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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

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BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
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With a soft moan, he moved to blanket her with the warmth of his body, to absorb her pain, that pain that would be inevitable. At her helpless cry, he stilled, then held her tightly. “It's all right, sweetheart. That's all. It won't hurt anymore. I promise.” Her short gasps slowly lengthened to a less agonized, more heady pace as a gentle exquisite warmth stole over her, bearing the first of the pleasure in its ever-widening wake. The flower had burst its bud and now opened, opened slowly and arched its way toward the sun.
With age-old rhythm Sloane moved above her, bidding her follow then join in perfect syncopation. He beckoned her higher, teaching her the joys of both her body and his as together they soared. Pleasure became glory, glory ecstasy, and then—a final explosion of utter fulfillment, a moment of supreme happiness surpassing all others. Their bodies were one, their minds were one; time stood still.
“I love you,” she murmured breathless from the apex of her joy. “I love you, Sloane Harper.” She had neither planned it nor expected it, yet the fact remained that she
was
in love. That had made the difference, she realized now. It was all new and had taken her by storm. She couldn't say it enough. “I love you.”
This
was what it had all been about.
He lifted his head from its panting collapse on her shoulder and looked at her then, his skin damp and vibrant beneath her fingers. His heart beat in wild disturbance, but the grin that spread slowly across his lips left no room for doubt as to the pleasure she in her innocence had given him. “I
told
you we would be in agreement on everything, didn't I?” he crooned, his voice a deep rasp of emotion. “It's about time though. You certainly kept me waiting long enough!”
His smile was warm against her hair as he let his head fall forward once more. Beads of sweat mingled with the coppery wisps that framed her face.

Waiting long enough?
” she shrieked, light-headed. “My God, I've only known you for three weeks and a day—and most of that time you were on the far side of the continent! I'm even surprised you
did
make love to me”—she laughed softly, recalling another time when it might have been—“considering your thoughts about women who jump into bed with men they've known for
very short times!

“This was different.” He laughed down at her, then rolled to the side and propped his head up on his palm. “I gave you plenty of time to think about it. That's one of the reasons I didn't call you while I was gone. I was afraid I might get carried away with sentimentality—”
“And what's wrong with sentimentality?”
“You're the prim and proper lady lawyer.
You
tell
me!”
A frown crossed her brow as she feigned chagrin. “Hmmm, you're right. I haven't led a particularly sentimental
life. Busy. Interesting. Rewarding. Challenging. But not terribly sentimental, is it?” Looking down, her eye caught the contour of his thigh, so firm and manly that she simply could not restrain the hand that reached out to mindlessly touch it. Caught up with fascination, she traced the tendoned length upward, then outlined the thin white markings where once a bathing suit had been.
“Oooo, lady,” the voice above her inhaled sharply. “That's very dangerous …”
“But, I thought …” Her own eyes told her how misinformed she had been. “Sorry about that,” she whispered, then caught his eye. She wasn't sorry at all. And her expression said it all.
With slow seduction, he met her unspoken challenge. And it was, to her astonishment, even more beautiful than before. If that first experience had been the blossoming, this second was the enrichment. With Sloane as a gentle and experienced guide, she learned how best to play his man's body and, in so doing, to fine-tune her own. When at last, as one, they reached that awesome pinnacle of ecstasy and tumbled over its edge in free fall, she felt that she had, indeed, become a woman.
Bodies intertwined, they slept, not to awaken until the last of the sun's flame had been banked for the night. Dusk was at hand, shrouding the world with its purple-hued mist. At its center, Justine glowed, warmed by love and passionately fulfilled.
“Hungry?” Sloane asked softly, turning to stroke the wayward curls from her temple.
“A little,” she hummed softly.
His fingers were suddenly still, probing. “Hey, what's this?”
“That scar?” Her own slender forefinger joined his in confirmation.
“Yes,
that scar.
Where did
it
come from?”
“The school bus.”
“School bus?”
“Uh-huh. Scott Anderson got angry because I called him a ‘wimp,' so he threw his lunchbox at me.”
“Why did you call him a ‘wimp'?”
“Because he
was
one. At least, that was the meanest thing I could think to call him at the time. And he deserved it. He had hidden his bubble gum on the underside of one of my braids so that the teacher would not catch him chewing it. When we got on the bus, he decided he wanted it back. It was very painful!”
“I'll bet.”
Justine raised her head as though hurt. “You don't sound terribly sympathetic, Sloane. Hmph! A lot of good you are!”
In the silence that followed, she curled into the waiting haven of Sloane's body and they lay together, quiet and at peace. “Tell me about yourself, Justine,” he asked softly. “About your home, your parents, your experiences as a child …”
Keenly attuned to her mood, he felt her tension instantly. “Oh, you don't really want to hear about that,” she scoffed evasively. “It's very humdrum.”
“Fine. But tell me anyway. I know so little about that part of you.” He hugged her even closer in a futile attempt to dispel her unease. “Where were you born?”
Any other subject would have pleased her more. “A hospital …”
“Where?”
His determination overrode her hesitancy for the time being. “A small town in Montana. You won't have heard of it. I grew up on the outskirts of Butte. Very ordinary.”
“Your parents? Are they still alive?”
How strange it seemed to be sharing, after the fact, such personal information with a man with whom she had been so totally intimate already! In Sloane's arms, she forgot all else. Only her present with him mattered.
But
he
wanted to know more, and she couldn't deny him. “My mother died several years ago. My father is alive—he still lives in Montana.”
“Why did
you
leave?”
Why did she leave?
With painful memories of a childhood haunted by her parents' misery, the ugliness of their divorce and its lonely aftermath, she'd
had
to leave for her own survival. Besides, if, as a family law practitioner, she hoped to be able to help as many victims of similarly broken homes as possible, the big city was the place to be. “I felt that the opportunities for a lawyer would be better in New York,” she answered simply. “I came east to college, then stayed on for law school. By that time I was pretty much addicted to the big city. What with the possibilities for employment beginning to open up for women, it seemed the logical decision.” It had become easier to talk as the subject moved further from Montana—just as life had grown simpler with the distance.
“I'll bet you were a wild one, back in college,” he teased her softly.
Her foot made contact with his solid shin as she kicked him in mock punishment. “You've just had proof to the contrary. How can you even suggest such a thing? I was a studier. That's all I did. Study. I won the hearts of all my teachers, made the dean's list every semester, and was accepted at the law school I wanted—Columbia. Very wild!”
Sloane laughed into the copper-colored curls which covered his shoulder. “I'm glad,” he mused, then paused as he grew more serious. “What do you want out of life, Justine? In the long run, what do you want?”
On the surface it was an easy question. The answer had been her motivational force for years. Now, she answered with the strength of her conviction. “I want to be a
good
lawyer. I want to be respected as such. I want to continue to find the inner satisfaction I do now in my work. That's
all … that's all.” Her voice had lowered at the last and she frowned against the warm wall of his chest. That was all … yet, where did
this
fit in? Was there a place in her life for Sloane? Reluctant to brood on the future, she deftly turned the conversation around. “And what about you, Sloane? What do
you
want out of life?”
The length of his body grew even greater as he stretched lazily. She was not oblivious, however, to the thread of intensity which wound through him. “I want many of the same things, Justine. I want my business to flourish and its studies to benefit as many people as possible. I also want … a wife and children.” Like a bomb, he dropped the last, leaving the silence to absorb its impact.
For a heart-shattering moment Justine knew an awesome fear. It was the same fear she had felt, though not recognized, the very first time she had met him. Periodically over the past three weeks it had returned in thin-wisped fragments to her consciousness. She hadn't understood it until now. Sloane represented a threat to her of the highest order. He wanted marriage … the one thing she wouldn't give him! She had seen her parents tear each other to bits. As the product of their unhappy union, she had herself been wrenched apart. Day after day she saw similar tragedies. Long ago she had decided that marriage had no place in her life. Love or no love, she would stick to her guns.
Sloane's voice was low and private. “Haven't you ever thought of children, Justine? Wouldn't you like to have them?”
She shrugged, willing indifference as she fought the turmoil within. “I've thought about it,” she admitted—which, in fact, she had. But without a marriage there would be no children. She had accepted that and learned to live with it. “Work keeps me busy, though. And there's so much I want to see and do. You”—she poked his ribs as she steered toward safer ground—“travel a lot in your
work. Some of us aren't that lucky. I'm just beginning to discover the beauty of traveling. I'd never been out of the country until I went to France last year. I spent a week in Paris … and loved every minute!”
Sloane was not fooled by her diversionary tactic; his prolonged silence, following her enthusiastic declaration, told her that. For some reason, however, he did not challenge her. Yet, his follow-up statement nearly took her back to square one. “You could travel with me whenever you liked. I'd love having you along. I've even got a big project coming up in—”
“But what do you do for
fun?”
Justine cut in, as much in desperation as in curiosity. Once again he hit too close to home, and she wanted nothing to spoil the time they shared.
His breath was warm, fanning her forehead. “I ravish fair maidens,” he growled, disguising frustration in mischief.
“No, seriously, Sloane. You must have some hobby … do you play a sport …?”
“Handball. I play as often as I can.”
“Ah, that explains it, then … .”
“Explains what?”
“Your muscles.” Rolling over onto him, she stretched to admire the subjects in question. “There had to be some work involved in building those … regular exercise, type-of-thing …”
Her eyes were as green as the new grass of spring beneath the sun's sparkle. Suddenly, she found herself on her back and looking up at the handsome face which hovered close above. His hair was rich and full. On impulse, she threaded her fingers into its sterling sheen.
“Right now, I have a very different type of exercise in mind,” he drawled, a return of huskiness in his voice. Just as Justine's senses came to life, however, he levered his
taut-skinned form off her. “I believe I will take a jog. Into town. To pick up something to eat. I'm famished!”
His legs had already disappeared into his jeans, and he straightened to zip the fly. She could only stare at him in disbelief.
“Don't worry, sweetheart”—he read her mind exactly, swooping down to retrieve his shirt and croon playfully to her—“we'll have plenty of time later.”
With a blush she sat up and wrapped the thick padding of the sleeping bag around her. “And what am I supposed to do while you jog into town?” Disappointed, she watched as he buttoned his shirt, robbing her of the heady sight of his chest.
“Why don't you jog with me?” he asked innocently.
“Because, in the first place, I don't jog. And, in the second place”—she squirmed slowly then grimaced—“I seem to be a little sore. I think I could use a hot bath.”
The smile that lit his face was broad and hearty. “I suspected as much. And, you're in luck. I've brought towels. Let me get them while you run the water. Try the master bath upstairs—it's a sunken tub.” His voice trailed off as he disappeared up the stairs toward the front door and the car. Justine was already half-submerged in a steaming tub when he returned carrying an armload of thick terry towels. “If you finish before I get back”—he winked from the bathroom door after dropping the towels and heading back out—“you can wander around and get some ideas for decorating. You'll have to earn your keep for the weekend somehow!”
BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
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