Stranger on the Shore by Carol Duncan Perry Page B

the heat. She'd had no thoughts of caution, or even survival while in his arms—only the melting sensations and insatiable need for his touch.
    Against all reason, she would have given herself to him—if he had wanted her. Had something warned him that although she was willing, part of her was not ready? Something that even she couldn't define. Even if he didn't know what or why, he'd sensed something because he'd pulled away.
    Sarah felt a rush of shame and humiliation sweep over her.
    "I'm sorry, Sarah," Jordan said. "I had no intention of letting that happen." His voice was as ragged as her breathing.
    He turned his head toward her, recognized the wariness in her eyes, saw the trembling of her passion-swollen lips, and forced himself to look away. He drew a rasping breath, disgusted with himself. At first touch, he'd forgotten everything but the fact that she was in his arms. He had no defenses against her or against his desire for her. Never before had he felt so intense a longing for a woman. Yet, at the point of no return, he'd stopped.
    It was not a conscious decision. It wasn't—Jordan didn't know what it was, unless it was an inborn sense of survival.
    But for whom? Him or her?
    "Don't blame yourself, Jordan. I wasn't exactly discouraging you."
    Jordan heard the confusion in her voice. He frowned, trying to sort out his various impressions. No, she hadn't discouraged him. She'd melted under his touch, becoming a fire that consumed as it burned and he'd willingly jumped into the flames.
    He could understand her confusion. He, too, was confused. He could also accept and share her feeling of vulnerability. Never before had he felt so defenseless against the wants and needs of another, or against the demands of such a desire of his own body.
    But there was something else. Shame? No, not shame. Humiliation. Startled, he turned to look at her. She met his gaze, then cast her eyes downward and averted her face. She couldn't possibly think he'd rejected her because he didn't want her, could she?
    Yes, she could. The answer was there—her wariness, her hesitation, the humiliation in her voice. He'd been the one to pull away.
    There were many reasons for his actions, although he'd been thinking of none of them at the time. Certainly not that one. Not a lack of desire. He had wanted her with an intensity still throbbing in his veins, a desire that still held his body on the threshold of pain. He knew it was important that she understand that.
    "Sarah, listen to me," he said, unable to control the husky rasping of his voice. "I've never wanted anyone more than I wanted—want—you. I want to make you part of me, to make me part of you. I want to lose myself in your incredible magic." His voice trailed off. He shook his head, like a prizefighter, trying to clear his muddled senses. "There are reasons. Don't you understand? With you, it wouldn't be enough."
    Sarah caught her breath. She wanted to believe him, but even if she could, it would make no difference. "Jordan, don't...," she pleaded.
    He turned at the sound of pain in her voice, saw the shadows in the depth of her mysterious eyes.
    "Do you understand, Sarah?" he said again, unable to hide the strain in the hushed tones of his voice. "Shared attraction, shared liking, mutual physical pleasures—it's always been enough before. But not this time."
    He drew a long, slow breath, consciously unclenching his fists in an attempt to unleash the tension in his body. "Damn it all, Sarah, I couldn't share that with you and then walk away. When it came time for me to move on, I'd leave bits and pieces of me here. I'd walk away wounded, un-whole. His voice turned bitter. "It's too high a price to pay for temporary pleasure."
    Sarah took a ragged breath.
    "You belong here," he added in a bleak, controlled voice. "You're part of this place, its people—one of its unexpected flowers, growing protected amid the rocks and hills. I'm restless. I can pause and appreciate the beauty, but