Free Facing It by Linda Winfree Page A

her voice. “Don’t you get that, Beech? It won’t change this.”
    In two quick strides, she closed the distance between them, and with her hand at his nape, she pulled his mouth down to hers, kissing him hard. Not one of the fake social kisses they’d traded during their operation, but a real honest-to-God kiss, her lips moving on his, the tip of her tongue teasing him. His stunned surprise rendered him immobile and lasted all of three seconds. He folded one arm around her waist and another along her shoulders, lifting her to him while he changed the angle of his head to fit their lips more closely together.
    She moaned and pressed nearer, her short neat fingernails digging into his scalp. When she opened her mouth to him, he dipped his tongue inside, sipping, tasting, relishing the smooth texture and dark mint of her taste. She wasn’t shy, holding his head, her tongue taking his mouth in return. Tugging him closer, she stepped back, and when they collided with the bed directly behind her, she tumbled down and took him with her.
    Her body accepted his weight, her height making them a good fit—mouths fused, chests and abdomens pressed together, his pelvis cradled by her lower belly, legs intertwined. Arousal speared through his groin and he swallowed a groan, afraid to move, afraid to do more than let this kiss go on and on.
    She obviously didn’t share his fear and allowed her hands to roam over his neck and shoulders and upper back, firm sweeping caresses that penetrated his cotton dress shirt and the T-shirt he wore beneath. No words, just the whisper and sigh of kiss after kiss, her hands on him, the heat of her body beneath him, and the slight teasing tilt of her hips into his.
    The necessity for oxygen, for sanity, finally infiltrated his brain. Unable to fully abandon the wonder of kissing her, he slipped his arms from about her slender form and rested on his elbows, letting himself have the freedom of burying his fingers in the sweet golden silk of her hair while he softened the kiss to a series of the briefest brushes of lips against lips.
    He rested his mouth against the corner of hers, his eyes closed as self-recrimination flooded in. If everything hadn’t changed before, it sure as hell had now.
    He’d screwed this up, screwed them up, by giving in to what he wanted instead of what they needed, of what she needed—
    “Stop it.” Her mouth moved under his and her hold on him tightened. “Look at me, Beech.”
    He obeyed, lifting his head. Her gaze remained steady and calm. She framed his face with her palms. “I wanted this, or I wouldn’t have kissed you. This is why I can’t be just your partner, Beech. I don’t want to be just your partner. It’s not enough any longer.”
    “I don’t want to lose you,” he whispered. “Not as my partner, not as my friend, not as…”
    Getting the words out was just too damn hard.
    “Not as…?” She stroked a fingertip over his temple. “Tell me. Talk to me.”
    “Not as a woman.” The syllables threatened to choke him. Shit, now he’d done it for sure.
    A slow, very sexy, very female smile spread over her kiss-swollen lips. She linked her fingers behind his head and gave a slight wriggling stretch beneath him, a movement that shot desire through him. “What took you so long, Agent Beecham?”
    He fought the urge to give in and grin at her playfulness. “There’s too much to lose here, Jen.”
    She stilled, a frown tugging her neat brows together. “What do you mean?”
    “Think about it.” He levered up to a seated position, breaking her easy hold. “We’re partners, friends. Are you willing to risk all that?”
    Sitting up, she pulled her knees to her chest and linked her arms around them, a pose he’d seen her take dozens of times. With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, he knew she was thinking hard, formulating an argument. “I prefer to think about what we stand to gain.”
    A frustrated growl tickled his throat. “Be