by Debra Cowan
Dallas, stay here? Right. She'd left him once without a word. He couldn't trust that she wouldn't do it again. And besides, even if he could convince her to stay, what would be the point? They'd both moved on. He didn't want to get involved with her again, did he?
He slid a glance at her, his gaze fixing on the pale alabaster of her face in the darkness of the truck, the compelling strength of her profile, that little shadowed hollow in her throat where he wanted to press his lips. He jerked his gaze away. No, he didn't want to get involved with her again.
He clenched his jaw and drove in focused silence. As soon as they reached Carrie's, he was going to tell Dallas that this wasn't going to work. They needed to keep things strictly professional between them.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into her friend's driveway, then stepped out of the truck to walk her to the door.
"You don't have to do this," she protested as he came around to open her door. "I have my gun."
"It's the cop code, you know. I need to check things out, especially since it looks as if Carrie isn't home right now," he said grimly, telling himself he'd take a quick look around, then get out. "I won't sleep unless I know you're okay in there."
Her gaze met his, probed. She looked as if she might say something, then she shrugged. They walked together, silent and strained, to the door.
As soon as they stepped inside, he could tell the place hadn't been disturbed. Still, he walked through, checking closets, under the beds, in the kitchen. "All clear," he announced a few minutes later when he returned to the front.
"Thanks." She'd taken off her coat and now placed her holster and gun on the table behind the sofa. "Thanks for inviting me tonight. I loved it."
"They enjoyed seeing you, too." He waited for a moment, feeling awkward.
She stared at him uncertainly. He'd wanted to get away from her all evening. So what was the problem? Why didn't he just go?
He turned for the door. "See ya tomorrow."
"Do you have to leave so soon?"
He tensed, agony stretching across his chest. He should tell her, but he couldn't get the words out. Turning to face her, he said, "There's no point in me staying, is there?"
She paused, then suggested eagerly, "How about a cup of coffee?"
"Dallas—"
"I needed tonight, Sam. I… Thank you, again."
"I'm glad it was good for you." He felt wasted and tired. Tired of fighting what was between them, but knowing he couldn't stop fighting.
"Well, I guess I'll say good-night, then."
A disappointment he didn't understand stabbed sharply through him. "I think we need to keep things professional between us."
Silence boomed.
His shoulders stiffened. "So, you agree."
Her voice came, shaking but determined. "A year and a half ago, when we slept together, it scared me to death."
His head came up. He froze, caught completely off guard.
"The reason I left was not because I used you and couldn't face it." Naked emotion glittered in her eyes. "I left because I felt something for you and it scared me to death."
He couldn't move. His heart slammed into his ribs even as his mind tried to push away her words.
Panic sharpened her voice, but she went on. "It— You, what we did, was too soon after Brad. I couldn't face what that made me feel. I wasn't ready to let him go."
"You made that pretty clear," Sam retorted, telling himself not to look into those deep eyes.
"You're wrong, you know," she whispered. "I didn't use you as a substitute for him."
"Don't insult me." Anger flared and he advanced on her, getting right in her face. "I was there, remember? I know the way you looked right through me. I know the way you turned away afterward and reached for Brad's picture. You couldn't even look at me when I asked you straight-out!"
"I know." She didn't flinch, but met his gaze squarely, hers pleading, desperate. "And it was because I felt something for you so soon after Brad died. It made me feel—"
"Dirty?" he snarled. "Thanks."
"No! Confused. Afraid. Shallow." She took a shaky breath. "You idiot, I didn't leave because I couldn't forget Brad. I left because … being with you wiped him completely out of my mind!"
Stunned, Sam could only stare. His pulse pounded in his head, and lower down. Had he understood her correctly?
"What kind of wife did that make me?" she cried. "What kind of person? I'd been married to him for eight years. He'd only been dead two months! I should have been thinking of him while I was with you, but I wasn't. I wasn't." Her chest heaved.
His wounded heart screamed not to believe her. But his instincts hammered out a completely different signal. He'd never seen such agony, such vulnerability in her features. His throat tightened. "Are you saying—"
"Yes."
"It was just me?"
She looked him square in the face, raw hunger plain in her gray eyes. "Yes."
He didn't know what to think, but his body responded with swift, certain speed. In an instant, he was hard and throbbing. Reflexively, before his mind could even catch up, he hauled her to him.
"I'll probably regret the hell out of this." Then his mouth covered hers.
* * *
Chapter 11
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Her gasp of surprise was smothered by his mouth and he gripped her butt in his hands. She felt good, so damn good.
She stiffened and Sam expected her to push him away. Then her initial resistance disappeared. Her hands slid up his back, clutching wildly, hungrily.
He'd seen women since she'd left, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember who or when or why. Dallas seemed the only one worth having. It occurred to him that he'd lasted only eight days before giving in to this knife-edged need she unleashed in him. His reason shattered. All that existed was the spicy tang of her scent, the softness of her skin, the way her tongue stroked his.
His groin was painfully tight and hard. She murmured hot greedy words in his ear and against his neck as her hands pushed away his coat, yanked the hem of his shirt out of his jeans.
He wanted her naked and spread before him. Fire and greed and desperation spurred him on. He couldn't form a rational thought. He couldn't get a full breath. All he could do was hang on and try to answer the savage craving boiling in his blood.
He unbuttoned her satiny shirt, eased it off her shoulders and to the floor. Beneath it she wore a skimpy black camisole. Her hands fisted in his hair and she panted against his mouth, "Touch me."
At last he got his hands on her bare skin. His palms slid under her little cotton camisole, up the silky warmth of her back. "Here?"
"Everywhere. Anywhere," she moaned, kissing him hard on the mouth.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and the thin-strapped shirt rode up her torso. The soft skin of her belly nudged his hairy one, the snap on his jeans. Then her hand closed over him through his jeans, and she stroked, igniting a fury of need that made him clench his teeth.
He had to have her. Fumbling with her jeans, he pushed them down her hips, then shoved away the tiny scrap of fabric that passed for panties. He wasn't gentle or slow. In some distant comer of his mind, he told himself to be both, to look at her, to save some part of this for later.
She arched her neck and he took in the flush pinkening her delicious skin, the flimsy undergarment that covered her breasts. She was magnificent, touching something deep inside him, something raw and naked and vulnerable. He couldn't define it, didn't want to. He felt clumsy and rough, yet some fierce primal need drove him on.
He somehow managed to open his jeans and then he picked her up. Those long, lean, beautiful legs wrapped around his hips. Her mouth found his again and fused to his with fire and desperate heat, her tongue urging him on. Her breasts pressed full and soft against his chest.
He backed her against the wall, skimmed one hand up her side to cup her breast. The weight of her nestled in his palm and sweat broke over his nape. His skin b
urned. She cried out and arched into him. Hunger blazed in her eyes, incinerating the small piece of control he had left.
He bunched her camisole into one hand, pulled it over her head. His gaze riveted on her breasts, flushed and full and quivering. Just for him. He lowered his head, urgent now, shaking all over. Before, he'd wanted her surrender, wanted to hurt her the way she'd hurt him; but now he wanted something entirely different. He wanted only the essence of her, the softness, the steel.
He wanted to take the time to taste her, prime her, but the blood throbbed mercilessly in his arousal. Teetering on the razor-edge between reason and ecstasy, he groped for his wallet. An instant later, one of her trembling hands covered his and they rolled on the condom. His lips closed over one nipple and her fingers dug into his back.
She moaned his name and he knew he couldn't wait any longer. He lifted her, his mouth still on her breast, then plunged into her. She came down on him hard and clamped her legs around his hips like a vise.
Gloved in the sleek, tight heat of her, Sam went dizzy for a moment. Then he began to move—long, hard strokes. She met him every time. His mouth shifted to hers and their tongues mated with the same fierce intent as their bodies.
She rode with him, forcing him closer, deeper. His arms corded from the strain of holding back. Their gazes locked. He stared into her eyes; cool gray, so controlled. He wanted to see the same desperation that he felt, the same helplessness.
He shifted slightly, tilting her hips and bringing the core of her even tighter against him. Her eyes widened as his body found the small nub at her center. His body stroked hers deeper, mercilessly, demanding all, taking everything she had. Then he saw it—a streak of panic as her control slipped.
"Come on, doll," he rasped. "Give it to me."
Protest flared in her eyes; then wild, naked surrender. Her gaze, smoky gray and piercing, stayed on his. A fine sweat misted her face. She gripped his shoulders and her dark lashes swept over her eyes. He felt her inner muscles clench around him and she gripped him tightly. His name—a ragged plea—spilled from her throat.
He let himself go, his fingers digging into her hips as he thrust into her repeatedly. Harder, faster, deeper. She clutched at him with that fierce stubbornness she showed in everything.
She screamed in release and he nearly did, too. Breathing harshly, sweating, he collapsed against her, bracing them both against the wall. She sagged into him, her legs still tight around his hips, her breasts soft and sleek against his chest.
His legs felt like string. His chest hurt. His arms shook. It was like walking out of a dream. He knew what had happened. Yet he didn't understand how it had happened. He rested his forehead against hers for a second, inhaling the mingled scents of their bodies, soaking in the warmth of her body.
She'd been wonderful, better than he'd remembered, but he couldn't bear to look into her eyes and see if she was with him, or somewhere in the distance with Brad.
On some distant plane, he recognized that the desperation driving him had been for Dallas, not a way to escape pain over Brad. The realization ignited a fleeting panic, but the sensations sizzling through him burned it away.
Slowly he navigated into the kitchen, aiming for one of the dining-room chairs. She lay limp against him, her arms loosely around his neck, but when he moved, her body shifted, gripping him tight again. His thighs quivered as he stepped to the nearest chair. He wanted to ease down onto the seat, feel her take him even farther inside.
But as he reached the chair, Dallas untangled her legs from around his hips and slid down his body. Hurt stabbed through him. He straightened his jeans, feeling a brush of cool air against his bare chest.
He saw panic flash in her eyes, and that same panic sped through him. He didn't know what to say or do.
She stood naked before him, proud and unashamed, her body flushed from his. Beautiful. So beautiful that his chest ached. His arousal still throbbed. He waited for her to ask him to leave, to stare through him.
Instead she held out her hand to him. Stay.
The silent request blazed in her gray eyes. His heart thudded painfully.
"You weren't planning on going anywhere, were you?"
Fear and a hint of loneliness threaded through her soft words.
He read the uncertainty in her face and knew she was remembering how he'd stupidly gone to another woman last year. As if he could walk away from her tonight. "No," he said hoarsely, taking her hand.
He followed her into the bedroom and closed the door, shedding the rest of his clothes as they climbed into her bed.
* * *
Dallas awoke the next morning, her body pleasantly tired and aching. She'd wanted him to slow down last night, but was afraid that if he did, he'd back away and she'd lose the small door of accessibility he'd offered. So she hadn't thought anymore, she'd simply felt.
A slow smile curved her lips and she reached behind her, only to find empty space.
It wasn't panic that squeezed her heart, but pain. "Sam?" She turned over, pushing herself up on her elbows. The sheet slid to the tops of her breasts.
He stood at the foot of the bed, buttoning his jeans, watching her with sultry, intensely blue eyes.
Pleased and relieved that he'd stayed, Dallas smiled slightly. His gaze seared her and made her aware all over again that beneath the sheet, she was completely naked. A flush heated her bare breasts, crawled up her chest to her neck. She caught the sheet a little closer to her.
He shrugged into his shirt as he walked toward her. Just the sight of his broad, hard chest tripped her pulse.
A boyish smile tugged at the comers of his mouth and he sat down beside her, leaning in for a slow, soft kiss. "Morning."
"Morning." She stroked a finger along his eyebrow. Her stomach curled as she searched his eyes for regret or goodbye, but she found neither. Still, there was … something. A wariness that she felt rather than saw. A tentativeness.
He adjusted the sheet, his fingers grazing her breasts and setting off a flurry in her belly. "I'm going to go home, take a shower and change. I'll pick you up in about an hour or so and we'll get back to work."
She nodded, still trying to absorb what they'd done last night. What had happened had been special, explosive and wonderful. But Sam's subtle reserve this morning unleashed a flood of uncertainty. Unwilling to spoil what they'd shared, she tried to push away the doubts.
It crossed her mind that he might be punishing her for what had happened eighteen months ago, but she quickly dismissed that idea. He wouldn't do that. He hadn't said he'd forgiven her, but she sensed it.
He started to rise, but she stopped him by placing a hand on his chest, inside his open shirt. She loved the feel of the warm, hair-roughened skin and smooth, hard muscle. "I'm not sorry," she whispered, holding his gaze. "I don't think it was a mistake."
Indecision flickered in his eyes—so quickly she might have imagined it. Then he covered her hand with his, pressing both to his chest. "Neither do I. I really don't. But… Brad wanted me to take care of you. Somehow I don't think he meant for that to include what we just did."
She stared at him for a long minute, her eyes bright with pain and understanding. "Maybe," she said slowly, "you're telling yourself that if you don't feel something, you haven't committed the ultimate betrayal."
"Yes." That was exactly how he felt. Stunned, he leaned toward her. "Yes."
"But that doesn't change what we did. Or the fact that he's gone."
"Or the part I played in his death," Sam said grimly.
She started to protest, then she cupped his jaw with her other hand. "You have to work through this. I know that. But please don't shut me out. I want to be here for you, if you'll let me. To talk, to listen, whatever you need."
"Thanks." He stroked her cheek, then pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "I'll be back."
He was still troubled and she wished there were something more she could do. As he walked out, she could feel his uncertainty, his unease over
what had happened, and she frowned. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she gripped the edge of the mattress and heard the front door open and shut. A hollow silence spread through the house.
Maybe they had made a mistake. Maybe it had been too soon. As she walked to the bathroom, she cautioned herself not to get jumpy or anticipate trouble. Don't ruin a wonderful memory, Dallas.
She liked the way Sam made her feel—as if she were the only woman who could touch the deepest part of his soul. Had she felt like this the night they'd first made love? She'd told herself no for months. Now she wasn't sure.
During her shower, she blanked her mind and allowed herself to remember only the glorious feel of his body against her, inside her. There had been a huge shift in their relationship. Last night was about only her and Sam. She liked knowing that.
After she blow-dried her hair, she slipped into a fresh bra and pair of panties. She'd just pulled on her black jeans when Carrie knocked and came into the room.
Her friend dropped onto the corner of the bed, a broad grin spreading across her face. "Well, well. I see Sam spent the whole night proving how uninterested in you he is."
Dallas laughed softly, blushing in a way she hadn't since her first junior-high crush. She'd been so wrapped up in Sam that she'd never heard Carrie come home last night.
"So? Was it fabulous?"
"Yes," Dallas answered huskily, then cleared her throat when she heard herself. "It was."
The first time had been fast and hard and had sent her straight over the edge, but the second time… At the memory, her breath caught. He'd been slow and gentle and thorough, taking her to the brink three times before she'd climaxed, before he'd let himself go. Her bones had melted. She had melted.
"So?" her friend prodded. "What's going on?"
She pulled a thick black angora sweater over her head. "I don't know."
"Dallas, it's all right to have feelings. It's okay to want to be with Sam. Brad's been gone a long time."
"That's not it. I do want to be with him."
"What, then?"
She adjusted her mock turtleneck and sank down on the bed beside Carrie. The distance she'd sensed in Sam haunted her. The unease she'd read just below the surface of his words—had she imagined that? "I'm not sure."