“Nope. I wanted to be Sam Spade.”
Delighted, she chuckled. “The Maltese Falcon. I’m glad you didn’t want to be a banker.”
“Me, too.” He took the hand she’d laid on his cheek, pressed his lips to it and felt her quiver of response.
“I’m glad I found your name in the phone book.” Her voice thickened. “I’m glad I found you.”
“So am I.” He took the tray from between them, set it aside. Even if he’d been blind, he thought, he would have understood what was in her eyes just then. And his heart thrilled to it. “I could walk out of here and leave you alone now.” He trailed a finger across her collarbone, then let it rest on the pulse that beat rabbit-quick at her throat. “That’s not what I want to do.”
It was her decision, she knew. Her choice. Her moment. “That’s not what I want, either.” When he cupped her face in his hands, she closed her eyes. “Cade, I may have done something horrible.”
His lips paused an inch from hers. “I don’t care.”
“I may have— I may be—” Determined to face it, she opened her eyes again. “There may be someone else.”
His fingers tightened. “I don’t give a damn.”
She let out a long breath, and took her moment. “Neither do I,” she said, and pulled him to her.
Chapter 8
This was what it felt like to be pressed under a man’s body. A man’s hard, needy body. A man who wanted you above all else.
For that moment.
It was breathless and stunning, exciting and fresh. The way he combed his fingers through her hair as his lips covered hers thrilled her. The fit of mouth against mouth, as if the only thing lips and tongues were made for were to taste a lover. And it was the taste of him that filled her—strong and male and real.
Whatever had come before, whatever came after, this mattered now.
She stroked her hands over him, and it was glorious. The shape of his body, the breadth of shoulders, the length of back, the narrowing of waist, the muscles beneath so firm, so tight. And when her hands skimmed under his shirt, the smooth, warm flesh beneath fascinated.
“Oh, I’ve wanted to touch you.” Her lips raced over his face. “I was afraid I never would.”
“I’ve wanted you from the first moment you walked in the door.” He drew back only enough to see her eyes, the deep, melting brown of them. “Before you walked in the door. Forever.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. We don’t—”
“It doesn’t matter. Only this.” His lips closed over hers again, took the kiss deeper, tangling their flavors together.
He wanted to go slowly, draw out every moment. It seemed he’d waited for her all his life, so now he could take all the time in the world to touch, to taste, to explore and exploit. Each shift of her body beneath his was a gift. Each sigh a treasure.
To have her like this, with the sun streaming through the window, with her hair flowing gold over the old quilt and her body both yielding and eager, was sweeter than any dream.
They belonged. It was all he had to know.
To see her, to unfasten the simple shirt he’d picked for her, to open it inch by inch to pale, smooth flesh was everything he wanted. He skimmed his fingertips over the curve of her breast, felt her skin quiver in response, watched her eyes flicker dark, then focus on his.
“You’re perfect.” He cupped her, and she was small and firm and made for his palm.
He bent his head, rubbed his lips where the lace of her bra met flesh, then moved them up, lazily up her throat, over her jaw, and back to nip at her mouth.
No one had kissed her like this before. She knew it was impossible for anyone else to have taken such care. With a soft sigh, she poured herself into the kiss, murmuring when he shifted her to slip the shirt away, trembling when he slid the lace aside and bared her breasts to his hands.
And his mouth.
She moaned, lost, gloriously lost, in a dark maze of sensations. Soft here, then rough, cool, then searing, each feeling bumped gently into the next, then merged into simple pleasure. Whichever way she turned, there was something new and thrilling. When she tugged his shirt away, there was the lovely slippery slide of his flesh against hers, the intimacy of it, heart to heart.
And her heart danced to the play of his lips, the teasing nip of teeth, the slow torture of tongue.
The air was like syrup, thick and sweet, as he slid her slacks over her hips. She struggled to gulp it in, but each breath was shallow and short. He was touching her everywhere, his hands slick and slow, but relentlessly pushing her higher and stronger until the heat was immense. It kindled inside her like a brush fire.
She moaned out his name, clutching the quilt and dragging it into tangles as her body strained to reach for something just beyond her grasp. As she arched desperately against him, he watched her. Slid up her body again until his lips were close to hers, and watched her. Watched her as, with quick, clever fingers, he tore her free.
It was his name she called when the heat reached flash point, and his body she clung to as her own shuddered.
That was what he’d wanted.
His name was still vibrating on her lips when he crushed them with his, when he rolled with her over the bed in a greedy quest to take and possess. Blind with need, he tugged at his jeans, trembling himself when she buried her mouth against his throat, strained against him in quivering invitation.
She was more generous than any fantasy. More generous than any wish. More his than any dream.
With sunlight pouring over the tangled sheets, she arched to him, opened as if she’d been waiting all her life for him. His heart pounded in his head as he slipped inside her, moved to fill her.
Shock froze him for a dazed instant, and every muscle tensed. But she shook her head, wrapped herself around him and took him in.
“You” was all she said. “Only you.”
He lay still, listening to her heart thudding, absorbing the quakes of her body with his. Only him, he thought, and closed his eyes. She’d been innocent. Untouched. A miracle. And his heart was tugged in opposing directions of guilt and pure selfish pleasure.
She’d been innocent, and he’d taken her.
She’d been untouched, until he touched.
He wanted to beg her to forgive him.
He wanted to climb out on the roof and crow.
Not certain either would suit the situation, he gently tested the waters.
“Bailey?”
“Hmm?”
“Ah, in my professional opinion as a licensed investigator, I conclude it’s extremely unlikely you’re married.” He felt the rumble of her laughter, and lifted his head to grin down at her. “I’ll put it in my report.”
“You do that.”
He brushed the hair from her cheek. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry. I never considered—”
“No.” She pressed her hand over his. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m happy, giddy. Relieved.” Her lips curved on a sigh. “I never considered, either. I’d say we were both surprised.” Abruptly her stomach fluttered with nerves. “You’re not…disappointed? If you—”
“I’m devastated. I really hoped you’d be married, with six kids. I really only enjoy making love with married women.”
“No,