Marriage On Demand

He ran his hands down her bare thighs toward her center, then drew back before touching her soft, protective curls. “I’m not the answer to your prayers, Rebecca. I’m no hero.”

“You’re wrong about that, but I know what you mean. I’m not looking for a commitment. I just want to forget about my past, and my virginity was the last reminder. I’d saved it for Wayne and he’s been gone a long time. I wanted it gone, too. Please don’t make a big deal out of this. I won’t.”

“I want to believe that.”

She raised herself up on one elbow and drew an X over her left breast. “Cross my heart. I’m not involved. I know you’re not, either. You’ve had so many women that in two weeks you won’t even remember my name.”

Her smile was too much to resist. He bent forward and pressed his mouth to hers. She still tasted sweet. That surprised him. He pulled back and studied her face. The air of innocence continued to cling to her, as if it had nothing to do with the loss of her maidenhead. He grimaced at the old-fashioned phrase. What was wrong with him? So she’d been a virgin. So he’d been the one to change that. So what? It didn’t mean anything.

“I’ll probably remember you for at least a month,” he said, trying to match her light tone.

“I’m not going to get all weird on you, Austin.” She traced his face, her touch warm and soft against his skin. “I know you’re completely out of my league.”

He was only five years older than she was, but suddenly he felt like a debauched old man. Her sweetness mocked his black soul, her quick, easy smiles hurt his tired eyes. He’d seen too much, done too much, lived too long in the dark. She was right—he was out of her league, but not in the way she imagined.

He felt her hand slip from his jaw to his neck and then lower. She rocked her hips slightly, urging him to take advantage of their position and his aroused state.

He couldn’t. He swallowed and tasted the bitterness of regret on his tongue. When he started to pull out, she murmured a protest. He silenced her with a quick kiss. “You’ll be sore enough in the morning,” he said quietly.

He went into the kitchen. Candlelight danced against the walls and ceiling, weaving erotic patterns that made him want to forget what he’d just done. But he couldn’t.

Deep inside the darkest, blackest part of him, a primal rage swelled. It wasn’t directed at Rebecca, but at the cosmos and fates that had drawn them together. His muscles tensed. Sound vibrated in his throat, but he swallowed the words because they had no meaning. He fought the sexual thoughts that flooded him and the urge to claim this woman again.

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