“I’m thinking I don’t belong here.” That was the unvarnished truth, whether he liked it or not. She pinned her gaze on a flower arrangement, comforting herself by studying the colors.
He shrugged. “I don’t either.”
Startled, she looked up. “But you own it.”
“I’m an old country boy at heart. This isn’t where I want to be; it’s just a place to live.”
She couldn’t seem to look away from him. His dark eyes were black in the low, soothing light of the lamps, and he wasn’t looking away from her, either. Physical awareness, never far from the surface when she was with him, shimmered through her. Instantly she tried to tamp it down; now wasn’t the time.
“I’ve been with the police all day long,” he said in a low, controlled tone. “I’ve been worried sick about you, but I couldn’t call.”
She said quickly, “I understand. I didn’t expect you to call. And I’m all right. I finally figured out I can crawl into a tub of hot water and soak until the chill is gone.”
“I’d rather you crawl into a hot bed with me whenever you need warming up.”
The words lay between them like a live wire. She felt her insides jolt as if she had actually been shocked, and realization clicked into place. He wasn’t looking at her and thinking she shouldn’t be here; he was watching her with the intense focus of a man who intends to have sex. Here. Now.
She found herself on her feet, pulled there by a tension so acute it was almost painful. Nerves and need warred inside her. With just that blunt statement from him she was aroused, her body readying itself for him. Her breasts ached, and without looking down, she knew her nipples had hardened. Liquid heat, sweetly painful, pooled between her legs. She clenched her inner muscles against the pain and found she had only intensified the hurt.
She had accepted, and enjoyed, the force of her attraction to him. She loved those wildly frustrating kisses, the tempting touch of bare skin, the intoxicating blend of feeling on the edge of danger and at the same time utterly safe in his arms. As much as she wanted the completion of actually making love with him, she had also felt comforted by his restraint. Commitment wasn’t easy for her, and what he wanted from her right now was the most basic commitment of all. What she had enjoyed so much in theory was a little scary in reality.
“I think I should go,” she blurted, turning to do exactly that.
His hands closed around her waist, catching her before she could take a step. “I think you should stay.” He pulled her solidly against him, hips to hips, thighs to thighs, nestling the hard ridge of his erection against the softness of her belly. “Don’t you want me?” he murmured, bending his head to nuzzle her temple, and lower to the sensitive hollow just below her ear.
Her breath caught. Want him? She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything or anyone in her life. She was only beginning to realize just how much she did want him, and not only in a physical sense. That was the scariest part about this, acknowledging how emotionally important he was to her. As a child she had loved her family and desperately needed for them to love her in return, but that love hadn’t been forthcoming, and since then she hadn’t allowed herself to be so vulnerable.
But it was too late for caution, she thought wildly. She already loved him. Her body was already melting against his, seeking the heady pleasure he had given her once before.
She couldn’t give him the permission he had asked for, at least not in words. Panic and excitement mingled in a wild rush that closed her throat.
So she slid her hands up his chest and locked them around his neck, going on tiptoe to cradle his erection at the junction of her thighs, and that was all the permission he needed.
His arms closed around her and his mouth covered hers, hard and voracious. His tongue moved deep into her mouth, taking her, shaking her with the sudden awareness that until now he had always held himself back. He wasn’t holding anything back now. Sweeney had the sensation of being crushed and devoured, except he wasn’t hurting her at all, the only pain she felt was the pain of emptiness.
He stripped her jacket down her arms and let it drop to the floor. He delved his hands under her shirt and closed them over her breasts, his palms hot and rough against her tightened nipples. Her whole body arched into his touch, and she heard herself making soft, panting sounds. Everything was spinning out of control, going too fast. “Richard,” she gasped, a weak cry, or a plea, she never knew which.
He jerked her shirt off over her head, and the next second she was lying sprawled on her back on the oversized couch. Ten seconds later she was naked, her shoes and socks gone, her jeans and panties tugged down and off. His hands were on her thighs, pulling them open.
Dazedly she stared at him as he knelt between her legs, one knee on the couch and his other foot planted on the floor, tearing at the fastening of his pants. She felt as if her entire body was throbbing with anticipation, the blood running hot and thick through her veins, gathering in her loins. He leaned over her and she braced her hands on his chest, his heartbeat pounding under her right palm. Their eyes met, hers wide, his fiercely narrowed, and their gazes locked and held as he entered her, thrusting hard and deep.
The pain ambushed her. It was sharp and burning, just as if she were virgin again. She caught her breath on a cry, stiffening beneath him. He muttered an indistinct curse as he withdrew a little and more slowly worked himself back in to the hilt. The pain was only momentary, her body’s reaction to the unaccustomed invasion; his second thrust wrung another cry from her, this time sharp with pleasure.