120 Mph

by Jevenna Willow

  “You what?” Christian prodded. His hand quickly set to her chin to force her sight back.

  Sara shook her head, denying him any right to have his wish. There were times, more often than not, when what a woman was thinking should not be said. This was one of those times.

  Christian, however, was having none of her evasive attitude.

  “You what, Sara?” he produced sharply. “You did not want to come here with me, too high and mighty to be seen with a guy who reads the Bible for a living?”

  These words went into her like the shot from a gun, staggering her. “That is not what I meant!”

  “No? What did you mean, then?”

  The dark blue eyes that stared at her dared her into speech. “I meant I was uncomfortable because I . . .”

  “Say it,” he ordered.

  Sara flinched and yanked her chin out of his grasp. The mutiny she felt became unstoppable and truly intolerable. “I was uncomfortable inside the restaurant because I am not wearing any underwear! Happy?”

  The second this slipped off her tongue, she felt the urgent need to crawl in to a hole.

  At first, the poor man looked too startled to speak. However, the all-out chuckle following any temporary muteness brought out her fury in a definite hurry.

  “What the hell is so funny about it?” she asked as the damaging heat crept into her cheeks.

  Struggling to force the laughter out of his eyes, Christian returned his gaze swiftly to hers’. “There is not one damn thing funny about it, Ms. Ruby.”

  “You’re laughing at me. And my . . . Well, you do seem quite amused by my lack of, for a better way to describe it.”

  The word shame barely fit the rolling emotions inside of her. Good Lord! She just told this man she was nearly naked.

  Not all. Nearly.

  When she’d dressed for dinner and he’d shown up at her door fifteen minutes early, Sara grabbed what she could, tossed a dress over her head, and figured he would never know she’d been unable to find a pair of clean underwear to save her soul. Surely he wouldn’t have discovered this for himself. Yet the second she sat down on her chair inside the restaurant she felt self-conscious; as if all eyes were looking at her, hoping to catch a glimpse of parts she should not have been showing—especially, while in public.

  She bought the dress because she liked the color and at the time could afford to splurge. Deep navy blue, the sale’s lady told her the shade brought out the color of her eyes. Not once had she tried to sit down while wearing it, until tonight. Huge mistake. The dress came to barely the knees while standing. When seated, it rode up to almost half thigh. The right angle, and anyone with a working pair of eyes would’ve been able to catch glimpse the lack of material and the feminine assets for which said material should’ve been covering.

  Christian lowered his gaze to that particular area of her person, as well. “No. I am sure it was not done on purpose,” he reasoned—to a continuous groan coming from her.

  As his sight drifted back up, Sara’s fell into the trap of a very skillful man; a very dangerous trap in which to drown in.

  “So? Why did you?” he added.

  Insolence wasn’t a Reverend’s forte.

  Sara glared through her bewildered gaze, checking his smile. “Would you believe me if I said I had none that were washed?”

  “Should I?” he chuckled.

  Jeez! A little harder checking for any unguarded reaction to an unwarranted admission might have been nice. Then again, she really didn’t know much about this man.

  “Yes. You should,” she determined.

  It was the truth. Once the telephone disconnected accidentally, Sara’s washing machine in the basement of her apartment building went mysteriously out of order—the only night Sara ever did her laundry, and the only night she would’ve had the laundry room all to herself. She didn’t own much in the way of clothing, so what she did have was carefully taken care of. She spent her money on antiques, not clothing or frivolous girlie stuff.

  A hasty nod, and another smile sent her way, Christian muttered, “Okay. Then yes, I believe you.”

  Sara waited. Regrettably, her conscience had a mind of its own and forced out the word, “But?”

  “But what?”

  “There is always a but lingering in the surrounding air with you,” she ruled. “So what is it?”

  His dimples dug deep. With slight pressure, he raised her hand to his mouth and gave a tender kiss to the back of her knuckles, arching Sara’s brows. It was a kiss meant to reassure her he truly did believe what she’d said.

  Christian then added “But you’ll need to prove it,” and she just about fell over.

  “P—prove it?” Sara quite stunned by so few words.

  “Yes. Prove to me you are not wearing anything under your dress and then I’ll believe you.”

  Sara’s snort could not be contained even if her life depended on it. “Are you serious? You want me to— “

  Christian shook his head, yet his response was quick and sure. “I want you to prove to me you are not wearing any underwear. I don’t care how you go about doing it, but I do expect that it be done before the end of this night.”

  Her brows rose. Her smile firm and set in place. Surely, this was only a jest by a man needing to find humor in his night?

  “Before or after the fine dining on frozen dinners?” she teased back.

  Christian, unfortunately, did not take her challenge as such. His large shoulders handed her a massive shrug as he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his suit pants. “However, and whenever will work for me.”

  “Are you for real?” she jibed, trying to force the good Reverend to state he was only teasing her and hoping to have a little fun at her expense. On the other hand, a root canal would have been fun, whereas this was anything but sexual tension at its heightened best.

  Besides, the raise of his brow quite clearly said he’d meant every word out of his mouth. It wasn’t a tease. Christian Mohr—Reverend Christian Mohr—was not kidding. He wanted her to prove she had nothing under her dress—as well, that this nothing would lead to a very interesting something before the end of their night.

  He took hold of Sara’s trembling hand and redirecting their thoughts, started walking them toward his parked car.

  Sara could barely put words to her thoughts. Once seated safely inside the vehicle, only then did she remember she needed air to breathe, dragging in deep gasping breaths and letting the oxygen go straight to her head. Her palms were sweaty, her heart was racing, and this couldn’t even begin to describe what her lower half wanted from the ‘Attention Department’ all of a sudden.

  Reverend Mohr backed out of the parking stall, made a hasty turn of the wheel, then drove in the direction from which they came from a half hour ago. He eased the vehicle onto a long gravel drive that bent around an even longer row of Spruce trees. He then slowed the car down to a crawl when they came upon a small ranch-styled house at the far end of the drive.

  Ten seconds later, he told her, “Well, this is it. Home sweet home.”

  Sara let slip out, without proper preparation, “But this is a normal person’s house!”

  Her hand clamped over her mouth to trap anything else stupid wanting to come forth.

  His chuckle was robust. “What did you think it would be? A dragon’s lair?”

  Sara turned in her seat to face the music, and the man. “I hadn’t meant it that way . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know why, but everything that slips off my tongue this evening hasn’t and wasn’t what I meant.”

  Christian’s heavily made sigh caused the flaring of his nostrils. “I know. I’m sorry, too. It’s just that I’m hungry, and a hungry man will say whatever is on his mind until fed.”

  Sara smiled as gently as she could and put her hand to the door handle. The most she able to do was go inside his ‘home sweet home’ and see what came of this. See, as well, what Christian Mohr made out of their night. Sara figured it to be either ha
los and golden wings, or fire and brimstone to greet her once inside. It certainly wouldn’t be both.

  His quick outreach of hand to her arm stopped her exit.

  “No. Stay put. We are technically still on our date. A gentleman, or so I have been told, opens all doors for a lady while on a date. Not quite certain what the protocol for dragon behavior is . . . so we’ll just have to save that discovery for another time.” A wink and a sheepish grin made as quick apology for having said this as another tease.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call this a date, Reverend Mohr,” Sara admitted. “You asked me to dinner. That’s all.”

  He looked at her with a gleam in the eye. “Not a date?”

  Sara shook her head to deny that it was.

  “Sweetheart, in my book, when a night involves an almost ordered meal, an angry bolt out of the most expensive restaurant in town—without having to pay a single dime out of pocket—and the innocent, whether intended or not announcement of a lack of certain articles of clothing? While a man merely standing in the parking lot and he surely not prepared for such an announcement . . . well, I would call what we are having as a date, even if you won’t. And a date that started out quite interesting, to say the least.”

  The kiss. The many kisses. The near removal of clothing. Okay, so maybe those were the bases of a real date. But the removal of clothing was done only in the head—Sara’s head, to be exact. And since every single moment of every foolish second made thus far with the man was mirrored in his eyes? She’d have to be a fool not to agree with him.

  This was a date.

  “You really thought this out, haven’t you?” she recklessly asked.

  Dangerous dimples dug deep on his face, yet again. “No. Not really. I’m sort of winging it for the moment.”

  “Winging it? Good Lord! I would hate to see what happens when you ever plan a date, Reverend.”

  The hand on her lower arm turned into a grasp. The grasp caused an involuntary leaning of the head toward Christian. The leaning of the head caused the mouths to come too close for propriety. Therefore, the only expected—otherwise, planned moment of their night—was bound to happen. His warm lips settled against hers. His hand let go of her arm, to work its way to the back of her neck. His tongue found hers, and it created a fire inside her to grow out of control.

  Sara could not help that her hands had risen to his face or help that she trapped him into her silken web, lacing her fingers into his hair. Her only desire had been to kiss him again.

  Christian was such a great kisser. He knew how to add the proper amount of tease to get the juices flowing.

  Now that she was kissing him back, Sara could not let go of his face even if her life depended on it. Perhaps, in a way, it did depend on it, but for some strange cosmic reason she really didn’t care.

  He released her, leaving her restless and more than a little jumpstarted in the turned-on department.

  “I know that I have to stop doing this,” he warned, making it a promise only a man would have dared say.

  Sara was not a man. She let her thoughts slip out. “Why?”

  It sure as hell beat her having said . . . Stop? Are you `efin crazy?

  Another dangerous grin formed, crinkling up the corners of his eyes. Christian didn’t respond with words. He pulled back, opened his door, then forced his way to her side of the vehicle. For one brief moment, he simply stood outside the car, staring at his house.

  She watched as the poor man dragged in deep, earth-shattering breaths. He then closed his eyes, opened her door and asked, “Shall we?” He held out his hand while a huge smile graced his lips.

  Sara took Christian’s hand, climbed out of the vehicle, and was led toward the front door of his rather humble home.

  Christian produced a key, unlocked the lock, pushed the wooden panel open for Sara to enter first, and the moment she stepped over the threshold she wanted to tuck tail and run.

  From entry to exit his house brought to light the fact of his being Reverend Christian Mohr. Everywhere the eye looked was a statement to his chosen profession. Every single book, nook, and cranny screamed out his being a Man of the Cloth. Every nuance, every smell, every empty space—it all said she was making a terrible mistake and needed to correct this mistake before she lost her one and only chance. Or, burst into flames. He may not be an actual dragon, but this was most definitely a dragon’s lair; and Sara, the lamb, brought home for slaughter.

  It mattered not that she was a sinner of the worst kind. What mattered was she didn’t think she would come out of this unscathed.

  Chapter Eight

  Christian could see Sara was putting too much thought into their night. The only way to stop such a dangerous process was to keep her and her thoughts as busy as possible.

  He grabbed Sara’s hand and pulled her directly into his living room. The safest room in the house, and of which should put her a bit more at ease while in his company.

  Unfortunately, a loud groan slipped out of the back of his throat when discovering a huge array of books set out on his couch, and a folded note left on top one of the stacks. Those books put there by the doting members of the Ladies Guild, no less. They must have come into his home while he’d been with Sara at the restaurant.

  Somehow, it completely slipped from mind he had to deal with all eighty of these books before tomorrow morning. Such a daunting task would certainly sustain a huge blow to the desires of the night. Christian’s intention had been dead set on more than a little foreplay while on his couch. He was a man. She was a woman. Both were consenting adults. He may be a Reverend, but that did not mean he was dead and could not fully enjoy the beauty and pleasure of a good woman.

  He served God in the Church and within the community, but when inside his own home, he planned to serve only his needs. Saint Christian, he was not. He might have repented his sins last Sunday, but tonight was not Sunday and he planned adding more to the lot.

  The alternative would be to entertain Sara in the kitchen, but his kitchen was an absolute mess. He left in a hurry this morning and knew there were more than a few dirty dishes in the sink than clean in the cupboards.

  The kitchen was not nearly as messed as the hallway and the foyer, but damn close to it.

  What had he been thinking bringing Sara here?

  Christian hadn’t been. He’d gone with his gut. Well, in all honesty, a man’s gut stayed out of the equation and what below that man’s gut controlling most of this night; and likely to get him into a whole lot of trouble by the end of it.

  The second Sara told him she was not wearing any underwear while they stood in a dark parking lot, empty of human judgment and judgmental stares, Christian had turned into mortal man, dying to sin. He’d redirected the Reverend Mohr part of his being to take a back seat. In fact, he suspected the shock of her words was what pushed him in this direction. Not only theosophical, he was a theoretical man and needed earthly things proven; before committed to believing.

  God was the only thing he believed in wholeheartedly. All else must be proven.

  He turned his face to hers and gave Sara a wry smile. “It’ll only take me a second to remove the books.”

  He was about to, but Sara stopped the action. “No. Leave the books there, Christian,” she said, a catch heard in her voice.

  His hand on one book, he bid, “But . . .”

  Sara smiled. A sinful, dangerous smile made by a particularly sinful and dangerous woman, who had barely little clothing on her person and a seductive twinkle in her eyes. “We both know what is going to happen here tonight. Let’s not play any more games with each other pretending that it’s not.”

  Christian straightened his shoulders, stood tall, and looked her dead to rites. “And what game is it that you’re referring too, Sara?” His voice was a tight rasp due to the heady desire he desperately held back.

  She smiled sweetly at his face. “Do you know that you always do that?”

  “Do what?” His stare just as inten
se.

  “That.”

  The brain stuck in overdrive, his loins doing most if not all of his thinking for the moment, the goo in Christian’s head could not decipher anything beyond Sara thinking he was playing games with her. This was a real date in all respects. She might not have thought so, but to Christian it was. He hadn’t asked a woman to dinner in nearly eight years. Nor had he brought one home to make it a more interesting date by night’s end. This was a first in a very long time; a first where he actually cared for the allowance of such a rare gift.

  Most men would take whatever they needed, whether offered freely or not. Sara trusted him. He wouldn’t sever that trust by being stupid. He was going to offer a hot and heavy make-out session and perhaps second base. If that failed, he had other ideas still in mind. No woman nearly undressed was to get out of his grasp before he was satisfied—no matter how long it took.

  “You will have to explain to me what you mean by the word that, Sara.”

  Her smile fell, but the sparkle in her blue eyes stayed the same. “You ask a question instead of answering any,” she grassed.

  Christian tried to argue against this by taking a step forward. “I do not.”

  Sara didn’t look as though she would have tolerated the words ‘See? Not a question’; therefore he wisely left those stalled on the tongue.

  “Yes. You do.” She even gave him a hasty nod. All of a sudden, she took the initiative to grab a handful of the books and set them on the floor. Then, without invitation, Sara sat down and patted the emptied cushion next to her leg. She waited until he sat before saying more.

  “There. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she taunted.

  “Well, that depends on what you think good should be,” he construed, giving her a shameless grin.

  Sara turned toward him and put her hand to his knee. The warm touch and the nature in which she did it, caused the alarm bells to sound off in his head. Her honey tone added even more to the raucous inside his skull.

  “I consider good . . . as in a mutually agreed upon meeting of like minds.”