She’d always been self-conscious about her body. She’d always considered herself too large-breasted, too voluptuous, hated how two oversize mammary glands could turn sensible men into drooling teenage boys. Her breast size had always seemed to be another barrier to overcome before any male colleague would take her seriously as a professional. She’d even considered having her breast size reduced but had never gotten around to it.
In this split second when the light illuminated her nakedness to him, she saw his whole silhouette stiffen. A throb of desire. In that moment, she was inordinately glad she had never gone for the surgery. Because her body excited Logan. She had the power to excite Logan.
She let her head fall back. Her hair slipped over her shoulders. She thrust out her breasts, waiting for the light again. Eager for his hungry perusal. But what she got instead was his hot lips on her collarbone. His rough hands scraped across her rib cage, his springy hair brushed her throat as he kissed his way over the rise of her breast to the hard, aching peak. Her elbows trembled, weakened. She sank against the bed, he sank with her, and she raked her hands through his hair.
Skin met skin and she realized with a jolt that he was naked. His thigh brushed against her leg, hiking her skirt up in the process. She felt the hardness of him pressing urgently against her thigh.
Her pulse shot up. She dragged her hands out of his hair, down to his nape, through the hair that curled there, then over the flexing muscles of his bare shoulders. His skin was smooth and hot and different in texture from hers—deliciously different. The muscles beneath were hard and strong. She ran the flat of her palm over him, envisioning in her mind what she could only feel.
He found her mouth in the darkness; she turned her face to meet his. His body lay heavy upon hers. She wanted him deeper. She wanted more than what his kiss could give her.
She wanted more, yes, much, much more. She wanted to feel him lose control atop her. She wanted to feel the surge and thrust of his male power, turning her into something soft and womanly and deserving of desire. So this was what it meant to make love, she thought. This was that madness that possessed a woman and made her throw all caution to the winds—
And it came to her that she had more sense than this, that she should know better than to care about someone, she should know better than to open her heart even a crack to a man who had no intention of sticking around, and then she told herself, just as swiftly, that she didn’t care, that this was sex, just sex, and it didn’t matter.
She wanted this experience to go on forever and ever, never ending, never stopping, never losing its heat. She wanted to be whole, in some way beyond the physical, in a way she didn’t dare to try to understand right now. In this incandescent moment only Logan could do that—only Logan could make her whole.
He shifted his weight, then reached down to tug urgently on the waistband of her skirt.
“Off,” he growled.
“Buttons.”
“Where?”
“Left side.”
He found the first, expertly, and flicked it open. The pressure eased around her waist. He flicked open the second, the third. Fumbled to find the fourth. The fabric of the skirt was twisted tight under her. She lifted her bottom. He tugged the skirt loose. Still, he couldn’t do the buttons one-handed.
“Get this off, Ginny,” he said, urgency rippling in his voice, “or I swear, I’ll rip it off.”
“Go ahead.” She nipped the corner of his mouth.
“What!”
“Rip my clothes off, Logan.”
After a pause of disbelief, he tugged so hard that he lifted her bottom clear off the bed. A button popped. Then another. Cotton ripped; the sound of it filled the room. With scrabbling hands he seized another handful of fabric and ripped again, tearing fistfuls of cotton away until he tore the skirt free of her body and sent it flying through the air. Somewhere, Ginny thought, Donna Karan was screaming.
She couldn’t have cared less. Designer clothing could be bought anew, but she would go into cardiac arrest right here, right now, if Logan didn’t make love to her.
He made short work of her underwear, hiking it high into the gloom. Lightning flashed anew and branded an image in her mind—the sight of Logan, strong and naked, rising up over her.
Then all was sensation, from her hair to her toes. The scratch of his hair-dusted skin against her breasts, her stomach, her abdomen. The thrust of his knee as he parted her legs. The rake of his fingers through her hair, the heat of his kiss on her brow as he probed the tender, swollen place between her legs with the tip of his shaft. The rumble in his chest as he found the moist heat to the entrance of her body and eased a fraction of himself inside.
She sucked in a breath that vibrated all the way down to her toes. Her body arched, her legs opened wider, her hips tipped as she welcomed him, wordlessly urged him deeper. She flexed her palms across his back. His strong body quivered beneath her hands. His kiss settled on her temple, his breath fell hot on her face, and she realized with a rush of sensation and wonder that Logan was trembling.
Trembling. For want of her. From his passion for her. A glow lit somewhere deep inside her—a warm, vital glow—from the knowledge that in this moment she was wanted…desired.
Then he pushed the length of himself deeper, and all rational thought ceased. Their fit was tight, the friction exquisite as he pulled out slowly to thrust in again. On the next thrust, she lifted her hips to meet him.
They fell into the wonderful synchronicity she’d first noticed that day in the woods—they moved as fluidly and effortlessly as two ballet dancers in a wellrehearsed pas de deux, though they’d never danced before, they’d never been this close before. She knew, on some instinctive level, how he was about to move before he moved, and she adjusted her own motion to his. She met each thrust in perfect rhythm. She opened herself when he moved within her, closed upon him as he pulled away. She took the lobe of his ear in her mouth as he burrowed his lips deep in her hair. She softened for him as he grew impossibly hard, impossibly anxious, as he quickened his thrusts—hard, deep, fast.
She wrapped her arms around him and cried out, his hair against her mouth, his hips flush against hers, as the tightness in her cinched to a pinnacle of impossible pleasure, a tight knot pulled to infinitesimal smallness and then breaking, loosening, sending her mind reeling off in the brightness of the brightest light—as he groaned and lifted her hips to meet his in the final, deepest thrusts of pleasure.
Much, much later, when the storm had ebbed to the lightest patter of rain on the windowpanes and the air had turned cool, Ginny blinked open her eyes in the darkness. Logan still lay half-atop her, his head buried in her hair. Her body still throbbed, less frequently now, but each throb reminded her of the pleasure that had shattered her mind. She held Logan tight. Their bodies were slick against each other, damp with perspiration. At some point, Logan had pulled a thin, cool sheet over their joined bodies, and it clung sweetly to her legs.
In his sleep, Logan had curled his hand around her hip. Possessively. She was naked, warm and drowsy, and sated in a way she could not put into words. He was heavy atop her, but she dared not wake him. She wanted to lie here a little longer. Just a little longer. Just like this. And pretend that she could feel as warm and contented and loved as she did this very moment… forever.
7
LOGAN WOKE SUDDENLY to a sound—a distant, crunching sound he wasn’t quite sure he’d heard—that faded the moment his senses settled. He blinked his eyes open. His lashes tangled with long red hair that assailed his senses with the scent of strawberries. The bright light of morning streamed through the blinds and fell upon the shell of a woman’s ear.
Ginny.
In one heady, hormonal rush he forgot altogether about the sound that woke him up. The memories of the night flooded over him and burned the last dregs of sleepiness out of his veins. He reached for her. He curled his hand over her ribs and turned her body to face his. Lazily, she rolled into the circle
of his embrace and made a soft, sleepy woman-sound that brought new warmth to his blood.
Ginny. He wanted her. Again. He still couldn’t quite believe she was lying in his bed, naked under the sheets, her hip pressed against his belly. He couldn’t quite believe he’d actually experienced that incredible sex last night He couldn’t quite believe that the warm body lying beside his was the same stick of dynamite he’d lit in the darkness of that storm. Nor could he believe how he felt this morning—completely without remorse and hoping, eager for more. Maybe he was still sleeping. Maybe he was still dreaming. This couldn’t be Ginny, his Ginny, sleepily blinking open her eyes. This couldn’t be Ginny whose soft lips, under his perusal, were curling into an inviting smile.
Then he heard another sound, coming from outside his window. It was the distinctive sound of a car door slamming.
A car door?
Logan leaped out of bed and bolted to the window. He thrust his hand between the slats of the blind and peered through the opening, toward the driveway. He realized with a jolt that the sound that had woken him out of a deep, contented slumber was the crunching sound of tires against gravel. Parked behind his truck and Ginny’s car was a four-wheel sports utility vehicle that looked vaguely familiar.
“Ginny,” he muttered, “get dressed.”
“Hmm?”
“Get dressed—now.”
He snapped the blind closed and turned toward the bed. Ginny arched herself up and stretched her arms above her head as she yawned. The sheet slipped down, exposing one perfectly formed, pale pink nipple, puckered as if waiting for a kiss.
He seriously considered slamming his bedroom door shut and having his way with her—and to hell with his visitor—but just then he heard footsteps pounding on the deck. The kitchen door squealed open.
“Logan?” called a male voice from the kitchen. “Are you here?”
Ginny’s eyes flew open. Her mouth froze in midyawn. Logan searched for and found his underwear beneath the bed. He shoved one leg in; then the other, and groped wildly for his shorts.
“Logan,” she whispered, a flush rising to her cheeks, “Who—”
“Find something to wear, and do it quick.”
“Dr. Gene? Logan?” came the male voice again, from the living room this time. “You’ve got to be here, your cars are in the driveway.”
Ginny made a muffled squealing noise and flailed in the bed, searching the room for something to cover herself up with. Logan managed to yank on his khakis just as John’s shape loomed into view at the end of the hallway.
“Hide,” Logan whispered. “Quick.”
“There you are,” John said from the hallway as Logan fumbled with his zipper. “Do you always leave the front door open?”
In one swift move, Ginny rolled herself in a sheet and dropped off the other side of the bed, just as Dr. John Springfield sauntered into the room.
“Look at you.” John gave Logan a once-over then whistled between his teeth. “You look a wreck. It’s nearly noon. Are you just getting up?”
“Yeah,” he said, fumbling with the button of his shorts and trying not to look in Ginny’s direction. “You got a problem with that?”
“Boy, you really are taking it easy,” John said. “Can we trade places for a week or two? I tell you, since this baby came, all I can think of is the chance to sleep until noon.”
“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“That’s a nice way to greet a friend.” He looked Logan up and down. He glanced around the room, a line appearing between his brow. “I tried to call, but the phones are out after last night’s storm…. Hey, what’s that hanging from the ceiling fan?”
Logan gave up buttoning his shorts, seized John by the arms and pushed him out the bedroom door. “Go make some coffee, John. I could use some, couldn’t you?”
“Hey, what’s going on?” John lost his footing as Logan propelled him blindly out of the bedroom. He stumbled, braced one hand against the wall, then glanced down at the torn floral fabric wrapped around his shoes. “What the heck is that?”
“Nothing.” Logan grabbed for it, getting part of the skirt, but not all. “Get out of here, John. Go…go…go commune with nature for a while.”
Realization spread like a light across John’s face. He dipped down, picked up some of the skirt, felt the soft floral cotton between his fingers and gave Logan a look so full of incredulity that Logan would have laughed, if it had been a laughing matter.
“Coffee, John,” Logan said in a loud, meaningful voice, giving his old friend an eye he couldn’t possibly mistake. “I’ll be out in a few minutes and then you can tell me why you decided to drop by unannounced.”
Then Logan slammed the bedroom door on John’s bright, curious eyes and incredulous grin.
Ginny’s bright-red head peeked above the edge of his bed. “That’s…that’s Dr. Springfield, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You didn’t tell me he was coming.”
“I didn’t know he was coming.”
“Doesn’t he have a newborn baby? And a wife just out of the hospital?”
“Last time I checked.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Did he…?” She bit her lip as she rose, nymphlike, from the tangle of sheets—sheets she struggled to hold close to that magnificent body. “He didn’t see me, did he?”
“I don’t think so.” Logan lifted a fistful of the remnants of her skirt. “He saw this, though.”
She groaned and dropped back down into the pool of sheets.
“I’d better get out there and spin some tale,” he muttered, letting the fabric flutter to the carpet. “I’ll distract him or something, so you can get to your room and get dressed.”
Logan buttoned his shorts, seized his shirt from the floor and yanked his arms into it, while Ginny padded around like a cat on a hot tin roof, searching for what was left of her clothes. A raw pink streak stained her cheek. Stubble burn, he thought, and wished that he could rub her raw some more.
This wasn’t how he’d envisioned the morning after. In truth, he hadn’t envisioned the morning after at all; he could hardly think past the moment they made love last night. But he knew this wasn’t what he wanted.
He’d wanted to make love to her again. Hold her close. Watch her face this time when he thrust himself into her. Watch her face when she cried out his name at the peak of her pleasure.
Now there was John to contend with. Mucking up the works during a very fragile period of a very fragile relationship.
He thrust his hand through his tangled hair. He couldn’t think about this now. He had to go out and face John and do some spin control. If there was one thing Ginny didn’t need after last night, it was a colleague of hers grinning and leering and making dirty jokes.
He was about to leave when Ginny’s soft voice broke into his distraction.
“Logan?” She was shuffling around the room in the sheet, a wad of clothing under her arm.
“What?”
“Have you seen my underwear?”
“Yeah,” he said as his throat went tight. “It’s hanging from the ceiling fan.”
LOGAN STRODE THROUGH the hallway, angrily inventing stories to explain why he was in bed at noon, with a woman’s shredded skirt on his floor and glossy satin underwear hanging from his ceiling fan. He could try to write it off as a wild one-night stand with some nameless woman, except that John must have noticed there was no sign of Dr. Eugenia Van Saun anywhere else in the cabin, though her car was still parked in the driveway. There was no sign of any other woman, either. Then Logan wondered why he was trying so hard to protect Ginny’s reputation. They were both single adults who didn’t have to answer to anybody about their sex lives—least of all to an old buddy who’d busted in without any sort of warning.
The moment he entered the kitchen and saw John’s rangy body sprawled on one of the chairs, a grin the size of Monta
na splitting his face, Logan knew that there was no way in hell he could hide the truth.
A surge of conflicting emotions overcame him. He was, in part, relieved he didn’t have to lie. He felt a fierce urge to scream to the mountains that he’d claimed Ginny for his own. He wanted to strut around like a rooster. He wanted to restrain himself, as well. He had great respect for the woman he’d spent the night making love to, and he didn’t like the idea that she’d be uncomfortable knowing a professional colleague had peeked into her private life. And overriding all those conflicting emotions was the incredible angry urge to wipe that lascivious grin off John’s face.
“My, my, my,” John said, kicking the chair up on its back legs, stretching his legs. “Here I am, thinking poor old Logan, stuck up in that godforsaken country cabin with that workaholic colleague of mine, probably ranting and raving over the loss of his privacy—”
“What the hell are you doing here, Springfield?”
“—and me, in convulsions of guilt over putting you two in this situation, decide to take a ride up to see how you’re doing—”
“Don’t you have a wife and newborn?”
“—only to find one bed unmade and a pair of ladies’ underwear spinning from the ceiling—”
“Enough.”
At the tone of Logan’s voice, John shut up. He let the chair fall back to its four legs as his brows disappeared under the mop of blond hair falling over his forehead. “Well, well, well…”
Logan broke eye contact with his friend and made a beeline to the coffeemaker. He yanked open the cabinet and dropped the can of coffee grounds onto the counter. “Ever hear of a telephone, Springfield?”
“I tried calling,” he said, scratching the thick scruff on his chin and jaw. “The phones have been out since last night.”
“You should have called yesterday.”
“I tried, but I’ve got a house full of women. My mother, my wife’s mother, my wife’s sister, a baby nurse who must have taken lessons in boot camp, and all of them on the phone spreading the news…”
“More excuses, John.”
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