"Not very often. It gets in my way."
"Then why haven't you cut it short, the way Summer wears hers?"
"Because I look funny with short hair," she answered with a shrug.
He laughed softly. "Or could it be that inside that practical, responsible exterior is a secret romantic who likes long hair?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she replied, annoyed. "Would you mind taking me back to Summer's now? I would really like to change into clean clothes."
"I offered you some of mine."
"I doubt that you would have anything my size," she said, her words a challenge.
"About the best I could offer is a sweatshirt and sweatpants," he agreed. "They'd be clean, but I can't guarantee fit. Afraid I don't keep women's clothes around." His words answered her challenge.
"Yes, well, I'll be fine until I can change into my own clothes," she muttered, suddenly uncomfortable. She picked up her purse and tucked it under her arm.
"Wait a minute." Clay slid his feet into his shoes, then walked toward her, stopping only a few inches away from her. "I wanted to thank you again for what you did this afternoon."
She shifted on her feet. "You've already thanked me. Repeatedly."
"Not properly," he murmured. Very deliberately he removed her glasses, folded them and dropped them into the outside pocket of her purse as she stood watching him, making no effort to move away. "Let me thank you properly, Spring." And he lowered his mouth to hers, slowly, giving her plenty of time to draw back.
She stayed where she was, her lips parting just as his touched them. She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight of his devastating face, blocking out reason, locking in sensation. His kiss was that of an experienced lover, thorough and deep and sure. She was trembling when it ended, and he had touched her with no more than his mouth. He drew back only an inch or so, took one long look at her expression, then groaned and pulled her into his arms.
The second kiss was just as thorough, just as deep, but not quite as sure. For some reason Spring thought that Clay seemed less polished this time, guided more by passion than practice. She could feel the unsteadiness of his arms around her. It would have been hard to resist him before. It was impossible now.
Neither of them noticed when her purse hit the floor at her feet. They both noticed when her arms went around his neck, pressing her full length against him. Their moans were simultaneous, aroused. Spring allowed her head to fall back, deepening the kiss. Clay swept her slender body with his hands, learning her curves, seeking out the hollow of her spine, finally pressing inward to hold her against his thighs.
Hard. He was so hard—his arms muscled from whatever sport he regularly played, his chest solid and plated where her breasts were flattened against it. Hard where his arousal boldly made itself felt against her abdomen. Yet his mouth over hers, the golden hair at his nape where her fingers burrowed were soft. So soft. She wanted to explore every inch of him, to kiss every soft spot, stroke every hard one. She wanted him.
Emotions that were already strained from the stress of the afternoon flared into desire so hot, so intense that it shook both of them. Clay didn't know whether the shudder had been hers or his or mutual. He only knew that he wanted her, needed her, as he'd never wanted or needed before. Her fiery response to his kiss was driving him mad. How could he have known that such demanding passion smoldered beneath her proper, almost prim appearance? He was delighted with the discovery. He wanted more.
"Spring," he muttered, raising his hands to cradle her face as he continued to caress her with slanting, nibbling kisses. Nothing more. Just her name. He had needed to say it.
"Oh, Clay," she breathed without opening her eyes, her hands sliding around to rest against his chest. Her fingers splayed, then curled, kneading the taut skin beneath the soft sweater.
"Look at me. Spring."
Almost shyly her lashes fluttered upward. Even slightly blurred by her myopia, his face was so beautiful. "It's not fair," she murmured, speaking to herself.
"What's not fair, sweetheart?"
"That you should look like this," she ans
wered incautiously, touching her fingertips to his tanned cheek. "That you should make me feel this way."
"I could say the same about you," he replied, nuzzling her cheek. "You're so lovely. And you make me crazy."
"Oh, God, what am I doing?" She dropped her hand and stepped back, crossing her arms at her waist in unconscious defensiveness. "Take me back to Sausalito, Clay."
"The only place I want to take you is upstairs to my bedroom," he told her unsteadily. "I want to make love to you for hours, until you're too weak to move. And then I want to start all over again."
Her heart pounded, her mind filled with tantalizing images, but she held tightly to reason. "No, Clay."
He exhaled gustily, shoving fingers that were still not quite steady through his rumpled hair. "Okay, we'll wait until you're ready. But the time will come, Spring. It's inevitable."
"No, it won't," she returned with admirable confidence. "I won't let it."