A Doctor in His House. Lilian Darcy

soon. This was the center of it, the meaning of it. This was where it was always the best.”

      “Yes …”

      “Yes!”

      “But we stuffed it up.”

      “We stuffed everything else up,” he corrected her. “We never stuffed this. Never once. We slept together on our first date and we never, ever got it wrong.”

       Chapter Four

      Daniel heard himself sweet-talking—practically begging—Scarlett into bed and wondered what the hell he was thinking.

      Start into this again? Risk losing himself this way? He didn’t know if he should wish he’d never stopped beside her skewed car on the verge of the road this afternoon, or if he might count it as the luckiest action of the year.

      His body had a pretty powerful opinion on the subject, but should he listen to it? His body told him he could have Scarlett in the palm of his hand with the right touch behind her ear, the right peachy softening of his mouth over hers, exactly the way he’d had her before, but how crazy would that be?

      He couldn’t believe how much he wanted her, even with all the baggage they had, all the memories of how it hadn’t worked before. His body said none of that mattered. The past was gone. Now was what counted. But he knew that now didn’t last, while its legacy often did.

      It was like in a cartoon, with a tiny angel version of himself sitting on one shoulder and a tiny devil on the other. Talking him up. Talking him down.

      “You can regret it in the morning, big fella,” the tiny cartoon devil urged. “Now is now.”

      “She’s worth more than a one-night stand,” the cartoon angel insisted.

      “Doesn’t have to be one night. The regret might be weeks away. The regret might never happen.”

      While the cartoon symbols of his conscience bickered away, Scarlett made the decision for them. He could feel her body shaking beneath his touch, the power of her response that much stronger because she otherwise seemed so thin and frail with the pain and dizziness that were only just losing their hold. “Upstairs,” she said. “In a bed.” She took his hands and made them move down her body, the message that she wanted his touch so naked and clear. “Because I don’t have a strong enough head for anything creative tonight.”

      “You mean—?” he began, slow about it in spite of her bluntness and her signals, not able to believe that she would make it this easy, even though she’d always made it easy six years ago.

      She’d never used sex as a bargaining chip or a power play or a strategy. Not even right at the end. As he’d reminded her just now, the very last thing they did before she told him it was over was to make love with dizzying, almost desperate satisfaction, as if there’d been no problems between them at all.

      “You’re right,” she said simply, with her palm cupped softly against his jaw and her whispered words just a fraction of an inch from his mouth. “We never once got this wrong.”

      He carried her.

      Not because she needed it, the way she had on the verge of the road, but because the sheer, crazy charge of hearing her say that she wanted him had no place else to go. He just scooped her up and settled her against his chest and went for the stairs, while she tightened her arms around his neck and tried to control her breathing. “Oh, Lord, Daniel, how do you make me want this so much?” He felt so strong and full of triumph about what was happening that he practically laughed out loud.

      It was so sudden.

      So very much wanted.

      Both of them.

      Total equality about it.

      He’d had to fight all evening not to keep looking at her and mostly it was a fight he’d lost. He’d watched her color slowly come back and her movements become stronger and less dominated by pain. He’d watched her sipping the soup and chewing neatly on the toast with her eyes closed. She’d kept her hands wrapped tight around the mug and he could see in her face that it made her feel better, even before she’d said so.

      He’d watched her occasional attempts to open her eyes, the dark lashes lifting to show darker pupils before she’d made a frustrated sound and closed them again. He’d watched the careful way she talked. Their past relationship was written so clearly on her face, in good ways and bad, if only she knew.

      He wasn’t done with this, and she wasn’t, either.

      It was unfinished, six years ago.

      Or it was finished wrong, which came to the same thing.

      “I’m scared,” she said.

      “I won’t drop you.” Her butt was safe against his stomach, while her thighs and spine pressed on his arms, with such warm, satisfying weight.

      “I’m scared of pretty much everything except you dropping me.”

      “You changing your mind?” They’d reached the top of the stairs. He lowered her down, the initial charge of his energy spent. They held each other almost desperately, as if their contact wouldn’t be able to reconnect if it broke.

      “No! But scared is part of it.” She stroked his arm, sliding her hand beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt and then bringing it right down to his wrist. Her touch triggered a million nerve endings into a response. “Honesty matters in bed.” She spoke as if she knew from experience. Different experience. Bad experience. Not what they’d had together. Her marriage, he guessed.

      “It does,” he agreed. He stepped closer, even though that was barely possible. “Honestly, then? I’m scared, too.”

      “Yeah?”

      “Same reasons, maybe. That it won’t be as good.”

      She laughed, hunched her shoulders and gave a shiver. “I’m scared of the opposite.” She held on to the belt loops at his waistband as if she needed the support, and pressed her forehead into his shoulder. His jaw settled against her hair as if it lived there.

      “What’s the opposite?” He couldn’t think straight. Her hand had come whispering across the front of his jeans. He wasn’t sure if she even knew she was doing it. Her eyes were closed, the way they had been all day. She was so naked in what she gave away, when she couldn’t see.

      “That it’ll be too good,” she promised. “Mind-blowingly, terrifyingly good. And you’ll reach into my guts and squeeze and I won’t know where to go next.”

      “Did that happen before?”

      “Yes. It did. And I don’t know how much of that was because of … well, my marriage.”

      “Not a factor this time around.”

      “No.”

      “You squeezed my guts pretty hard, too,” he admitted on a growl. “You nearly broke them. And you’re squeezing ‘em right now.”

      “Am I?”

      “Yes. Hard. It almost hurts. It aches.”

      “Good,” she said, almost fiercely. “Because I’m aching just as much.”

      He kissed her because he couldn’t help it. Because her mouth was right there, so soft, with a tiny patch of dryness on her lower lip that he wanted to moisten with his tongue. She responded in an instant and they deepened the kiss with mutual need, couldn’t get enough of each other.

      He took her lower lip lightly between his teeth, softened it, stroked it, covered her whole mouth with his and felt the deliberate caress she gave back to him, and the little nips and tastes. Her mouth moved with velvety softness and he chased every movement, wanted it deeper and deeper and seriously couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t get enough.

      Sometimes a kiss was just