Ready to Fall (7 page)

She tilted her head to the side, granting him easier access. Her hands, which had been clutching his back beneath his T-shirt, roamed to the front. And the next thing he knew, one small hand was pressing against his jeans-covered cock.

He groaned again, so loudly he managed to startle himself. And in that moment, reason returned.

His eyes popped open, and he tore his mouth from her throat. He removed his hand from her breast, quickly tugging her T-shirt back down over her bra and belly. Then he backed a few inches away, making sure no part of him was touching any part of her.

“That was a mistake. Another one.” He forced out the words through gritted teeth, so fucking hungry for her that he could scream with frustration. “I apologize.”

As soon as he said those words, she stopped meeting his eyes. Her head turned to the side, and she stared at her bike.

He waited a moment, but she didn't say anything. Didn't look at him.

“I shouldn't have done that,” he added. And God knew it was the truth. Now that he'd tasted her and felt her soft body against his for a second time, letting her go was going to hurt even more. Fuck, right now he wanted her more than his next breath.

But if he didn't plan to try to change her mind about Ulysses, he had no right to be touching her. No right to lead her on in any way.

And he didn't want to compete with another man for her affections. Did he?

He frowned. No. Of course not. He was still recovering from the pain of having a woman he loved choose another man over him. He had no desire to repeat the experience.

She hopped down from the front of her SUV, yanked open her car door, and reached inside. When she reemerged, she was clutching her purse in her hand. After a moment of fumbling, she held out a bank envelope to him.

“Your money,” she said.

For the first time since he'd known her, he couldn't read her expression at all. Her face and eyes were opaque. Emotionless.

He waved off the envelope. “You don't need to—”

“Take it. I know how to ride my bike now. And that means my pursuit of Ulysses begins the day after tomorrow. So thank you, Chris. Our lessons are over.”

Reluctantly, he took the packet of money from her hand. She immediately went to her bike and bent to pick it up, obviously planning on putting it back in her car.

“Wait!” He didn't even know what he was going to say. Only that he had to stop her from leaving.

At the moment he spoke, the sky over the battlefield exploded in pinwheels of color. Thuds reverberated through his body. He saw Sarah jump at the sudden concussion of the fireworks, just as he did.

“Happy Fourth of July.” He meant it. Sarah Mayhew was a wonderful woman who deserved love and joy in her life. Even though the thought of her finding that love and joy with another man made his stomach churn.

“Happy Fourth of July,” she repeated in a flat voice. Then she turned back to her bike and lifted it.

“Sarah.” Desperate, he tried to think of some reason she should stay that wouldn't involve more kissing. “You should make one more lap around the parking lot. Just to be sure you're ready for the retreat.”

Don't go
, he thought.
Please, just give me five more minutes with you before you leave
.

She pursed her lips in irritation. “You're very thorough.”

He could barely hear her comment between the blasts of fireworks, but it didn't sound like a compliment.

“Fine.” She set the bike back down and shoved up the kickstand with her foot. With the ease of two hours' worth of practice, her right leg swung over the frame. She settled into place. With one smooth motion, she put her feet on the pedals and started her loop around the parking lot. This time, she went a lot faster.

Eager to be rid of me
, he thought.

She'd made it most of the way around the circle and was heading back toward him when a particularly loud concussion ripped through the sky. The grand finale of the fireworks, he figured. For just a moment, he turned toward the battlefield to catch a glimpse of the show.

Then he heard Sarah give a short, piercing scream, one that cut off abruptly. His heart stopped at the sound, and he started running toward her even before his eyes even registered that she was no longer on her bike.

Instead, she was sprawled in a heap on the pavement, her limbs arranged carelessly. Her body seemed tiny, a small patch of paleness against a wide expanse of dark pavement.

No helmet
, he thought in panicked fear.
Fuck, she never put her helmet back on for that last lap, and I didn't remind her. Didn't notice
.

By the time he dropped to his knees beside her body, she wasn't making a single sound. Her eyes weren't open. She wasn't moving. And as far as he could tell, she wasn't breathing.

O
h , fuck
, Sarah thought in the split second before she smacked into the ground.
I knew bicycles were the instruments of Satan. This is going to hurt like hell
.

She wasn't wrong. The impact jolted through her bones and jarred every inch of her body. It shocked her into immobility even before she could feel the pain of the fall. But the pain came, of course. After a few moments of blessed numbness, she began to ache all over, though not in any particular place. From the way it felt, she figured she could expect several days of bruises, ibuprofen, ice packs, and warm baths.

No, the pain wasn't too bad. More problematic was the fact that she couldn't seem to breathe. At least not at this very moment. Unfortunately,
at this very moment
was when she really wanted some air. She forced her arms up from the ground and wrapped them around her middle, balling up into the fetal position as she struggled to inhale.

“Thank God,” she vaguely heard Chris say as he ran his hands lightly over her arms and legs.

It pissed her off. Thank God she couldn't breathe? What kind of monster would say that? Then again, what kind of monster would apologize for the hottest kiss of her life?

A Chris Dean monster
, she concluded.
The kind of monster who'll teach you how to ride a bike, kiss you silly two separate times, call the kisses a mistake, let you fall off your bike, grope your helpless body, and take pleasure in the fact that you can't breathe.

She finally managed to drag in a tiny bit of air, and it gave her the strength to raise one middle finger in his direction.

The hands gently checking her neck and head stopped moving. “I guess that addresses my concern about whether you know who I am and what you're doing here.” His voice sounded strained, as if he was striving for levity without actually succeeding.

“Can't . . . breathe,” she wheezed.

He didn't appear to hear her. “I don't feel any broken bones, and you seem to be able to move all of your limbs without a problem. Do you remember whether you hit your head? What about your neck?”

She took in another shallow breath and cautiously lifted her head from the ground. “Feels . . . fine. But not . . . enough . . . air.”

His careful hands lifted her head onto his lap, and then moved to make soothing circles on her chest. “I think you just got the wind knocked out of you. Don't worry. The air will come.”

Her eyebrows shot together. “Easy . . . for you . . . to say.”

“Just relax.” Once again, he raised her shirt and put his hands inside it. This time, though, he seemed less concerned with her breasts and more interested in her diaphragm. He massaged the area, which seemed to help. “I've got you.”

He worked on her for several minutes, whispering encouragement as her inhalations came more and more easily. Finally, she lay breathing normally with her head on his lap. Neither of them seemed eager to rise from the pavement, though. He merely tugged her shirt back down and started stroking her hair away from her forehead.

She opened her eyes to look up at him. He was bent over her, as if shielding her from any further harm. His blue eyes scrutinized every inch of her face and body, but not with the heat she'd seen earlier. He was still searching for possible injuries, she realized.

The hands passing over her hair moved in a steady rhythm, but she could feel a slight tremble in his fingers. The past few minutes had deepened the lines around his eyes and furrowed his brow. His jaw was set, his mouth grim.

He looked . . . worried. More than she would have expected from a man who'd called a fall from the bike inevitable and said kissing her was a mistake.

“If you'd hit your head, it would have been my fault.” His eyes met hers directly, without any attempt to hide his anxiety and guilt. “I should have noticed you didn't have your helmet on.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It's my hard head, and it's my responsibility to protect it. I knew I needed to wear a helmet, but I was . . . distracted.”

“Also my fault.” He lightly touched a spot on her cheek. “Is this blood? Did you scratch your face?”

“Probably.” She shrugged. “I'm just surprised that the bike didn't explode on impact. And that I don't have limbs scattered across the parking lot. Or a pool of blood surrounding me.”

At that, he gave a small but genuine smile. “That's my girl. Can you sit up? I need to get a flashlight and my first aid kit, and I don't want to put your head on the ground.”

He supported her as she slowly raised her head from his lap and levered herself to a seated position. With one last stroke of her back, he rose easily to his feet and hurried to his car. She enjoyed the rear view as he bent and rifled through a box of items on his passenger seat. His butt was a powerful distraction from her aching body.

Pharmaceutical companies should patent his ass
, she thought.
They'd make millions.

The sight of that ass made her heart race and her nethers tingle, even though every bone in her body felt battered. Even though he'd called their kiss a mistake. Even though she'd initially met him because of her pursuit of another man. Even though they were about five minutes away from returning to their separate existences.

She barely stifled a disappointed protest when he finally stood up and turned back to face her. He ran a hand through his rumpled blond hair and then hung his head.

“What?” Her brow furrowed. “What's wrong?”

“I must have left the first aid kit at my shop. It's definitely not in the car.”

She took a long, last look at him, knowing she'd probably never see him again. The probability that she'd use her bike enough for it to require repairs was—to put it mildly—minimal. Though she'd be mightily tempted to trash it on purpose, just to have an excuse to visit him.

But he doesn't want you
, she reminded herself again.
At least, not for a relationship. Remember what he told you in the shop? He wasn't even ready to go on a date when he thought Helen set the two of you up. Imagining him as more than that—a lover, a boyfriend—is a waste of your time.

The smile didn't come easily, but she forced it anyway. “I'll just go home. I only live about five minutes away. My demonic bike shouldn't be able to spring out of the cargo area and injure me between here and there. Especially if I sprinkle it with holy water. And by holy water, I mean Diet Coke.” She leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “It's the aspartame that makes it holy.”

His lips quirked. “You know, if this were a horror movie, you would've just doomed yourself. Your bike would definitely eat you before you made it home.”

“I'll have to take my chances.” With the bike. With Ulysses. With a future that didn't involve the man directly in front of her.

When she tried standing, he immediately offered her both his hands. Once upright, she released them as quickly as possible. No need to torture herself.

“I'm not sending you home alone.” The set of his jaw appeared decidedly mulish, as if he expected an argument. “I'll follow you in my car to make sure you get there safely. And I'd feel better if I took a look at you in some decent light. I want to make sure you don't need to go to the emergency room.”

Oh, thank God
. Even though she knew it would only make their eventual parting worse, she wanted more time with him. As much as she could get.

She strove not to seem too eager in her response. “Okay. If you're sure.”

“I'm sure.” Reaching out, he clasped her hands again and gave them a squeeze.

Don't jump his bones
, she reminded herself.
Don't tackle and ravish him just because the two of you will be alone together near various pieces of comfortable furniture. Or because he's incredibly sexy. Not to mention a great kisser.

Also, according to the laws of horror movies, if I jump his bones, my bike will totally devour my flesh and spit out my bones. That's just common sense
.

“Then follow me home,” she said, praying for strength.

* * *

So far, Chris's presence in her house was proving disappointingly anticlimactic. He'd barely said a word, simply following her into her front hall like a really hot shadow. All he'd done was ask for some bandages and antiseptic wipes. When she'd left to get them, he hadn't attempted to sit down or make himself comfortable in any way.

He'd made it abundantly clear he wasn't staying.

And that was a good thing, given his views on relationships and her intent to pursue another man in—she checked her watch—about thirty-three hours. Even if it didn't feel like a good thing right this second.

Sarah stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. There was one small scratch on her cheek that had leaked a few drops of blood. She could easily wash it, and she was almost sure it didn't require a bandage. But was she going to take care of the tiny wound herself? Hell, no. She wasn't that stupid. Or that smart.

She flung open the bathroom door, carrying a box of bandages and the antiseptic wipes in one hand. “Here are the supplies. Do your worst, Doctor.”

“Take off your clothes.” A slight flush washed over his cheeks. “I mean, not everything. Enough so I can tell you don't have any other cuts and serious injuries.”

He shifted restlessly. “You know what I mean.”

“Not really.” With an effort, she kept her face completely neutral. “I thought you were telling me to strip for you.”

The flush spread. “Well, I wasn't. Other than the top layers.”

“So you want me to strip, but not completely? Aren't there special bars for that?” She knew she was pushing her luck. But she just couldn't seem to help herself.

“Stop busting my chops, woman. I don't expect you to”—his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard—“go topless. And you know it.”

“So I'm supposed to take off some items of clothing, but not too many.” She sent him a wicked grin. “How slowly do you want me to remove them?”

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, face pointed at the ceiling. His jaw was clenched, as were his hands. “Just go into the bathroom and take off your top layers of clothing,” he ground out. “At whatever pace you want. Let me know when you're done, and I'll come in to look at your cut and any other injuries you have.”

Figuring she'd tormented him about as much as was wise, she headed into the bathroom and obediently stripped down to her bottom layer: a bra and panties. Wonder of wonders, they even matched.

A tiny portion of her brain—the rational part, clearly—bellowed,
What the hell, woman? You know he doesn't want a relationship, so why are you setting yourself up to get hurt?

But she ignored that part for the moment, deciding to concentrate on a different section of her body. Her loins, to be precise.

After one last look at herself in the mirror, she called for Chris. “Ready!”

He appeared in the doorway but didn't come into the bathroom. His blue gaze moved up and down over her body. It didn't look like the clinical gaze of a doctor anymore. It was hotter. More prone to stopping in places where she had no obvious bumps and bruises.

Actually, that wasn't true. She definitely had bumps in those places. Just not ones caused by the fall.

A slow smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “Coming in?”

She shouldn't want him to come closer. But the thought of even a single night with Chris . . . God, what wouldn't she do for it? She wanted it. She wanted him.

Chris's words from earlier that night echoed through her thoughts, shouting down all of her doubts.
If you want to ride, you have to take the chance you might fall. That's just the way it is. No risk, no reward
.

And in that moment, she stopped waffling and decided for sure. Damn the consequences, she was going after the man she wanted. Not Ulysses, the man for whom she'd been prepared to settle.
This
man. Chris, the most potent specimen of manhood she'd ever seen in her life.

Whatever it took, she'd do. If he gave her any indication he wanted to stay, she would let him. She would risk her heart, even though she had no idea what he really wanted from her.

He might walk away in the next few minutes, leaving her half-naked and alone. He might sleep with her and then refuse to talk to her ever again. He might dump her after a week or two, like so many of her other boyfriends. But at least she'd have taken a chance. At least she'd have chosen a man who sparked a
zing
of electricity through her veins. More than a zing. A goddamn lightning storm.

He walked into the bathroom and stopped in front of her. His eyes dropped to her right arm, where new bruises had already risen. With one gentle fingertip, he traced the edges of the discolorations. “How bad does this hurt?”

She struggled to control her breathing. “Not too bad.”

He squatted down in front of her, looking at the pale skin of her right thigh. “More bruises here.”

His brow furrowed, he stared at her small injuries for a long, silent second. She could have sworn he was about to get to his feet and back away.

Instead, to her shock, he leaned forward and pressed a light kiss on each mark.

“My grandma used to do that,” she said. But her grandmother's kisses had never made her belly clench like Chris's did.

“Mine too.” He rose, brushing his lips across any bruise he met along the way. “I'm going to turn you around to see if you have any cuts back there.”