get some sleep, if you can,” he advised, looking down at her, sounding gruff when he hadn’t meant to.
“Come sit with me,” she offered, patting the cushion next to her.
Damien looked down at her strong, capable hand with its long, flexible artist’s fingers. His gaze traveled up her arm, noting the soft fleecy shirt with the brightly colored hearts embroidered just above her left breast. “Not wise,” he answered with a self-deprecating laugh.
Molly grabbed his hand and tugged. He sat.
“Do you feel it, too, Damien?” she asked, her voice soft, worried.
He could pretend he didn’t understand her, but what was the use? Every time they touched—however lightly, whatever the reason—blood rushed though his veins at warp speed and heated to a boil. Of course he felt it, too. How could he not? And it was certainly more than familial warmth he wanted when he did. “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”
“Nothing can come of it,” she said. “I know I already warned you once, but I just wanted to make sure you understand that I mean it. I’m not playing games here, Damien.”
“Oh, I believe you. No games.” He sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to draw on his professionalism or anything else that would rein in these impulses that were so new to him.
He couldn’t count the people who had accused him of being cold, dispassionate. Never in his life had he been so near to losing control, so close to saying and doing things that would be totally out of character. He wanted this woman more than his next breath.
Molly threaded her fingers through his and squeezed his hand, placing her other palm on top. “Trust me, Damien, this will go away. It’s probably just the…situation or something causing it. In the meantime, I think…I think we should just ignore it.” She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up at him. “Don’t you?”
He shrugged. “If you want.” Her face looked so earnest in the faint glow of the streetlight through the sheer-curtained window. “However, if you do want that, my darling, then I have to get up from here and sit somewhere else. If I don’t, I am definitely going to kiss you.”
Her silence and absolute stillness seemed to imply consent. God, he hoped it meant consent.
Slowly, giving her time to escape, Damien lowered his mouth to hers. A tentative touch of lips, and then all hell broke loose.
He just lost it. His brain reeled with relief at her eager response, the lush texture of her mouth, her tongue, the unique and heady taste of her. A fire broke out within him that consumed them both.
Molly threw herself into the blaze, grasping him as urgently as he was holding her. Her heart thundered against his chest. He stretched out, pulling her entire length parallel to his, half on, half off the sofa.
Dimly, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he realized he should be holding back, letting her lead the way. But she followed so passionately and with such abandon, he refused to heed the instinct for self-preservation that had protected him for so long.
On and on they kissed, turning this way and angling that, their lips and bodies seeking better purchase, a closer melding, a oneness….
“I guess a pot of coffee’s out of the question!”
The lamp came on and Damien and Molly broke apart like teenagers caught by the cops.
Brenda laughed. “I could almost hear the pop! Well, I’ll just—” she waved one arm aimlessly “—toddle on back to bed, I guess.”
“No! Wait!” Molly gasped. “Mama, I swear this is not what you think—”
Her mother flapped a hand in their direction. “Oh, can it, Molly. You’re too old to owe me any explanations. Sorry I interrupted.”
“Brenda?” Damien was stymied when she actually stopped and turned around to face them, grinning wickedly. In the dim light, she reminded him so much of Molly that he shook his head to dispel the comparison.
“Yes, Agent Perry?” she drawled.
“Uh, coffee would be good.”
“Exactly what we need!” Molly proclaimed a little too loudly. She scrambled up off the sofa and dashed toward the hallway, halting suddenly.
“Kitchen’s the other way,” Brenda advised her drolly. She glanced at Damien, shook her head and winked. “The girl needs a keeper.”
Damien bit his lips together and nodded, totally at a loss as to what he should say. He wanted to laugh, but it wasn’t exactly funny. Not now, anyway. Molly certainly wasn’t amused.
Brenda linked her arm through his and sighed as they followed Molly through the dining room to the kitchen. “You can bypass the red-faced apology, sweetie. It’s not like I’m gonna drag out my shotgun and demand that you marry her just because of a little kiss.”
Little kiss? He didn’t know what to say to that, either. If she’d been a scant two minutes later, she might have seen a more justifiable reason than a kiss to make her demand. And Brenda knew it, too.
What was the big deal here? Molly was nearly thirty years old, not some witless little innocent he’d been about to deflower. They were free to do whatever they pleased, wherever they wanted to do it, two consenting adults.
His conscience reared up even as he had the defensive thoughts. Molly was not one to take lovemaking as lightly as all that. To tell the truth, he didn’t think he could, either. Not with her.
And had she really consented? Or had he sort of forced the issue a little. She was depending on him to protect her. Had he given her the idea that a little payment was necessary in lieu of the money she’d offered him at first?
Well, he certainly wasn’t about to bring that up for discussion. They hadn’t made love and it was highly unlikely that he would find himself in this predicament again with Molly. She had made it quite clear that she did not want a relationship with him other than his extending her protection.
Brenda nudged him with her elbow. “I like you, Damien.” She whispered low enough so that Molly couldn’t hear. “But if you’re just playing, it would be wise to back off.”
Damien kept his mouth firmly shut and nodded once. He had not been playing at all.
Brenda was right about one thing, however. Backing off definitely should be his next step, the wisest move all the way around.
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