Reaching First by Mindy Klasky Page A

the pounding of her heart as she got out of the car. She did feel the breeze teasing at her dress, sparking little shivers down the inside of her legs.  
    Or maybe that wasn’t the breeze. Maybe it was the man beside her making the sparks fly as he walked her to the front door.
    He stopped on the top step. If he’d had a cap, she was pretty sure he’d be crushing it in his hands, turning it over and over as he scuffed his toe against the porch. “Thank you,” he said. “I had a lovely evening.”
    How formal. How sweet. How very not the image she had in her mind of the man in front of her. Because she definitely wasn’t thinking about sweet at the moment. She was thinking about how that stubble of beard would feel against her lips. She was thinking about how rough his hands would feel as he unbuttoned the top of her dress. She was thinking about how his erection would feel through his trousers as he leaned into her, as he pinned her against the door with the full weight of his body.
    And then she wasn’t thinking at all.
    Her hand found his, like it had a mind of its own. Her fingers laced between his and she flexed her wrist, pulling him toward her.
    His lips were warmer than she’d imagined. Smoother. He tilted his mouth to a better angle, and she felt his free hand at the back of her head, cradling her, tangling in her hair to keep her exactly where he wanted her.
    The velvet touch of his tongue made her tremble, and her fingers tightened around his. He laughed, amusement curving his lips even as she opened her mouth to his.
    She’d been kissed before, countless times. But she’d never been kissed like this. She’d never been kissed by a man who seemed to be memorizing her, who seemed to be reading her every response, absorbing her, reflecting her back to herself.  
    This kiss was infinitely more than lips on lips, tongue against tongue. This kiss was a full-body experience. He pulled her against his chest; she felt his heart beating through his shirt. His hips rested against hers; he was obviously not ashamed of his full response to her, of the hardness that pressed against the cotton of her skirt. He’d moved deliberately, with full awareness of his body. Of hers.
    She suspected Tyler Brock was a man who did everything for a reason.
    And that realization sent her crashing out of the heady embrace, out of the magic of his kiss. Because if he did everything for a reason, then he’d gotten into that bar fight for a reason. He’d been responsible when he folded his hand into a fist and smashed it into the jaw of an innocent guy who was just having a couple of drinks with a friend.
    He’d pleaded guilty. He’d been sentenced to community service. The community service that she was responsible for monitoring, that she had to certify to a court.
    And that was why she had to force herself to take a step away.
    She felt the door behind her. Solid. Strangely cold in the July night.
    His palm was warm against her jaw. “What’s wrong, Em?” he asked, his fingers fluttering against the pulse point beneath her ear. His voice pulled the taffy of her insides.
    She turned her head to the side. “This was a bad idea. My fault, but a bad idea. I need to fill out a report to the court. I need to testify when you’ve worked your hours.”
    She saw him consider arguing, his face tightening in protest.
    But he respected her more than that. He collected himself quickly. He stepped back and let the breeze slice between them. He ran a hand through his hair, looking like a chastised little boy, like the Texas youth who had scrambled from one wrongdoing to another.
    She forced herself to think like a social worker. To think like someone with an obligation to a court of law. “What time will you get here tomorrow?”
    He shook his head. “I’m flying out to Chicago in the morning. We have ten days on the road.”
    Ten days. That sounded like forever.
    She locked her knees and stood straight. Ten days was exactly the break