Worse yet, just for a second he imagined that body swelling with pregnancy, and he hardened to the point of pain.
He did get the damn condom on.
They made love almost savagely. He could no longer think, could only try to get deeper, take her harder. She bit him on the shoulder as she came, and that sent him over the edge. Deaf, dumb and blind, all he could do was feel, the pleasure white-hot and the next thing to pain. He sagged on top of her, unable to so much as roll over. If Cait minded, he couldn’t tell. Her arms held him tight.
God. He was probably crushing her. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt her breathe. It took a supreme act of will, but Noah finally managed to heave himself off that beautiful body and then gather her against him. She complied, laying a hand on the center of his chest and tucking her head beneath his chin. She wriggled until she was comfortable, then sighed.
Noah tried to lift his head to see her. He didn’t make it more than an inch off the pillow. Couldn’t have seen her face anyway.
“Was that a happy sound or a miserable one?” he asked hoarsely.
“Umm…” She didn’t sound any more together than he felt. “Contented.”
“Good.” Although he’d have preferred ecstatic. Contented sounded…bland. Nothing about what they had just done was bland, not in his book.
They lay in silence for a long time, him aware of her scent, her breath stirring his skin, of the fact that otherwise she wasn’t moving at all. He didn’t think she was sinking toward sleep, though. He thought she was as aware as he was.
“I suppose I should get dressed,” she said eventually, and he knew he’d been right.
“What’s your hurry?”
A jerk signified a shrug.
The strength of his annoyance took him by surprise. “I like having you here,” he murmured.
“But not for the night.”
Yeah, he wanted her all night. Every night. And that was the part that scared the shit out of him.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did.” She began to carefully separate herself from him. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I just don’t want Colin to have to wait up for me. He does, you know.”
He rolled his head to see the digital clock. 8:43. “It’s not late.”
Sitting up now, she had her back to him. A long, slim back, the vertebrae delicate. Despite her height, all of her was delicate, a fact he forgot sometimes given the strength of her personality.
“It was a nice evening. Turns out you can cook,” she teased.
He folded an arm to prop his head higher. The annoyance had ratcheted into something more indefinable and worrisome. Trying to keep any hint of whatever that was out of his voice, he said, “What did you think, I eat nothing that doesn’t come from the freezer case?”
She twisted to see him. “You said you’d never cooked at Chandler’s.”
“I’m not creative. I’m capable,” he said shortly.
“You’re mad at me.”
“No, I’m not.” Yes, he was.
“Because I suggested going home.”
“It’s men who have the reputation for getting what they want and immediately having the itch to cut out.”
Her eyes, wide, curious but also guarded, searched his for a moment that had his skin prickling. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter.” He sat up and put his feet on the floor. “You want to go home—you can go home.” Not looking at her, he found his clothes on the floor mixed with hers. He tossed her stuff toward her while getting dressed himself.
After a minute, she did the same.
“It was a nice evening,” she repeated after a minute, in a small voice. “I mean that.”
He felt like a jackass. He rolled his shoulders, closed his eyes for a minute, then sat on the bed next to her. “Yes, it was. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You send mixed messages, you know.”
He half smiled. “So do you.”
“That’s because—” Alarm on her face, she stopped.
She’d been on the verge of real honesty, he gathered. As in, saying something like, That’s because I have mixed feelings.