Cherry Adair - Slow Burn

Pretending to be asleep now was almost as bad as when she’d hidden under his bed on one of his weekends at home. She’d been about nine. Even then she’d wanted to be as close to him as she could get. Eventually he’d discovered her, and hadn’t cared that she was faking a deep sleep. He’d hauled her out, dragged her screaming into the hallway, then slammed the door in her face.

The housekeeper had reported the incident to his father, who in turn had punished Luke, and in a natural progression, Luke had refused to talk to Catherine for a month.

Bad idea then. Bad idea now.

He drew off the other slipper, then massaged her instep with strong, sure strokes. She’d never felt anything more erotic in her life. Goose bumps broke out on her skin as he cradled her foot before gently settling it back on the bed.

She felt the drag of the covers under her as Luke carefully pulled the spread and blankets down to her feet, trying not to wake her. Her breasts tingled as if he’d touched them directly. She imagined the glide of the blankets were Luke’s hands skimming slowly down her body. Eyes squeezed shut, she pictured his hands on her. Large, hard, long fingered. Smoothing, cupping, claiming.

Moisture pooled between her thighs. Her pulse pounded strategically. She gritted her teeth at the thick, syrupy pleasure her imagination created. She felt the brush of fur, and realized he’d settled Hubert back beside her cheek.

“You’re a real pain, Catherine Anne Harris, you know that?” Luke murmured. “I wish you’d stayed in Oregon where you belong.”

It took a moment for her overactive hormones to assimilate what he’d just said. A real pain. Stayed where you belong.

The delicious sensations left her body in a dizzying rush.

Her heart ached in her chest; the back of her nose tingled. She clamped her teeth together so tightly her jaw ached. So much for wanting Luke to make the first move. He didn’t want her. Biblically or otherwise.

No matter how Luke presented his invitation for her to stay, the bottom line, as usual, was that she was in the way. All her life she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time where Luke was concerned.

Catherine wanted to run. She wanted to go home. To her own bed, with her own safe things surrounding her. But she’d burned those bridges by selling the house and putting everything she owned into storage. At the time that had taken more courage than she’d thought she could muster. But selling and closing up the only real home she’d ever known had been child’s play compared to this.

Luke tucked the covers around her, brushing aside her hair. For a brief, electrifying second, his hand lingered on her nape.

She couldn’t help it. She shivered.

He swore under his breath.

For several seconds he didn’t move. She could feel him standing there beside the bed. Looking at her. Then she heard his footsteps as he went into the bathroom. The lock snicked. The shower turned on.

Catherine stared up into the darkness, eyes dry, chest aching.

* * *

LUKE FINALLY EMERGED from a restless sleep. He hadn’t bothered with a sheet. The leather sofa had glued itself to his skin all the way down his left side, and he had to peel himself off like a giant Band-Aid. Thoroughly out of sorts, he yanked last night’s chinos over his briefs and staggered reluctantly through the bedroom to get to the bathroom.

The bed was neatly made. How nice. One of them had slept well. He glanced at the bathroom door. Open. He shot a look at his watch. Great. He’d had about three hours’ sleep. And where was Cat at eight on a Sunday morning?

After a quick, hot shower, he dressed in his favorite denim cutoffs and a faded red tank top, then headed for the kitchen.

Wherever she’d gone, Cat had unloaded the dishwasher and put everything neatly away before she’d left. He hadn’t heard a sound. He searched around for a note. She hadn’t left one. Vaguely miffed, he started coffee and decided on eggs Benedict for breakfast. He didn’t just save his culinary masterpieces for The Morning After. Although he usually cooked this particular dish for two. And served it in bed.

* * *

AS SOON AS she walked into the kitchen, Catherine knew she should have stayed out longer. There was a twenty-four-hour movie theater two blocks away. She could have spent the morning there, reading subtitles.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said cheerfully, setting a bag of doughnuts and the Sunday paper on the counter to avoid looking at a lot of naked Luke. Tanned, taut, terrific body. Not a freckle in sight. He had the naturally long, lean physique of an athlete without having to do the maintenance. It wasn’t fair. But then, what in life was? A familiar tightness gripped her chest.

She turned and reached up to find a mug in the overhead cabinet. “Fun party. I like your friends.”

“The feeling was mutual.” Luke eyed her black biker shorts and white tank top without comment. There were no secrets between fabric and skin, and despite having been outside jogging in the park, Catherine suddenly felt self-conscious in her skimpy attire. Luke’s gaze traveled the length of her legs and back up again to her sweat-damp hair scraped back in a ponytail.

“Been running?”

“Yeah. Across the street in the park.”

Even at 7:00 a.m. Marina Green had been crowded with bikers, runners, mothers with little kids, people on in-line skates. None of them had looked at her the way Luke was doing right now. None of them could make her shiver with a mere glance. She filled her mug with cool tap water, drank it down, then casually picked up the half-filled carafe of coffee and poured herself a cup.

Golden sunlight bathed Luke as he sat at the table in the alcove. His skin looked like bronze satin, a cliché, but true. Muscles he’d acquired from hard physical labor, not weights, covered his bones in a fascinating display of hills and valleys. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the man anywhere. And Catherine could pretty much see everywhere.

That faded red tank top didn’t hide much. She tried not to stare at a flat brown nipple, showing because he’d twisted to watch her, and the wide armhole had shifted.

She found the milk and sugar and doctored her coffee, then grabbed the white paper bag off the counter.

“There’s a gym on the ninth floor,” he reminded her as she sat down opposite him at the table.

“Ah, yes. Where you go to pick up babes. I prefer being outside in the fresh air. Want a doughnut?”

Luke shook his head. She shivered as his hair brushed his neck. “I just had breakfast. I left yours in the oven.” He looked her up and down. “You’re in pretty good shape.”

“Pretty good shape?” Catherine pushed aside the greasy bag and rose from the table to flex the biceps in her right arm. “I’m in my prime, pal, and don’t you forget it.”

He snagged her wrist and held it up. “Look at this, your bones are as delicate as a bird’s. I could snap this wrist with no trouble at all.”

Catherine disengaged her hand. “If you snapped my wrist you’d have trouble, all right. You’d be wearing the coffeepot around your neck.” Goose bumps shot up her arm.

“See, that’s what I mean. You look fragile enough to break in a man’s hands, but you have an amazing resilience—” He broke off and gave her a look she couldn’t hope to interpret.

“Mix fragility with all that firehouse red hair, and a man would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to want the whole package in his be—life. You’re a lethal combo, Cat. They’re going to kill themselves falling over their feet, and each other, to have you. And I’m here to make sure the right guy gets the prize. I’m going to keep you by my side, and protect you from the predators, until you make your choice.”