September Morning by Diana Palmer

looked up, it was to find his face strangely rigid.
    “You shouldn't have worried,” she added, aware of a new tension between them. “You taught me to drive, remember?”
    “All I remembered was that you were in danger in the company of a fool, a boy who didn't know how to take care of you,” he said tightly. “If anything had happened to you, I'd have killed him.”
    He didn't raise his voice. But the words had as much impact as if he'd shouted them.
    “What a violent thing to say,” she laughed nervously.
    He didn't smile. His dark eyes narrowed, spearing her with an intensity that made flames kindle in her blood. “I've always been violent about you. Are you just now noticing it?”
    She gazed up at him quietly, stunned by the words, by the emotion in them, her lips slightly parted, her eyes curious and soft.
    Blake leaned one big hand on the back of the seat over her shoulder and his eyes dropped to her soft mouth. The action had brought him closer; so close that she could smell the clean, masculine fragrance of soap and cologne, feel the warmth of his big body.
    “Blake,” she whispered, yielding without words, without thought, longing for him.
    He bent his dark head and brushed his mouth against hers, a whisper of delicious sensation that quickened her pulse, her breathing. He drew back, and she lifted a finger to trace, tremulously, the hard, sensuous curve of his mouth. Emotion trembled between them in the silence, broken only by the whispering breeze, and the distant sound of a songbird.
    His lips moved, catching her exploring finger, and she felt the tip of his tongue moving softly against it. Her eyes looked straight into his, and she read the excitement in them.
    He searched her flushed young face quietly. “Stand up, Kathryn,” he said at last. “I want to feel you against me.”
    Like a sleepwalker, she obeyed him, letting him draw her so close that she could feel his powerful thighs pressing against hers, the muscles of his chest like a wall against her soft breasts.
    His thumb brushed against her mouth and he studied it as if he needed to memorize it. “Are you afraid?” he asked in a strange, husky voice.
    She shook her head, meeting his eyes with the hunger and need plain in her own. “Last time…”
    “It's not going to be like last time,” he breathed. “Kate…!” Her soft mouth parted eagerly as his lips met hers.
    Her slender arms reached up around his neck, holding him, and she kissed him back feverishly, trying to show that she could be anything he wanted her to be.
    His big hand tangled in the thick strands of hair at her nape, and his devouring mouth forced hers open even wider. He explored it with a deepening intimacy that made her tremble. With a sense of wonder she felt his hands at her back, sliding under the sweater and up to move caressingly against her silken skin.
    “No bra?” he murmured against her mouth, and she could feel the amused smile that moved his lips.
    She flushed at the intimacy of the question, and suddenly reached around to catch his wrists and hold them as he started to slide his exploring hands around under her arms.
    “Blake…” she protested.
    He chuckled softly and drew his hands away, to replace them at her waist over the thick fabric. “You said you weren't afraid,” he reminded her.
    She lowered her eyes to his broad chest. “Must you make fun of me?” she asked miserably. “You know I'm not sophisticated.”
    “It's quite obvious,” he laughed softly. “If you were, you would know better than to plaster yourself against a man when he kisses you. Ten years ago, I'm not sure I'd have been able to draw back.”
    She looked up, startled. “But in the movies…”
    “Plastic people, contrived situations; this is real, Kathryn.” He took her hand and pressed it inside the opening of his shirt, against the hard, warm flesh and thick mat of hair. She felt the heavy rhythm of his heart. “Do you feel it?” he asked softly. “You make my