The McRae Series 01 - Twelve Days Sam and Rachel

been eager to please. Just shy. He'd take her hands and guide them to where he wanted them to be, show her, teach her. But he didn't do that tonight. He let her do what she wanted, let her set the pace for this sweet awakening, let all the memories come pouring back with such clarity, such poignancy.
    Rachel.
    She was like a song inside of him, a half-forgotten, sad, sweet, so sexy song. His blood was on fire, and yet he couldn't find it in him to rush this. He wanted to savor every moment, every touch.
    She pressed her mouth to his, her lips soft and questioning. He let out a ragged breath, his heart settling into a strong, heavy thud, and the whole world seemed to slow down around them.
    The lights were blinking on and off on the tree, and the fire crackled and hissed every now and then, the light from there flickering over them, as well. She teased at his mouth with her tongue, and he opened up to her, to that first heady taste of her.
    He wanted to stay locked in the power of that kiss for days, wanted to take and take and take until she was limp in his arms. His hands started to move, running up and down her arms, across her back, tugging at the buttons on her blouse and then undoing her bra and slipping inside to the soft, soft skin of her breasts. He found smooth, heated skin and pearly nipples. She cried out when he touched them, when he bent her backward in his arms and laved them with his tongue:
    She tasted so good, so soft, and the sounds she made and the fine trembling in her body drove him on. He could not get enough of her, kissed and suckled and outright devoured her until he sensed that she was very close to a climax and so was he.
    It had been entirely too long, after all.
    Sam backed up a bit, tugged off his shirt and threw it into the corner, unfastened his pants and pushed them and everything else off. Then he went to work on her clothes. Her shirt came off completely, her bra. He pushed her back onto the rug in front of the fire and went after the fastening of her skirt, tugging it down, pulling off her panties, until she was gloriously bare before him.
    There was a scar on her belly, a not-too-neat one that for a time had been long and raised and hard, a constant reminder of the fact that he'd nearly lost her, too, and of all they'd gone through.
    But it had faded over time. Quite often, he forgot it was there. She had always hated it, always tried not to even look at it, and didn't like for him to see it at all. But there it was. She wasn't trying to hide tonight, and he had the urge to press his mouth along every inch of that now faint, slightly pinkish line.
    "Are you cold?" he asked as he eased down onto the floor beside her.
    "A little," she said.
    He pulled the afghan off the back of the sofa and covered her to her waist, and then he ran his hands along that scar, and then buried his face against her belly, right there along the thin line.
    "I nearly lost you, too," he said. "All these years, not talking about the rest of it, I don't think I ever told you how scared I was that night. I was sure I was going to lose you, too, and that my whole life might as well be over."
    "But you didn't lose me," she said. "I'm here. I'll always be here. And we're not done."
    But he had nearly lost her again, he thought. In just the last few months, he'd nearly lost her. He still might.
    Faith, he reminded himself. Just a little faith.
    He could find a little. He had her in his arms, after all.
    He sat up, leaning over her, his hand running up and down, watching the way she shivered beneath his touch, watching how responsive her body was. Seeming to reach for him and then shrink back when the sensations grew so intense it was almost too much to bear, but then she reached for him again.
    He studied the contrast between his big, sun-browned hand on her delicate skin, the sight of which was always his undoing. There'd been a time when he thought he'd never touch her this way, that she'd never allow it and if she did, she'd come to her senses soon and be done with him. Or that her father would find out and kill him. But here she was, years later. His.
    There'd been a time, too, early on when he'd been lost himself and so desperate for a connection with anyone. A time when he'd spotted her and found her fascinating and so confusing and she'd made him want things he knew he shouldn't. A time when she'd made him believe in things he never imagined for himself, a time when her dreams had become his.
    She'd given