Quiet Walks the Tiger - By Heather Graham Page 0,35

living creature. And it will be true. But there’s only one real reason—the only reason anyone should ever marry. Because I love you. I want to share my life with you. I want to be a part of yours.”

The tears finally streamed down Sloan’s cheeks. “Oh, Wesley...”

“Hey! I didn’t mean to make you cry!” he exclaimed gently, setting their brandies aside and taking her comfortingly into his arms. He rocked her soothingly and stroked the lush tendrils of hair from her forehead. “Hey!” he repeated softly. “Don’t cry. Just answer me. I won’t rush you, but I’ll go clear out of my mind if I keep thinking that maybe you will when you don’t—”

“I will!” Sloan interrupted quickly. What the hell was she doing? she demanded of herself. She was crying like an idiot, feeling like a complete louse, just because he had said a few sentimental things. And why? He wanted her, he loved her. She wouldn’t be twisting his arm.

The only reason...he had said. Love. That was why. She was betraying him in the most cruel way possible.

Hating herself, she lifted sapphire eyes to his. “I will marry you, Wesley. There’s nothing I want more.”

His arms tightened around her. “When?” he gasped hoarsely.

“As soon as possible,” she replied. “Tomorrow, if we could...”

He was startled, but pleasantly so. She knew he had expected her to set a date months in the future.

“Monday we’ll get the license,” he promised her. “And a week from today, we’ll become man and wife.” His lips fell upon hers with a passionate urgency, plundering the softness of her mouth. Sloan moaned faintly beneath his assault, in agony as she tried to keep a clear head. It was almost impossible. His crisp, clean scent was intoxicating her, his hands were arousing her to a feverish pitch as they roamed to secret places and sought her body through the field of silk.

Somehow, without her even knowing it, Wes had found the zipper to her dress and the silk fell from her with a whispered rustle. She heard his sharp intake of breath, then felt the pressure of his hands as he forced her down to the pillowy cushion of the couch. His hot kisses, hungry and out of control, blazed paths across her flesh. As if she were intoxicated, it slowly filtered into Sloan’s mind that they were fast reaching a point of no return. Even as she stumbled mentally, Wesley’s sure fingers found the front clasp of her lacy bra, and it joined the silk dress on the floor. His mouth found the firm flesh of her breasts, teased and raked her nipples until she cried out with an agony of despair and longing. She wanted him so desperately! To stop the excruciating pleasure would be to bring excruciating pain.

His hand ran along her leg, causing her to shake uncontrollably. Her slip wound around her waist; his hand found the elastic of her panties, and she gasped at the surge of desire awakened within her at the touch of his fingers so low on her abdomen, a touch which caused her to inadvertently strain toward him.

Then the ultimate warning in her head finally sounded. He was still clothed, but his knee was wedging firmly between hers, and his hand was subtly but surely exploring further. Bracing herself firmly, Sloan finally found her voice, begging him to stop.

At first she was totally ignored. Terror that she had played too closely with fire surged through her, and she gripped her fingers painfully into his hair. “Please, Wesley!” she sighed. “I beg you!” Tears formed again in her eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. “Please!” she whispered.

Wesley went rigid; his harsh breathing gave her the answer that he had at last heard her plea.

He didn’t speak as he lifted his weight from her and tossed her discarded clothing into her lap. He didn’t even look at her until she had reclasped her bra and slipped hurriedly back into her black silk dress.

Then he sat beside her, and she knew when he probed her face with an icy green stare that he was angry. But he didn’t yell, he didn’t make recriminations. He sat with folded arms and demanded, “Why?”

“I—I just can’t!” she croaked shamefully.

“Go on,” he prompted grimly.

Her abject misery was not, at the moment, a performance. Her hands were trembling so badly she could barely get a sip of sorely needed brandy to her lips. Yet still, her mind was ticking away with all speed. Her answer