Simon stood on her porch, dark circles under his eyes. He looked tired. No, that wasn’t right, he looked weary. She found herself wanting to pull him inside and hold him, as if she could somehow pass her strength on to him and heal him.
“I hate events like this,” he began. “They all do it, hold a fundraiser, and I’m the guest of honor. Everyone wants to talk to me. But I’m not the kind of guy who has funny stories appropriate for a cocktail party, and it’s not the kind of place where it’s appropriate for me to discuss the details of my work. I didn’t ask you, because I hate going, not because I wanted to hurt you.”
She stepped back to let him in. He moved past her into the living room, then turned to face her.
“I don’t do this,” he continued. “I don’t get involved. But I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you. It started out as chemistry, pure sexual attraction. I don’t even know what to call it. But it’s different now. It’s bigger and I can’t control it and I can’t not be with you.”
She stared at him, trying to take in all that he had said. For a powerful man who changed lives with the magic of his hands, he looked surprisingly vulnerable. Exposed. As if she could see all of him and he knew and he worried.
With every romantic relationship she’d ever had, she’d worried about not being enough. Had been told she wasn’t enough, time after time. Here was Simon—wonderful and kind and everything a woman could want—and he worried about the same thing. Not being enough. How was she supposed to keep from loving him?
She crossed to him and put her hands on the lapel of his jacket, before pushing it off his shoulders. Catching it as it fell, she draped the garment on the back of her sofa.
He grabbed her arms. “Say something.”
“Thank you for the flowers.”
She raised herself on tiptoe to kiss him. He bent his head and pressed his mouth to hers.
At the first touch, at the first whisper of his breath, she felt herself relax. She would think about his words later, let them heal her, but for now, all she needed was him.
He reached for her, then drew back.
“Don’t you want to talk about what happened?” he asked.
“No.”
She didn’t need to. Not anymore.
He drew her to him again, this time holding on as if he would never let go. His mouth claimed hers in a deep kiss that stirred her very soul. His hands were everywhere—up and down her back, along her arms, cupping her face. She felt his arousal, but more important, she felt his need and responded in kind.
She touched him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Underneath was a T-shirt and she groaned in impatience as she pushed it up so she could touch bare skin. He undid the zipper at the back of her dress, unfastened her bra with a flick of his fingers, then cupped her br**sts.
Heat engulfed them. The wanting grew until it was more powerful than the need to breathe. She was already wet and desperate, her legs shaking.
“Take me,” she whispered against his mouth, her fingers tugging at his belt.
He froze, his body stiff, his eyes locked on hers.
“Take me,” she said again, rubbing her hand against his erection.
For a second, he did nothing. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the bedroom. He jerked open the nightstand drawer so hard, it crashed to the floor. Everything in it went flying, but he found the box of condoms in seconds.
While he opened the box, she pulled off her thong and slid onto the bed. He kicked off his shoes, unfastened his slacks, shoved them down, then joined her.
“Montana, I should—”
“No.”
She reached between them, guiding him to her. The tip of him brushed against her opening and she pulsed forward, pushing up as he slid inside.
He filled her spectacularly, stretching, rubbing, exciting. She wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him in more. His mouth settled on hers, his tongue teasing her to a new level of arousal while his erection did the same to the rest of her body.
Deeper and deeper, faster and faster. She lost herself in the desperate race to her release. She touched him everywhere she could reach, clung to him, pumping her hips as her muscles tightened. He filled her over and over again. With every thrust, her tension rose.
He drew back a little so he could stare into her eyes. She looked back, knowing he saw the pleasure on her face as she saw it on his.
Still watching her, he straightened a little more. Continuing to thrust in and out, he reached a hand between them and rubbed her swollen center. One circle, two, and on the third, she lost herself in her climax, the waves rippling through her, making her shudder and cry out and hang on.
The pleasure went on for what felt like forever, then he gasped and went still, his muscles jerking as he gave himself to her.
Later, when they were both naked and in her bed rather than on it, he stroked her face.
“I don’t understand you,” he said. “You’re not still mad.”
“That’s true.”
“But it’s not the flowers.”
“No. It’s what you said.” Nevada and Max had been right. Simon’s actions had been about him, not her. He hadn’t been making a statement, he’d been trying to protect her.