From the Heart

it, constantly, but it was there.
    “How do you take your coffee?” she called out as he walked to the kitchen.
    “Black.”
    He wandered to the stereo and flipped through records. “Van Cliburn to Billy Joel,” he commented when Liv came back into the room. “Very eclectic.”
    “I like variety,” she answered, and set a tray with two cups and saucers on the coffee table.
    “Do you?” He smiled—a bit, she thought, as if he were enjoying a private joke. Liv began to wish she hadn’t agreed to the cup of coffee. “What do you do for entertainment?” Thorpe walked over and took a seat on the sofa. Liv hesitated a moment, then sat beside him. She could hardly choose a chair across the room.
    “Entertainment?” she repeated, and reached for her coffee.
    “That’s right.” He had noticed the hesitation. It pleased him to know that she wasn’t indifferent toward him. If he made her nervous, it was a beginning. “You know, bowling, stamp collecting.”
    “I haven’t had much time for hobbies lately,” Liv murmured, and sipped at her coffee. She wondered why she had been at ease when she had walked out of the kitchen and was now strung tight. Thorpe lit a cigarette and kept watching her.She struggled against an adolescent urge to move away from him.
    “What have you had time for?”
    “I work,” she said, and moved her shoulders. Why was a simple cup of coffee and conversation making her pulse pound? “That keeps me busy enough.”
    “Sunday afternoons?”
    “What?” She had looked up to meet his eyes before she realized the mistake. His were dark and direct and closer than she had thought.
    “Sunday afternoons,” he repeated. He didn’t touch her. His eyes drifted slowly down to her mouth, then back. “What do you do on Sunday afternoons?”
    Something was kindling inside her—something elemental and strong. Liv hadn’t felt the quick tug of desire for years. But he wasn’t touching her, wasn’t making love to her. They were only drinking coffee and talking. She told herself she had had too much wine, and lifted her coffee again.
    “I usually try to catch up on my reading.” She watched a plume of smoke drift by before Thorpe crushed out his cigarette. “Murder mysteries, thrillers.” Her eyes flew up again when Thorpe took the cup from her hand.
    “I’ve always liked solving puzzles,” he murmured. “Digging underneath to find something that’s not on the surface. You’ve very thin skin.” He brushed a knuckle over her cheek. “But I haven’t been able to get beneath it—not yet.”
    She started to draw away. “I don’t want you poking into my mind.”
    “We’ll save that for later, then.” He slid his arms around her. “I want to hold you. When we were dancing, I promised myself I’d hold you again when we were alone.”
    You don’t want him to hold you, her mind insisted. But she didn’t tell him, and didn’t resist as he pressed her closer.
    His eyes flicked briefly to her mouth. “I’ve wanted for days to taste you again.” Lightly, his lips rubbed over hers. “Too long,” he muttered.
    You don’t want him to kiss you, her mind insisted. But she didn’t tell him, and didn’t resist as he crushed her mouth with his.
    Thorpe wasn’t patient this time. The demand seemed tospring up—hot, almost violent. Liv was caught in it, stunned by his lightning passion and her own instant response. She had no time to think, to reason, only to react. Her arms locked around him. Her lips parted.
    Where had the urgency come from? Both of them seemed trapped by it, unable to keep to their planned routes. She couldn’t stop him or herself; he couldn’t adhere to the easy pace he had outlined. Desperation. They both felt it. Need. Outrageous need to taste and touch and belong. He hadn’t known her mouth would become so soft in passion. He wanted to rip the black dress from her and discover her. It was madness. Control was slipping from him too quickly.
    Liv moaned when his mouth went to her throat. She wanted to be touched, and heard herself telling him, then pressed against him as he caressed her breast through the thin layers of silk. She pulled his mouth back to hers.
    She was starving and took from him what she had so long denied herself. She craved the intimacy of his tongue against hers, the feel of his hands roaming her body. There was strength there, and need. A need for her. And he made her need him with an intensity that frightened her. She couldn’t