Forbidden (Southern Comfort) by O'Neill, Clark (free ebook reader txt) 📗

sleeping Max, still clutching that purple bear to his chest.  They definitely needed to move this inside.  The boy could wake up any minute, and Clay didn’t want to invite any more observations about his penis.

“Tate,” he said against her mouth.  Her arms twined around his neck.  One hand slipped down to stroke his chest and he had to force the words out through his teeth.  “We need… to go… in the house.”

“What?” She squirmed a little closer, all but climbing onto his lap.  He felt her breasts crush against his chest and beat his fist on the dash.

“For God’s sake, Tate.”  His voice was raw with desperation.  One more minute of this and he was going to burst through his fly.  “Let’s get Max put to bed and we can finish this inside.”

The words were like a slap in the face.  Tate shot back, looked guiltily toward her son, and then blinked at Clay in horror.

“Oh, my God.  You must think I’m awful.”

“I can assure you,” Clay said on a pained laugh.  “Thinking you’re awful never entered my mind.”

The look she shot him was incredulous.  “I just jumped you in front of my son.”

“He’s sleeping.”

Tate apparently failed to find that reassuring. “Well. As you were kind enough to remind me before I tossed myself bodily into your lap, I believe it’s time to put my son in bed.”

“I’ll help you carry him up.”

Clay slid out of the car with no grace whatsoever and hobbled around to open Tate’s door.  And when he lifted Max from his car seat, barely controlled a wince.

Tate’s eyes flew to his crotch.  Recognizing the cause of his discomfort had heat creeping back into her cheeks.  “I’m sorry,” she said helplessly as she attempted to open the back door.  She fumbled the key, dropping it before finally wrestling the door open with a squeal of hinges.

They entered a large and cozy kitchen, gleaming with commercial grade appliances.  The two coloring book pages attached to the huge Sub-zero refrigerator gave Clay a jolt that faded into pleasure.

The picture of Peter Parker was his.

Mossy green walls formed a quiet well of shadows, the light over the range guiding their passage.  Tate moved past its thin yellow glow and showed Clay toward the back stairs.

He’d been doctored in her bathroom the previous night, so he was familiar with the third floor layout.  He turned left at the head of the stairs and walked to Max’s door.  Tate rushed ahead of him to push it open, brushing a small army of toys from her son’s bed.  When she turned down the Thomas the Tank Engine sheets, Clay laid Max between them.

Max rolled over, clutching his bear.

Tate pulled off Max’s shoes before covering him up, grimacing at his dusty feet.  The kid would need a bath first thing in the morning.  Then she straightened, offering Clay a grateful smile as he reached out to shut off the light.  He put a finger to her lips, grasping her hand.

And then drew her toward her bedroom.

PULSE pounding an erratic beat, Tate recalled her earlier conversation with herself, which had focused on why sleeping with Clay was a Bad Idea.  She just didn’t do that sort of thing.

And besides, he would be leaving in a few days.  There were simply too many factors to consider. And after weighing them – again – she knew what she had to do.

“Clay.”  She pulled back on his hand to stop him from crossing the threshold.  He lingered there, arching a brow.  He looked so handsome, even in his disheveled state, and so utterly capable of fulfilling her every fantasy, that telling him “no” seemed like shooting herself in the foot.

She didn’t want to do it.

“I…”  God, now he was going to think she was a tease.  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can do this.”

“Sure we can,” he said in a low voice, cognizant of the nearby presence of her mother and her son.  “Tab ‘A’ goes into slot ‘B’.  Trust me; people do it all the time.”

Tate knew he was trying to make her relax, but this was one time humor wasn’t going to work.  “It’s not that simple for me, Clay.  I’m not the type of woman who thinks purely in terms of the physical.”

Clay cupped his hand under her chin.  “Is that what you think this is?”

Tate shrugged, a gesture of futility.  “How can it be anything else?”

She had him there, but Clay didn’t like it.  “It can be whatever we make it.”

Tate hesitated a moment, wanting desperately to believe, but it didn’t change the fact that he was leaving.  She already cared enough that she would feel his loss when he was gone.

How much more significant that loss if she made love with him?

She cupped her own hand over his, which had moved to stroke her cheek.  “I’m sorry.” And she was, truly.  “I can’t.  Even if I understand why you have to leave, I’m not sure that Max would, and I don’t want to set us both up for disappointment.”

THAT statement hit Clay like a blow.  He hadn’t even considered Max.  And it both pleased and horrified him to realize he could have that kind of impact on the child’s feelings.

And Tate was a conscientious mother to keep that at the forefront of her mind, because he had absolutely no doubt that she wanted him.

And God, he wanted her.

So he purposely stepped back, allowing her some distance.  “It’s okay.”  Although it wasn’t.  “In the grand scheme of things, I respect your decision.  I might not like it.” His smile was wry. “But I respect it.”

Because there was nothing left to say, because if he didn’t get out of there he’d forget his good intentions, he leaned forward, dropping a regretful kiss on her cheek.  “Good night, Tate Hennessy.  Tell Max that I said goodbye.”

Clay cursed himself on the way to Justin’s for making a royal mess of his vacation.  How the hell, in two days, mind you, had he