Page 530 of Summer Heat
The car came to a stop, and Tamara realized he’d pulled over next to the park, deep in the shadows. “You can put your clothes on here,” he said, his hands on the steering wheel.
His expression was closed as he reached over the seat, scrambling in the back seat for her turtleneck, which he handed to her without a word, then her bra. He settled back in front of the steering wheel, face forward. “Go ahead and get dressed. I won’t look.”
Bewildered, Tamara frowned at him. Had she hurt his feelings? She clutched her clothes to her, hesitating.
Into her memory came a vision of herself, after Eric had rebuffed her attempts at foreplay. “Damn,” he’d said, pushing her away. “All you ever want to do is go to bed.”
Once, she’d taken great joy in the absurdities and laughter inherent in making love. It always seemed to her that the act was worthless without a sense of fun, a sense of zest—though she supposed there were times it could be solemn. When you got right down to it, sex could be awfully silly.
Tentatively she reached out and touched Lance’s arm. He bowed his head, but said nothing. Something about the nape of his neck, displayed by the scatters of hair that fell forward, seemed vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, moving close to put her cheek against his shoulder. His skin felt extraordinarily hot and smooth. “I got embarrassed. You made me feel so good, I went crazy, and when the mood got broken, I felt humiliated.”
He lifted his head. In the low light, his eyes were somber. He took her hand and put it flat against his chest, holding it there by putting his own hand flat over hers. “You feel how my heart is beating?” he said. The gravelly sound was back—that rough, low, ragged sound.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met,” he said. “I’d let you feel what else you do to me, but we don’t have time now.”
Tamara felt a wickedness of her own come to the fore, felt that lost sense of play returning. “You really won’t let me feel?” With a smile, she moved her hand lower on his belly. “Even if I ask very, very nicely?”
His jeweled eyes flamed, and he pushed her hand down, lower. Tamara clasped him. “Very impressive.”
“Don’t tell me—” he said in a raw voice “—this is your revenge, right?”
She laughed—and the sound caught in her throat when he moved suddenly, trapping her against the seat by her wrists. “Two can play at this, you know,” he said.
He kissed her, long and warm, and lifted his head. A perplexed expression kindled in his eyes. “I really like you, Tamara. I’m not exactly sure I think that’s good.”
Her breath caught. All at once, she realized she liked him, too. Liked his gentleness and his vulnerability and his street-scorching sex appeal, but most of all his ability to enjoy himself. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” He raised his eyebrows, and eased away. “I really don’t know.” With a sigh, he let her go. “Much as I hate to do it, we really should go check on Cody, see if he’s going to spend the night or go home with you.”
“You’re right.” She started to unbutton his shirt, to give it back to him, but Lance stopped her.
“Wait a minute.” He swallowed and his fingers on her wrists drifted a tiny bit to touch her breasts below the shirt. “If you take that off, we won’t be going anywhere.”
“But I can’t wear it in to your mom’s house.”
“No.” He eased away. “I’ll wait outside the car for a minute. Call me when you’re dressed.”
* * *
He needed the air, the air that had now gone chill with the mountain night, the air that filled his lungs and made him shiver without his shirt. He needed it to calm his racing heart, his raging libido, his soaring emotions.
What a woman! As the cold air did its work, blowing away the strange, liquid hunger that had made mush of his thinking, Lance knew a sense of wonder. His instincts had not been wrong. Below that demure, slightly defensive and hostile exterior lurked a woman of singular passion.
He liked that she’d been able to laugh about their misadventure. Her embarrassment had been fleeting and somewhat understandable—and he’d been relieved to find out it was because she’d been so responsive to him.
He groaned, remembering. The taste of her, the way she threw her head back and clutched his hair, the furious, almost helpless explosion of her body.
With effort, he shoved the vision away. They would have another night, another time. Next time, he’d take her slowly; he’d touch every inch of her bare flesh, taste every millimeter of that quivering body until she was out of her mind. Then he’d take his own pleasure.
And start again.
Shivering, he called out, “Anytime, sweetheart! I’m freezing out here.”
He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this. It was a weird combination of things. There was plain, old-fashioned lust in the mix, but it went well beyond anything he’d ever felt. He didn’t obsess about women like this. He didn’t care that much, if the truth were told. He kept himself aloof. If he stayed aloof, he stayed out of trouble.
