120 Mph (7 page)

“Are you for real?” she jibed, trying to
force the good Reverend to state he was only teasing her and hoping to have a
little fun at her expense. On the other hand, a root canal would have been fun,
whereas this was anything but sexual tension at its heightened best.

Besides, the raise of his brow quite
clearly said he’d meant every word out of his mouth. It wasn’t a tease.
Christian Mohr—
Reverend
Christian Mohr—was not kidding. He wanted her to
prove she had nothing under her dress—as well, that this nothing would lead to
a very interesting something before the end of their night.

He took hold of Sara’s trembling hand
and redirecting their thoughts, started walking them toward his parked car.

Sara could barely put words to her
thoughts. Once seated safely inside the vehicle, only then did she remember she
needed air to breathe, dragging in deep gasping breaths and letting the oxygen
go straight to her head. Her palms were sweaty, her heart was racing, and this couldn’t
even begin to describe what her lower half wanted from the ‘Attention
Department’ all of a sudden.

Reverend Mohr backed out of the parking
stall, made a hasty turn of the wheel, then drove in the direction from which they
came from a half hour ago. He eased the vehicle onto a long gravel drive that
bent around an even longer row of Spruce trees. He then slowed the car down to
a crawl when they came upon a small ranch-styled house at the far end of the
drive.

Ten seconds later, he told her, “Well,
this is it. Home sweet home.”

Sara let slip out, without proper
preparation, “But this is a normal person’s house!”

Her hand clamped over her mouth to trap
anything else stupid wanting to come forth.

His chuckle was robust. “What did you
think it would be? A dragon’s lair?”

Sara turned in her seat to face the
music, and the man. “I hadn’t meant it that way . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know
why, but everything that slips off my tongue this evening hasn’t and wasn’t what
I meant.”

Christian’s heavily made sigh caused the
flaring of his nostrils. “I know. I’m sorry, too. It’s just that I’m hungry,
and a hungry man will say whatever is on his mind until fed.”

Sara smiled as gently as she could and
put her hand to the door handle. The most she able to do was go inside his
‘home sweet home’ and see what came of this. See, as well, what Christian Mohr
made out of their night. Sara figured it to be either halos and golden wings,
or fire and brimstone to greet her once inside. It certainly wouldn’t be both.

His quick outreach of hand to her arm stopped
her exit.

“No. Stay put. We are technically still
on our date. A gentleman, or so I have been told, opens all doors for a lady while
on a date. Not quite certain what the protocol for dragon behavior is . . . so
we’ll just have to save that discovery for another time.” A wink and a sheepish
grin made as quick apology for having said this as another tease.

“I wouldn’t exactly call this a date,
Reverend Mohr,” Sara admitted. “You asked me to dinner. That’s all.”

He looked at her with a gleam in the
eye. “Not a date?”

Sara shook her head to deny that it was.

“Sweetheart, in my book, when a night
involves an almost ordered meal, an angry bolt out of the most expensive
restaurant in town—without having to pay a single dime out of pocket—and the innocent,
whether intended or not announcement of a lack of certain articles of clothing?
While a man merely standing in the parking lot and he surely not prepared for such
an announcement . . . well, I would call what we are having as a date, even if
you won’t. And a date that started out quite interesting, to say the least.”

The kiss. The many kisses. The near
removal of clothing. Okay, so maybe those were the bases of a real date. But
the removal of clothing was done only in the head—Sara’s head, to be exact. And
since every single moment of every foolish second made thus far with the man
was mirrored in his eyes? She’d have to be a fool not to agree with him.

This was a date.

“You really thought this out, haven’t
you?” she recklessly asked.

Dangerous dimples dug deep on his face,
yet again. “No. Not really. I’m sort of winging it for the moment.”

“Winging it? Good Lord! I would hate to
see what happens when you ever
plan
a date, Reverend.”

The hand on her lower arm turned into a
grasp. The grasp caused an involuntary leaning of the head toward Christian. The
leaning of the head caused the mouths to come too close for propriety.
Therefore, the only expected—otherwise,
planned
moment of their
night—was bound to happen. His warm lips settled against hers. His hand let go
of her arm, to work its way to the back of her neck. His tongue found hers, and
it created a fire inside her to grow out of control.

Sara could not help that her hands had
risen to his face or help that she trapped him into her silken web, lacing her
fingers into his hair. Her only desire had been to kiss him again.

Christian was such a great kisser. He
knew how to add the proper amount of tease to get the juices flowing.

Now that she was kissing him back, Sara
could not let go of his face even if her life depended on it. Perhaps, in a
way, it did depend on it, but for some strange cosmic reason she really didn’t
care.

He released her, leaving her restless
and more than a little jumpstarted in the turned-on department.

“I know that I have to stop doing this,”
he warned, making it a promise only a man would have dared say.

Sara was not a man. She let her thoughts
slip out. “Why?”

It sure as hell beat her having said . .
.
Stop? Are you `efin crazy?

Another dangerous grin formed, crinkling
up the corners of his eyes. Christian didn’t respond with words. He pulled
back, opened his door, then forced his way to her side of the vehicle. For one
brief moment, he simply stood outside the car, staring at his house.

She watched as the poor man dragged in
deep, earth-shattering breaths. He then closed his eyes, opened her door and
asked, “Shall we?” He held out his hand while a huge smile graced his lips.

Sara took Christian’s hand, climbed out
of the vehicle, and was led toward the front door of his rather humble home.

Christian produced a key, unlocked the lock,
pushed the wooden panel open for Sara to enter first, and the moment she
stepped over the threshold she wanted to tuck tail and run.

From entry to exit his house brought to
light the fact of his being Reverend Christian Mohr. Everywhere the eye looked
was a statement to his chosen profession. Every single book, nook, and cranny
screamed out his being a
Man of the Cloth
. Every nuance, every smell,
every empty space—it all said she was making a terrible mistake and needed to
correct this mistake before she lost her one and only chance. Or, burst into
flames. He may not be an actual dragon, but this was most definitely a dragon’s
lair; and Sara, the lamb, brought home for slaughter.

It mattered not that she was a sinner of
the worst kind. What mattered was she didn’t think she would come out of this
unscathed.

Chapter
Eight

Christian could see Sara was putting too
much thought into their night. The only way to stop such a dangerous process
was to keep her and her thoughts as busy as possible.

He grabbed Sara’s hand and pulled her
directly into his living room. The safest room in the house, and of which
should put her a bit more at ease while in his company.

Unfortunately, a loud groan slipped out
of the back of his throat when discovering a huge array of books set out on his
couch, and a folded note left on top one of the stacks. Those books put there
by the doting members of the Ladies Guild, no less. They must have come into
his home while he’d been with Sara at the restaurant.

Somehow, it completely slipped from mind
he had to deal with all eighty of these books before tomorrow morning. Such a
daunting task would certainly sustain a huge blow to the desires of the night. Christian’s
intention had been dead set on more than a little foreplay while on his couch.
He was a man. She was a woman. Both were consenting adults. He may be a Reverend,
but that did not mean he was dead and could not fully enjoy the beauty and
pleasure of a good woman.

He served God in the Church and within
the community, but when inside his own home, he planned to serve only his
needs. Saint Christian, he was not. He might have repented his sins last
Sunday, but tonight was not Sunday and he planned adding more to the lot.

The alternative would be to entertain
Sara in the kitchen, but his kitchen was an absolute mess. He left in a hurry
this morning and knew there were more than a few dirty dishes in the sink than
clean in the cupboards.

The kitchen was not nearly as messed as
the hallway and the foyer, but damn close to it.

What had he been thinking bringing Sara
here?

Christian hadn’t been. He’d gone with
his gut. Well, in all honesty, a man’s gut stayed out of the equation and what
below that man’s gut controlling most of this night; and likely to get him into
a whole lot of trouble by the end of it.

The second Sara told him she was not
wearing any underwear while they stood in a dark parking lot, empty of human
judgment and judgmental stares, Christian had turned into mortal man, dying to
sin. He’d redirected the Reverend Mohr part of his being to take a back seat. In
fact, he suspected the shock of her words was what pushed him in this
direction. Not only theosophical, he was a theoretical man and needed earthly
things proven; before committed to believing.

God was the only thing he believed in
wholeheartedly. All else must be proven.

He turned his face to hers and gave Sara
a wry smile. “It’ll only take me a second to remove the books.”

He was about to, but Sara stopped the
action. “No. Leave the books there, Christian,” she said, a catch heard in her voice.   

His hand on one book, he bid, “But  . .
.”

Sara smiled. A sinful, dangerous smile
made by a particularly sinful and dangerous woman, who had barely little
clothing on her person and a seductive twinkle in her eyes. “We both know what
is going to happen here tonight. Let’s not play any more games with each other pretending
that it’s not.”

Christian straightened his shoulders,
stood tall, and looked her dead to rites. “And what game is it that you’re
referring too, Sara?” His voice was a tight rasp due to the heady desire he
desperately held back.

She smiled sweetly at his face. “Do you
know that you always do that?”

“Do what?” His stare just as intense.

“That.”

The brain stuck in overdrive, his loins
doing most if not all of his thinking for the moment, the goo in Christian’s
head could not decipher anything beyond Sara thinking he was playing games with
her. This was a real date in all respects. She might not have thought so, but
to Christian it was. He hadn’t asked a woman to dinner in nearly eight years. Nor
had he brought one home to make it a more interesting date by night’s end. This
was a first in a very long time; a first where he actually cared for the allowance
of such a rare gift.

Most men would take whatever they
needed, whether offered freely or not. Sara trusted him. He wouldn’t sever that
trust by being stupid. He was going to offer a hot and heavy make-out session
and perhaps second base. If that failed, he had other ideas still in mind. No
woman nearly undressed was to get out of his grasp before he was satisfied—no
matter how long it took.

“You will have to explain to me what you
mean by the word
that
, Sara.”

Her smile fell, but the sparkle in her
blue eyes stayed the same. “You ask a question instead of answering any,” she
grassed.

Christian tried to argue against this by
taking a step forward. “I do not.”

Sara didn’t look as though she would
have tolerated the words ‘See? Not a question’;  therefore he wisely left those
stalled on the tongue.

“Yes. You do.” She even gave him a hasty
nod. All of a sudden, she took the initiative to grab a handful of the books
and set them on the floor. Then, without invitation, Sara sat down and patted
the emptied cushion next to her leg. She waited until he sat before saying
more.

“There. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
she taunted.

“Well, that depends on what you think
good should be,” he construed, giving her a shameless grin.

Sara turned toward him and put her hand
to his knee. The warm touch and the nature in which she did it, caused the
alarm bells to sound off in his head. Her honey tone added even more to the
raucous inside his skull.

“I consider good . . . as in a mutually
agreed upon meeting of like minds.”

Christian covered Sara’s hand with his
own, for it was definitely close to making regrets toward his promise to
protect the innocent by righteous word and faithful prayer.

“But back to what I said earlier. You
always ask a question seemingly when you don’t want anyone to contradict your
thoughts.” Her statement quite bold, under the circumstances, since this his
home and she merely a guest within it, it surely raised his brow.

“I ask a question when too stumped to
figure it out for myself,” he said, correcting the mistake.

“Like now,” she dared reason.

Christian challenged himself not utter
the words, ‘now . . .  what?’ Sara would have considered them another question,
and perhaps used them against him in some way. The look in her eyes confirmed
this.

Very slowly, she pulled her hand free of
his and off his knee. “I am going to ask you something personal, Reverend.” She
paused, taking a deep breath, looking for the need to gather courage for any asking.
“And I would appreciate it if you answer me as truthful as possible.”

Christian took a deep breath of his own,
then boldly nodded. “Ask what you must, Sara. I’ve nothing to hide.” Surely,
not anything inside her head would bodily harm him in any way, shape or forms.

She gave him a hard look, yet without
adieu she questioned, “Are we having sex tonight or not?”

Christian nearly fell off the couch.

“Um, well  . . .” His hands gripped
firmly to the cushions to hide his initial shock. To say he hadn’t expected
this out of her would be quite an understatement.

Regrettably, she started to add more
before he had the chance to catch his breath.

“I mean, if we are . . . shan’t we get
at it?”

“Good Lord! Sara,” he yelped. “Hell of a
question to ask a man before his dinner.”

Sara held up her hand. “No. You promised
me the Lord wouldn’t be anywhere near us tonight.”

His smile quick, he informed her, “God
is always near us, Sara.”

He then caught the mumbled words “Don’t
I know it” spoken as her face turned from his.

“What was that?” Christian baited,
expecting swift answer.

Sara’s returning gaze poured out liquid
fire at his face instead. “Nothing.”

“No, Sara. You said something,” he
determined.

She took a deep breath, paused, then told
him flat out, “Fine. I said ‘Don’t I know it’. And why do you ask? Because. Simple,
one-word answer that translates into God ruins everything that might turn into being
good for me.”

Christian’s ego inflated quickly—never
mind she just slandered the Creator inside his home. “You think of me as a good
thing?”

He certainly didn’t feel so good all of
a sudden. Parts of his anatomy were on fire. The rest of him felt as though he
was going too fast in a vehicle without airbags, hands off the wheel, and
enjoying one hell of a ride.

“Well, I would hope so!” she said
tartly. “It’s not every day that I agree to go out on a date without putting on
any underwear.”

Oh, good grief. She really had to bring
that up again? Christian closed his eyes. This only made the evening worse.
With the eyes closed, he could easily picture in his head the missing article
of clothing. The color it would be. The texture, if touched by hand. The sweet
scent, if allowed to remove said article and brought to the face.

With eyes closed, the stalled silence
between them laid out like a cavern. It made the Grand Canyon look small.

Sara broke the silence, regaining the
upper hand. “Well, are we?”

He very slowly opened his eyes, praying
that when it happened, neither turned into a pillar of salt. One could never be
certain until proven otherwise. “Are we what?”

Without pause, she rolled her eyes to
another asked question off his tongue. “Are we having sex?”

Not a flinch, not a flicker, not even a
clearing of the throat was made to these very startling words.

Christian, however, felt as though blown
apart at the seams. He felt hot and cold. He started to choke on air, almost
violently. To ease his pain, Sara darted off in the direction of his kitchen.
Foregoing the search for a clean glass to obtain water, she’d found the can of
beer inside his refrigerator.

She brought it back to the living room
without haste, then  held out the can. “Here.”

Christian shook his head while running
out of air and with tears in the eyes.

“Take it. I don’t know where you keep
your glassware. This was the best I could do.”

Again, Christian shook his head. This
time, he could get enough air into his lungs to squeak out, “I . . . can’t.”

“Can’t? Why the devil not?” She even popped
the top for him. Some of the foam came up and over the surface of the can,
spilling onto her hand. She licked off the moisture, then licked her lips
before holding the brew-filled aluminum directly in his face.

Suddenly, two out of many terrible facets
of a man’s life stared hard at Christian’s conscience. A woman’s lips . . . and
beer. With effort, and with violence never before felt, he stood from the
couch, looked her dead to rites, and said firmly, “I can’t, Sara.”

It took her all but two seconds to
understand. Sara lowered her hand as her face turned beet red.

“I—I’m so sor—” The word stopped cold.

He could see she didn’t know what to say
toward this disturbing admission.

He, as well, wasn’t quite certain how he
could even begin to tell her the reason.

Christian’s demons had come back to
haunt him in the worst possible way at the worst possible moment. There was now
a witness to his shame. Never before had there been witness present to judge
his faults. Never before had he truly cared.

Christian did what only he could do at
this point. He told her the truth.

“I can’t drink that can of beer.” A
large, unsteady finger pointed at it. “And the only reason it was even in there
was to remind me why I should not and will not touch the stuff . . . ever
again.”

Sara slowly set the opened beer onto his
low table as if the aluminum had somehow burned her flesh. Her gaze moved
hurriedly to his, and
damnit . . .
There was pity in her eyes.

Christian didn’t want Sara’s pity. Not
now. Not ever. He wanted penance. At least penance was something he could
eventually deal with; something he was used too.

Without thought, he pulled Sara into his
arms, wound those arms around her back, and set his mouth to her lips. Perhaps
he could kiss away his demons, and destroy wretched pity by way of lustful passion.
Perhaps, while Sara in his grasp, he would be able to ignore a past never
leaving his thoughts—or his unending nightmares.