Heat of the Moment (5 page)

Looking across a kitchen table at a man was something she doubted she would ever grow accustomed to. Especially a man like Cam. He was so big, bigger than any man she'd ever dated, not that there had been many of those. The last guy she'd dated, Ash Conlin, had been about five foot ten, with a slight build, and was kind of unassuming—both physically and mentally.

Cam would never be considered unassuming. He was the kind of man who, after dark, would make other men cross the street to avoid him. It wasn't as if he looked threatening or did anything to make one feel unsafe, but it was the way he moved—lightly, with a grace that belied his size. He was a man comfortable in his own skin, a man who looked as if he'd been physically tested and was sure of his abilities. Still, she tried to define it—it was more than the way he moved and seemed to own any space he occupied. Maybe it was that blacker than black hair, or the way his light complexion and brilliant dark blue eyes made him look like some kind of apparition. No matter how much he and his brother Butch looked alike, Butch didn't have that quality. No, there was nothing about him that made a woman want to touch him to see if he was real. It could also be the depth she saw in Cam's eyes whenever their gazes caught and held. A complexity that called out to her, and made her wish she could peel back the layers to discover what went on in his mind.

She ate mechanically, no longer tasting the food she ingested. She almost laughed at herself; she was being fanciful, she supposed. Maybe it was all the romance novels Kendall had been pushing her to read. Now that her course work was finished, for the first time in years she had time to read for pleasure. The books made her wonder if what they spouted was true. They made it sound as if love struck like lightning—a spark or emotion that was somehow all consuming, overwhelming, and more powerful than anything she'd ever known. When Cam looked into her eyes, she definitely felt overwhelmed, scared, and yet incapable of breaking the connection.

Janie set her milk glass on the edge of the table and Erin automatically moved it above the girl's plate.

Cam cleared his dishes and hovered over the table. “Erin, are you finished?”

She'd been so lost in thought that when she looked down at her plate to discover it empty, it surprised her. “Yes.”

He reached for it.

“No.” She stood, taking her plate and the empty serving platter. “You cooked, I'll take care of the dishes.”

Janie jumped up, took her plate to the sink, and said something about going to her room to play with her stuffed animals.

Cam scraped what was left on Janie's plate into the trash. “She missed her stuffed animals more than she missed me, I think.”

Erin grabbed the bowl that once contained fruit salad. “I was told that you were a permanent fixture at the hospital; unfortunately, her stuffed animals weren't. Don't take it personally.” She slid past him on her way to the sink, dumped the dishes on the counter, and turned to get more.

Cam was still standing there, staring at her. She looked down, wondering if she'd spilled something on his shirt, and then she noticed it—a subtle change in the atmosphere, a tension that hadn't been there a moment ago. She stopped and met his gaze—and even that was different. It was the kind of gaze that made you wonder if a man had X-ray vision. She suddenly felt almost naked, though she was covered from neck to knees. “I'll just run upstairs and get dressed. Then I'll come down and set the kitchen to rights.”

His gaze was darker, more serious, strained, and his cheekbones seemed more defined. “Erin, you go ahead. I'll take care of the mess I made and then—” He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed.

“And then what?” She sounded breathless, which was ridiculous, but then it wouldn't be the first time she felt ridiculous around this man.

“I'll do what I usually do—clean up after my little brother. Let me know when you're finished upstairs and I'll put fresh sheets on the bed.”

She felt her face heat. If anyone was going to strip her bed it would be her. “That's not necessary. I'll take care of it.” She could tell he was going to argue so she continued. “How much younger is Butch?”

“We're Irish twins—almost eleven months apart.”

She smiled and backed toward the door. “They say age is only numbers.”

“In that case, I think his should be sixteen instead of twenty-six.”

That made Cam twenty-seven, with an almost eight-year-old daughter that he was raising himself. Amazing. She didn't know any nineteen-year-old boys willing to take full responsibility of their children the way he had. Hell, her own father wasn't willing to take any responsibility for her, and he'd been much older. Even if she hadn't been impressed with Cam before, she certainly was now.

In the week since Erin moved in, they'd fallen into a routine of sorts. Erin took over the cooking—mostly because she'd completely rearranged the kitchen, changing it from a right-handed kitchen to a left-handed kitchen. He couldn't find a damn thing, but since she was a much better cook than he was, he wasn't about to complain. It might take him five minutes to find a beer mug, but he figured it was worth it.

She and Janie had taken over his office for their schoolwork. He came home every evening to the scent of dinner cooking and the sounds of their chatter and laughter. With Erin there, the house came alive, filled with color and noise and movement. He'd never realized how bland everything seemed before.

That evening he'd stood outside the office door watching Erin and Janie curled up together in a big chair, reading a poem about a kid who took a snowball to bed, which ended in peals of laughter.

Janie grew stronger every day. She was gaining weight, her hair was growing in, and she regaled him every night at dinner with all she'd learned. She'd also dragged Erin into their bedtime routine.

Everything was great until Janie went to bed.

Cam reread the last sentence of his book a dozen times and wished he'd get a call. Anything would be better than pretending to read and trying his best to ignore the fact that Erin Crosby was curled up on the other end of the couch, surrounded by yarn and torture devices in the form of metal knitting needles that clicked with every move she made. “Would you mind if I turned on the TV?” Maybe that would drown out the constant clicking.

She looked up from her work. “I don't mind at all. Watch whatever you'd like.”

“Any preference? I haven't had much time to watch TV recently. If I wasn't working, I was with Janie.”

Erin looked up from her knitting. “I'm not much help, I haven't watched TV since I started graduate school. I don't even have cable. It seemed like a waste of money. If anything, I watch DVDs.”

He flipped on Netflix and searched through the TV series available. “
House of Cards
or
The Tudors
.”

“Makes no difference to me.”

Cam chose
The Tudors
; he'd heard
House of Cards
was great but it was about Washington politics and he'd always avoided politics. Besides, he thought a historical show would indicate intelligence on his part, and he had always enjoyed history.

He chose the first episode of season one and it took him all of fifteen minutes to realize his mistake. Who knew Henry VIII wasn't always the fat bearded guy in the pictures he remembered in the history books, or that he was such a horndog?

By the time he realized how graphic the show was, it was too late to turn it off. God, this was as bad as taking a girl to a porn flick on a first date—not that this was a date, which somehow made it even worse.

They had no problem showing Henry having sex with his mistress—including bare asses, bare breasts, and sound effects.

Suddenly the couch seemed a lot smaller than it had a few moments before.

The clicking of Erin's knitting needles stopped. It was as if she couldn't drag her attention away from the big screen. There was silence in the room, except for the sound of their breathing and the characters on screen.

Cam figured this was one of those situations that was impossible to get out of without embarrassment. Neither of them could pretend it wasn't going on. “I'm sorry. I never thought—” He spared her a glance—her pulse throbbed in her throat; her eyes were wide and bright and had darkened.

“Neither did I.” Then she laughed—not a nervous giggle, but a full, infectious belly laugh.

“What's so funny?”

It took her a minute to get her laughter under control. “Well, look at that.” She pointed to Henry banging away on Cam's big screen TV. “Can you imagine how many takes they must have had to go through to put this scene in the can? I mean really, if I were that actress, I'd spend the entire time howling with laughter. Between being ticklish and faking all those orgasms . . . He might be the king of England, but no guy is that good. It's obvious she had to feed his king-sized ego. If it were me, I'd be rolling around in hysterics—actress or not.” She tossed her knitting on her lap and swiped tears of laughter from her cheeks.

Cam scooted closer. He didn't ask if she'd ever had a lover who made her scream. She'd made it pretty clear she hadn't, which was unfathomable.

It sounded as if she considered anyone having a toe-curling, screaming orgasm an impossibility.

The inherent challenge brought a smile to his face and a few other anatomical changes.

Challenge accepted.

“Erin Crosby.” He lowered his voice and slid closer. “Did you just admit to being ticklish?”

“No.” She tossed her knitting at him and her leg shot out, trying to push him away just before he came down on top of her.

Damn, knitting needles were sharp. He held her down with one hand and tossed the blasted torture devices off the couch.

His free hand went to her ribs and she screamed, “Don't you dare!” If he hadn't already had her legs held down, he'd be singing soprano. She writhed and squirmed and screamed again, trying to push him away.

He grabbed her wrists, brought them over her head, and pinned them against the arm of the couch. She bucked to dislodge him, her breath coming out in pants and gasps between giggles.

They were nose to nose. Her eyes were huge and her scent . . . Erin's natural scent plus the fragrance of lavender that perfumed her skin seemed stronger, more intoxicating. It made him want to nuzzle her neck and drink it in. “Say uncle.”

“Never.” She freed her legs only to wrap them around his waist and try to buck him off. If he hadn't already been hard enough to earn him a zipper tattoo, he would have been the second he heard her groan.

They froze, staring into each other's eyes. Hers were wide and dark, and when her lips parted, he was lost. He kissed her.

***

Erin had been kissed before—plenty of times—but she'd never been kissed like this. She was beneath two hundred pounds of big, hard man, but his kiss—well, it was soft and slow and deep. It started off tentative but determined. There was no teeth gnashing, no nose sparring, no tonsil exploring, no forcing. It was gentle and smooth and so natural, as if he'd been kissing her for years, but as exciting as . . . Her mind drew a blank. She'd never experienced anything as exciting as Cam's kiss.

He tasted like the root beer float he'd brought her earlier mixed with banked heat, patience, and a teasing thoroughness that tempted her like nothing she'd ever known.

He broke the kiss way before she was ready, and held himself above her to stare into her eyes. “Say uncle.” His voice sounded as rough as his fingers sliding down her side.

“No.”

He released her hands, and in his next kiss, there was no tentativeness. His hand raked through her hair to cup her head; his other hand traveled from her rib cage to her backside, pulling her tighter against him. Everywhere his body touched hers felt electrified. He stroked her back and explored her mouth with a single-minded diligence unlike anything she'd ever experienced. It felt as if she were the center of his universe, his to be tried, tested, tasted, and explored slowly, deliberately, and with such attention to detail, it was excruciatingly arousing.

She'd never been driven past the point of lukewarm lust before, and yet she left that comfortable spot in the dust the second his lips met hers the first time. With this kiss she found herself in unfamiliar territory—somewhere between praying he'd hurry up because the suspense was killing her and wanting this to never end. She hurtled toward desperate need at lightning speed. Her heart raced, her breath came in gasps, and what little control she had disappeared the second his mouth made contact with her breast.

She was overwhelmed—his mouth, his hands, his body—and there were so many different sensations, too many to catalogue, and every single one of them drew her further and further outside herself. Her center filled with liquid fire, and she felt as if she were burning from the inside out.

She tore at his T-shirt, her nails skimming the ridges of muscle over his back, his arms.

His teeth raked her nipple and she clung to his head, searching for something that was just out of reach. Her back arched, her legs tightened around his waist, and, God help her, she let out a groan fraught with frustration, only to receive a chuckle in response. “Demanding, impatient little thing, aren't you?”

He disengaged her legs from around his waist and kissed his way down her belly, divesting her of her pants and panties in one tug.

If she could utter a coherent sentence, she'd give him a piece of her mind, but words seemed beyond her.

“There's no rush.” He pushed down his jeans and what looked like boxer briefs, kicking them to the far corner of the couch. “Haven't you heard, anticipation only increases the pleasure? It makes me want to slow things down, hold the moment in suspense, and bask in you. This could take hours.”

Was he nuts? God, was she the only one feeling as if she were about to jump out of her skin? He could do this for hours? She'd never survive, not with her sanity intact. She planted her left leg firmly on the seat cushion and used a move she'd learned in her self-defense class, flipping them both over.

If not for some skillful sliding on his part, he would have landed flat on his back on the hardwood floor. He blinked up at her, stunned, but maybe that was because his skull had bounced against the arm of the couch. Not hard enough to do any real damage, just enough to give her the time she needed to get the upper hand.

She removed his T-shirt with his help—not sure if the smug smile she uncovered was placating. It hardly mattered, not when she had his big, hard chest to explore.

“I guess you didn't fully grasp the slow-down plan.”

“I had no problem understanding the concept, I just didn't embrace it.”

“Turnabout is fair play.” He pulled off her shirt along with the bra that he'd somehow unhooked without her realizing it. Wrapping his big hands around her waist, he held her in place. “I'm not sure how successful it would have been anyway.” He stared at her, taking in deep breaths as if he couldn't get enough oxygen. His stare never wavered. It went on and on, well past the point of discomfort, which seemed to morph into something erotic. “You're so beautiful.”

She would have laughed if the look on his face didn't match his words. She'd never been called beautiful before, and under his gaze, for the first time, she felt it.

Cam sat, pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her. So close, her bare breasts pillowed against his chest. Their faces were almost even since she was straddling him. The pressure of his erection throbbed against her center. The beating of their hearts synced, their lips almost touched, and their eyes were locked in mutual need.

“Hold on.” That was all the warning she got before he grabbed her backside with both hands and hightailed it up the steps to her room, kicking the door closed behind him. He shushed her squeal, tore the comforter off the bed, and laid her gently on it, before sliding between her open legs.

“Yes.” Erin lifted them to wrap around his waist.

“No.” He eased her knees apart. “Not yet. Trust me on this.”

Erin didn't trust easily, but the way he looked at her, the command in his voice, and the kiss that completely derailed her brain function gained her acquiescence.

His mouth slid from hers, down her neck—leaving her panting. He nibbled a path to her breasts and his hands slid lower, grazing the insides of her thighs, fingers delving between her folds, seeking entrance as his mouth, lips, and teeth tortured her breasts. One long, thick finger filled her, pressing in deep, his thumb circling the bundle of nerves and her vision tunneled. Her knees came up and his lips trailed kisses down her torso.

Her body was alight with sensation. A strange ball of energy gathered in her core, growing tighter, and when his mouth joined his fingers, she felt stretched and full and the energy threatened to explode within her. She grabbed his head, not sure if she wanted to keep his mouth there or move it away.

“Erin.” She heard the command in Cam's voice. “Don't fight it, just let go.” Then he pressed something within her, and every muscle in her body seized. She closed her eyes tight and saw starbursts of color explode beneath her lids. She heard a scream as his mouth joined hers, muffling her cries. Then there was his kiss, his stroking fingers feeding the fire within her, making the sensation last and roll through her, over her, drawing it out for what seemed like forever, leaving her limp and sated and sleepy.

She fought to open her eyes and found him smiling down at her. “Welcome back.” He looked very pleased with himself. Not that she could really blame him.

He nuzzled her neck, sucking her earlobe into his mouth and nibbling on it. She groaned and considered her lack of acting prowess. She'd only had sex a handful of times, and although it was sometimes enjoyable, it was never, ever like that. She now knew her ability to fake something she'd never experienced had definitely been lacking.

Erin tried to wrap her mind around it and realized they hadn't even had sex yet. She closed her eyes and slid a hand down his chest and over the ridges of his stomach.

Cam's muscles jumped beneath her fingers and his hand stopped hers. “Erin, don't, I'm dancing on the edge of a knife here.” His voice sounded strained, and when she looked at him, his jaw was clenched. He drew both hands to the sides of her head and pressed her into the mattress. Her legs wrapped around him and he let out a breath, sucked in another, and then kissed her.

In one long, slow thrust he entered her, knocking the wind out of her, filling her, stretching her beyond her limits, and pleasure tinged with pain filled her as tears blurred her vision.