Free 120 Mph by Jevenna Willow

another tease.
    “I wouldn’t exactly call this a date,
Reverend Mohr,” Sara admitted. “You asked me to dinner. That’s all.”
    He looked at her with a gleam in the
eye. “Not a date?”
    Sara shook her head to deny that it was.
    “Sweetheart, in my book, when a night
involves an almost ordered meal, an angry bolt out of the most expensive
restaurant in town—without having to pay a single dime out of pocket—and the innocent,
whether intended or not announcement of a lack of certain articles of clothing?
While a man merely standing in the parking lot and he surely not prepared for such
an announcement . . . well, I would call what we are having as a date, even if
you won’t. And a date that started out quite interesting, to say the least.”
    The kiss. The many kisses. The near
removal of clothing. Okay, so maybe those were the bases of a real date. But
the removal of clothing was done only in the head—Sara’s head, to be exact. And
since every single moment of every foolish second made thus far with the man
was mirrored in his eyes? She’d have to be a fool not to agree with him.
    This was a date.
    “You really thought this out, haven’t
you?” she recklessly asked.
    Dangerous dimples dug deep on his face,
yet again. “No. Not really. I’m sort of winging it for the moment.”
    “Winging it? Good Lord! I would hate to
see what happens when you ever plan a date, Reverend.”
    The hand on her lower arm turned into a
grasp. The grasp caused an involuntary leaning of the head toward Christian. The
leaning of the head caused the mouths to come too close for propriety.
Therefore, the only expected—otherwise, planned moment of their
night—was bound to happen. His warm lips settled against hers. His hand let go
of her arm, to work its way to the back of her neck. His tongue found hers, and
it created a fire inside her to grow out of control.
    Sara could not help that her hands had
risen to his face or help that she trapped him into her silken web, lacing her
fingers into his hair. Her only desire had been to kiss him again.
    Christian was such a great kisser. He
knew how to add the proper amount of tease to get the juices flowing.
    Now that she was kissing him back, Sara
could not let go of his face even if her life depended on it. Perhaps, in a
way, it did depend on it, but for some strange cosmic reason she really didn’t
care.
    He released her, leaving her restless
and more than a little jumpstarted in the turned-on department.
    “I know that I have to stop doing this,”
he warned, making it a promise only a man would have dared say.
    Sara was not a man. She let her thoughts
slip out. “Why?”
    It sure as hell beat her having said . .
. Stop? Are you `efin crazy?
    Another dangerous grin formed, crinkling
up the corners of his eyes. Christian didn’t respond with words. He pulled
back, opened his door, then forced his way to her side of the vehicle. For one
brief moment, he simply stood outside the car, staring at his house.
    She watched as the poor man dragged in
deep, earth-shattering breaths. He then closed his eyes, opened her door and
asked, “Shall we?” He held out his hand while a huge smile graced his lips.
    Sara took Christian’s hand, climbed out
of the vehicle, and was led toward the front door of his rather humble home.
    Christian produced a key, unlocked the lock,
pushed the wooden panel open for Sara to enter first, and the moment she
stepped over the threshold she wanted to tuck tail and run.
    From entry to exit his house brought to
light the fact of his being Reverend Christian Mohr. Everywhere the eye looked
was a statement to his chosen profession. Every single book, nook, and cranny
screamed out his being a Man of the Cloth . Every nuance, every smell,
every empty space—it all said she was making a terrible mistake and needed to
correct this mistake before she lost her one and only chance. Or, burst into
flames. He may not be an actual dragon, but this was most definitely a