120 Mph

by Jevenna Willow

  Christian would need at least fifty journals for all his flaws. But if Sara Ruby was going to call the kettle black, perhaps she should take a good long look in the mirror before making judgment on what just happened.

  Her tongue sliding over her bottom lip didn’t help the growing problem between them, either. All this did was made him want to ravish her mouth again, searching deeper for her scarred soul; fix what needed fixing.

  Christian had to work hard to get past what he’d done to Sara’s mouth, let alone conjure up the strength to ignore the slide of such a dangerous tongue over her incredibly soft lips. Good Lord! He was only human. He could not make it past both.

  “I will apologize to you again, if it makes any difference for what is done.”

  When she didn’t smile or even start a major retort, he added, “But I have to be honest with you. I wanted to kiss you since the moment we bumped asses on Harriet’s front lawn, and until a kiss happened between us, we would’ve been stuck wondering when it was going to happen—not if it was ever going to happen.”

  The most devastatingly blue eyes any woman could ever possess pinned him to his spot. However, the words to follow turned his blood cold. “Are you done?”

  “Done with what?” he dared speak.

  Done kissing you? Probably not . . . No. Most likely he’d never get enough of kissing her.

  “Done with thinking your shit doesn’t stink like everyone else’s, Reverend.”

  He could not help the sudden flare of his nostrils over this particular news. “My shit . . .”

  The rest never made it out of his mouth. Sara stepped forward, grabbed his face with both hands, and set her lips firmly against his; set his world to spin within his next taken breath. She pulled back only long enough to steal the remaining air from his lungs probably out of spite.

  “What was that for?” A mere whisper had become the volume to his latest question.

  “That . . .” she reasoned, holding back her smile. “—was for asking me to dinner. And this . . .”

  This time, her hands set to his chest as her mouth pressed against his lips. Another quick kiss, slightly better than the last, but for all intent and purposes a real page-turner. “—is for the bowl you are now going to leave in my possession.”

  “Bowl? What bowl?” he teased.

  Sara’s eyes turned toward the glassware.

  “Oh! You mean the bowl that I bought for you from Mrs. Thorn’s yard sale . . . and one you quite foolishly thought I wanted as my own.”

  Her unguarded smile came quick. “Yes. That bowl, Reverend Mohr.”

  “It’s all yours, my dear.”

  The moment was completely ruined when her brow rose, as if she knew he’d say this in order to save face. She then gave a light tap with her palm to his chest to settle the deal. “I knew you would finally admit aloud the bowl was mine.”

  “And?”

  Her blue eyes widened. “And?” she asked, pulling her head back.

  “And I can pick you up at seven?”

  A slow nod of her head, Sara backed away—stepping directly onto the shards of her shattered coffee mug.

  “Fuck! I meant . . . Christ! Oh, God, I meant . . . Bloody Hell!” Her sharp cries were loud enough to wake the dead.

  She grabbed the first thing she could to steady herself from falling, and then able to raise her foot in order to remove the sharp pieces stuck into the bottom of it. Her hand hit his upper arm and she held on for dear life, her nails sinking into his skin.

  His first and only thought was to move forward and pick her up in his arms, taking her out of harms’ way. This heroic action only made his day much worse. The instant she was in his arms, sanity became a lost cause for him . . . mostly, a lost cause for any man. His mouth found hers and he dared himself not to remove it until discovering every one of her deepest, darkest secrets.

  This dare did not last long. Sara Ruby had many secrets, and all of them were quite reachable by mere willful tongue and shameful lust building toward cataclysmic.

  Christian drove home an undying need by playing cat and mouse inside her mouth. When fully conquering his demons, he eased his head back, slowly, and looked her square in the eyes.

  His voice was an unrecognizable rasp as he muttered, “I have a really bad feeling I should apologize for this latest kiss, as well.”

  Sara’s snort was sweet and reassuring to a man filled with far too many doubts about what transpired, when knowing better of the consequences.

  “If you think you must,” she reckoned.

  “Oh, I don’t think, Sara. I know I have to.”

  “Well, then apologize . . . so you can kiss me again.”

  Her tone, her actions, her boldness of hands around his neck showed a dying man very little mercy.

  “No,” he said firmly. “I do believe I will just skip the need for any apology and simply kiss you again.” And again, and again, and again, until he perfected the art of kissing . . . or until one of them turns blue in the face.

  A full ten minutes later sort of perfect, Christian placed Sara on her feet and out of harm’s way. He set her down near the couch and away from the mug disaster. As her eyes rose and she seemed unable to speak, he spoke for her.

  “I will take my leave of you now.” When nothing came from her sweetly tempting mouth to contradict this, Christian added more. “And I will pick you up at seven this evening.”

  A nod of her head was his only answer.

  All of a sudden, he asked, “Are you all right?”

  Sara shook her head, remaining mum.

  “Do you still have something stuck in your foot?” He was about to bend down to take a look, but her hand rose to his shoulder stopping the quest. As their eyes met, Sara shook her head again.

  So, there was nothing wrong with her foot? Well, there was a near ton of wrong inside him. All of that wrong . . . created by mortal man filled with mortal thoughts and dire sins caused by the female to his male.

  The words, “There is nothing wrong with my foot, Christian,” made things far more complicated because her tone of voice had caught him by surprise. For one brief second it sounded as though Sara was about to seduce him without due cause right inside the living room. She looked lost in thought. Her eyes were all glassy. Her smile was hovering a speck below the surface, creasing the corners of her mouth, but her body language stated quite clearly she wanted him to kiss her again, in the worst way possible.

  If he’d done so, Christian wouldn’t have stopped. Therefore, it was time for him to leave. Time for a horny man to be the smart, dutiful, respectful Lutheran minister of humble Preacher’s Bend, as this particular woman had thought him to be.

  He took a huge step away from her. “I’ll see myself out.”

  He turned and could feel her eyes on his back as she watched him go. She didn’t try to stop him and he almost wished that she had.

  ****

  Sara Ruby wanted to punch God in the face for sending Christian Mohr to her door. She wanted to give the Big Kahuna a darn good nosebleed by way of a perfectly aimed left hook, and make Him understand exactly how angry she was for complicating her life in this way.

  According to Harriet Thorn, this was all God’s fault.

  Christian Mohr was not to be hers, no matter what Harriet Thorn thoughts were, to a certain degree. Couldn’t God understand that, as well? Couldn’t He, just once, listen to what Sara Ruby thought?

  Mohr was too attentive and far too trusting. She would only break such a trusting heart, crushing it to dust.

  Once the good Reverend found out the truth about her, his heart would be more than crushed.

  A deep, regretful shudder ran down her spine all the way to her toes, then coming back up to hit her right between the eyes. Those eyes welled quickly and the damn that held back the flow broke.

  How could she do it? How could she pretend she knew nothing, and had done nothing, when all he had to do was kiss her and she somehow forgot everything; even her name
.

  This town hated her. There were days when even Sara hated herself. But Christian would hate her for all of eternity if she told him she was the real cause of his wife’s death.

  Sara buried her face into her hands and her tears fell swift and hard. Seconds later, the sobbing started, and then the guilt came in violent rushing waves. Shame followed on the heels of that quilt.

  Eight years . . . and it finally came down to the dragon faced head-on and no sword in hand? Sara’s past was catching her by the heels to drag her down to knees and palms. Grief forced out her tears, but as she raised her face out of her hands, this grief dissipated. She dried her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffed her troubles away, and went about cleaning up the mess at her front door. She would go to dinner with the man, pretend her past was not what it was, and then he would drive her home.

  But then what? He would certainly expect a kiss. Furthermore, she wouldn’t be able to argue her way out of not doing it again—kissing or seeing. He was a man, and mere man would want compensation for an out of pocket expenditure; an easily eighty to one hundred dollar dinner for a few laps around the necking block. Almost all the men she’d ever known or dared ask her out, expected compensation of sorts for a meal and his time.

  But this was Reverend Mohr, her thoughts stuck upon. Under normal circumstances, when a Reverend asks a woman to dinner, a thank you and handshake should suffice—if this even normal. Sara wasn’t so sure anymore. She never personally met or kissed a minister before. She never had thoughts of wanting to undress one, either. And yet, she’d done both.

  Christ! She nearly did the nasty with the man! Well, not nearly . . . but Sara had certainly put tremendous thought toward it; pictured in her head his naked form, taut and ready, while his tongue battled with hers, and her brain stuck on exactly how much time she would have to waste removing his shirt and pants, and for him to remove her sweatshirt and jeans. Ten seconds tops! Give or take a few of those seconds for the slide of the tongue over the exposing of the flesh and the coherent brain waylaid to get the job done.

  Dear Lord! She needed to have her head examined. Just because a minister kissed her first, and had asked her to dinner, did not mean he was going to have sex with her!

  Just because he bought her a bowl that was over one hundred years old . . . did not mean he was going to have sex with her!

  Just because—Dear God, if he walked through her door within the next two seconds, she would take him by the hand, head straight to her bedroom, rip off his clothes, and jump him even if under protest . . . does not mean he is going to have sex with her!

  Then why the bloody hell did Sara want to have sex with him, if he not with her?

  She was a fool. That’s why. Any more thoughts like this, and it would only be a matter of time before she was burned at the stake.

  Chapter Seven

  No matter what Sara had pulled out of her closet to put on her body, she still would’ve been uncomfortable wearing it—and for a damn good reason. Her choice of snowmobile suit, garbage bag, or completely naked . . . they still would have stared.

  Sara shifted on her seat, trying hard not to make it so obvious that her short dress had gotten shorter from the moment she sat down. At least she had on a dress. How much would they have stared if she’d kept on her sweatshirt and jeans for such a fancy place?

  Christian looked quite smart in his suit and tie. He smelled good too. Damn him! He smelled spicy. Sara liked spicy—perhaps a bit too much. While they’d been sitting inside his car, she’d nearly leaned across the seat to take a better whiff of the man. She had what most would call an inquisitive sense of smell. Whatever she liked, Sara had to find its source. If this source meant a man’s neck, so be it.

  Yet he would have likely pushed her back and then asked why she dared think he was interested in a before dinner kiss, than an after dinner all-out, no holds barred, make-out session.

  Ah, Hell! Her night was looking to be a very long dinner, and equally long date—without the cake. How so? Well, he’d warned her he would make certain any cake was hidden if she agreed having dinner with him.

  Sara hurriedly maneuvered her sight from such a tempting mouth connected to a very tempting man seated across from her. She picked up her menu, scanned it, then set it back down, shifting on her seat again.

  Christian set his menu down, as well. There was a smile on his face as he asked, “Have you decided?”

  She shook her head and grabbed her menu again.

  Christian removed the gilded paper out of her hands before any delectable items could be processed in her brain.

  “I meant . . . have you decided if we should stay?” he prompted.

  “Stay?” she asked, puzzled by the word.

  “I know what you’re trying to do, Sara,” he quibbled.

  “Do?” She looked him dead in the eye. Good God! How could he have known?

  “Yes. Do,” he said. “You are trying to pretend all the stares are not bothering you.”

  Sara tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Only thing, it was a huge lump and the bastard got stuck, causing her to choke out, “Excuse me?”

  Christian gave her another easy smile that said he wouldn’t believe a single word of her as not knowing what he meant. He quickly signaled for their waiter. The man came as fast as was humanly possible.

  “Yes Sir? Are you ready to order—now?” He stared Christian down hard, hoping to get his point across.

  Their waiter had come to their table three times, and all three times he’d told the man he was to give them a few more minutes. That was nearly a half hour ago.

  “Um . . . no,” Christian said. “Just the check, if you would.”

  The waiter looked confused. His brow furrowed, his tone sharp. “But Sir, you would need to actually place an order to something for there even to be a check made.”

  So far, all they had in front of them were two glasses of water, an assortment of free breadsticks, and gilded menus covered in dark rose vinyl. A single red rose stuffed in a crystal vase in the center of all.

  “Well, then, if we owe nothing . . . shall we?” he asked Sara, ignoring the man at his side for one brief moment.

  Her eyes trapped his. “Shall we what?” She was as confused of Christian’s train of thought as their waiter was. She was starving. If Christian asked for the check, that must have meant he no longer wanted her order food.

  “Leave?” he explained.

  “Leave?” she rushed out.

  “Yes, Sara. Leave, as in . . . we get up from our chairs and get the heck out of here before I get really pissed.”

  Sara could finally dislodge the lump out of her throat by a forced swallow. “But. . .”

  He pushed his chair back and held out his hand. “I am as getting pretty darn sick of the stares, as much as I would think you are. Let’s go, before someone who may be of better character on most other occasions gets hurt.”

  Sara placed her palm against his, rose, and together they left the restaurant, with numerous eyes following their unusual exit and a few undesirable comments left in the wake. Once out the door and them walking toward his car still hand in hand, he asked, “Up for a frozen TV dinner?”

  With slight pressure to his fingers, Sara tugged and got Christian to turn her way. He stalled his angry footsteps toward his car. A hasty exit and equally quick command wouldn’t even begin to explain his actions. Nor take away her piqued astonishment about those actions.

  Hoping he would take them back inside, have a nice meal, and forget about the vicious nature of others, she said, “I would have been fine in there,”

  Sara had felt the angry stares from the moment he pulled out her chair and she sat down upon it, to the moment he took her hand and escorted her to the exit. Those stares had stretched her patient limits, to say the least. She even, at one particular moment, glared at a woman who’d been enjoying her dinner but sat next to them. She then let that woman proceed into reducing herself to an opinionated witch
by way of clicking her tongue and . . . Good God! She’d even sneered to make it sting.

  Sara had settled for putting her nose behind her laminated menu and checking her thoughts at the back door. There was no sense in ruffling feathers when to do so would only create more trouble—for her, and for Christian.

  “I didn’t want you to be just fine, Sara,” he snapped, checking any damaging attitude as best he could. “I wanted you to have a nice dinner, in a nice restaurant, and a bunch of uptight bastards wanted to make it completely miserable on the both of us.”

  “They’re just curious, Christian.”

  A sting of regret to the words caught Sara by surprise. Curiosity got a cat in trouble, squashed under a back tire. Sara Ruby was no cat, and she did not have nine lives to make it through without the fur singed in case trouble came her way. But she’d been around that block a time or two to know any regret had to be brushed away.

  “They’re curious about things that are none of their damn business!” The veins on his temple looked to be throbbing. His lips pinched, his lower jawline was twitching.

  Sara did not want to be the cause of such a good man having a heart attack, simply because she was hungry, and he made the foolish mistake of asking her to be his dinner date.

  “Maybe so . . . ,” she started, using what she could of a soothing tone to get the frazzled man to calm.

  A cocked brow and the question, “Maybe?” forced her to retract her thoughts to what actually happened inside the restaurant.

  “Okay, fine. I was uncomfortable in there. But not because of the stares, or the snotty attitudes from pompous jerks who should certainly know better.” The attitude from the waiter had been the worst of the lot. He’d openly leered at her as if she were the newly labeled Preacher’s Bend’s demi-whore. “But because . . . well, I, um . . .”

  Oh, God! What the bloody hell was possessing her to tell him?

  Sara had to look away to hide her thoughts and possible humiliation. A fool was a fool. A damned fool spoke aloud what was inside the head.