"I'm not acting on impulse. I've been thinking about this for days."
"About what?"
He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. He knew how to kiss. From Aurielle Davenport to Lucretia von what's her name, he had no doubt had plenty of practice kissing. His mouth applied a slight suction to hers that sealed them together. His tongue was active but not invasive. It penetrated slowly and deliciously.
Echoing the hungry sounds that vibrated in his throat, Lilah kissed him back. Then, realizing that she shouldn't be, she angled her head back and away. "No, Adam."
"Yes." His searching lips found her neck arched and wanting.
"This isn't part of the therapy program."
"It's part of my program." His whisper conveyed the urgency with which he reached around her and unfastened the bra of her bikini. It dropped into her lap. Lowering his head, he rubbed his cheek against her breasts and nuzzled the deep cleavage between them with his nose and lips.
Lilah made a whimpering sound that could have meant pleasure, regret, or guilt. Or any combination thereof. "Adam, stop, please. You don't know what you're doing."
"The hell I don't." He took a gentle lovebite out of the soft fullness of her breast, then kissed the spot, pressing his lips into her flesh.
"You just want me because I'm here."
"I just want you."
"Because you're dependent on me."
"Because you're sexy as hell."
"You kissed me before."
"That wasn't a kiss. That was an insult."
"And this follows. It fits right into the pattern. First the fury, then the infatuation. You're mistaking dependency for desire."
"I've never mistaken desire, Lilah." As they formed the words, his lips tantalizingly brushed her nipple, bringing it to a peak.
She moaned when his tongue began to feather it rapidly. "Don't, don't."
He didn't give credence to her feeble plea, but drew the stiff crest between his lips and sucked it lightly. "You're sweet, Lilah," he murmured while moving his mouth to her other breast. "Do you taste this sweet all over?"
She embedded her fingers in his hair, intending to lift his head away from her. But she couldn't bring herself to. His warm, wet mouth was giving her pleasure, the likes of which she had never felt before. Heat swirled through her breasts, between her thighs, creating an exquisite, feverish ache. "This is wrong, Adam, a big mistake."
"Then why are you letting me do it?" He raised his head and looked deeply into her troubled eyes.
"I don't know," she answered, her voice tinged with desperation and confusion. "I don't know."
He whisked a kiss across her lips. "Because you want to be kissed as much as I want to kiss you. Don't lie about it. I won't believe you."
As his mouth captured hers again, his hands closed over her breasts. He kneaded them gently while his tongue mated with hers. His thumbs indolently stroked her nipples, which were still damp from his kisses.
Weakly, Lilah laid her hands on his shoulders. He wasn't wearing a shirt. His skin, which she knew intimately by touch alone, was smooth and warm. She longed to fling her arms around his neck and draw the hairy warmth of his chest against her bare skin, but she resisted the temptation.
Her mind was muzzy with passion, but clear enough to realize that she was violating a staunch professional creed without quite knowing how it had come about or at what point she had lost control of the situation. It was imperative that she get it back.
She pushed against his shoulders at the same time she stood up. Her bikini bra fell to the terrace. She bent to retrieve it, then turned her back and replaced it. Before facing him again, she pulled on her beach cover-up and wrapped it around herself until very little skin was visible.
Without a word — and with as much professional detachment as she could muster when her lips were still throbbing from his kiss and her breasts were still tingling with sensations — she stepped behind his chair and pushed it forward. They reached his room and got him from the chair to the bed without speaking. Once he was settled, she garnered enough courage to look him in the eye.
"I'm appalled because of what happened."
"You're wet because of what happened."
She gave a quick, soundless gasp, shut her eyes, and shook her head in denial of the truth. "We'll forget all about it," she said.
"I dare you to even try."
"We'll pretend it never happened."
"Impossible."
"It'll never happen again."
"Like hell."
"If it does, I'll leave."
"Liar."
"Good night."
"Sweet dreams."
She left him and went into her own room. As before, her senses were heightened. The moonlight spilling through the windows resembled molten silver. The priceless area rug felt wonderful beneath her bare feet. She sat down on the very edge of the bed, lowering herself to it carefully, as if it were a ledge overlooking a steep canyon.
Sightlessly staring into near space, she raised her hand and exploringly touched her lips. They felt swollen. She ran her tongue across her lower lip. She tasted Adam.
Her eyes slid closed, and against her stubborn will, she made a yearning sound. She hadn't believed it could ever happen, not for real, not seriously, certainly not to her. She would have felt safe betting anything dear to her that she would never get emotionally involved with a patient. That rule was on page one of the physical therapists' handbook Yet here she sat, her emotions jangling, her nerve ends sizzling, and there didn't seem to be a thing she could do about it.
Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Oh, she'd had her share of fanny patters. More than one wandering hand had ventured beneath her skirt while she was giving a patient a rubdown. She'd been groped and grabbed by scores of amorous patients who fancied themselves in love with her because she was intimate with their bodies. She warded off those unsolicited passes, dismissed them as professional hazards, and forgot them almost as soon as they occurred.
This she wouldn't forget. Not soon, if ever. She wanted to deny the incident had happened. Short of that, she wanted to deny its power. But it had happened. And it had been powerful. The evidence of its potency was there. Between her thighs. On her lips. On her breasts.
She unhooked her bra and looked at her breasts. Yes, it had been real, not her imagination. There were the faint scratches his stubbled cheeks and chin had left on her skin. The tips of her breasts were still rosy and damp and tender. She dared to touch herself.
When the telephone on the nightstand rang, she jumped as though she'd been shot. Snatching up the receiver, she shouted, "What? I mean, hello. I mean, Cavanaugh residence."
"Lilah? What's wrong?"
"What's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong," she shouted crankily. "You woke me up, that's what's wrong. Do you know what time it is here?"
"No. What time is it?"
"How the hell should I know? It's late, though, isn't that enough?"
"I'm sorry," Elizabeth said contritely. "But at least I'm calling you with good news."
"The baby?" Lilah asked, suddenly switching moods.
"No, not yet. The doctor says it's still weeks away."
"How do you feel?"
"Like a blimp."
"I'll give Goodyear your name and number. They might want to use you."
"How's Adam?"
"He … he's, uh, fine. Fine."
"Stronger?"
Lilah swallowed, recalling the strength she'd felt pressing against her hips while sitting on his lap. "Uh, yes, definitely stronger."
"The two of you haven't murdered each other yet?"
"Not quite. We've come close."
"That's why I'm calling. We finally found a replacement."