Slow Hands (21 page)

Clare’s eyelids dipped beneath an unexplainable weight that pushed them relentlessly toward her cheeks. Without a word Sam asked her to surrender, to throw in the towel, just like in her dreams. When he pulled back, taking his mouth from hers, Clare kept her eyes closed and ran her tongue across her top lip, tasting his kiss again, tasting her own surrender.

She no longer cared about winning the war between
them. All she could think about was losing the battle. Cold air teased her bare legs but couldn’t cool the fire ignited by Sam’s gentle kiss. She burned like an ember given a breath of oxygen, and the flames licked greedily at her self-control, begging for more.

When Clare opened her eyes, Sam saw the tug-of-war going on inside her. She was struggling with the feelings of contentment and passion, afraid she’d have to sacrifice one for the other. He’d always known she was intelligent, independent, and sexy. But tonight he’d seen the other qualities she kept hidden beneath her protective armor: a caring nature and a love of children.

“I made a promise, and I don’t go back on my promises lightly,” he told her softly as he hooked two fingers in the unbuttoned V of the black shirt she wore. Slowly, he pulled her away from the open refrigerator. When he shut the door, he added, “You’re going to have to ask me this time.”

Softly, in a whisper, Clare asked, “How can I ask you for anything when I don’t even know what I want?”

“Ah, Clare,” he chastised her gently, aching to squeeze her against his chest so tightly that she’d become a part of him. “You know what you want. Give yourself permission to feel passion. Ask, for God’s sake! If you don’t trust me, then trust yourself.”

“I never trust myself when you’re in the room,” Clare admitted, allowing Sam to pull her along as he backed out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the staircase. “Right now all I can think about is the bed upstairs. And that you’ve never made love in it.”

A stab of triumph shot through Sam and faded to a pulse of urgency. “And all I can think about is you in that bathtub, your skin soft and slick with bath oil. Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to smooth my hands over you? Do you? Ask me to put my hands on you, Clare.”

She gasped, her eyes locked on his hands as he slid them to her wrists and pulled her up the stairs. Hands that were so big, so rough, so seductive, so gentle. The sight of his hands painted a vivid image of his fingers gliding up over her collarbones and down the center of her throat to outline her nipples before he swirled his palms over the sides of her breasts and lower. Suddenly she realized that as long as Sam used touch as a way of communication, she would be fascinated by and drawn to his hands. The idea hypnotized her almost as much as the imagery of his eyes in her fantasy, when he asked her to give in, to throw in the towel.

Gathering all her courage together, Clare paused at the top of the staircase, resisting the overpowering urge to tell Sam about her dream. Instead, she lifted one of his hands to her lips and slowly, deliberately, wrapped her mouth around his index finger. She had an idea what the sucking motion would do to Sam’s composure, but she was startled to feel the tightening of her own belly at the erotic action. She never dropped her eyes from his as her tongue laved and sucked his finger.

“Close enough,” Sam whispered hoarsely, and pulled
his hand back long enough to scoop her up in his arms, striding down the hall to his room. “I always preferred
show
over
tell.
”

This time he didn’t seduce her with anticipation, nor did she want him to tease her with promises of more. She wanted it all, and she wanted it all now. Sam had already kicked off his shoes before he laid her on the bed. His shirt and jeans followed, leaving his body naked except for a pair of his infamous boxers.

Clare smiled at the flamingo motif and began unbuttoning her shirt.

“Recent purchase,” Sam said as the boxers joined the cast-off clothing on the floor. “They reminded me of you.” He stripped his shirt from Clare’s body and tossed it behind him. “Not that I need reminders. I remember this.” Sam pulled her into his arms. “And this.” He kissed her long and hard.

As he pushed her back onto the bed and joined her, Clare was already lost in sensation, lost in the need to end the tension of the last week. Sam pressed feather kisses down her body and stripped off her black lace panties. He seemed fascinated with the shape of her legs and the sensitive skin behind her knees. His fingers brushed along her legs, against her tender inner thighs as he separated them, and when his tongue touched her sensitive core, Clare thought she might come apart.

“Sam,” she warned as she tried to move away from his intimate touch.

“Clare,
yes.
” His words whispered against the triangle of curls, and his strong hands reached to span her waist, holding her. “Tonight we do this my way.”

Unable to fight the desire to feel completion spill through her, Clare opened herself to his touch. Suddenly
her body was no longer hers. Instinct had replaced rational thought, and she wanted Sam to finish what he’d started. When unfamiliar feelings began to coil tightly inside her, she drew a ragged breath and tensed. It was as if the world narrowed to Sam’s touch and the promise of pleasure that hovered at the edge of her awareness.

“Sam!”

Her quietly desperate cry caused Sam’s manhood to jerk in response. This was the Clare he wanted, reaching for him, warm with passion and uncontrolled, but he reluctantly pulled away before he pushed her over the edge. He wanted Clare to fall off the world, but he wanted to be inside her when she did.

Shifting his position, Sam sat up, reached for the bedside table, and allowed himself a small smile for William’s foresight. When Clare took the foil packet out of his hand, Sam closed his eyes, afraid that the sight of her hands on him might undo what little command he had over his passion.

As she tore open the foil, Clare’s body hummed with the promises made by Sam’s mouth and hands. Her fingers tingled from the contact with his hard shaft as it pulsed in her hand. When she finished, she twined her fingers in his hair and pulled his lips to hers, catching and sucking on his tongue as he explored her mouth.

When Sam shifted to separate her legs, Clare felt the roughness of his thigh against her smooth-shaven one. Once again she opened to him, welcoming him, wanting him. Clare tried not to break the kiss, but a sigh escaped her as Sam entered her. She could feel the shudder in his arm muscles as he tried to hold himself completely still. He couldn’t. Nor did she want him to.

Groaning, Sam rose, still kneeling on the bed, and
lifted Clare’s hips to meet his thrusts. Each time he filled her, he let his thumb brush against the sensitive nub hidden in the valley beneath her springy feminine curls.

“Look at me, Clare. I want you to watch,” he commanded softly, his voice ragged as he held back his climax.

At his words, Clare’s eyes flew open and she saw the hunger glittering dangerously in Sam’s gaze as he raised his eyes from their joining to her face.
All the better to see you with.
In that moment, Clare gave in and fell off the edge, reaching for Sam and spinning into a vortex of pleasure and completion.

Sam joined her in passion, holding on to her as if he’d never let her go. When the world settled quietly around them, Sam knew he never would let her go. She belonged with him whether or not she could admit it. She belonged in this house, in his bed, in his life. This obsessed company controller, a woman he would have bet his last dollar would be all wrong for him, was the answer to the gaping, lonely hole in his life. She made him forget about the past and think about the future he wanted.

He kissed her lightly, not forcing her to talk, and eased himself off the bed for a quick trip to the bathroom. The clothes strewn along the way affirmed his conviction that Clare belonged in his life. His bedroom floor looked like a chess board of white and black chess pieces. The battle was waged between black lace panties and white flamingo-flecked boxer shorts. His white polo shirt guarded his tennis shoes, and Clare’s black jeans protected the black bra Slick once proudly paraded through her living room.

Watching him go, Clare struggled for breath, and not just because he was gorgeous. Because he’d be back. And
then he’d want to talk, and she didn’t want to talk. Not about tonight, not about tomorrow. She wanted to find a safe place to hide, a place to think.

Her emotions and common sense had scattered when he awakened her body to passion. She’d had to remind herself that Sam wasn’t permanent. His family wasn’t hers. It never would be. Sam didn’t want
her
; he wanted to play the professor to her Eliza Doolittle. He wanted a Clare he’d changed and carefully molded to fit his life. Once the thrill of meeting the challenge had worn off, he’d be looking for a polite way to fade out of her life.

To Sam, the last weeks had been a game, a Good Samaritan project. He’d taught her how to want people in her life again, and that scared the hell out of her. The funniest part was that she liked the domestic bliss she found in Sam’s house. She liked the way William fussed over her, scolding her as though he really cared. And she discovered, much to her dismay, she wasn’t ready to give up playing house with Sam even though she knew it would have to end.

When Sam returned to bed, he found Clare huddled beneath the covers. Without a word he slid in beside her, not offering to return to the carriage house. If he did, she’d agree in a New York minute. So, he wasn’t offering. He’d spent his last night alone. If she wanted him out, she’d have to bring up the subject herself.

“Good night, sweet Clare,” he said as he turned to her, curling around her spoon fashion.

Predictably, Clare stiffened. “You can’t
sleep
here. What will William say?”

“ ‘
It’s about damn time.
’ Go to sleep, Clare.”

Slowly, she relaxed in his arms, but Sam wasn’t sure if she had decided William would approve, or if she was too
tired to argue. He didn’t care which. Either way, he was spending the night in his bed with the woman he loved. Tomorrow would take care of itself. It always did.

Morning light filtered through the sheer curtains as Clare’s eyes fluttered open. She felt someone staring at her, and as her eyes focused, she saw that it was Sam. He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose just as if he did that every morning. Memories of the night before flooded her consciousness, setting off butterflies of doubt in her stomach. Clare ran her fingers through her hair and mumbled an uncertain “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” For a few seconds Sam simply absorbed the moment, savoring the fact she’d lost herself in his arms and given him the gift of intimacy. “God help me, but I love you, Clare McGuire,” he said, surprising even himself with the strength of feeling revealed in his voice.

The vague uneasiness Clare had felt as she struggled out of the cloud of slumber suddenly exploded into sharp pain, and she pulled away from his embrace. The thought of Sam loving her was a cruel carrot dangling in front of her nose, when she knew he was only in love with the idea of changing her, of playing the professor in a 1990’s version of
Pygmalion.
Without thinking, she said, “You’re not supposed to love me.”

Stunned, Sam didn’t try to drag her back into his arms.
You’re not supposed to love me.
“What the hell did your aunt and uncle do to you?”

“Nothing. They took care of me. Just drop it, Sam. Don’t read more into last night than was really there. I don’t believe in love. Not in the kind that lasts. Not for
me. It never does, and I’d rather not have my heart broken again.”

“I’d rather not—” echoed Sam. “
I’d rather not?
Like you have a choice about loving me?” Now Sam did drag her back into his arms, slanting his body across hers and pinning her between his chest and the mattress. He shook his head and said calmly, “Two steps forward and one step back. I hate to be the one to break the news, but you can’t control love. We’re talking knee-jerk reaction here. Yes or no. Black or white. You either do or you don’t. If you have to think about it, you probably do. Do you love me, Clare?”

Before she could answer, the bedroom door crashed open and a breathy female voice called, “Surprise, Cousin dear! Rise and shine—Oh, my, I can see you’re already up. And I can only assume that he is too.”

The silence following the words was so complete, the sound of a pin dropping on a carpet would have made a deafening noise. Without looking around, Sam mouthed the word
Ellie
?

Clare nodded grimly while Sam pursed his lips in a vain attempt to prevent a grin. Narrowing her eyes in warning at Sam, Clare desperately racked her brain for something witty to say and cursed fate for having to greet her cousin while wearing nothing more than yesterday’s makeup. Anyone with a shred of compassion or decency would have said, “Excuse me!” and shut the door. Not Ellie. This nightmare was her punishment for trying to impress her cousin with Sam’s house.

“Clare? That
is
you beneath the gorgeous blond hunk, isn’t it? The man downstairs, the one who picked me up at the airport, said I should come right up. I guess he didn’t know you were … entertaining.”

A groan escaped Clare as she remembered that nothing,
absolutely nothing
, fazed Ellie. With great care Clare shoved Sam off, pulling the sheet up under her arms in the process. Stoically, she sat up and faced the music. “Hello, Ellie. You’re early. I didn’t think you were going to be here until next week.”

“Do tell,” commented Ellie with a perfectly arched brow. “Schedule change, dearie. Forget about me. Look who’s been sleeping in your bed! Let’s talk about him.”

Sam scooted back against the headboard and settled the sheet across his lap. The indignity of being caught with his pants down didn’t bother him at all, Clare noted. She wondered what he saw when he looked at Ellie. To fill the silence, she began an introduction, “He’s—”

Interrupting, Sam met Ellie’s inquisitive eyes with a grin and said, “I’m the boarder, Sam Tucker. I usually have to sleep in the carriage house, but Clare throws in three meals a day as part of the deal.” At that moment a furry gray missile sped through the room and landed in the middle of his chest with a commanding yowl. Sam shifted the cat and said, “This is Slick. You’ve already met William, our butler.”