Blame It on Paris by Jennifer Greene Page A

different when she woke up this time.
    It was as if, in the past twenty-four hours, she’d been Will-drugged. Still was, when he carried in the tray, buck naked. The man didn’t have a modest bone in his entire long, strong, deliciously male body. But suddenly she felt different. Different enough to tuck the sheet securely under her arms. It seemed silly, when he’d obviously seen every inch of her body in exquisite, thorough detail, but somehow she felt the odd need to hide all the love bites and nuzzle marks he’d left.
    He plunked down beside her and they dove into their makeshift meal. She didn’t try talking until she’d devoured a second sandwich, but after that, she swiftly ducked under the sheet, pulled up his fluffy comforter and snuggled into the pillow.
    â€œWill…” Outside, it was still pouring, lightning spearing the sky, wind howling through the cracks. “What are we going to do?”
    â€œAs soon as we’re both done eating, I’m guessing we’re going to sleep. You wore me out, woman.”
    â€œThat’s what I’ve been trying to grapple with. It’s not possible that we’ve been doing this. That I’ve been doing this. It’s seriously wrong.” She recognized that her entire behavior had led him to believe otherwise. Hell’s bells, her entire behavior had led her to believe otherwise, but there it was. Reality seemed to have shown up out of nowhere. Or maybe she’d finally caught a couple seconds where she wasn’t sucked under by all that wicked, powerful passion.
    He lowered his empty plate to the floor, switched off the lamp and eased down next to her, pillow to pillow. He didn’t brush her off. He could have. Didn’t roll his eyes at her sudden attack of regretful guilts, either, and for damn sure, he could have done that.
    â€œJust for the record,” he said, “I’ve never gone near a woman who ever took me under before. Not like this. I mean it. Ever.”
    â€œYeah, well. It’s totally my fault, not yours.”
    But he wasn’t playing scorekeeper on the guilt record. “I don’t do guilt. It’s one of the best things about giving up Catholicism. Truth is, I don’t think people need guilt to keep them in line anyway. Most people seem to get up every day, trying to be the best people they can be at that moment in time.” He ran his fingers through her hair, looking thoughtful, as if confused how that bit of philosophy had sneaked out of him. In other ways he was being careful, like in not touching body parts. More, he was keeping in touch, with that finger-light caress. “So I don’t know how to draw conclusions about what’s going on with us…except to say that you and I seem to fit. To be right together. I wasn’t looking for it, wasn’t expecting it. But that’s sure how it is. At least for me.”
    â€œFor me, too.” Since he was doing that finger-caress thing, she did, too. On the slope of his shoulder, gleaming in the rain-light. “In fact, that’s exactly what’s scaring me. What’s confusing me. I’ve never done casual relationships. Ever. It’s not possible. If you just knew me…”
    No smile. But he suddenly loomed over her, an expression on his face that she’d never seen. Tenderness. And something else. Something…that invoked a soft shiver all through her.
    â€œI do know you,” he said. “I know you like this….”
    And he showed her.
    Â 
    W ILL FIGURED it had to be around three in the morning. If there was a fire, he doubted he could find the energy to move. Not that he’d say it out loud, but he’d always considered himself a good lover. Certainly he’d never had a problem with some eloquent sustaining action, so to speak.
    But they’d made love how many times?
    His legs were limp. His body was limp. Even willie was limp. He could have slept