Forbidden (Southern Comfort)

when she came downstairs this morning.”
“It’s a good idea to be cautious,” Clay agreed, deciding that it took a lot of moxie for someone who’d experienced what she had as a child to run the kind of business she did.  “You might want to consider having a motion sensor installed near the door to the stairwell.  It would alert you to either someone trying to approach or Max attempting to leave.”
TATE smiled, relieved that he understood her reaction so well, considering she’d stormed in like some wild-eyed harridan.
“I apologize if he woke you up this morning.  He’s going through this ‘girls are dumb’ phase and prefers the company of other ‘guys.’”
“We had a very… enlightening discussion,” Clay said with an amused grin.  “He said it was okay for him to tell me things because I have a penis.”
“Oh my God.” He was naked. Tate had totally forgotten that critical fact.
Her eyes landed like heat seeking missiles on Clay’s crotch, and he glanced wryly at his lap.  Even through the thin fabric of the boxer shorts he’d covered himself with, she had no trouble discerning the appendage in question.
She hastily jerked her gaze away and covered her eyes with her fingers.
“I should just, uh…” her voice trailed off into a strangled noise of dismay.  “I’ll go now.”
Eyes still covered, she backed herself into the door.  But instead of exiting, she tripped over her feet and accidentally closed it, landing against the wood with a muffled thud.  She cracked her head, dropped her hand from her eyes, and rubbed at the goose egg that was forming.
Then to her complete mortification, Clay came off the bed in order to assist her.
He was naked as the day he was born.
Lord have mercy, he looked like a cross between a Men’s Fitness model and a porn star.
Heavy on the porn star.
“I’m okay.”  Tate held out her hand to ward off his impending approach.
Unfortunately for Clay, her hand shot out at groin level.  It connected solidly with soft tissue and brought him groaning to his knees.
He landed, doubled up in pain, on top of her.
“Oh my God, Clay, I’m so sorry.”
Then the gods of humiliation selected that moment for Max to lead her mother to Clay’s door.  He pushed it open in a flurry of innocent excitement, and then stood stock still when it bumped into the opposing weight of Tate’s bottom, currently stuck in the air as she tried to wrench herself free of nearly two hundred pounds of wounded male.
Clay, hands cupped over his particulars, blinked at the new arrivals with the fatalistic acceptance of one who was caught in a thoroughly embarrassing situation and saw no discernible way out of it.
Then to her complete astonishment, he started to laugh.
Tate could feel her face running the entire spectrum of fiery shades from rose to scarlet, and her mother tucked her tongue in her cheek in a bid not to lose control.
She lost that particular battle when Max pointed at Clay and declared in triumph:  “See, Grandma!  I told you he has a penis!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Tate managed to maintain her composure as she and Max joined Clay for breakfast. Because really, it wasn’t at all appropriate to cackle like a loon in front of the guests. But when Max crawled into Clay’s lap, whispering something in his ear that had his laugh booming like happy thunder, she couldn’t quite stop the little flutter in her chest.
They seemed… easy together, she thought.  A far cry from yesterday’s stiffness at the beach.
Chewing her lip because that flutter thing couldn’t be good, Tate caught sight of her mother out of the corner of her eye. “Let me help you with those dishes, Mom.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood.
“Nonsense.” Maggie dismissed her daughter with a wave of her free hand as she approached.  The other hand was loaded with the delicate cups and saucers a couple of their elderly guests had used for their tea.  “You’re taking care of a guest.”
The corner of Tate’s mouth quirked into a wry little smile.  “Given the circumstances both last night and this morning, I’m not charging him for the room, Mom.”
Maggie straightened away from the table she was clearing and bristled indignantly at her daughter, a volatile combination of southern hospitality and Irish temper that had just been offended.  “Paying or no, he’s still a guest in our home.”
She glanced over Tate’s shoulder, and Tate followed her gaze.  Max had dragged out one of his coloring books. He and Clay had their heads bent together, conversing sagely while putting their artistic stamps on Spider Man Versus the New Goblin.  “Now, why don’t you earn your keep by seeing if there’s anything else he needs,” Maggie suggested.  Her green eyes twinkled over the stack of dishes in her arms.  “Maybe you can try to compensate for some of the damage you inflicted earlier.”
Tate felt the heat rush into her cheeks. As far as first dates went, she and Clay’s had been a real doozy.  She doubted many men had been put through quite as much in the pursuit of a little recreational romance.
Clay looked up from his rendering of Peter Parker as Tate returned to the table.  “I haven’t operated one of these in a couple decades.”  He held up the neon yellow crayon, studying it with a curious eye.  “I think they’ve added a few colors since my time.  All my early artwork consists of blue and red scribbles.  Of course, that might say more about my lack of imagination as opposed to limited materials.”
Tate grinned, bending over to admire their work.  Clay seemed to show the same disposition toward grinding the point of the crayon into the paper that her son displayed.  Probably something to do with inherent male aggressiveness.
“Very nice,” she concluded diplomatically.
“I’ll say.”
Hearing the heat in the words, Tate glanced down, realizing she’d inadvertently flashed him.  Her shirt gaped to frame the tops of her breasts, trapped in black lace.
“About those handcuffs...” he murmured.
Tate