He took her hand and led her on to the floor. As he took her in his arms, Meg had the disturbing realization that in all the dances over the years, they’d never slow danced together. As her belly brushed against his cummerbund, she suddenly realized why.
He was holding her close and every inch of her skin was aware of him. Her left breast brushed his shirt and tingled at the contact. There was a certain sadness knowing the same sensation would never happen on the other side—not even if she had reconstruction. As their feet started moving she mourned the changes in her body just a little bit.
This slow dance might be all she ever had with Clay. She didn’t want to be protected and babied as he was so determined to do. And the idea of revealing her scars to Clay was preposterous. The woman in the dress was a lie, a fantasy for one day. The scarred, imperfect body was the truth. She was Cinderella at the ball right now, but before long the clock would strike and the dress, the shoes, the makeup would all disappear and she’d still be Meg. Dawson was worrying for nothing.
So she gripped the light fabric of Clay’s shirt in her fingers and held on to his hand and closed her eyes. Two things had become so very clear to her today. One, she still cared for Clay way more than she’d thought. And two, she realized that they’d never suit. There was too much between them that was wrong. He wanted to wrap her in bubble wrap; she wanted to fly. He couldn’t say the word cancer; it was a part of her everyday vocabulary. She was realizing she wanted a husband and a family and Clay would never settle down. There would never be a way for them to meet in the middle.
Even if she wanted them to.
Clay’s body was warm and somehow they seemed to meld together. Her head rested on his shoulder and she felt his warm breath against her ear. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them had to. There was something in the dance that spoke for them. An acknowledgment, perhaps, of what was happening between them and what couldn’t come of it. A depth of feeling tempered by impossibility.
Meg felt a sting behind her eyes.
The song ended and she pulled away, looking up at Clay. He was looking at her the same way he’d looked today when she’d said hello in the church vestibule. Shocked and aware.
“I think I’d like to go home,” she said quietly.
“It’ll look …”
“I don’t care how it looks.” Meg was suddenly so tired of it all. “I just want to go, Clay. Don’t worry. You stay. My dad will take me.”
Clay took her hand. “No, I will. I asked you to come and I’ll drive you home.”
Five minutes later they were in his truck heading for the Briggs ranch, and five minutes after that they were at her house. The porch light was on in the spring twilight. Meg opened her door to get out but before she could hop to the ground Clay was there, shutting the door behind her.
“You don’t have to walk me to the door.”
“Shut up, Meg.”
He said it so softly she didn’t argue, just listened to their footsteps on the gravel as they walked to the porch door.
“You really were beautiful today,” he said, as they lingered just that few extra seconds.
“Don’t, okay?” She tried not to choke on the words. She didn’t want the crumbs of compliments he was offering. “Thanks for the drive home and good night.”
She unlocked the door, but before she could turn the knob his hand covered hers. She turned and froze.
“Clay,” she warned, but it was too late.
His arm came around her, lifted her feet clear off the floor as he kissed her: hot, demanding, and all-encompassing.
CHAPTER SIX
HIS mouth was soft, hot and devastating. Megan let the shock ripple deliciously through her as she clutched his shoulders. There was a small thunk as the house key dropped to the step. Even through the layers of his tuxedo and her coat Meg felt the hardness of his body against her.
It was the most wonderful thing she’d felt in her whole life. His lips did terribly skilled things to hers as he moved ahead a step, then another half so that she was pressed against the door with nowhere to go. But the stability meant that she could have her hands free, and once liberated she slid them beneath his lapels and pushed the jacket off his shoulders. His mouth left hers just for a moment and they stood, chests heaving, in the circle of the porch light. Clay’s eyes glinted darkly at her as he caught the jacket blindly and draped it in a haphazard clump over the railing.
“Open the door,” he commanded, and something seemed to zing from Meg’s toes straight to the top of her head. She felt her eyes widen as she understood his intentions; when she said nothing he simply reached around her and turned the knob. She gave a little squeak as his hands spanned her waist and he lifted her over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind him.
“Clay …”
“Be quiet,” he commanded, and she swallowed but obeyed. He was looking at her as they stood in the shadows, the only light in the entryway coming from porch light shining through the windows. In the semidark he appeared even more dangerous, more forbidden. Mysterious, which to Meg sounded ludicrous considering she’d known him her whole life.
But not this Clay. Not the man who just now was reaching out, cupping her head in his wide, capable hand. She wanted this. She’d wanted it for so long, had given up any and all chances of it happening. Maybe another chance would never come. Maybe … she bit down on her lip as she looked at Clay. Cancer had taught her to live each day to the fullest. She was tired of being afraid. His thumb rubbed against her cheek gently. Why shouldn’t she take just this much when it was offered?
So she released her lip and tipped her head up, silently inviting him to kiss her again.
He cradled her face in both his hands now and Meg fought for breath as his mouth descended, not with the crash and fury of the first kiss but slowly, deliberately. He took his time now, teasing, tempting, settling into the contact with a sense of inevitability that rocked her world and made her yearn for far more than a good-night kiss or a single night to remember.
“I’ve wanted to do this all day,” he confessed, and Meg’s body came alive hearing the soft but urgent words. His mouth was on hers again, making her weak in the knees. She pushed away the warning that sounded in her head when Clay lowered his hands and unbuttoned her coat. It was just a coat. It was fine. She let it fall to the floor and curled a hand around his neck, pulling him closer, tasting. He tasted like the chocolate mousse from the dessert, flavored with a hint of tart raspberry coulis.
Clay slid one hand over her left shoulder and down, his fingertips sliding over her breast. At first Meg shuddered, feeling utterly feminine and sexual for the first time in months. But as Clay made an impassioned sound in his throat Meg came to her senses. He didn’t know, couldn’t know what surgery had cost her. It was too risky, too frightening. What if he’d used the other hand? He would have slid his fingers over something that wasn’t real. Clay mattered. For the sake of their friendship, it had to stop here.
She pushed against him, making enough room that she could slide past his body and into the warmth of the kitchen. She hugged her arms around herself. How could she have forgotten so easily? Meg felt the color drain from her face as
