Turning Thirty-Twelve by Sandy James Page B

horribly distracting and this was supposed to be a sober conversation about—
    Shit. What were we talking about?
    “For letting you believe that I didn’t care.”
    Ah ha! We were talking about him not calling. I had trouble forming a coherent thought when Mark touched me. “Yeah, well...I’m over it.”
    “No. You’re not.” His hand covered mine. Warm, slightly calloused, and all male.
    “I’m not?”
    “No, you’re not. I need to make it up to you. How about dinner next weekend?” Those warm fingers wrapped around my hand, making me feel comforted. And horribly giddy.
    “That would be nice. It’s Fall Break. I’m off on Thursday and Friday.” Two days of sleep and peace, and now dinner with Mark Brennan. What more could a thirty-twelve-year old woman ask?
    How about some hot, sweaty sex? my stupid and entirely immature thoughts suggested. 
    “Not yet,” I said before realizing I was speaking aloud.
    “Not yet what?” Mark scooted even closer.
    “Never mind,” I replied, feeling entirely stupid.
    Pulling my hand away, I moved forward and reached for my tea. Perhaps a few sips of a cold drink would settle my scattered nerves.
    I sat on the edge of the sofa, nursing my tea. Mark faced forward again and grabbed his own glass. We just sat there sipping iced tea, and I wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as I did.
    “I’m really sorry, Jackie.”
    I nodded, not sure what to say.
    Mark set his tea back on his coaster. Then he turned back to me and grabbed both my hands to pull me to face him. “I’m sorry.”
    “I know. I forgive you.”
    Good heavens, this man could sure change my perception of reality. In slow motion, he sat back, pushed a hand under my knees, and lifted me onto his lap. He cupped my face with his palms and stared into my eyes. “Do you? Do you really forgive me? Because I almost made the worst mistake of my life.” He closed his eyes for a moment and rested his forehead against mine. When he opened his eyes and pulled back, I could see his pain. “I can’t believe I almost let you go.”
    “I really forgive you.”
    Mark touched his lips to mine. It was such a gentle kiss, so incredibly tender it brought tears to my eyes.
    “Thank you,” he whispered as he ended the kiss and rested his forehead against mine again. “I’ll make it up to you.”
    I couldn’t leave it at that, not with him thinking I was going to hold this over his head. “No need.”
    He kissed me again, a little longer, a little deeper. I felt like my blood had turned to liquid heat. This time, when he eased away, I groaned in frustration.
    Tired of being the passive player, I gave in for once to what I really wanted. I flipped to straddle him, put my hands to his face, and kissed him. The sexy growl he uttered when he opened his mouth to my insistent tongue sent fire straight to my core.
    It had been far too long without feeling wanted, too long without that delicious visceral sensation of anticipation, too long without making love— really making love. I snaked my arms around his neck and leaned into the kiss.
    No bells ringing in my head this time—at least no warning bells. There were, however, lots and lots of fireworks. Lights exploded in my brain. My heart pounded, begging for more. Sanity fled in a wash of warmth and primitive desire. My body screamed for him in a way I had never felt before, not even when David had actually taken the time to coax my response.
    The kiss ended as we panted to breathe.
    “God, Babe,” he whispered in my ear as he stroked my back. “I want you. I want to pick you up, carry you to your bed, and make love to you all night.” His hands settled on my hips, and he rocked his body up, leaving no question how much he meant what he said. The guy was hard as a rock, and I felt a luscious thrill knowing I had pulled that response from his body.
    But my pride began to buzz at me like some annoying insect, prompted by years of strict Catholic upbringing. It might have been