A Soft Place to Fall (17 page)

She melted against him, molding her body to
his in a way that brought him halfway to the brink in a heartbeat.
Her hunger matched his. She was a thousand dreams in the middle of
a cold dark night brought to warm and vibrant life in his arms. Her
fingers touched his throat, his jaw, his ears, the bridge of his
nose, his temples. They tangled in his hair then slid over his back
and shoulders as if she were trying to memorize his body with
fingertips and palms.

He cupped her buttocks and drew her closer to
him and she gasped into his mouth when he moved against her. If
they didn't stop now, they would be making love right there in his
driveway.

Still kissing, still touching, they stumbled
up the driveway and into his house where they fell together onto
the big soft sofa near the fireplace. She sank deep into the
cushions and he covered her with his body. He tugged at the zipper
on her sweater and pulled it down. Her bra was made of soft beige
cotton. Her hard nipples were clearly visible through the worn
fabric. Black lace couldn't have had a more powerful effect on
him.

She fumbled with the buttons on his shirt.
Her fingers felt clumsy and awkward in her eagerness to bare his
skin to her lips. A button popped off and danced crazily across the
braided rug then rolled to a stop.

"I'll fix it," she said as she pressed her
mouth to his chest. "I'm great with a needle and thread."

He ripped off his shirt and threw it across
the room.

She laughed softly, her breath hot and moist
against his skin. She smelled like flowers dipped in honey. He
wanted to drench himself in her.

There was nothing yielding about him, nothing
soft or comforting. He was all hard muscle and sharp angles, her
opposite in every way. They both knew her welcoming softness made
him possible, made everything possible.

She hungered for his hands on her bare skin
and cried out when he undid the clasp on her bra and cupped her
breasts in his palms. It had been so long, more years than she
wanted to think about, and she had been so deeply, achingly lonely
for someone who saw her through the prism of desire. She loved the
way he touched her. He didn't ask. He didn't hesitate. His hands
claimed her body with a lover's sure and gentle touch. Each place
he touched – her breasts, her ribcage, the base of her throat --
burned beneath his fingertips, his palms, his tongue.

It was all so sweetly familiar, so
terrifyingly strange. Only one other man had ever touched her this
way. Her body knew only one man's rhythm, one other lover's dance.
She felt clumsy at times, amazingly sensual at others. Each kiss,
each touch, led her down a different pathway until she was
wonderfully lost. He kissed his way along her collarbone, lingering
at the hollow at the base of her throat, then found her mouth. Oh
God, his mouth . . . so sweet, so hot, so demanding. The explosion
of sensations made her dizzy and she allowed herself to sink even
more deeply into the cushions, shielded from reality by the
delicious weight of his body poised over hers.

His kisses stole her breath. She wanted to
lose herself in them, lose the Annie Galloway everyone thought they
knew and find out who she wanted to be.

Holding her was like holding quicksilver.
Even with her body melting against his, Sam had the sense that the
real Annie Galloway had somehow slipped his grasp. She was warm and
willing in his arms. Her kisses scorched him from the inside out
but he wasn't sure she was really there.

He wanted to kiss her until her brain clicked
off and there was nothing left but desire. He wanted to bury
himself in her, anchor her in the here and now until there was no
room for anything but each other.

She moved her hand down his chest, over his
flat belly, then stopped. Her open palm hovered over his obvious
erection.

The only sound in the room was the wild
pounding of their hearts, the quick pace of their breathing . . .
and Max's shotgun sneezes.

Annie's eyes flew open and so did Sam's.

He cupped her face and was about to kiss her
again when Max sneezed three more times, ran one lap around the
living room, then threw himself down on Sam's discarded shirt and
went happily to sleep.

Max snored.

Later on Annie would say that Sam was the
first one to laugh but he knew better. Her creamy shoulders began
to shake, her lower lip quivered, and then before he had the chance
to process what was happening, her full rich laugh filled the room.
His own laughter wasn't far behind.

They laughed so hard that Max woke up, shot
them an indignant look, then stalked from the room. That, of
course, only made them laugh harder. They clung to each other,
gasping for air, as their laughter ricocheted off the walls.
Half-naked, wrapped in each other's arms, they laughed until their
sides ached and their throats hurt and tears ran down Annie's
cheeks.

After a bit, their laughter stilled but the
sense of connectedness between them grew deeper and more
intense.

"This is crazy," she whispered, her mouth
soft against his bare chest.

"You talk too much," he said then kissed her
quiet.

She liked that he didn't ask, didn't tiptoe
around her, didn't treat her like St. Annie the Virgin Widow. He
treated her like a flesh-and-blood woman and her response was as
natural as breathing. Her lips parted at his gentle pressure and
she sighed deeply as his tongue slid across the swell of her lower
lip before claiming her mouth. It was all so strangely familiar,
the sensual duel where both won the battle. She drank him in as if
she had been parched for the taste of him, as if her soul required
his essence. He would run if he knew how long it had been for her,
years and years since she had been kissed this way, as if he wanted
to steal her breath and make it his own.

The rough hair on his chest scraped
pleasurably against the delicate skin of her breasts, causing
ripples of sweet sensation to shoot straight to her core. She
stiffened as he eased the flat of his hand beneath the waistband of
her pants and rested his palm against the softness of her
belly.

"I should do sit-ups," she said, as a wave of
self-consciousness overcame her. "I bought one of those tapes and
–"

He leaned over and kissed her belly, dipped
his hot tongue into the well of her navel, then laughed low at her
sound of surprised pleasure.

Oh God. His fingers moved down and down until
they tangled in the thick curls between her legs. He caressed her
gently, easily, pressing lightly here and then there, until she was
almost mindless with pleasure. How easy it was to let go, to give
into the moment, to open her thighs for his touch. She'd dreamed
this last night as she slept in the circle of his arms, dreamed of
the moment when her bones melted and everything else fell away. She
was hungry for him, starved for the feel of his body. For once in
her life, desire was more powerful than her sense of caution, and
she reached for the button on the waistband of his jeans.

Moments later they were naked on the floor
next to the sofa. He flipped onto his back, cushioned by the pile
of discarded clothes, and pulled her on top of him. She straddled
his hips and his slick erection pressed against her cleft. She
stroked him with her hand, velvet on steel, how long had it been
too long too long. . .

Her breasts were full and beautiful. Her
nipples, deep rose set against the alabaster of her skin. Her wild
mane of hair brushed his chest as she leaned forward to kiss the
flat plane of his belly. His erection leaped to life between them
and she laughed softly but did nothing more. He wanted her to ride
him, to pull him deep inside her body and ride him hard. He wanted
to see her face when she came, see the look of wonder in her dark
blue eyes, hear the sounds she made deep in her throat when it
happened. She was wet. He could feel her dampness against his belly
and thighs. His hands clasped her hips and he rocked with her
rhythm, his own desire growing hotter and more urgent by the second
when he realized, with devastating clarity, that he was totally
unprepared.

Her body was supple, moving above him with
heart-stopping grace. He wanted her more than he wanted his next
breath but some things were non-negotiable.

"Annie." Her name seemed to hover in the
charged air between them.

She struggled to bring him into focus. She
felt drugged, heavy with longing.

"I didn't plan this," he said.

Of course he hadn't planned this. Neither had
she. How could you plan spontaneous combustion?

"Protection," he said. "You need to be
protected." Another pause. "You're not on the pill, are you?"

Reality and magic didn't mix. Annie felt like
someone had poured a bucket of iced water over her head. "No," she
said, feeling naked for the first time. "I'm not." She wanted to
tell him that it really didn't matter because in almost twenty
years of marriage she had never once been pregnant, but the words
wouldn't come. That was part of her old life and she wanted it to
stay there.

The silence between them was deep and
profound. She wanted to gather up her clothes and run back to her
cats and her cottage and fit herself back into her old life but it
was too late. His grasp on her hips tightened and he inched her
forward, sliding her up his chest in a way that made her feel like
she was about to burst into flame. She could feel his moist hot
breath between her legs.

"Sam?" She sounded hesitant, a little
fearful. And the truth was, she was both of those things and
more.

"Let yourself go, Annie." He didn't sound
hesitant and he didn't sound fearful. He sounded like a man whose
hunger matched her own. "There's more than one way to love a
woman."

His lips brushed her inner thighs. A thousand
reasons why this shouldn't be happening battled with the powerful
lure of desire. She didn't do things like this . . . she wasn't a
very sensual woman . . . oh God what he was doing with his tongue .
. . or maybe she was . . . she'd never had the chance to find out .
. . his hair felt like silk against her inner thighs . . . nobody
not even the man she had loved had ever made her want to slip away
from reality and vanish into a world where the senses ruled . . .
wasn't it supposed to be about love . . . that's what she had been
taught . . . but you couldn't love someone you'd just met . . . not
even if he looked at you like you were someone to be cherished . .
. not even if he had saved your life . . . it wasn't about love . .
. it couldn't be . . . she was getting confused . . . don't stop .
. . there . . . yes yes . . . love was just what people called it
when their bones were melting and they were about to burst into
flame . . . .

Giving her pleasure was the most selfish
thing Sam had ever done. Her smell, her sounds, the long muscles of
her thighs as she shuddered against him when she came – all of
those things brought him a deeper pleasure than he had ever known
before. Her deeply sensual, overwhelmingly female response to his
lovemaking carried him to a place he hadn't known existed and he
knew that was only the beginning. She made him feel anything was
possible.

So why then was she crying softly against his
shoulder as if her heart would break?

He didn't know what to say. A second ago he
had been invincible; now he was reduced to stroking her hair and
murmuring nonsense in her ear in an attempt to soothe her. His
desire vanished in the face of something much more complicated.

Faint red marks blossomed along her inner
thighs and he was filled with remorse. Had he hurt her? She was so
soft and beautifully made and his passion had been veering out of
control. He touched her gently, remorse filling his heart. How in
hell had something so right suddenly turned into something so damn
wrong?

"I'm sorry, Annie," he said, wishing they
could start all over again. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

She brushed the tears from her eyes with two
quick gestures and he could feel her gathering her strength around
her like a shield. Those two gestures captured what little was left
of his heart. He was hers for the asking and, dammit, she hadn't a
clue.

Annie berated herself for letting things go
too far . . . and for not letting herself go far enough. She'd had
too much time to think, that was the problem. Too much time to
remember who she was in the eyes of everyone in town.
Annie
Galloway. Kevin's wife. Claudia's daughter-in-law. Kevin's
widow.
Everything but Sam Butler's lover. Oh God, how she
wanted to touch him, to hold him, to run her lips over every inch
of his body but she couldn't move. His body ached for her. The
evidence was both plain and powerful and she knew he deserved that
and so much more from a woman with far less baggage.

She wasn't a wife any longer but she wasn't
sure she was ready to be a lover. She felt greedy, selfish, and
altogether a failure.

"Guess you're having a few second thoughts
right about now," she said, trying to ease a laugh around her
words. He had given her more pleasure than she had ever known and
she repaid him by bursting into tears like a wronged virgin. "I
promise you that the rest of the women of Shelter Rock Cove don't
start sobbing after a man makes love to them." Only the one who'd
buried her husband but still hadn't quite buried her guilt.

"I don't give a damn about the rest of the
women. Did I hurt you?" He sounded worried. If he was angry or
disappointed, he hid it well. His touch spoke only of tenderness
and concern.

She was hungry for both of those things and
so much more. For comfort and a warm body next to hers and the
crashing pleasures of touch and the wonder of someone who knew you
right down to the marrow of your being and loved you anyway. The
depth of her need terrified her. It was deeper than her loneliness,
wider than the dreams she had put aside all those years ago when
she realized they would never come true.