Home To You by Robin Kaye Page A

sexy nightgown, looking like the Venus de Milo probably did to the ancient Greeks when she still had all her parts.
    The memory of Kendall in that sexy, classy, amazing negligee gave him a more powerful physical reaction than he’d had from seeing any woman before. He scrubbed his hands over his eyes. Shit, he wished for the second time that he had the ability to unsee Kendall the same way he’d unlearned everything he knew about numbers. Unfortunately, with Kendall, he was blessed, or perhaps cursed, with total recall.
    He knew her scent, the feel of her skin, the strength of her body against his, the softness of her hair, and, thanks to the bright sunlight shining through the bare window, that she slept commando beneath that wisp of silky fabric.
    He hadn’t known women actually slept in getups like hers. Lord knew if she were going to bed with him, the damn thing would be off within seconds. That’s what he’d always assumed lingerie like that was for—a prelude toforeplay, a sign that the woman wearing it wanted to do anything but sleep. No, a woman who wore that kind of lingerie wanted multiple orgasms, she wanted to lose her voice screaming her lover’s name, she wanted to go more than three rounds. Wearing lingerie like that was a serious, I-hope-you-ate-your-Wheaties-this-morning warning. And to think that for the first night in his erotic dreams, Kendall had worn baggy Tshirts and flannel sleep pants. Even in those, she’d been enough to drive him crazy. Every night since had been worse, but now, knowing what he knew, seeing what he’d seen, wanting her the way he did, he might never again be able to sleep under the same roof. He dropped his head in his hands, closed his eyes, trying to erase Kendall’s image, and groaned again.
    “Jack, are you okay? Is it another headache? Do you want me to get you your medicine? Water?” Hands squeezed his knees and slid up his outer thighs.
    His eyes shot open, and there was the real Kendall, kneeling before him on the plaster-littered floor, wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and a worn Boston College sweatshirt with the collar of a faded blue-plaid-flannel shirt poking out beneath the open neck. Concern created a gully between her dark brows—brows he’d wanted to trace more times than he could count, if he could count—which served as punctuation marks for her every expression.
    He swallowed hard, and she leaned in closer, sliding between his splayed legs. His heart rear-ended his rib cage, and every muscle in his body vibrated with the need to touch her, but he knew that if he did, if he gave in, he’d be lost.
    “Jack, what’s wrong?”
    Her eyes met his. He couldn’t look away, no matter how hard he tried. It was like being caught in a riptide, and he was dragged underwater, powerless to fight it, his only option to go along for the ride and hope that when he was tossed back on the jagged shore, he would still be in one piece.
    Kendall’s eyes widened, darkened, if that was possible, and her expression, with only the movement of her brows, morphed from one of concern to inquiry, and then slid into a knowing, powerful, self-assured. A damn sexy expression he’d never before seen grace her face.
    Her breath caught, and she held it as she slid her hands to his waist and trailed her fingers over his abs. The shock of her hands on him through his shirt was enough to have his stomach muscles tighten so violently, they all but kicked the air from his lungs. She continued her exploration, pausing on his chest, where he was sure she could feel the gallop of his heart beneath her fingers.
    “In all my life, I’ve only really kissed one man. I’ve only wanted to kiss one man. Until now. Now I only want to kiss you.”
    “Kendall—” It had been his intention to stop her, but when her fingers wove through the hair at the back of his neck and her lips touched his, all the myriad reasons why this was a very bad idea floated away like smoke from a chimney.
    Her