The Welcoming

wanted so badly for her to run to him.
    Buried deep in his mind was the hope that he could make her afraid enough, repelled enough, to send him packing. If she did, she would be safe from him, and he from her. He thought he could accomplish it quickly. Then, suddenly, it was impossible to think at all.
    She tasted like heaven. He’d never believed in heaven, but the flavor was on her lips, pure and sweet and promising. Her hand had gone to his chest in an automatic defensive movement. Yet she wasn’t fighting him, as he’d been certain she would. She met his hard, almost brutal kiss with passion laced with trust.
    His mind emptied. It was a terrifying experience for a man who kept his thoughts under such stringent control. Then it filled with her, her scent, her touch, her taste.
    He broke away—for his sake now, not for hers. He was and had always been a survivor. His breath came fast and raw. One hand was still tangled in her hair, and his other was clamped tight on her arm. He couldn’t let go. No matter how he chided himself to release her, to step back and walk away, he couldn’t move. Staring at her, he saw his own reflection in her eyes.
    He cursed her—it was a last quick denial—before he crushed his mouth to hers again. It wasn’t heaven he was heading for, he told himself. It was hell.
    She wanted to soothe him, but he never gave her the chance. As before, he sent her rushing into some hot, airless place where there was room only for sensation.
    She’d been right. His mouth wasn’t soft, it was hard and ruthless and irresistible. Without hesitation, without thought of self-preservation, she opened for him, greedily taking what was offered, selflessly giving what was demanded.
    Her back was pressed against the smooth, cool surface of the refrigerator, trapped there by the firm, taut lines of his body. If it had been possible, she would have brought him closer.
    His face was rough as it scraped against hers, and she trembled at the thrill of pleasure even that brought her. Desperate now, she nipped at his lower lip, and felt a new rush of excitement as he groaned and deepened an already bottomless kiss.
    She wanted to be touched. She tried to murmur this new, compelling need against his mouth, but she managed only a moan. Her body ached. Just the anticipation of his hands running over her was making her shudder.
    For a moment their hearts beat against each other in the same wild rhythm.
    He tore away, aware that he had come perilously close to a line he didn’t dare cross. He could hardly breathe, much less think. Until he was certain he could do both, he was silent.
    “Go to bed, Charity.”
    She stayed where she was, certain that if she took a step her legs would give way. He was still close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body. But she looked into his eyes and knew he was already out of reach.
    “Just like that?”
    Hurt. He could hear it in her voice, and he wished he could make himself believe she had brought it on herself. He reached for his beer but changed his mind when he saw that his hand was unsteady. Only one thing was clear. He had to get rid of her, quickly, before he touched her again.
    “You’re not the type for quick sex on the kitchen floor.”
    The color that passion had brought to her cheeks faded. “No. At least I never have been.” After taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. She believed in facing facts, even unpleasant ones. “Is that all this would have been, Roman?”
    His hand curled into a fist. “Yes,” he said. “What else?”
    “I see.” She kept her eyes on his, wishing she could hate him. “I’m sorry for you.”
    “Don’t be.”
    “You’re in charge of your feelings, Roman, not mine. And I am sorry for you. Some people lose a leg or a hand or an eye. They either deal with that loss or become bitter. I can’t see what piece of you is missing, Roman, but it’s just as tragic.” He didn’t answer; she hadn’t expected him to. “Don’t forget the lights.”
    He waited until she was gone before he fumbled for a match. He needed time to gain control of his head—and his hands—before he searched the office. What worried him was that it was going to take a great deal longer to gain control of his heart.
    ***
    Nearly two hours later he hiked a mile and a half to use the pay phone at the nearest gas station. The road was quiet, the tiny village dark. The wind had come up, and it tasted of rain. Roman hoped dispassionately