In answer he reached out and gave her bare shoulder a brief squeeze that sent goosebumps down her arm.
“Give me your key,” he ordered quietly.
Her hand trembled as she forfeited it. It chinked into his hand and a moment later the door swung inward, then closed behind them, securing them in a blanket of blackness.
She came to a halt in the middle of the hall, her back to Sam as she clutched her tiny purse in both hands. Oh, it had been so different with that other man, the one whose name she could barely remember, who had come oh so briefly after Joel. But she hadn’t forgotten the sudden chill that had overcome her body and turned it unwilling at the last minute. What if that happened now? And what if . . . what if . . .
She ran a frenzied mental assessment of her body and found only its shortcomings—not only the stretch-marks but also the loss of firmness, the unmistakable contour of hips that were wider now, the few extra pounds she perhaps should have lost. . . and there was a single vein on . . .
Sam’s hands sought her waist in the dark, and his fingers spread wide on her ribs, pulling her against him as he pressed his mouth into the curve of her neck, riding it back along the warm silver chain, pushing her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck.
“Cherokee,” he murmured, “you’re so tense. There’s no need to be.”
In the dark he found the purse she still clutched and pulled it from her fingers. She heard the soft thud as it landed on a carpeted step before he returned his attentions to her neck.
She released the breath she’d held captive for too long and forced the muscles of her neck to relax one by one as he nuzzled the warm hollow behind her ear until her head dropped forward, then to the side.
“How long has it been?” he asked with gruff tenderness.
She knew a moment of trepidation before answering honestly, “Three years.” Three long, empty years.
At her answer he circled her with both arms, just below her breasts, and she covered the sleeves of his suit jacket with her own arms and the backs of his hands with hers.
“You mean I’m the first since your husband?” he asked softly near her temple.
She swallowed thickly, then admitted, “Yes . . . no . . . well, almost.”
She felt him move as if to look down at her questioningly, but his arms remained as before, warm and secure about her midriff.
“Almost?”
“There was one other man. I was lonely and . . .” Again she swallowed, thinking he’d pull away if she admitted what had happened. “Well, I thought I could, but . . . when I changed my mind things got ugly.”
His arms tightened more firmly around her, and he rocked her soothingly a time or two. “Oh, Cherokee, can’t you feel that’s not going to happen to us?”
And suddenly she could. She relaxed against him as he wet the soft skin of her neck with the tip of his tongue and slipped a hand over her left breast, warm and resilient within the tissue-fine fabric of her dress. Shudders of pleasure made her skin prickle. Doubts fled magically. She no longer remembered that the skin he touched was not as firm as it had once been. She only reveled in how good it felt to be caressed again. She closed her eyes, and braved the question she, too, needed to have answered.
“How long has it been for you?”
His hand continued its gentle exploration even as he told her, “Three months.”
“With who?”
The hand stilled on her breast. “Does it matter?”
“If she still means something to you, it does.”
“She doesn’t.”
She relaxed even further, relieved more than she could say by his answer. The crepe dress seemed to have no more substance than a cobweb as he cupped his wide palms about the lower swell of both breasts and made the fabric slip seductively across her nipples, tempting them, making her insecurities retreat farther and farther, replacing them with the vast need to be touched again, fondled, loved.
“Oh, Cherokee, you feel so good,” he murmured against her naked shoulder, dropping his head forward and crushing her back against him.
“So do you.” She covered his hands and pressed them firmly against her breasts as if to absorb every nuance of tenderness. The wide palms moved beneath her hands, gentling and arousing at once, appeasing the need for quiet exploration. “Oh, Brown,” she admitted breathily, “I’ve needed this for so long.”
“I know,” came his gruff voice beside her ear. “We all do.” Then his fingertips familiarized themselves with the belled shapes of her nipples. He folded them between his thumbs and the edges of his hands, lifting her breasts at the same time, sending tiny tuggings of ache feathering along her nerves.
She hardly realized she’d sighed until his voice whispered in the hair above her ear, “That’s better, Cherokee . . . relax.”
And she was—oh, she was—for his hands seemed to stroke away her lingering misgivings, and the easy pace he’d set won her trust. His hands were very hard, both front and back, yet their touch was sensitive, and she made no effort to stop one from escaping her light hold. It slid over her stomach, where the fingers spread wide for a moment, then closed again before pressing into the hollow beside her hip. His touch became feather light as with a single fingertip he scribed a twining grapevine upon the mound of femininity within her silken skirt. He sent a perceptible shiver through her, for his movement over the crepe made it slip across equally silky undergarments until the sleek touch of her clothing sent ripples of sensuality up her spine. It made her powerfully aware of her own sexuality, this touch that was half caress, half tickle, and all arousal. She sensed him gauging her reaction, listening to the accelerated beat of her heart, feeling it beneath the palm that still pleasured her breast. At last he slipped his hand fully over the curve of her femininity, bringing her to know a wild rapture, a lush awakening.
He murmured her name—Lee, and sometimes Cherokee—kissing her ear, her jaw, her shoulder, as his hands rustled over her, learning her contours, then traveling once more up her stomach and sides until his thumbs hooked the elastic at the top of her dress, taking it down to her waist and freeing her breasts to his palms, which lingered only momentarily before one slipped low within her garments to touch her intimately for the first time. His voice was ragged as he uttered, “Oh, Cherokee, I’ve wanted this since the first night I saw you in that motel room.”
She smiled in the dark thinking back to that night, realizing she’d been fighting a losing battle ever since. “I . . . I tried not to think of you, but it . . . it was impossible after that.”
His touch drove the breath from her lungs and set her pulse thrumming, while behind her his body invited with its pressure, then with a faint side to side movement. But it was far easier to accept the first touch than bestow it. As if sensing her hesitancy, he rested his jaw against her temple and encouraged, “You know, you don’t have to ask permission if there’s anything you feel like doing.”
Was he teasing? Only a little, and in an engaging way that sent a new awareness through her body. Yet girlish uncertainty mingled with womanly yearning. His midsection pressed firmly against her backside, verifying the message in his words while she hesitated yet a moment longer.
Then he begged softly, “Please, Cherokee . . .”
At last she drew her arm back, circling behind him to rest upon the tail of his suit jacket. His hand fell still upon her body, and his breath beat harshly against her ear as he waited . . . waited.
It had been so long . . . so long. But during these moments of sweet expectation she realized this intimacy had almost been predestined, for she and Sam had felt that spark from the first, and since then they had revealed bits and pieces of each other in the hope that each would find something more substantial to bring to his act. And now it was here, and her turn had come.
Her hand moved tentatively between them, and Sam backed away, giving her space and the right to know him. Her heart was like a wild thing in her breast as she touched him for the first time, a tentative caress that brought a strange, thick sound from his throat. She explored him through tailored gabardine until he lost the power to remain still beneath her fingers and ordered gruffly, “Turn around, Cherokee.” Suddenly she was spun about by her shoulders, and her arms were lifting while their open mouths met like a crashing of worlds. She pressed her willing body against his, circling his neck, losing her fingers in thick hair at the back of his head, and exploring the contour of his skull before she felt herself being lifted off her feet.
“Your shoes . . .” he ordered against her lips.
Her toes worked the straps off her heels, as first one clunk sounded behind her, then another. A moment later her bare feet rested again on the cool tile floor, and his palms slid within the elastic at her waist, passing along her lower back. Down went the skirt, and with it pantyhose and silky briefs, to form a pool of fabric at her feet. He encircled her with powerful arms, lifted her off the floor for a second time, and kicked the garments aside. Another drugging kiss stretched into an abandoned celebration of discovery while hands, mouths, and hips paid homage. When he lifted his head a long time later, he asked hoarsely, “How do you feel about undressing a man?”
Perhaps it was then that she realized she could easily fall in love with Sam Brown, with this sensitive man who made it all so easy and kissed away the last remaining doubt.
She smiled and replied throatily, “Turn me loose and I’ll show you.”
The pressure fell away, and she slipped her hands under his jacket. Before it hit the floor she was working the knot of his tie from side to side. It joined the jacket. As he unbuttoned his cuffs, his forearms softly brushed her breasts, and his voice came low and husky and certain. “We’re going to be good together, Cherokee. I just know it.”
At that moment she knew it too, and she reached for his shirttails and pulled them free of his trousers.
She did it all, all that he wanted of her, removing each article of clothing with a newfound sense of freedom. And when he too was naked and reaching, her hips were taken firmly against his once more. Her fingertips found his bare chest, and she raised up on tiptoe to settle her bare breasts securely against it, and he ran his palms over her back.
He asked only a single word. “Where?”
“In the living room,” she murmured against his mouth before she was turned around and pulled back against his naked thighs while his legs nudged hers and they made their way onto soft, plush carpeting. She felt the pressure of his lips against her shoulder and answered their tacit command by bending with him. As they knelt, with one of his knees between hers, he aroused her with a magical touch until she lost all sense of time and drifted into a sensual paradise where a three-year void was eradicated by his knowing hands. The heat came slowly, starting in her toes, up her legs, along her flanks until her head pressed back against his shoulder and waves of pleasure broke across her skin.
She groaned, a strangled sound of abandon, and he clamped a steadying arm just below her breasts, holding her tightly against him while bringing her again the sense of self she’d lost somewhere along the years.
Behind her he was tense and rigid as his fingers curled into her shoulders, and a moment later she was turned and lowered quickly to her back and spread-eagled against the soft living room carpet.
It was a wild, primitive act they shared this first time, as if neither could control the tempo or the pressure. Celibacy had given Lee a need to match Sam’s, so neither was concerned about the way they displayed their wantonness. It happened, as it was meant to happen, in an elemental and satisfying way neither had planned or anticipated. And when it was over and he fell heavily across her, they knew they’d shared something exceptional, even rare.
“Cherokee . . .” was all he could find the breath to say, but the single word was an accolade.
“Your Honor . . .” In other times, other contexts, the title had taken on a note of teasing, but now it was a sigh.
“You’re wonderful,” he praised.
“So are you . . . and . . . different than I expected.”
He braced up, though his weight still pinned her lower half. “And what did you expect?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” With both hands she soothed the damp hair from his temples. Though it was still dark, her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and she could discern the outlines of his features. “All I know is I was very unsure, and . . . and feeling rather inadequate, and you made me forget all that.”
He ran an index finger along the rim of her nose. “Inadequate? Why?”
How foolish it seemed now, yet minutes ago she had felt uncertain. “The second time a woman loses the confidence that comes so easily with the first time.”
He kissed the tip of her nose with exquisite tenderness. “You’re anything but inadequate, Cherokee. But in case you still have doubts, I’m volunteering to do my best to soothe them—indefinitely.”
She tried to chuckle, but it was hard with his weight pressing the air from her lungs. She settled comfortably at his side and lay with her head on his arm while his hand rested on her hip.
She had forgotten the deep lethargy and satisfying afterglow of love. She basked in it now, resting in the curve of his arm, cherishing this lazy time which was the antithesis of what had just passed, but equally as necessary.
She curled up even more securely against his side, listening to the thud of his heart against her ear and running a finger from the corner of his lips to the soft center. His kissed her finger, which slipped into the moist, lush interior of his mouth before he bit it very gently, then continued holding it between his teeth.
Ruminating on the minutes just past, she murmured, “That was terrible, wasn’t it?”
“What was so terrible about it?”
“Uninhibited,” she mumbled, slightly chagrined at the memory.