and to whom.

  And she knew exactly what it was doing to him. That much was obvious by the way she nestled into his hips, pressing, lightly, seductively.

  “Slow and easy, Adam—” her tongue snaked out, wetting her full lips “—and hard and fast, all night, anytime, anywhere. I love to fantasize.” A whisper now. So faint he almost didn’t hear. “Please.”

  She’d pushed him to his limit. Never mind his good intentions. She’d drawn him in and she’d won. He could no longer hold out against her charm, needed a taste of her heaven, just once more, even though he was sentenced to a lifetime of hell.

  The lure of temptation, of love, was just too damned much.

  Slowly, hardly even
aware of it, his fists unclenched. Knowing he shouldn’t, unable to resist, he pressed her closer.

  And she came willingly.

  “Did I say the right word?”

  “You damned well know you did.”

  “At last,” she breathed against his lips.

  He wasn’t gentle, couldn’t be gentle. Not after so long. He swept her up in his arms and took the stairs two at a time, his lips never breaking contact.

  Everything he was, everything he’d ever be, would mean nothing if he couldn’t be with her right this minute. She seduced him with a mere look, an innocent kiss, the sweetest, softest caress of her fingertips at the nape of his neck. Seduced him with her fantasies, her memories-their memories.

  He couldn’t allow himself to care about tomorrow, to hope, and God knew he’d given up on yesterday.

  But he was scared. So damned scared.

  His body hummed and his veins bulged. Not now, he begged, laying her gently on the bed. Never had he been so aware of a man’s physical strength versus a woman’s.

  A tiny spitfire of a woman like his Molly.

  He froze, his hand on his tie.

  “Adam?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You won’t.” Molly held out her arms, her heart crying out at the agony she saw on his beautifully sculpted face, the agony of wanting something—her—so badly, yet for some reason being afraid to take, to give in to a desire that was stronger than both of them. “Kiss me, Adam. Start there. Just a kiss. The rest will follow. You’ll see.”

  The clock on the nightstand ticked away the seconds as he stood there, indecision warring with invitation. At last he eased down on the bed beside her, holding his weight off her, resting in the circle of her arms—exactly where he belonged. His lips were warm and tender and erotic, an exquisite homecoming after too long of an absence.

  She breathed in his sigh of surrender, her heart racing in anticipation. He wore no cologne, no artificial trace of scent to trigger memories. She might have told him that didn’t make a difference. The connection was too strong, his natural essence a signature she would recognize anywhere.

  Her blood pounded through her veins, building, needing to rush, yet his hands did no more than hold her gently when her body ached to be possessed.

  She couldn’t stand it, didn’t want gentleness. Next time maybe, but not now. Something wild raced through her, a need so fierce she thought she’d break—an irrational fear that if she didn’t rush, he’d disappear.

  Her hands fisted in his hair, jerked at the knot of his tie, tore at the buttons of his shirt. She pulled him closer, closer still, until the pleasure bursting inside her bounded past reason.

  Her urgency sparked a similar one in him. She heard her zipper rip, felt his muscles bunch, felt him go still.

  “It’s an old dress,” she soothed, panting. “Please. Just hurry.” In case he had any ideas otherwise, she initiated the action herself, dragging him along in her urgency.

  Clothes were strewed across the bed, on the floor, discarded with little thought for fragile fabric.

  And at last she felt him, all of him, skin to skin, burning her, healing her, making her heart sing.

  She knew how his hands would feel, wanted to weep with the joy of that knowledge. So long, she thought.

  He touched her with terrifying tenderness, as if afraid of his strength. She pressed him closer, soothing him, even though she thought she’d go mad.

  “Let go, Adam. You can’t hurt me.”

  “I could.”

  “Never. Unless you stop. Unless you leave me.” Again.

  The muscles in his arms bunched under her hands. He stared at her for a long, humming moment. In his eyes, she saw ribbons of color, the color of need and ecstasy and pain—the color of indecision and sweet resignation. And she saw the two of them, inside of each other, the shared memories, the endless nights of passion.

  Eyes so blessedly familiar in a face so unfamiliar. The face of Adam Walsh…the eyes of Jason North.

  Her hands mapped his shoulders, his chest, the swell of his firm hips, pressing, urging. He moved against her, his body guiding him even if his will balked.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Make love with me, Adam.”

  The strain on his beautiful face was heartbreaking. She wanted to close her eyes against the pain, the emotion, but she didn’t want to miss a single moment, a single hint.

  On a tortured sigh, his lips once again closed over hers, and she welcomed him, reveling in that clever, sexy mouth, the taste she loved, the taste she remembered.

  He caressed her breasts, his palms molding, worshiping, firing her senses, taking her out of herself, and when his tongue circled her nipple she nearly fainted.

  Had it ever been this good? This strong?

  Tormented, exhilarated, she tried to press him closer, but he evaded. She felt his warm breath at the inside of her thigh and nearly shot off the bed. Her breath sucked in, and her eyes did close then, colors bursting behind her eyelids.

  He took her to heights she was sure she’d never reached. The power of his intimate kiss whipped through her. She sobbed out his name, writhing beneath him, frantic, shameless, praying for something, though at this moment, she didn’t know what.

  The climax slammed through her, incendiary, hard and shuddering.

  She tugged at his shoulders, urging him back to her lips, pressing against him, needing more, so much more, her urgency making her greedy, undoing her.

  “Let me touch you,” she pleaded, surprised she even had breath enough to voice the words.

  Adam didn’t know how much more he could stand. Her sweet moans and frenzied movements had unleashed something wild in him, a force rushing through his veins that scared the hell out of him.

  He tried to stop her, tried to get a firm grip on control, but she didn’t give him the chance. She reversed their positions as if she were the one with superior strength, her hands and lips frantic in their trek over his body. He was burning up. Losing it. The single-minded attention she showered over his body hazed his vision, his mind. Her long silky hair trailed over his chest, his belly, his thighs. He gripped the sheets on the bed. Heard them rip. Felt her warm breath against the part of him that ached for release.

  “Oh, please,” he groaned. Those lips. Those full, sweet lips were both his bane and his salvation. The center of his fantasies, a sweet, erotic torture. Need built inside him. Hot-blooded and violent. His fingers fisted in her hair, gentled.

  He pulled her up his body, beneath him, snatched open the bedside drawer and upended the damned thing. He stretched across her, reached for the floor, for the foil packet.

  “You don’t need—”

  “Yes. I do.” He couldn’t take any chances of her getting pregnant, knew so little about the altered chemistry of his body—his DNA. A wave of loneliness and despair nearly brought him down. But his need was too powerful, his selfishness too great. Once more, he promised himself. Just once more.

  She arched against him, her legs wrapping around him, her eyes closed on an emotion he couldn’t read. He held on to his control by a thread.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, the words rasping past the thickness in his throat, the pounding of his heart.

  Molly opened her eyes, searched the face that was so different, the scars that hadn’t been there before—the one on his shoulder that had been. Felt the resolute, unmistakable connection of their hearts. “I love you,” she whispered.

  His eyes squeezed shut, shielding her. She gripped his hair, arched her hips, forcing his decision before he could deny her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice as harsh as his breathing.

  She cried out in triumph as he drove into her, hard and deep. Like the final tumble of a combination lock, her heart opened, rejoiced, recognized and clung. Her blood pounded through her like hot lava, scorching her, chilling her, shooting her straight into a world of oblivion.

  And when it was over, when she lay s
pent in his arms, their bodies still connected, still pulsating with a passion so hot, so beautiful…she wept.

  “Oh, baby, don’t,” he said, his voice raw with emotion, with reverence, with sadness. “I don’t know if I’ll make it if you cry.”

  “I’m not,” she said, her arms tightening around his shoulders, holding him fiercely, unable to let go. “I don’t cry and I don’t faint and I can stand up against any odds. The only way you can make me cry is if you leave me. Again.” Her words were silly and made absolutely no sense in light of the wetness on her cheeks.

  He didn’t say anything. At least not with words. But Molly saw the truth in his eyes, saw the pain and hopelessness. She wanted to scream, to rage, to pound on him. He was already pulling back into himself.

  “Why?” she asked. “Where have you been?”

  The tears she claimed she wasn’t crying spilled over her lashes, rolled into the damp hair at her temples, dripped over the skin of his thumbs.

  He shook his head, prepared to deny.

  She placed trembling fingers against his lips. “Don’t. Not now. Not after this.”

  And in that moment, he knew he couldn’t. Couldn’t lie or evade. He’d caused her enough suffering—would cause her more. Not because he intended to, but because he had no control. He saw the plea in her eyes, the tenuous hope. God, he wanted to close the door and shut the world away until there was only him and Molly. But the world had a way of intruding, and time was so precious and short.

  At last he nodded, all the fight gone from his wounded heart, prepared to answer and admit and let them both down as gently as possible. And that’s the way he knew it had to be.

  Because there was no hope. No guaranteed hope.

  “What do I call you?” she whispered.

  “Adam. Jason North is gone, half pint. There’s a government death certificate to prove it.”

  Molly traced the scar at his brow, her emotions a riot of conflict. Pain—sharp and stinging—shot through her stomach, as did joy. The joy of rediscovery, of looking upon a face so completely different yet so lovingly familiar. The agony of an entire year, thinking he was gone from her. Forever.