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He took a much-needed lungful of fortifying oxygen, and pulled away from her. "You can stay here, in my room. It will feel safer." He rose to leave. "I'll sleep in yours."
"Adam?"
"In the morning, we'll have to talk about what happens next. But tonight-"
"I want you to stay here," she said. "In this room. With me."
The last two words came out in barely a whisper. Slowly he settled back down beside her and tried to look beyond the glaze of fear in her eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked softly.
Her answer left no doubt. She reached out to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him against her. Their lips met. Hers were desperate, seeking, and he responded instantly to that unexpected assault with a hunger just as fierce.
He reached out to bury his fingers in her hair. It felt like the mane of a wild animal, crackling and alive. Suddenly she came alive, and all of her fear and exhaustion broke before a swelling tide of desire. Her hair brushed his face, and he inhaled the warm and feral scent of a woman. Such delicious sounds she was making, little whimpers and sighs, as her mouth eagerly met his, again and again.
They tumbled back onto the bed and rolled across the covers. First she was on top, her hair spilling like sheets of silk over his face. Then he was on top, covering her body with his. No passive participant was she; already, he felt her pressing up against him, her back arching, her body starved for more intimate contact.
Fear had made her desperate; he could sense it in her kisses.
He forced himself to pull back. "M. J.," he said. "Look at me."
She opened her eyes. They had the brief, bright glow of tears.
He took her face in his hands, cradled her cheeks so she could not turn away from him. "What's wrong?"
"I want you," was all she said.
"But you're crying."
"No, I just want you…"
"And you're afraid."
There it was-the briefest of nods, as though she didn't want to say it. "I'm afraid of everything," she said. "Everyone. The whole world."
"Even me?"
She swallowed back another flash of tears. "Especially you," she whispered.
Gently he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'll prove it to you. I'm absolutely harmless." He kissed her again, this time on the lips. A slow, lingering kiss. He could tell from her sigh, from the way her fingers reached eagerly to undress him, that she was beyond caring about fear, about anything but having him. Tonight she wanted to forget, to be lost in the amnesia's frenzy of lovemaking.
His shirt slid off his shoulders. Her fingers moved enticingly down his abdomen, to fumble at the cold metal of his buckle, and he too was suddenly soaring beyond rational thought. It was too late to consider what he should or shouldn't do, too late to worry about the regrets of morning. They were both pulling at each other's clothes. A few more buttons undone, another parting of fabric, and her blouse was off, her breasts bared. She gasped in a sharp breath of pleasure as he trapped her wrists, pi
Then, suddenly, her hands were free and their clothes were off, and he was plunging deep into her. Not gently, as he'd wanted it to be, as he'd thought it would be, but with a fierce and frightening violence. She did this to him, this witch with her animal hair and her scent of hunger and her hands clutching his back. She had driven him to this, and now she was reveling in the madness she'd unleashed, joining in it with a mindlessness of her own. There was no need for words, no place for words. This was instinct, the ancient language of touch and smell and hard, driving need.
And rapture. Oh yes, the rapture.
He felt it now, felt it rush through his body, through her body, as though they were co
It swept through them, over them as they clung together, helpless against its power.
And then, like shipwreck survivors who have ridden an incoming wave, they were left stranded, exhausted on some wide, warm beach.
Slowly he eased off her and pulled her into his arms. What a fever she had stirred in him! He still felt weak from its aftermath. But what a joy it was now, to feel her curled up against his chest.
She shivered and he eased the covers over their bodies, hugged her closer. "I'll keep you warm," he said. "Trust me."
"I want to," she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head, buried his face drowsily in her hair. "Give it time. Things work out."
"One way or another."
For a long time M. J. lay in his arms, waiting for him to respond, but he said nothing, and she realized he was sleeping. They were both exhausted, but he was the lucky one-he was able to fall asleep, untroubled, unafraid.
He wasn't the one falling in love.
She burrowed closer, wondering about the man whose heart she felt beating against her cheek. The man who had everything.
Now he has me, as well.
How had it happened? How could she have let it happen?
She felt helpless, trapped, not only by her own heart, but by circumstances. Rule number one for the independent woman: Never let a man become indispensable. It was the rule she tried to live by, and already she'd violated it. What she ought to do was step back, take a breath, put some time and distance between them.
Right. And where would I go? My house is up in smoke. Someone out there would love to blow me away. For the time being, Novak, you're stuck.
As in quicksand. And sinking deeper, fast.
She looked at Adam, sleeping soundly beside her, and felt yet again that stirring of hunger. And something else, having nothing to do with desire. Tenderness. Joy. He was a troubling man. What was she going to do about him?
She drifted, tossed about on the edge of sleep, felt herself pushed and pulled between wanting to believe in love and knowing better. She was too smart to believe, and too stupid to give up the fantasy.
When she finally did sleep, it was like falling into some small, dreamless space, a prison without windows.
She was the first to awaken. Sunlight was shining through the curtains. Adam slept on, his golden hair tousled beyond help of any mere combing. She left him and went into the bathroom to shower. It was only when she came out again, bundled in his robe, that he stirred awake and gazed at her with amusement.
"Good morning," he murmured. "Are you an early riser or am I just lazy?"
She smiled. "Since it's already eight-thirty, I guess that makes you lazy."
"Come here." He patted the bed. "Sit down with me."
Reluctantly she complied and was reminded yet again of how susceptible she was to his attractions. Already, those hormones were doing their dirty work; she could feel them flooding her face with heat.
"I dreamt about you last night," he said, his fingers lightly tracing the length of her spine.
"Adam," she said, "What happened last night-" She felt a shudder of pleasure as his hand moved upward, crept under the flap of the robe to graze her breast. At once she stood up and moved away from the bed. She shook her head. "It's not going to work."
He didn't say a thing. He just watched her, his gaze too searching for comfort.
She began to move around the room, anything to avoid that look of his, "I walk into your bathroom," she said. "And everything's marble and-and gold. The soap's French. And the towels all match." She stopped and laughed. "Adam, in all my life, I've never had towels that matched."