wasn’t some sweet, exploring first kiss; it was a hot and hungry stolen interlude. One both of them knew wasn’t going to last and shouldn’t be repeated, so they would have to make the most of it.
He angled his head one way and she angled hers the other so their tongues could plunge deeper. Her fingers twined in his hair, his dropped to her hips and they pressed into each other, making no effort to pretend they weren’t both incredibly turned on.
He was turned on. But not crazy. Certainly not crazy enough to have sex with a woman he’d met four hours ago. Especially not one who was his new neighbor, and the trusted new schoolteacher for the island’s kids.
It almost killed him, but he let common sense invade, and slowly, he ended the kiss. He didn’t pull away completely, keeping his mouth near hers so they could share each deep, gasping breath. He didn’t release her hips, and she still had a death grip on his hair. He sensed she was fighting the same inner battle as him, knowing it was time to end this, but almost pained at having to do the smart thing.
But finally, he did the smart thing. He dropped his hands and took a step back.
“I’d better go,” he said, shaking off the crazy desire to pick her up, carry her into her new room and see just how bouncy the bedsprings were in her big bed.
“Yes,” she murmured, lifting a hand to her mouth and brushing her fingertips across her swollen, reddened lips. “That would be for the best.”
“Should I apologize?”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
He nodded then strode toward the door, focused only on getting out of here before this situation could get any crazier. Unfortunately, his feet didn’t get the message that they were to avoid anything suggestive. With his second step, he accidentally kicked the more normal-size, veiny-looking toy, sending it spinning like the world’s most salacious dreidel.
He paused, watching it disappear under the couch. She did, too. Then it was gone, the squeak of rubber on hardwood ended, leaving them in thick silence. She opened her mouth to say something—hey, watch what you’re doing with my favorite toy?
But he threw a hand up, palm out, stopping her. He couldn’t stand here another minute thinking about what had fallen out of her box, or the fact that it had led to a wild, impulsive kiss that was going to live in his dreams and his memories for the rest of his life.
Nor could he think about why Lindsey Smith, the new science teacher of a quaintly old-fashioned public school, traveled with a vast array of naughty pleasure devices. Or why he, the new Chief of Police, had kissed her like he needed the air in her lungs to survive. Or why they’d met here, now, when neither of them was in a position to do anything about the intense attraction they were both experiencing. He simply moved past her, not saying another word, walking out the door, shutting it with hard finality behind him.
Her thoughts were apparently just as wild and scattered as his own. Before he even stepped off the porch, he heard a loud, feminine groan coming from inside the house. If he had to guess, he’d call it frustration mixed with embarrassment.
He didn’t pause, didn’t even consider turning back; he simply strode toward his SUV. As he got in and started it up, he found himself hoping that, by the time he saw her again, he’d have stopped thinking about how she’d tasted, how she’d felt in his arms.
And how much he wanted to get a crash course in the use of X-rated toys.
AFTER WATCHING MIKE SANTORI drive away, Lindsey spent about twenty minutes being mortified, and not just about the whole sex-toys-on-the-floor moment. There was also the fact that she’d kissed a complete stranger like she intended to swallow his tongue.
She was a professional. She taught people how to deal with their sexual urges, and counseled women on how to respect their bodies and choose their partners. She’d made her own sexual choices with deliberation and caution, always aware of exactly the kind of man she was choosing and why she was choosing him.
Yet she had made out with Mike like she was a horny cheerleader and he the high school stud who could snap his fingers and have any girl in the school.
“Not this girl,” she reminded herself. “That will never happen again, and don’t you forget it.”
Reminding herself of that over and over, she finished packing up her...research tools. Because, despite what he might have imagined, all those ridiculous-looking toys that had been strewn across her floor were strictly for research.
She was a sex therapist, for heaven’s sake. She counseled women on taking control of their sexuality. Of course companies tried to get her to recommend their products.
Plus, when she’d been working on her dissertation, Lindsey had not only interviewed dozens of women, she had also examined just about every sexual aid on the market. Companies had happily sent her samples of their products, and if Chief Santori thought he’d seen the bulk of her collection, he had another think coming. She had loads more stored in her spare room in her Chicago apartment. That’s where that particular box should have remained. Either she or the doorman she’d paid to help her move must have grabbed it by mistake.
Still a little stunned about what had happened, she carried the now-repacked box to the closet and shoved it in the rear corner. She was determined to get it back to the mainland the very first chance she got, even if it meant going over on that stupid ferry again.
The only thing she’d salvaged from the box before she’d sealed it were a few textbooks and a small, pocket-size illustrated edition of the Kama Sutra. It had been a gift from Callie, who’d said when she’d given it to her that Lindsey needed to learn the concept of intimacy.
She’d been offended at the time. She’d been intimate with people—with men. But even though she’d told her friend she was being ridiculous, she recognized something in Callie’s words.
She had sex. She didn’t do intimacy. Intimacy—real intimacy—required trust, commitment and letting go. It meant opening yourself up and being vulnerable. It required you to be willing to be hurt by someone.
Those were the lessons she tried to teach her patients. But she hadn’t taught them to herself.
Because she’d had enough of being vulnerable in her life. She’d seen what it could lead to, had lived it and taken notes throughout her childhood with parents who put the funk in dysfunctional. They’d despised and derided each other when they were together, and then longed for each other when they were apart. Obsessive didn’t describe their psychologically abusive relationship, and Lindsey had been the innocent bystander who’d had to watch them live it.
No way was she going down that road as an adult. She’d rather be alone, completely alone, than to love/hate another person so much it drove her to madness.
Callie knew about Lindsey’s cautious approach to relationships and sex. Sure, Lindsey’d had sex, with several men. But none had ever made her want to try the Push-cart position, much less the Trapeze. Because that kind of sex required serious trust and intimacy. And that just wasn’t how Lindsey rolled.
Until Mike?
“Forget it,” she mumbled aloud, tempted to go back to the closet, tear the fresh tape off that box and stuff the pretty, colorful
