After pouring more wine, Sam lifted his glass and said, “Time wounds all heels.”

Lucy brought herself to smile, recognizing the quote by Groucho Marx. “I’ll drink to that,” she said, and raised her own glass.

Over dinner they discussed movies, discovering a shared liking for old black-and-white films. When Lucy confessed that she had never seen The Philadelphia Story with Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, Sam insisted that she had to watch it. “It’s a classic screwball comedy. You can’t say you like old movies without having seen it.”

“It’s too bad we can’t watch it tonight,” Lucy said.

“Why can’t we?”

“Do you have it on DVD?”

“No, but I can download it.”

“But that’ll take forever.”

Sam looked smug. “I’ve got a download accelerator that maximizes data delivery by initiating several simultaneous connections from multiple servers. Five minutes, tops.”

“At times you hide your inner geek so well,” Lucy marveled. “And then it just appears like a bolt of lightning.”

After dinner they went to the living room to watch the movie. Lucy was immediately taken with the story of the prickly, cold-natured heiress, her debonair ex-husband, and the cynical newspaper reporter played by Jimmy Stewart. The dialogue was filled with elegant quicksilver humor, every pause and reaction perfectly timed.

As the black-and-white images flickered on the screen, Lucy leaned into Sam’s side, half expecting him to object. The relaxed evening together, the tentative confidences, had created a feeling of intimacy that Sam might not want to encourage. But he put his arm around her, and let her head rest against his shoulder. She sighed, relishing the solid warmth of him next to her, the anchoring weight of his arm. As awareness of him gathered in a slow simmer, it was difficult not to touch him, reach for him.

“You’re not watching the movie,” Sam said.

“Neither are you.”

“What are you thinking about?”

In the silence, the movie dialogue floated like champagne froth.

“It can’t be anything like love, could it?”

“No, no, it can’t be.”

“Would it be inconvenient?”

“Terribly.”

“I was thinking,” Lucy said, “that I’ve never tried a relationship where no one makes any promises. I like that rule. Because if you don’t make promises, you can’t break them.”

“There’s another rule I didn’t tell you about.” Sam’s voice was guarded. His breath stirred the hair on top of her head.

“What is it?”

“Know when to stop. When either of us says it’s time to break it off, the other agrees. No arguments, no discussion.”

Lucy was silent, her stomach leaping as he altered his position on the sofa.

Sam turned to face her, his head silhouetted against a background of flickering ghost-images. The low sound of his voice undercut the muted flurry of words and images from the screen behind him. “Of all the people I’ve never wanted to hurt, Lucy … you’re at the top of the list.”

“I think you’re the first man who’s ever worried about that.” Lucy dared to reach out and touch the side of his face, her fingers shaping gently against his cheek. She felt the subtle flex in his jaw, the forceful beat of his pulse against her fingertips. “Let’s take a chance,” she whispered. “You won’t hurt me, Sam. I won’t let you.”

Taking his time, Sam reached for the controller, fumbled with it, and hit the mute button. The movie continued, light and shadow without sound. His mouth found hers in a long, fluent kiss, exchanging heat for heat, taste for taste. One of his hands went to the nape of her neck, massaging blindly. The excitement deepened into something dark and nameless, a feeling that rose in a slow tide from her toes to the top of her head. It was more than desire … it was a craving so absolute that she would have done anything to satisfy it.

Sam took the hem of her shirt and tugged it upward, stripping the knit fabric away from her. His fingers stroked along the elastic straps of her bra, easing them down her shoulders before moving to the clasp at the back. A shiver ran through her as she felt him work at the tiny hooks. Tossing the garment aside, Sam drew his hands along the sides of her rib cage, sliding upward to cup her naked breasts. He bent over her. With diabolical slowness, he took the tip of her breast in his mouth and held it with his teeth, and stroked with his tongue. She had to bite her lips to keep from begging him to take her right then. He began to tug gently, repeatedly, licking between each pull.

Moaning, Lucy clutched at the back of his T-shirt, trying to tear it off, needing the feel of his skin against her. He paused to strip away the garment, and eased her back until she was stretched out on the sofa. Her injured leg was propped up, her other dangling wantonly to the side.

Lowering over her, Sam sealed his mouth against hers, his kisses rough and voluptuous and sweet. She couldn’t find herself in the sudden blaze of sensation, couldn’t control anything. She answered him, letting herself be caught like a falling star, burning from the inside out.

Dimly she heard him murmur that they should stop for a second, they needed to use some kind of protection. She gasped out a few words to make him understand that it wasn’t necessary, she was on the pill to regulate her cycle, and he said he was still going to take her upstairs because their first time shouldn’t be on the sofa. But they kept kissing compulsively, ravenously, and Sam reached down to open her shorts. He yanked them over her hips, taking her underwear with them, the air cool against the blaze of her skin.

Lucy had gone weak with need, wanting him to touch her, kiss her, do anything, but the panties and shorts had caught on the Aircast brace, and he had paused to untangle them. “Leave them,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t stop.” She gave him a red-faced scowl as he persisted in trying to unloop the underwear elastic from the brace clasp. “Sam—”

Her impatience drew a muffled laugh from him. He reached for her, sliding his arm beneath her neck. His mouth came to hers in a searching kiss, licking deep, pausing to tug at her upper lip and then her lower one. “Is this what you want?” he asked, his hand sliding between her shaking thighs. He teased her aching flesh open, caressing with light, voluble circles until she’d gone utterly wet. Her head fell back over his arm, and he kissed her throat and breathed hotly against her skin as he let his fingers enter her.

She writhed and hitched upward awkwardly, her leg encumbered by the brace. He murmured softly against her ear … be still, let him do it, don’t strain … but she couldn’t help lifting into the pleasure.

Gasping, she pulled him closer in a desperate wordless plea for more, her hands groping over the hard-muscled surface of his back. His skin was smooth and tough and silky, the slope of his shoulder so enticing that she dug the crescent of her teeth lightly into the sturdy muscle, a love-bite that made him shudder.

He reached between them to fumble with the fastening of his jeans. She couldn’t move, could only wait helplessly as he pressed into her with a low, heavy slide. She felt herself tighten, relax, tighten again. He went deeper. Inarticulate sounds rose in her throat. There weren’t words for what she needed, for what was happening to her. His hand withdrew and slid up to her breast, damp fingertips clamping gently on the hard peak.

Through the thunder of her heartbeat, she heard him whisper for her to take him, let him inside. As she strained and clung to him, she felt his hand sliding beneath her bottom to angle her higher. He thrust again, the slippery-hot friction making her cry out as if in pain.

Sam froze, looking down at her, his eyes unearthly blue in the shadows. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered.

“No. No…” Flooded with desire, steaming, Lucy gripped his hips, urging him more tightly against her. “Please don’t stop.”

Sam began a deliberate rhythm, making her squirm and arch as if she were on a torture rack.

She rocked upward in silent demand, but there was no altering his slow and relentless pace. The tension coiled, her inner muscles clenching against the delicious invading hardness. His thrusts canted deeper, and she moaned every time he drove inward. It was all too much, the big, driving body over hers, the teasing brush of his chest hair against her nipples, the strong hand urging her hips upward into every measured lunge. She felt the pleasure break into ecstatic spasms. Sam caught her sobs with his mouth, and pushed deep, letting her shuddering body work him, drain him.

For a while, neither of them moved or spoke, only breathed in labored gusts.

Circling her arms around his neck, she kissed his jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. “Sam,” she said drowsily, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Thank you.”

“Yes.” He sounded dazed.

“That was amazing.”

“Yes.”

Close to his ear, she added, “And just to make you feel safe … I don’t love you.”

Judging from the rustle of laughter in his chest, that had been the right thing to say. Sam leaned over her, his lips grazing her smiling mouth. “I don’t love you too.”

* * *

When Sam was able to move, he gathered up their discarded clothes and took Lucy upstairs. They lay together on the wide bed, conversation temporarily banked like coals beneath a layer of cool ash.

Sam felt a thrill of unease, as if his body knew he’d made a mistake even though his brain kept coming up with all the reasons why he hadn’t. Lucy was a grown woman, able to make her own decisions. He hadn’t misled her, hadn’t presented himself in any light other than what he was. She seemed happy with the situation, and God knew he was satisfied, replete, in a way he’d never known before.