Home At Last Chance (Last Chance #2)(37)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“I want to feel your skin,” she said.

“Okay.” He reached over his head and pulled off his old T-shirt. He tossed it on the couch. “Your turn.”

She stared at him.

He smiled.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said. But she wanted to lose her T-shirt, and she wanted to lose her inner Puritan, who at that very moment was trying to take control of this situation.

So Sarah reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it off.

She tossed it next to his. He inspected her then, and what she saw reflected in his gaze made something hitch in her chest. No man had ever gazed at her like that, not that there had been all that many men in her life. He stared down at her as if he thought she was beautiful and desirable.

He had her bra unfastened in the next few seconds. No fuss, no muss, no fumbling. He knew what he was doing, thank goodness, because she was out of her element, out of her depth, clueless, and completely out of control.

In the next moment, Tulane had backed her up to the couch. She fell back into it, and he came after her, kneeling on the carpet in front of her.

He came at her once again. His mouth found hers and he nibbled her lips for a little moment and then trailed his tongue over her jaw and down her nape and finally to her breast.

Her hands found the warm skin of his shoulders and then went on an expedition of their own, trailing down over the hard planes of his back. She scratched him without exactly meaning to.

He groaned.

The noise came from down deep in his throat, and he shuddered at the same time. In the next moment, something changed in his approach. Polite went right out the door.

In the next five minutes, he had her completely undressed, and for the first time in her life, she wasn’t embarrassed. She was too busy experiencing a wide range of sensations that Tulane seemed to have a real talent for creating.

His hands and his mouth seemed to be everywhere at once on every part of her body, until her little mainspring coiled up again, much faster and much tighter than it had on Saturday morning.

And then something snapped, and the world exploded, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it but scream her head off as her body took her on a wild ride.

When it was over, it occurred to her that Tulane still had most of his clothes on, and she had not exactly gotten completely intimate with him. In fact, she hadn’t even gotten into the bedroom yet.

Wow!

Okay, he could relax now. Only that didn’t seem possible. Holding Sarah in his arms was about the best thing he’d ever experienced in his life.

It felt way too good. And it didn’t feel mature either. In fact, he felt like a teenager watching his first-ever X-rated flick. Sarah gazed up at him just like a porno star, a little sweaty, her hair messed up, her lips red and plump, her hazel eyes dark, her n**ples…

He wanted to pull her right down onto the carpet. By the little self-satisfied grin on her lips, he had this uncanny notion that she might actually let him do it.

He’d seen that look in her eyes once before. Right after he’d fed her that first weak margarita down at Dot’s Spot. Right before they started dancing. That look said she had just figured out that orgasms were like potato chips. You couldn’t have just one.

Which was a good thing. He could build on that. He had a few additional things he wanted to teach her, but he needed to get her into the bedroom.

On the other hand, she was staring up at him like she might be ready for something advanced, like doing it on the rug. Or on the dining room table, or any place he decided to do it. A million depraved ideas marched right through his head. Damn, but his sweet little church lady was as hot as they came.

“Tulane,” Sarah said in a husky voice, pulling him back from his fantasies.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re still wearing your pants.”

“You noticed.”

“I want you to take them off.”

“I thought you would never ask, but uh…”

“What?”

“Uh… I think we need to go into the bedroom. We could stay here, but… uh…”

She grinned at him. “Okay. You’re the coach.”

Tulane got up and pulled her into his arms and carried her across the living room. She sank her head down on his shoulder and that made him feel manly in a way that confused the crap out of him, because she didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. He regularly bench-pressed twice that.

It was dark in the bedroom, which was probably just as well. Luckily it wasn’t a real large bedroom, so finding the bed proved no difficulty.

He put her down on the edge of the bed, and was about to reach for his belt buckle, when she popped up on the bed and beat him to it.

He stood there and let her undress him. It was probably the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced in his life.

When she finally had him all the way out of his jeans, she giggled and said, “So, um, you’re going to tell me if I do anything wrong, right?”

“You’re doing just fine so far,” he assured her. In fact, Sarah found more erogenous zones on his body in fifteen minutes than anyone had discovered in the last fifteen years. By the time she found the rubber he kept in his wallet for emergencies like this one, he was lying on his back, gasping for breath, and hardly able to even form the words: “Ride me, baby.”

And just like that, the woman up and straddled him.

Man-oh-man, she wound him up tight and then she let him go. His engine kicked in, and it felt like he was riding a jet, going 800 miles an hour without any steering wheel. And when he hit the wall, it felt sooooo… gooood.

Chapter 17

Sarah cracked open her right eye. The sun poured in through the venetian blinds, making bars of shadow and light across the rumpled sheets. She rolled to her side, and charley-horsed muscles complained. She ran her palm across the pima cotton, the sun heating the back of her hand.

It was late, but Tuesday was an off day.

Tulane had left the bed a few minutes ago. The sound of water running in the bathroom confirmed that he was taking a shower. The digital clock on the bedside table read 10:30. She was kind of surprised that Tulane was still there.

Didn’t secret lovers usually make off in the middle of the night?

She drew in a deep breath, redolent of Tulane and the two of them together. It made her want him all over again. This must mean that her inner Puritan had finally been laid to rest. Hallelujah! She would not be mourned.

Although, to be completely honest, the death of her inner Puritan didn’t presage a complete fall into depravity. Sarah had no desire to become a harlot. She just wanted more of Tulane Rhodes.

Oh boy.

That was a problem.

What had happened last night was a onetime thing. She had asked him to help, and he’d done what she’d asked. They had agreed on the rules.

Her throat closed up, and she fought her emotions. She had no reason to be sad about what had happened, because he had given her something wonderful and precious and unforgettable. He had been sweet and patient and loving, as well as hot and wicked and amazing. She could ask no more of him. She decided she wouldn’t. She would be brave and live by their agreement.

She got up, padded to her closet, and pulled on her big terrycloth robe. At a moment like this, a woman needed an occupation to keep her mind off difficult, emotional things. Making coffee seemed appropriate. She headed for the kitchen and her electric coffeemaker.

Five minutes later, her doorbell rang with the urgency of a fire alarm. The visitor leaned on that thing, making it ding and dong several times in succession. This was followed by hearty pounding.

Maybe the apartment was on fire, although she didn’t smell smoke. She headed to the door and opened it.

And there, standing on the other side, was her worst nightmare, wearing a thunderous expression and a Roman collar. Dad didn’t ask permission before he marched right into her apartment as if he owned the place.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Sarah asked, trying not to sound panicked.

Her father turned and inspected her out of a pair of flashing brown eyes. He stabbed one of his hands through his silvery red hair. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday afternoon.”

“Uh…” Her voice faded and her mind seized up like one of Tulane’s motors when it broke. Somehow she didn’t think it would be a good move to tell her Bible-toting father the truth.

So she stood there staring up at him as he stared down at her. After thirty seconds of close inspection of her disheveled appearance, the expression on his face softened. “Good heavens, Sarah, are you sick?”

She almost groaned aloud. “What on earth are you doing here, Dad?” she asked again.

“Jan Applegate fell and broke her ankle yesterday. I’m filling in for her at an ecumenical meeting in Columbia that starts tomorrow. I decided to come early in the hope that maybe I could treat you to lunch, since you don’t work on Tuesdays. I’ve been crazy with worry. I couldn’t get you on your cell phone or your work phone, and no one knew where you were. You look awful. What is it, the flu?”

Great. She’d just had the best sex of her life, and she looked awful.

“Well, as a matter of—”

She never finished the sentence, which was a good thing, since she was about to tell a lie. But Providence and Tulane rescued her.

The good ol’ boy wandered out of the bedroom wearing a towel and a sexy spattering of water droplets. “Hey, Sarah, have you seen my Braves shirt any…” His voice faded out the minute he realized there was a minister standing in the living room. His smile disappeared, and a whole range of new expressions marched across his features, starting with surprise, moving to shock, and ending up with embarrassment.

“Uh… sorry…” He turned on his bare heel and went straight back into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Dad turned in her direction. “Was that who I think it was?” His words had a measured quality to them, as if he were struggling to remain calm.

“You know, Dad, this may come as a big shock to you, but I’m almost twenty-six years old, and I—”

“I asked you a simple question.”

“Depends on who you think that was.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Sarah. I may not have time on Sundays to watch stock car racing, but I know who that was.”

“Then you didn’t have to ask, did you?” She said the words and immediately regretted the sarcasm. Her father’s lips pressed together, and he gave her his own version of the Look.

She met his stare with defiance. After about a minute of this, Dad blinked and turned away, strolling deeper into her temporary abode, taking in the run-of-the-mill furnishings and the little piles of her clothing scattered over the living room rug.

“Well,” he said at long last. It was amazing how much censure the man could invest in a single word. He turned around, his dark eyes intensely bright. “I’d still like to take you to lunch.” He nodded toward the bedroom door. “He’s invited.”

She wet her suddenly dry lips. This was hardly an invitation. Dad was notorious for giving potential boyfriends the third degree, and technically Tulane wasn’t even a potential boyfriend. He was her onetime fling, and she suddenly wished he had played by those rules.