Free You're Still the One by Janet Dailey, Elizabeth Bass, Cathy Lamb, Mary Carter

hips, his fingers undid my pink blouse, I ran my hands down his back and up his shirt, feeling that tight, warm muscle, his hands molding me to him. Both of us were breathing hard, panting, a moan here, a groan there . . .
    I could think of nothing but him, nothing but my own passion for him, for Jace. Lust kills brain cells and mine were clearly dead as I unbuttoned his shirt, my hands flying, my mouth to his . . . utterly lost.
    It was when his hands were so adeptly unbuttoning my jeans that I pulled away, pushed at his chest, and said, “Oh no. Not again,” and “Please stop.”
    He stopped. We were both out of breath, both in the midst of some really excellent arousal, and yet . . . I could not go there again with him .
    “Stop, please.” I hadn’t needed to say it again, though. He had already stopped, his face tight with frustration and disbelief.
    “What? Why, honey?”
    “See, Jace,” I said, my words harsh. “This is why you and I cannot be friends.” I tried to get my breath back, tried not to cry. “We’re not friend material. We never will be.”
    “What are you talking about? We are friends, Allie. We were best friends, and we have this, too, the passion—”
    “No, no, we don’t have this. No passion. No to passion. Get off of me.”
    “Allie—” I saw the hurt in his eyes; I heard the rawness of his voice.
    “Get off.”
    He put his forehead to mine for a long second, his chest heaving, my chest heaving, and he whispered, “Oh my God.” Then he got off and I scrambled away from that couch, my pink blouse fully open, my white lace bra unsnapped, my jeans unbuttoned, my hair all over the place. His shirt was open, too, all the way, and I tried to ignore that he is a smolderingly hot man.
    I tried to snap my bra, but my fingers would not work.
    He stood up, towering over me, warm and soft and huggable. Damn.
    “What the hell is going on, Allie?”
    I was breathing so hard I might have been embarrassed, but he was, too. My whole body was tingling. I had to look away before his body tantalized me way too much and I gave in. “Damn, Jace. Turn around or something.”
    “Why? I think I’ve seen everything.”
    I inhaled to steady my racing heart. “You look way too sexy after we’ve been messing around, and I don’t want to jump back on that couch with you.”
    “I’d like you to jump back on the couch with me.” His tone was edgy, angry. “Why are you pulling away?”
    “Because I’m a wreck.” I wanted to get back on that couch so much I ached.
    “You are not a wreck,” he said, his voice sharp and frustrated. I didn’t blame him. “Why do you say that?”
    “Look, Jace, I have no idea what I’m doing next, where I’m going in my life. You’re all set. You have what you wanted. And I have . . .” My fingers fumbled on my buttons. “I have a rooster that wakes me up too early, an old house, two dogs who insist on sleeping with me, cats I meow back at, and an apple orchard from my dad, who knew I loved apples, but I don’t think he meant the apples as a gift. You and I ended a long time ago, and I can’t get any more emotional or crazy than I already am.” I put my hands to my face, a vision of a run and a fall and a rock and a secret barreling into my brain. “We’re too late, Jace.”
    “We’re not too late at all.” His eyes showed his deep pain and utter bafflement. “Not at all.”
    And now I would lie. I’d done it before. “I don’t want to be with you, Jace. It’s that simple.”
    His head actually moved back, as if I had slapped him.
    “I don’t want us again, Jace. We were an us , but we’re not going to be an us again.”
    “Why?” I heard that simmering anger. Jace never lost it, was never like my dad, but he wasn’t a saint. He swore and said, “I don’t understand you, or this, at all. I’m sorry if I moved too fast—I am. I’ll slow down. We’ll slow this down—”
    “You don’t need to, Jace. I said no, so it’s no.”
    “Then