Rock Solid. Jennifer Greene

the climbing harness on her. There was nothing suggestive about putting a helmet on her head—but the harness was necessarily more intimate. She was fully clothed in jeans, of course. But each leg had to be fit in a stirrup, and secured around her upper thighs. He did the securing.

      Then the harness had to be worked over her hips and secured at her waist.

      He did that securing, too.

      He’d done it for a zillion women. And men. It was part of his job, for Pete’s sake. It was one of the ways he could guarantee a client’s safety, because he supervised the equipment use every step of the way. Only that’s what he was always thinking about. Safety. Not thighs and fannies. Not specifically the way her slim thigh tensed when he buckled the harness snug. Not specifically the way his knuckles accidentally brushed against her pelvis. Not specifically the way his fingers curled around the harness as he adjusted the leather around her hips and fanny. Not the way her eyes suddenly shot to his when he adjusted the buckle at her waist.

      Since Lexie seemed to have quit breathing altogether, Cash figured he’d better finish that sentence for her. “The thing is…rock climbing is about trust. Not blind trust. Proven trust. There are different kinds of rock climbing, Lex. What we’re doing isn’t ‘free’ climbing. It’s called ‘technical’ climbing.”

      She didn’t answer. When she looked down, though, to where his hands were still fumbling at her waist, she very likely saw his zipper jutting out as if someone had stuck a long, smooth rock in his jeans. Well, hell. It was a knee-jerk biological response. Nothing a guy could help. How could a man possibly touch a woman like Lex and not feel a volatile response?

      “Technical climbing is especially about trust,” he said gruffly. “Because I’m going to be attached to you with equipment the whole time. You’re afraid of falling, right?”

      Suddenly she was looking straight in his eyes and not an inch lower. “Yes.”

      “So that’s what we’re going to do, Lex. You’re going to climb up a bit, and then we’re going to make you fall. Only I’m going to be attached to you with equipment the whole time. Nothing dangerous is going to happen. There is no possible way I would let you get hurt, do you hear me? And I’m going to prove that to you. Because when you fall, I’ll be there for you.”

      Somehow anything he said seemed to be coming out wrong—as if he were talking about falling in love instead of falling off rocks. And there was this look in Lexie’s eyes that amounted to a violent “no” no matter what he was talking about.

      “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Cash. I do. I met you and I trusted you on sight,” she assured him. “Only I’d rather eat snails than be suspended from any height. Look. Maybe I’m just not cut out to even try your program. Don’t take it personally. It’s not—it’s me. I’m fabulous with money, it’s my thing, but get me around anything physical—”

      He never meant to kiss her. Didn’t even know he was going to do it. It was about her trying to be funny about being scared. It was about his feeling bad about her falling in the creek. It was because she’d gotten Sammy to talk to her yesterday, and because she looked so cute in the helmet, and because he was already turned on from fitting her in the harness stirrups, and…hell. He didn’t really have a clue why he reached for her.

      He just did.

      She must have guessed a millisecond before it was coming because her lips parted—as if in shock. Or as if she planned to say something. As far as Cash could tell, Lexie had something to say about almost everything.

      That was about the last coherent thought he had for quite a while.

      She tasted like something expensive and forbidden and desired. Her lips…nothing was that soft. Nothing in this life. Although the morning had been cool, now there was the barest breeze in the air, sweet and heavy with spring scents. The scent of longing. The scent of young dreams. The scent of yearning.

      It wasn’t that Cash forgot that every single damn woman in his life had caused him nothing but trouble. It was just…he didn’t care right then.

      There was a hush in the air. It was coming from her. There was a drumroll of need pounding in his pulse. It was coming from her. There was a willingness floating through his bloodstream, a willingness to do something damn stupid—like get involved with her, a woman who was leaving no later than four weeks from now…and that was rashly assuming she made it four days. But the desire punching him in the gut suddenly made all that common sense seem no-account foolishness.

      Amazing. That he’d needed her all this time and hadn’t known.

      Amazing. He pushed off the helmet and got his hands in her hair—amazed that he’d survived this long before giving in to such a fierce need. The texture of her wily, unruly curls, the look of the silky sunlight on her cheek, the sound of her sudden yielding sigh…ah, hell, there was no analyzing any of it.

      He took her mouth and then again, tasting her, sampling her, then coming back for the whole feast. Tongues touched tongues, then tangled. He swooped her closer, half lifting her, not trying to be crude, not wanting to be, but if he couldn’t feel her breasts and pelvis layered intimately against him, he wasn’t positive he’d managed to survive another second.

      Those small, slim hands suddenly willingly slid around his neck. Another sigh whispered from her throat, caught between kisses, trapped between kisses. She was still wearing the leather climbing harness, which in no way inhibited movement but only protected her from danger. Only they weren’t climbing now, and he had no harness to protect himself, not when she surged up on tiptoe and robbed him of a kiss that he wasn’t necessarily planning to give away. She could convince a saint to take up sin. And oh, man.

      She was good.

      Sunlight speared in the middle of the forest, washing them in that magic light. He didn’t give a damn. His work—forget that, too. The two clients finished their morning exercise, the lodge, the bills, his missing sister, Hannah—he didn’t care about any of it. When he finally yanked his head up to haul in some air, he wasn’t sure where he’d just been—where they’d just been—but it sure as hell wasn’t his Silver Mountain lodge in Idaho.

      He was going to worry about that kiss. A lot.