The Fantasy Factor. Kimberly Raye

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      Houston’s words slid into her ears, coaxing her to soften in his arms the way the warm heat of his body urged her to relax and let her guard down.

      She wanted to.

      She’d been so good for so long, and the need to let her hair down and stop thinking, worrying, just once was nearly unbearable.

      “That was a long time ago,” she said, the words more for herself. But they did little good.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “Not a thing.”

      “You’re stiff.”

      “Stiff is good.”

      “I won’t argue that with you,” he said, and she became instantly aware of the hardness pressed against the soft cradle of her thighs. Heat flowered low in her belly, spreading through her body like a flame sweeping dry brush. “But the idea is usually for me to take care of the stiffness, while you soften up.”

      “I can’t. I mean, I don’t. I don’t soften up anymore. Haven’t you heard? I’m not like that anymore.”

      “I heard, but I didn’t believe it.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because it’s pretty far out, don’t you think? I mean, you, sexy Sarah, a prude? That’s like saying Santa Claus is really the Easter Bunny. It’s just not natural.”

      “It’s true.”

      “Like hell. Santa wouldn’t be caught dead hopping around in a furry white suit with big floppy ears and big floppy feet. Santa’s way too cool. He’s got the whole black biker boot thing going on.” She saw the teasing light in his eyes and found herself back in the past, charmed by his smile and soothed by his teasing voice.

      And for a split second, she actually forgot that things had changed. That she’d changed.

      Her hands crept up the hard wall of his chest, her arms twined around his neck and she leaned closer. His heart beat against her breasts. His warm breath sent shivers down the bare column of her neck. His hands splayed at the base of her spine, one urging her even closer while the other crept its way up, as if reacquainting itself with every bump and groove, until he reached her neck. A few deft movements of his fingers and the tight ponytail she wore unraveled and her hair spilled down her back. His hand cradled the base of her scalp, massaging for a few blissful moments, making her legs tremble.

      For the next few moments, she forgot all about the game and her friends and the all-important fact that no self-respecting lady would be caught dead with Houston Jericho, much less pressed up against him on a crowded dance floor for everyone to see.

      She tilted her head back and found him staring down at her. The past pulled her back, to a moonlit night when he’d looked at her just this way, as if he wanted to take slow, sweet bites and savor every inch of her.

      He’d done just that and she had the sudden thought that she wanted him to do it again. Right here. Right now.

      Don’t do this, a voice whispered. You can’t do this.

      She was different now. At least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think. And they weren’t going to think any such thing if she lost her head right in the middle of the dance floor and pressed herself up against him. And rubbed this way and that. And touched him just so—

      A loud whistle ripped through the air and shattered the seductive spell she’d been lost in. She jerked around to see Maddie, Eileen, Janice, Brenda and Cheryl Louise. They waved and gave a thumbs-up.

      “What’s that all about?”

      “Just a game.”

      “What kind of game? To see who gives the loudest wolf whistle?”

      “Actually, it’s about dancing.” She forced her fingers to let go of his collar and she pulled away. “And I just won. If you’ll excuse me…” She didn’t wait for a response. She darted away from him and left him staring after her.

      His gaze drilled into her back, and it was all she could do to keep from turning and running back and begging him to take her to bed.

      Or, more important, straight into a nice warm shower. Because that’s what he did in her fantasies. What they’d planned on doing for their fourth encounter so long ago. What he’d never had the chance to do because she’d changed and he’d left and life had come between them.

      She said a quick goodbye to her friends before heading for the rear exit. Out in the parking lot, she climbed behind the wheel of her car. As she shoved the key into the ignition, her arm bumped a giant cardboard box filled with vases for the centerpieces she was going to put together tonight for Cheryl Louise’s reception tomorrow. Glass clinked and the engine groaned.

      She gave one last look at the exit door, half expecting, half hoping that he would come after her. He didn’t, and a swell of disappointment went through her, quickly followed by a wave of relief.

      The last thing, the very last thing she needed in her life was to have Houston Jericho running after her. He wasn’t her type and she wasn’t his.

      Even if he did suit her perfectly in her dreams.

      This was real life, not some hot, erotic fantasy.

      More important, this was her life now—her calm, conservative, boring life, and she wasn’t about to spice it up and ruin her image by losing her head, or her hormones, over Houston Jericho.

      It was all about keeping her perspective the next time she saw him.

      If that didn’t work, she would just have to keep her distance.

      “MY, MY, BUT THAT WAS a beautiful ceremony.” Miss Marshalyn sighed and finished penning her name in the guest book. “Marriage is such a blessed union,” she told Houston as she wrapped an arm around his and started inside the VFW Hall for the reception. “Don’t you think, dear?”

      “For some, I’m sure it is. But for others—”

      “Nonsense. It’s blessed for everyone. Oh, look, there’s Jennie Mayfield.” She pointed to a petite blonde oohing and aahing over a small baby. “That’s her new niece. She has nine of them, and seven nephews, and she dotes on them.”

      “Good for her.”

      “No, good for you. If she thrives on her nieces and nephews, she’s sure to dote on her own children, and you most certainly want a wife who adores her children.”

      “I’m sure she’ll make a great wife. Not for me, but for someone—”

      “There’s Darlene Davenport. She’s the secretary over at the bingo hall. She knows everything about gardening.”

      “That’s good.”

      “You’re darned tootin’ it is. A man deserves fresh vegetables with his dinner, and since you’ll have one hundred acres of your very own, you can devote plenty of room to a nice garden.”

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