The Newlyweds (11 page)

He took a step closer to her then, even though he had only been standing a few inches away, so that his big body was nearly flush with hers. He really was tall, she noted a little breathlessly. Tall and broad and solid. And still his hand was rising, until his fingertips brushed lightly over the line of her jaw, and—

Oh, boy.

Without uttering a word, he dipped his head to hers, his thumb curving along her cheekbone as his lips made contact with her own. So surprised was she by his kiss that Bridget gasped, sucking in the musky Scotch taste of him before his tongue even made contact with hers. The fingers on her cheek moved again, toward her hairline, then over the back of her head. Vaguely, she
registered him setting his drink down on a bookshelf near her head, then plucking her own from her fingers and setting it beside his own. That left him with both hands free to touch her, and touch her he did.

The hand on her hair swept over the crown of her head, then down to where she had cinched her hair into an elegant French twist. With a few quick flicks, he freed the silky tresses, spilling them down over his hand and her shoulders. Bridget gasped again at the gesture, and Sam deepened their kiss, opening his mouth wide over hers, thrusting his tongue to the back of her mouth. And all she could do was cling to his shoulders and kiss him back, and marvel at the fire that had exploded in her belly on first contact.

His kiss took her breath away. Literally, figuratively, in every way possible. All Bridget could do was kiss him back. The fingers she had curled into his shoulders moved lower, down over his arms, her fingertips registering every subtle rise and fall of muscle beneath the fabric of his clothes. He pulled her closer then, wrapping one strong arm around her waist, tangling his other hand in her hair, giving it a gentle tug to tip her head back farther. Bridget opened one hand over his chest, tucking her fingers beneath the lapel of his jacket, then dragged the other back up over his arm and shoulder, to cup it around his warm nape. And then she held on to him tightly, waiting to see where he would take her next.

And where he took her was paradise.

Never in her life had Bridget been kissed with such exquisite care, or such generous attention. Sam's mouth was first insistent, then tender, then a delicious mixture of both. His tongue played lightly with hers, then he brushed his lips over her own once, twice, three times,
four, before bringing his tongue back into play, tracing it along the plump, sensitive curve of her lower lip. Bridget wanted to melt right there on the spot, and she was helpless to stop the soft sigh of delight that escaped her.

Sam responded to that sigh by moving the hand at her waist higher, skimming it up over her back, then across her bare shoulders, then down again, to the top of her zipper. But he only thumbed the metal tongue a few times without taking hold of it, hesitating as if he were silently asking her permission to continue. Bridget told herself to deny it, to pull away from him now and flee from the room with her dignity, if not her professionalism, still intact. But she couldn't quite bring herself to tell him to stop. Instead, she only continued to kiss him, loving the feel of his mouth on hers, becoming more and more intoxicated with every brush of his lips over her own.

He must have interpreted her silence to be her agreement with whatever he wanted to do, because he did take hold of her zipper then and slowly…oh, so slowly…began to drag it downward. Millimeter by millimeter the zipper hissed, and with every new whisper, Bridget felt the fabric of her dress parting, felt the kiss of cool air on her bare skin. She remembered then that she wasn't wearing a bra, that the cut of the dress was such—and, alas, her endowment was so meager—that the additional garment was unnecessary. The hand that had been tangled in her hair moved to her back, too, then, gripping one side of her dress to pull it wider, then splaying open over the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades.

For one brief, delirious moment, Bridget allowed him the liberty of opening his hand over her naked back,
mostly because she wanted to allow herself that liberty, too. Just one minute, she told herself. That was all she'd allow either of them. Just long enough to enjoy the feel of a man's hand on her bare flesh, because it had been so long—too long—since she had enjoyed even that simple pleasure. And in that stolen moment, she registered the rough-callused pads of his fingertips skimming lightly over her sensitive flesh, and the way his kiss grew more impassioned, the way he tasted her so deeply, as he pressed his hand intimately against her. He pushed his big body more urgently into hers, too, and as she rubbed instinctively against him, she felt him ripen and grow hard against her belly.

And that was when Bridget realized things were getting out of hand, and that she'd gone too far. But still, she couldn't make herself stop kissing him, couldn't make herself pull away, couldn't push him away from herself, either. It just felt so good to kiss him. And he was only touching her back…

But then, without warning, he urged her dress lower, tugging the top half down until it fell away from her breasts. And before Bridget could say a word to stop him—maybe, she had to confess, because she really didn't want to stop him, not yet—he moved one hand between their bodies and cupped it gently over her bare breast.

And that, finally, gave Bridget the strength to pull away from him. Because that, finally, made her want to surrender to him completely. Spinning away from him, she jerked her dress back up over her breasts, then reached behind herself to zip it. But her entire body was trembling from the intensity of their embrace, and her hands shook too badly for her to do the zipper. She fumbled with it for several frustrating moments,
managing only to drag it up a few inches. And she wanted to cry at being so ineffective in succeeding at that simple task. She wanted to cry for a lot of reasons, she realized. But she'd be damned if she would allow a single tear to fall.

Then, Sam's fingers were there with her own, brushing them gently away. Reluctantly, Bridget stopped battling with the zipper, pulling both arms in front of herself to hold up her dress. Without a word, Sam tugged the zipper easily back up into place, pausing a moment with his fingers still holding on to it before releasing it. And then, again without speaking a word, he stepped away from her.

Bridget couldn't make herself turn around to look at him. So many emotions were swirling around inside her that she didn't know how to act. The embrace she'd shared with Sam had shaken her to her core, had made her feel happy and excited and needy and hungry. But there was shame and guilt and embarrassment and regret in the mix, too. Shame that she had behaved so unprofessionally. Guilt that she had capitulated so easily. Embarrassment that he didn't seem to have been nearly as affected by what had happened as she. And regret that it wouldn't happen again.

Because it wouldn't happen again. This was a complication neither of them needed. There was no reason for them to get involved, and every reason for them to avoid it. But now there would be this between them, this intimacy neither had expected or wanted. This intimacy that she, for one, would never forget. As much as she wished she could.

And still she didn't know what to say or do.

Sam, however, spared her having to say or do anything by simply mumbling softly, “Good night, Bridget.”

She heard, rather than saw him collect their glasses from the shelf where he had set them. Then he carried them out of the room with him, presumably heading for the kitchen. She turned enough so that she could see the door of the den, then listened to the sound of water running in the kitchen as Sam rinsed the glasses out. Then she saw the light in the hallway suddenly go dim, as if he had turned off the light in the kitchen. And then she heard his footsteps as he walked out the other way, followed by his heavy tread on the stairs as he went up to bed.

And even after all that, Bridget still didn't know what to say or do.

 

She was still wide awake an hour after Sam had held her, kissed her, fondled her good-night, lying in her bed and staring up into the darkness. She was also brushing her fingertips lightly across her mouth and cheek and jaw, everywhere his lips had touched her. Her skin felt overly warm and unusually sensitive, though whether that was because of the friction of her fingers, or because she was blushing at the memory of what had happened, or because Sam's kisses had left her overstimulated everywhere, she honestly couldn't have said. Nor could she have said what exactly had happened in the den tonight, why he had kissed her and touched her so intimately, or why she had welcomed his kisses and touches so enthusiastically.

She told herself it was bound to have happened sooner or later, that they'd been dancing around a strange electricity that had been arcing between the two of them since their first encounter at the airport. She understood now that the animosity that had blown up so suddenly and thoroughly that day, and the tension that had plagued
them since, was a result of their own unwanted attraction to each other and nothing more. It made sense. He was a handsome man and, all modesty aside, she wasn't a bad-looking woman. They'd been thrown together in unusually intimate surroundings, expected to act like two people who were wildly in love. Of course they eventually would have reacted to each other the way they had tonight.

Of course they would.

They'd been out for a festive night, and both had been dressed to the nines. They'd shared a drink in intimate surroundings. They'd acted on impulse. Maybe not wisely, but it was too late for second thoughts and recriminations now. What was done was done. In a way, maybe it was good. They'd gotten the inevitable physical contact out of the way, and now they could move forward. Right?

Right.

It was just a kiss, she told herself. A deep, openmouthed kiss, yeah, but a kiss nonetheless. And okay, maybe a little groping, too. And some fondling. So it had been openmouthed kissing, and naked flesh on naked flesh groping and fondling. Big deal. She'd done that before with other guys and lived to tell the tale. She'd done more than that with other guys and lived to tell the tale. She'd even gone on to maintain fairly good relationships with some of them. She had to put this into perspective.

There was no need to dwell on it any further, she told herself. Besides, she'd bet good money Sam wasn't lying in bed right now, replaying the whole thing in
his
head and trying to make sense of it. Men didn't do that the way women did. Sam had probably thought,
Whoa,
that was fun,
and then rolled over and fallen right to sleep. When he woke up in the morning, he probably wouldn't give it a second thought. For him, it would just be business as usual. So she should make sure that was what it was for her, too.

This was nuts, she thought, rolling restlessly onto her side. She punched her pillow a few times to fluff it—
not
because she was so frustrated she needed to hit something—then laid her head on it and closed her eyes.
Sleep,
she commanded herself.
You need to sleep.
That was why she was so fixated on what had happened with Sam tonight. That was why it had probably happened in the first place. Because she was tired. Because this case was making her crazy with its lack of activity and progress. Thinking about anything—even kissing Sam—would be preferable to thinking about that.

Especially the way his mouth had been so hot and hungry against hers, and the way he had smelled, so spicy and clean and masculine. His fingertips brushing over her bare skin had been as gentle as his mouth was demanding, a delicious dichotomy of sensation for her to enjoy. She wondered what it would be like to have him touching her elsewhere, wondered what would have happened if she'd let him pull her dress lower, down over her hips and thighs. She wished now that she'd had the opportunity to touch him, too, maybe splay her own hands over his naked chest and broad back. Even if she'd only skimmed her fingers along his jaw and down the strong column of his throat, she'd have experienced a bit more of him than she had. His skin would have been rough beneath a day's growth of beard, she thought, but it would have been hot and alive, too. And his hair, she recalled, when she'd threaded her fingers
through it, had felt like silk. His bare skin, she somehow knew, would be silky, too, warm and smooth and salty to taste…

Sighing softly to herself, Bridget finally tumbled into a shallow slumber. And her dreams that night were the sweetest she'd had in a long, long time….

“A
re we going to talk about what happened last night?”

It was Sam, not Bridget, who posed the question during their drive to the field office the following morning. He'd promised himself when he awoke that morning that he would follow her cue, that if she pretended nothing happened, then he would, too. But if she wanted to talk about it, then, by God, he'd steel himself for the inevitable discussion. But she'd breezed into the kitchen with a bright smile and a cheery, “Good morning,” and hadn't offered one indication that today was any different from those that had preceded it.

At first Sam had told himself to be grateful, that the last thing he wanted to do was revisit what had happened last night. He still didn't know what had come over him to try and consume Bridget the way he had. Well, okay, maybe he knew what had come over him—pure, un
mitigated lust—but he couldn't imagine what he'd been thinking to let himself give in to it. Then again, he
hadn't
been thinking, he reminded himself. He'd been reacting. Reacting to the realization that he was alone with a beautiful woman who was a consenting adult, just like him, and that the beautiful woman was looking at him as if she wouldn't mind consenting to just about anything he proposed, nor would she mind doing a little consuming of him in the process.

She'd been sweet as hell, though, he recalled. The way her body had melted into him, and the way she'd opened her mouth under his…

“No, we're not going to talk about it,” she said.

He nodded. Okay. That was fine with him. Wasn't it? Hell, men never wanted to talk about that crap. He'd be doing a disservice to his entire gender if he pursued this. So he'd just shut up now.

“It's just,” he heard himself say, and he cursed himself for it, “I think we should talk about it.”

He glanced over from the driver's seat long enough to see Bridget staring straight ahead, then turned his attention back to the road. Although they were headed into the field office, she was dressed to play the part of Mrs. Samuel Jones today, wearing a lightweight pants-and-shirt outfit the color of a dark emerald. She'd cinched the man-style shirt with a woven belt, but she'd left her hair loose, for which Sam was profoundly grateful. He still remembered the way the silky mass had felt falling over his hand the night before, and nothing would have made him happier at the moment than burying his fingers in the thick tresses again, preferably while he opened his mouth over hers and tasted her as deeply as he had the night before.

But then, they weren't going to talk about that, were they?

“What's there to talk about?” she said.

Or maybe they were. Still, Sam clamped his teeth together at the question.
Well, hell, honey,
he thought,
if it didn't move you enough even to remember it, then I'll just have to try harder next time.

Oh, yeah. That would be a great way to respond. Not only did it make him sound like a petulant teenager, it indicated there would be a second time. And he, for one, was going to make damned certain that didn't happen. As amazing as it had been to hold and touch and kiss Bridget the night before, he'd been grateful that she, at least, had had the sense to put an end to it. The last thing they needed was to let this thing between them turn sexual. Yes, it would have been incredible between them, had they succumbed to what they had both so clearly wanted to do last night. But it also would have been pointless. And it would have made things unbelievably awkward with the case they still had to solve. So Sam had resolved upon going to bed that he'd keep a lid on his urges and impulses from here on out. Hell, he still didn't know what had possessed him to reach out to her the way he had. And then to kiss her. And undress her. And fill his hand with her warm, sweet, luscious breast.

Oh, man, he really didn't want to talk about this right now. Because talking about it made him think about it. And thinking about it made him want to do it again. Only this time, he didn't want to stop right when they were getting to the good part.

“Look, Sam,” Bridget said before he had a chance to say anything more, “last night we had wine at the
symphony and then a nightcap when we got home. Obviously we overindulged.”

Yeah, sure, he thought. Except that he'd been stone-cold sober when they arrived at the house, and had barely consumed two sips of his drink when they had come together. And Bridget had been as clearheaded as he was. Yeah, she'd sucked down the first few sips of her drink, but no way had she had time to become inebriated from it. She'd been as clearheaded as he when things had gotten out of hand. Into hand. Well, into
his
hand.

Dammit.

“We kissed,” she said. But her voice sounded a little thready when she said it. “Big deal. It didn't mean anything.”

“We did more than kiss,” he told her, remembering the way her breast had fitted so perfectly in his hand. If he'd just had another minute, he would have had her dress completely down over her waist and hips, and she would have been half-naked in his arms, and it would have taken him no time at all to get himself half-naked, too, and then there would have been no turning back for either of them.

“Maybe,” she conceded. But her voice was even softer, even less certain when she spoke this time.

Sam couldn't stand it. Maybe it was his masculine pride that piqued his irritation, or maybe he just didn't like hearing that he'd had such a lack of effect on a woman who'd affected him profoundly. In any event, before he could stop himself, he said, “I held your naked breast in my bare hand, Bridget.”

He glanced over at her again and saw her close her eyes as a bright circle of pink blossomed on her cheek.
Turning back to look at the road again, he added, “And if you hadn't pulled away from me when you did, I would have had it in my mouth, too.”

“Sam, don't—”

“And then I would have had other parts of you in my hand. And my mouth.”

“Sam, please—”

“I wanted you so bad last night,” he told her, all pretense gone now. Why the hell should he keep his thoughts tame when he and Bridget had been so wild the night before? “I wanted to peel that dress completely off your body and take you right there on the sofa.”

“Sam—”

“And then again on the floor.”

“Sam—”

“And then I would have carried you up to my bed and had you there, too.”

“Sam, stop it.”

“If you hadn't put a stop to things when you did, I would have. You know I would.”

“You're skirting a sexual harassment charge here,” she warned him.

“The hell I am,” he countered. “There were two people being sexual last night. And there was no harassment involved.”

She said nothing in response to that. Hell, what could she say? It was true. So Sam continued, “Where I come from, honey, if a man holds a woman's naked breast in his bare hand, it means something.”

At first, he didn't think she was going to say anything in response to that, either. But when he turned again to glance at her, he saw that she was looking at him full on, and she didn't look away when he caught her eye.
“You know, that's the second time you've said something like that.”

He turned to look back at the road, not sure what she meant. “What are you talking about?”

“That's the second time you've used the phrase, ‘Where I come from.' You said the same thing when we were talking about the behavior of newlyweds.”

“So?”

“So the first time you said it, I thought you did it because you wanted to put me in my place. Because you have some kind of hang-up about where I'm from, and the kind of life I've led.”

“That's not true,” Sam said.

“No, I realize that now,” she agreed. “Because now that you've used it a second time, I realize you're speaking more about yourself than you are about me.”

“Meaning?” he asked crisply, not sure he was liking where she was going with this.

“Meaning that maybe it's
you
who has some kind of hang-up about where you come from and the kind of life you've led.”

Sam gritted his teeth. She was as wrong about that as she'd been when she'd thought he was trying to put her in her place. He loved where he came from. And he was proud of his background.

“I don't have any hang-ups about where I come from,” he said adamantly. “In fact, I'm so proud to call my old neighborhood home that I still live in the house where I grew up. I bought it from my folks after my dad retired and they moved south.” He threw her a meaningful look before returning his attention to the road ahead. “I didn't run thousands of miles away to escape where I come from, like some people do. And I didn't have to
be dragged back to my roots against my will because my family was in trouble.”

“Okay, point taken,” Bridget said stiffly.

But Sam wasn't finished yet. “The place where I grew up is full of warm, wonderful people. Real people. People who understand what life is truly all about.”

“Meaning the place where I grew up is full of phonies,” she translated coolly.

“Not phonies,” Sam corrected her. “But not real, either. I don't mean that as an insult,” he hastily added, surprised to realize he was speaking the truth. “I just mean that the lifestyle you knew growing up wasn't anything like what the average person experiences. You never had to do without anything, Bridget. You had every opportunity, every advantage, every privilege. Dispute it all you want, but you know it's true. You didn't have to fight for anything when you were a kid, and you weren't denied anything. So you learned early on to believe you could always have things your way. And that just isn't true. For anyone.”

“You're changing the subject,” she said.

“I thought that was what you wanted,” he told her. “And besides,” he added before she had a chance to comment, “I want to make it clear to you how wrong you are about me.”
In a lot of ways,
he couldn't help thinking. But for now, he'd focus on this one. “I love where I come from. I love Portland. I love the working-class neighborhood where I grew up. I'm proud that my father and mother raised two kids on the meager salaries earned by a mail carrier and a school secretary, and sent them to the colleges of their choices. I like going home at night to a snug, two-bedroom bungalow that could use a few improvements I'll get around to making someday.
I like going to Foley's Pub, three blocks away from my house, with friends on the weekends. I like watching the Blazers and the Hawks and the Beavers on TV, or from the cheap seats if I can get tickets. I like hiking in Bonnie Lure Park and kayaking the Willamette. If I never set foot outside of this city again for the rest of my life, I'll still die with a smile on my face. Working-class Portland is my home, Bridget. It's where I'm from, and where I live. It's in my blood. It's me. And I wouldn't have it any other way.”

She said nothing for a moment, and when Sam stole another glance at her, he saw that she had turned her head to look out the passenger-side window at the swiftly passing scenery. He didn't think she was going to say any more, so he returned his attention to the driving.

She'd missed the whole point of his spiel, he thought. She probably hadn't heard a word of it. And why would she care, anyway? he asked himself further. She wasn't going to hang around his town any longer than she had to.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, and then, very softly, Sam heard Bridget say, “I don't believe I can always have things my way.”

Something in her voice told him she knew that was true. Nevertheless, he said quietly, “Don't you?”

“No. I don't.”

He nodded, but kept his gaze fixed on the road.

“And I wish I had roots as deep as yours,” she added, her voice still quiet. “I wish I belonged somewhere the way you do.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask her what she meant—hell, she belonged right where she was, living the life she'd made clear was what she'd mapped out for herself—but she halted his question by speaking again.

“Anyway, we're not going to talk about what happened last night,” she said again. “Because it
won't
be happening again.”

“Bridget—”

“No, Sam,” she said more forcefully now. “What happened last night happened because we're both a little overwrought these days, feeling frustrated about this case.”

“Bridget—”

“And okay, speaking for myself, anyway,” she continued relentlessly, picking up steam, “it's been a while since I've…you know…been with anyone.”

“Bridget—” he tried again.

“And I admit I find you attractive. But that doesn't mean—”

“Bridget!”

“What?”

He turned to look at her again, and he tried to smile, even though happy was the last thing he felt. He didn't want to hear such confessions from her. Probably because they sounded a lot like confessions he should be making himself. And Sam just wasn't the confessional type. “I think we just talked about it,” he told her.

She blew out a long, exasperated breath, then chuckled a little nervously. “Yeah, I guess we did,” she said, sounding surprised by the realization. “And now, please, let's be finished with it, okay?”

He nodded reluctantly, but couldn't let it go just yet. “I just need to add one last thing, though,” he said.

She sighed heavily again. “What?”

“I agree with you about it not happening again,” he said. Even though he wasn't sure he agreed with that at all. It wasn't that he didn't want it to happen again. On the contrary, it was going to be a while before the
memory of her tongue tangling with his and her naked breast in his bare hand left him.

Hell, who was he kidding? He'd remember those things for the rest of his life. And he'd probably get hard every time. But he would do his best not to think about it. And he would make damned sure it didn't happen again.