Rebecca York - Powerhouse

As he hesitated, she cupped the back of his head and brought his mouth to hers, and he couldn’t make himself pull away. When his lips touched down on hers, a jolt of sensation shot through him.

Somewhere in his mind, he knew none of this should be happening. He shouldn’t be in a bed with her—holding her—for so many reasons.

Yet at this moment in time, none of the reasons mattered. The only thing his brain had room for was that she was lying in his embrace.

He broke the kiss and lifted his head. Her lips were parted now, her breath shallow, her eyes full of hope—and, he thought, pain.

“What is it?”

“Just be with me.”

Unable to deny the invitation, he maneuvered to the side, gathering her close, and it was the most natural thing in the world to bring his mouth back to hers, nibbling, sliding, taking her lower lip into his mouth the way he’d always liked to do.

She tasted wonderful, as sweet as he remembered, but the best part was her response to him. The returned pressure of her lips against his and the way she moved restlessly on the bed fueled a hot, frantic burst of sensation inside him.

Not just him. He could feel needs zinging back and forth between them.

He was on top of the covers. She was underneath. He knew he should keep her warm, so he slipped off the bed—just long enough to pull the blanket and sheet aside and slide in next to her, so he could gather her close.

When she made a small sound of approval, he ran his hands up and down her back, then cupped her bottom, pulling her against the erection straining at the front of his jeans.

He had missed her so much. Needed her so much, and now here she was, right where he wanted her—warm and cozy with him in bed. He heard a sound well up in her throat. Or perhaps it was from his throat. He couldn’t even be sure.

Her hands began to move too, roving restlessly over his back, his shoulders, pulling him closer.

They clung together, rocking slightly in the bed, as the kiss turned more urgent—more hungry—driving every thought from his mind but one. Against all reason, she had come back to him, and he must make love to her before she slipped away from him again.

Was this reality or a fantasy? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. The taste and feel of Shelley Young was the only reality in his universe.

His mouth moved over hers, feasting on her, his tongue sliding along the rigid line of her teeth, then beyond.

It was all so familiar. So precious. It was as though they had never been apart, as though the past five years had never happened.

As he kissed her, he eased far enough away to slide one hand between them so that he could cup her breast and stroke his fingers over the tip. He remembered how sweetly she responded to him, how she gave him as much as he took. And when he reached under her sweater to unhook her bra, she made a small sound of approval, then sighed in pleasure as he took her nipples between his thumbs and fingers, twisting and pulling, doing the things he remembered that she liked.

“Shelley.”

She answered with his name, and somehow that brought a dose of reality into the fantasy world he had created in the warmth of the bed.

“Oh, Shelley.”

When he put some space between them, her eyes snapped open, questioning his.

“We can’t do this,” he said in a gritty voice. “Why not?”

“Because I just brought you in out of the snow, and you’re not in any condition to be making sexual decisions.”

“Sexual decisions,” she repeated.

“Get some rest. When you’re ready, we’ll talk about why you drove through a snowstorm to come here.”

A look that was part desperation, part regret, part passion passed over her face, reflecting his own feelings with an aching intensity. He could take what he wanted. Right now.

And then what? He’d hate himself for a long time afterward.

Unwilling to prolong the moment, he climbed out of the bed and stood looking down at her.

“Matt?”

“Shelley, go to sleep,” he said softly. Her green eyes looked confused. “I … don’t want to sleep. I have to talk to you.”

“Not now. Go to sleep,” he repeated. “For me.”

She blinked. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“All … right,” she said in a barely audible voice.

As her eyes fluttered closed, he stood looking down at her, thankful that he could influence her decision, yet wondering how he was going to cope with having her in the house again. As soon as he’d taken her in his arms, all the need and longing he’d repressed for years had flared up. It was as though the two of them had never been apart.

He cursed softly under his breath, angry at his own weakness. He wanted to be angry with her, too. She’d come here unannounced and tempted him beyond endurance.

Why hadn’t she just called him on the phone?

A shiver went through him. A phone call was a perfectly logical means of communication. Instead she’d driven here through a dangerous storm. Which led to the conclusion that she was afraid someone might be monitoring her calls. Or that she had some news that could only be said face-to-face. What could that be?

He took a step toward the bed and reached out, then stopped himself before he could grab her arm and shake her awake again.

He had to talk to her, but his previous judgment had been correct. She needed to sleep—so she’d be in good enough shape to tell him the bad news straight up. Because he sensed that whatever she was going to say would be like a punch in the gut.

Shelley moved restlessly on the bed. She didn’t want to wake up, but she couldn’t stay hiding here forever. Hiding from what?

Deliberately, she opened her eyes and looked around the unfamiliar room.

Panic gripped her as she struggled to remember where she was. Then the past few terrible days came zinging back to her. And the past few hours—when she’d gotten into her car and started driving east—to Matt’s ranch. Because she simply didn’t know what else to do.

She’d turned in at the gate and gotten stuck in the snow and started walking to the ranch house. She’d still be out there if Matt hadn’t come down the road and found her.

How had he even known she was on the ranch property?

She wasn’t sure, but it was lucky for her that he had. He’d brought her back … and, oh Lord. They had ended up in a passionate clinch—under the covers. In this bed, and if he hadn’t gotten up and walked away, they would have made love—just like that.

Which meant she’d been kidding herself for the past five years. She’d had the strength to walk away from Matt Whitlock because that was the only way to cut off the pain of their relationship, but she’d never gotten over him. And in a few minutes, she was going to have to tell him something that might make him hate her.

And after that she was going to beg for his help.

Would he understand her decision five years ago? Would he help her? Or would he order her out of the house? She hoped not until she could get her car out of the snowbank. And then what? She’d be right back where she’d started. In desperate trouble.

That thought made her swing her legs over the side of the bed. She had to get this over with. Now. Standing, she looked around. Her jeans and long johns were gone, and she remembered that Matt had pulled them off. Probably because they were wet from her falls into snowbanks.

In place of her discarded clothing were a pair of sweatpants and some thick socks enveloped by his familiar scent. The pants were too big for her slender five-foot-nine-inch frame, and the socks flopped around on her feet. His, she presumed. She pulled on the pants, then the socks. When she didn’t see her purse, she had a moment of panic. Then she figured it was with her coat and boots in the mudroom. In the bathroom, she finger-combed her hair and splashed water on her face, then inspected her visage, wishing she had some lipstick. She didn’t look great, but it would have to do. And she knew she was only stalling for time. Despite her earlier resolve, she was having a failure of nerve again.