River’s End

minute I saw you, I stopped seeing anyone else, stopped wanting anyone else. The first minute I saw you . . .” He stepped to her, slipped the straw hat away so that her hair tumbled down.
    “I started falling in love with you. I still am. I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”
    Her eyes filled so that the sheen of tears sparkled like diamonds against gold. “What’s the point of being in love if you’re going to be sensible? Take me home with you tonight.”
    She stepped back into his arms, and this time the kiss was dark and edged with urgency. Then she was laughing, a quick river of delight as she grabbed the hat from him and sent it sailing over the water.
    Hands clasped again, they raced back to his car like children eager for a treat.
    With another woman he might have rushed greedily into the oblivion of movement and mating, gulping it down, taking what his body craved and seeking the brutal pleasure of release.
    With another woman he might have played the role of seducer, keeping part of himself separated, like a director orchestrating each step. In both of those methods were power and satisfaction.
    But with Julie he could do neither. The power was as much hers as his. Nerves hummed along his skin as they walked up the stairs in his house. He closed the door of the bedroom behind them. He knew pieces of Lydia were still there, though she’d been viciously methodical in removing her things— and a number of his own—when she’d moved out. But a woman never shared a man’s bed without leaving something of herself behind to force him to remember.
    He had a moment to wish he’d tossed out the bed, bought a new one, then Julie was smiling at him.
    “Yesterday doesn’t matter, Sam. Only tonight matters.” She laid her hands on his cheeks. “We’re all that matters, all that’s real. Touch me.” She whispered it as her mouth cruised over his. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”
    It all slipped into place, the nerves fading away. When he swept her up, he understood this wasn’t simply sex or need or gratification. It was romance. However many times he’d set the scene before, or had scenes set for him, he’d never believed in it.
    He laid her on the bed, covering her mouth with his as this new feeling flowed through him. Love, finally, love. Her arms, soft, smooth, wrapped around him as the kiss went deep. For a moment, it seemed his world centered there. In that mating of lips.
    He didn’t tell himself to be gentle, to move slowly. He couldn’t separate himself and direct the scene. He was lost in it. and her, the scent of her hair, the taste of her throat, the sound of her breath as it caught, released, caught again.
    He slipped the thin straps of the dress from her shoulders, urged it down, down her body as he savored that lovely mouth. She shivered when he stroked her breast, gasped when he skimmed tongue and teeth over the nipple, then moaned when he drew her deep into his mouth.
    She fit beneath him, slid against him, rose and fell with him. She said his name, only his name, and made his heart tremble.
    He touched, and took, and gave more than he’d known he had to give to a woman. Her skin dewed, adding one more flavor, her muscles quivered, adding another layer of excitement.
    He wanted to see all of her, to explore everything she had, everything she was. She was long and slender and lovely, so that even the ripple of ribs against her skin was a fascination.
    When she opened for him, rose up to meet him, he slipped into her like a sigh and watched those eyes film with tears.
    Slow, silky movement built to shudders. She cried out once, her nails biting into his hips, then again, like an echo as he poured himself into her. Noah blinked his vision clear and heard only silence. The tape had run out, he realized. He stared at the machine, more than a little stunned that the images had come quite so clear. And more than a little embarrassed to find himself hard and unquestionably aroused.
    With Olivia’s face in his mind.
    “Jesus, Brady.” He picked up his wine with a hand not quite steady and took a long sip.
    It was one of the side effects of crawling inside Sam Tanner, imagining what it was like to love and be loved by a woman like Julie MacBride. Remembering what it had been like to want the daughter that love had created.
    But it was damned inconvenient when he didn’t have any outlet for the sexual frustration now kicking gleefully in his gut.
    He’d write it out, he decided.