The Welcoming

have been—unattainable for him. But when she was in his arms, warm, just bordering on pliant, dozens of possibilities flashed through his head.
    She wanted to smile, to make some light, easy comment. But she couldn’t push the words out. Her throat was locked. The way he was looking at her now, as if she were the only woman he had ever seen or ever wanted to see, made her forget that the dance was supposed to be a gesture of friendship.
    She might never be his friend, she knew, no matter how hard she tried. But with his eyes on hers she understood how easily she could be his lover.
    Maybe it was wrong, but it didn’t seem to matter as they glided across the floor. The song spoke of love betrayed, but she heard only poetry. She felt her will ebb away even as the music swelled inside her head. No, it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter as long as she went on swaying in his arms.
    She didn’t even try to think, never attempted to reason. Following her heart, she pressed her lips to his.
    Instant. Irresistible. Irrevocable. Emotions funneled from one to the other, then merged in a torrent of need. She didn’t expect him to be gentle, though her kiss had offered comfort, as well as passion. He dived into it, into her, with a speed and force that left her reeling, then fretting for more.
    So this was what drove people to do mad, desperate acts, she thought as their tongues tangled. This wild, painful pleasure, once tasted, would never be forgotten, would always be craved. She wrapped her arms around his neck as she gave herself to it.
    With quick, rough kisses he drove them both to the edge. It was more than desire, he knew. Desire had never hurt, not deeply. It was like a scratch, soon forgotten, easily healed. This was a raw, deep wound.
    Lust had never erased every coherent thought from his mind. Still, he could only think of her. Those thoughts were jumbled, and all of them were forbidden. Desperate, he ran his lips over her face, while wild fantasies of touching, of tasting every inch of her whirled in his head. It wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. No matter how much he took from her, she would draw him back. And she could make him beg. The certainty of it terrified him.
    She was trembling again, even as she strained against him. Her soft gasps and sighs pushed him toward the brink of reason. He found her mouth again and feasted on it.
    He hardly recognized the change, could find no reason for it. All at once she was like glass in his arms, something precious, something fragile, something he needed to protect and defend. He lifted his hands to her face, his fingers light and cautiously caressing. His mouth, ravenous only a moment before, gentled.
    Stunned, she swayed. New, vibrant emotions poured into her. Weak from the onslaught, she let her head fall back. Her arms slipped, boneless, to her sides. There was beauty here, a soft, shimmering beauty she had never known existed. Tenderness did what passion had not yet accomplished. As freely as a bird taking wing, her heart flew out to him.
    Love, first experienced, was devastating. She felt tears burn the back of her eyes, heard her own quiet moan of surrender. And she tasted the glory of it as his lips played gently with hers.
    She would always remember that one instant when the world changed—the music, the rain, the scent of fresh flowers. Nothing would ever be quite the same again. Nor would she ever want it to be.
    Shaken, she drew back to lift a hand to her spinning head. “Roman—”
    “Come with me.” Unwilling to think, he pulled her against him again. “I want to know what it’s like to be with you, to undress you, to touch you.”
    With a moan, she surrendered to his mouth again.
    “Charity, Mae wants to—” Lori stopped on a dime at the top of the stairs. After clearing her throat, she stared at the painting on the opposite wall as if it fascinated her. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to . . .”
    Charity had jerked back like a spring and was searching for composure. “It’s all right. What is it, Lori?”
    “It’s, well . . . Mae and Dolores . . . Maybe you could come down to the kitchen when you get a minute.” She rushed down the stairs, grinning to herself.
    “I should . . .” Charity paused to draw in a steadying breath but managed only a shaky one. “I should go down.” She retreated a step. “Once they get started, they need—” She broke off when Roman took her arm. He waited until she