An  Excerpt From:  The Crush
Contemporary Romance - (Rated PG)

© Copyright Joey W. Hill, 2003.

The Crush

Being in his arms was like being home, after having been away for a very long time. Though she had never actually felt his embrace, she knew it. He had strong arms and he smelled wonderful, a soap with a trace of lemon, and a male scent of aftershave. His jewel blue eyes were steady, serious, and yet there was so much more there. Laughter, thoughtfulness, desire.

He pressed his lips to hers, covered her mouth with gentle pressure. One hand came up to cup her face, to stroke her throat and jawline, which made her feel fluttery, feminine. The kiss deepened and her knees weakened, so she had to hold onto him for balance. He smiled against her lips, murmuring to her, and an aching need spread through her chest and stomach.

It took her by surprise, because she didn't expect it to be so potent. The touch of his lips gave her a sensation like the first kiss of a true love, where everything tingled, from lips to toes, the body tightening, the heart squeezed in a relentless, gentle fist. Only she knew now what she hadn't known as an adolescent, or even as a young woman. Don't pull back too soon. Let it spin out until the whole soul is laughing from the joyous feel of that mouth, and those hands holding you close.

There had to be a heaven, if there were such moments as this, and if there weren't, this was a heck of a consolation prize.

Never let it end. Please.

Resa Davenport opened her eyes and her damp palms a moment before the fifth period bell rang, her internal clock set to rouse her from her short meditation before her last class of the day.

Her thoughts certainly were not meditative. She wasn't napping either, unless daydreaming was a subcategory of napping.

"You're losing your mind, Resa," she muttered. She rose, opened her supply closet to check her appearance in the full-length mirror there.

She'd shed her blazer in the quiet privacy of her classroom, though there was nothing inappropriate for a high school teacher in the white silk blouse and A-line pale pink skirt that stopped just above the knee and had a modest slit in the back.

She was expected to dress up a bit this week, because it was teacher evaluation week for her hall. The principal would be visiting each teacher's class for a period, to give his personal evaluation of his or her performance.

However, as an honest woman, she knew the combination of fragile feminine colors, the faint outline of bra and lace beneath the blouse's soft folds and the smooth snug line of the skirt were sexy to a man, and that's why she had worn them.

Today, because the dream had clung to her when her morning alarm had gone off, she had made another impulsive decision. Beneath the clothes, she wore a white fantasy. A white lace demi-cup bra, silken thigh highs with lace tops and garters, and a pair of bikini underwear that were swatches of sheer gauze connected with a trio of satin straps over each hip bone. She didn't expect anyone to see them, but they allowed her mind to drift back to the fantasy of that dream each time she moved and felt the slide of the garments against her skin.

She had taken special care with her fine gold hair, putting it up in a twist on her head and holding it in place with a pearl-edged comb that bared her neck. She shrugged into the matching pink blazer, made sure she didn't catch her silver hoops, and rearranged the dainty silver cross on its chain around her neck.

She moved to open her classroom door when she saw waiting silhouettes, and had to suppress disappointment when all she saw were the faces of her students. He wasn't going to come today. He'd probably come on a day she wore one of her denim jumpers and comfortable clogs that fairly screamed "dowdy".

She covered her reaction with a smile and a greeting for her early arrivals and went to the board, lifting the screen hook from the chalk tray.

"Good morning, Mrs. Davenport."

Her fingers fumbled the handle and the hook slid from the tray and clattered to the floor.

Principal Tom Brent stooped, picked up the hook and placed it back in her hand, his fingers warm against her palm.

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