Husband in Training Page 13

  Warned. She had been warned. By the one-handed clock. By her own wiser self.

  But she had not heeded the warnings. She'd been too busy, getting herself into this situation. She had shucked off her shoes and said yes to more wine, wandered over to the CD rack to choose what music they'd play.

  And now it was too late. Now she would have what she wanted, though it was wrong. Though there was some woman named Sasha.

  And the memory of Andrew, of his death. Of the pain she had sworn to herself she'd never have to feel again.

  Nick's eyes came closer. They blotted out what was left of the world.

  His mouth touched hers, so lightly. It was soft, that mouth, and tender. He brushed it, back and forth, against her own. Something rose in her throat—a whimper of need.

  His arms went around her and his mouth opened on hers.

  No, she thought. Don't do this. Don't make me do this.

  But his mouth was on hers, his scent surrounded her, his tongue delved in.

  Andrew, she thought. You left me and I swore.

  I swore never. Never again. Standing there at your grave—how long? A few months after you left me. Staring at the beautiful headstone that we chose together, Nick and I.

  Your name there on that headstone: Andrew Jonas Brown. And the dates of your birth and death.

  And at the bottom: Husband Father Son Friend.

  I stood there at your grave and I swore I would never, ever again…

  And the robin. There had been a robin. Clearly male, the breast such a deep orange it really did look red. The robin appeared out of nowhere, or that was how it seemed. He flew down out of the sky and perched on the stone bench a few feet away, that red breast puffed up, knowing eyes small and sharp and seeing everything.

  He sang for me, that robin.

  I remember, Andrew. I remember how it was…

  Nick's hand, on the buttons of her shirt, moving down, so swift and sure, taking her clothes away. All of them. Gone away. Even her thick white socks, which he peeled off slowly, one at a time. She watched them falling to the marble floor, leaving her with nothing.

  No protection from his touch. From her need.

  From the promise she was breaking.

  The dark head moved down. She cradled it as he captured her breast, suckled it, made her arch her body up, hungry, needful, wanting more.

  Nick pulled back. She thought, yes, now—I'll turn away. I'll end this, I will, before—

  But his eyes found her. His eyes wouldn't let her go. He took her hands and guided them to the sides of his shirt. And then she was taking that shirt, pulling it up, and over his head. Her heart beat hollow and hard beneath her bare breasts and her blood moved through her veins thickly, oh so sweetly…

  She undressed him. She revealed his body, which was so hard and big, the arms and legs heavy with muscle, the bones sturdy and strong. Dark, crisp hair curled on his chest and between his powerful thighs, where the proof of his desire for her stood up proud and sure.

  Sitting on the sofa, with him standing above her, she touched him. And he groaned. She took that groan into herself, as she would soon take him. All of him, inside of her, filling the burning, needful hollow at the center of herself.

  She looked up. His eyes waited, caught her, wouldn't let her go.

  And she took him. Into her mouth. She tasted him, the whole hard length of him. She stroked him with her lips and tongue.

  He didn't let her do that for long. He put his hand behind her head, curled his strong fingers in her hair and made her look at him again. His hand slid down, caressing her shoulder, brushing along her arm. His fingers twined with hers.

  He gave a tug. She needed no more urging. She stood. He reached for her.

  Another kiss, a naked kiss. His body branding itself all along hers, the strength and power of it making her shudder again, her breasts pushing against him, her sex rubbing his.

  He lifted his head.

  She got out two words. "We shouldn't—"

  And then his cruel, wonderful mouth took the words away. He drank them into himself as his tongue toyed with hers, until she forgot them, until it was as if they had never been said.

  When that kiss was through, he took her hand once more. He turned, pulling her, stumbling a little, behind him. They crossed the marble floor. It was warm, that floor. Heating elements ran beneath it, little thin lines, like wires. Nick had explained it all to her, the first time he brought her and Polly here to show her his new house, right after he moved in.

  Polly.

  Her daughter's name burst into her mind. Polly—off at her first boy-girl party on this night when she, herself, was here with Nick, naked.

  "Mom, it's good that you're dating," Polly had said. "But you're going to have to get past this friend thing, you really are…"

  Oh, Polly, am I past it yet? she thought with a tiny laugh that came out like a cry.

  Nick stopped when she let out that cry. They were halfway down the long hall that led to his bedroom. He stopped and turned to her. He took her face in his big hands. And he kissed her again, long and slow and deep, so she forgot everything but how much she wanted him.

  Forgot everything but his touch. His maleness. His scent.

  The scent of a lover.

  Yes. Lover. The right word, after all.

  He stroked her bare shoulders, ran his hands down her back. She knew his male purpose: to make her forget her own frantic cry. And she helped him, she colluded with him, pushing her mouth up to his, rubbing her breasts against his chest.

  When all she could think of once again was her hunger, he released her enough to pull her the rest of the way to his room. The lights were already on in there, recessed lights, built into the ceiling, tucked away in the high walls. They made soft pools on the floor, on the wide bed with its black silk coverlet, on the black, thick pillows and the pale birchwood bureaus.

  He led her to the bed and guided her down on it, his mouth finding hers again, his powerful body pressing her into the black silk. For one moment he left her, to take a small box from the nightstand, to slide a condom in place.

  Then he was with her again, stroking her, kissing her, touching all her secret places, delving into them, opening them. He moved down her body, until his mouth found the heart of her. She opened for him without a murmur of protest. She rose, shameless, toward that incredible, forbidden kiss.

  She shattered, with his dark head between her thighs.

  As the aftershocks trembled through her, he rose up.

  His hands found her hands, his fingers lacing into hers. He lifted her hands, over her head, spread them wide on the pile of black pillows. He held them there as he penetrated her, slowly, deeply, his eyes looking into hers, holding her there.

  She cried out again. Just a woman's cry, this time. No anguish or doubt in it. No hesitation. Simply a deep emptiness, filled.

  She moved with him, rising to meet each stroke, falling back only to rise again, sighing, thinking yes, yes, yes. Another sigh. And yes, again…

  Fulfillment poured through her, a shower of light, an endless expansion within a series of contractions.

  She heard him moan as he found release, too.

  When it was over, she lay beneath him, still joined to him, feeling as if she floated on some endless, warm sea.

  But finally, thought came back to her. Doubt began to rise.

  She moved, tried to push at him. He lifted on those muscled forearms, looked down at her.

  She thought, No, I won't look at you. I won't—

  He took her chin in his hand. Held her there, for his eyes.

  And then his mouth came down. That wonderful mouth.

  How, after tonight, would she look at that mouth again, without thinking, Please kiss me? Please touch me. Please make love to me…

  His mouth worked its magic. She sighed, lifted her arms to pull him even closer. Down where they were still joined, she could feel him rising once more.

  They fell asleep
some time after two.

  Nick woke before dawn, knew a moment of complete disorientation, a certainty that what had happened had only been a dream.

  But then he turned his head on the pillow. She was there, in his bed with him: Jen.

  She lay on her back, her eyes closed, the covers up to her chin.

  He rolled toward her, took the edge of the black silk comforter and slowly, carefully, pulled it away.

  At first, she didn't wake. So he indulged himself in the pleasure of looking at her. At her pale skin and light hair spread on the black pillow. At the fine, wide shoulders, the full breasts he had kissed. At the faint, thin lines of stretch marks on her belly; they seemed beautiful to him somehow, because he knew how she'd got them: having Polly.

  His gaze wandered lower, to the pretty golden curls between her long, smooth legs. He wanted to touch those curls again, to feel their softness, to burrow into them and find the satiny slick female heart of her beneath.

  She would be wet for him. Open for him.

  Whatever happened later, they would both know that. They would both remember what they had done together, here, tonight. That whatever her hesitations, she had given herself completely in the end. She had reached for him, touched him, helped him to undress. Taken him willingly into herself.

  She stirred and opened those blue eyes, started to speak. He put his hand over her mouth.

  "Shh," he said. He didn't want any talking. Not now. Not till the light of day, at least.

  He knew exactly what he'd done that night: seduced her. Seduced Jen.

  And he knew that when the talking started, there could very well be hell to pay.

  So, all right. He would pay. But not yet. Not while the smallest fraction of the night remained. Tonight was his. Jen was his. For as long as he could keep words and daylight at bay.

  And after that?

  Would he lose her friendship over this? And what would his life be like, without Jen as his friend?

  He shook his head, as another warning to her not to speak—and also as a caution to himself that it was better not to think now of what might happen when daylight came. Better not to waste a moment of this—of him and Jen, naked in his bed.

  He took his hand away. She continued to watch him, blue eyes wary, strong chin thrust out a little, waiting to see what he planned to do.

  So he lowered his mouth to hers and claimed her again.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

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  Jenny woke to a rumbling sound. She slid her hand out from beneath the covers, groping toward that rumble. Her hand encountered a small, warm body covered with fur: Daisy. Little Daisy was sharing her pillow with her. And the sun—the sun was shining through the half-open blinds over the glass doors that led out to the patio off Nick's bedroom.

  She turned her head, saw Nick there beside her and thought of the night before.

  No. Never mind that.

  She looked the other way again, back toward the fluffy body of the purring kitten. Beyond the kitten, the clock on the nightstand chided her: almost nine.

  She had to get home, get a shower. Pick Polly up by eleven.

  There was plenty of time, really. She knew that. But she felt such urgency. To get out of there, to get home.

  She pushed back the covers and jumped from the bed. The kitten sat up, stretched and yawned, then flopped back down and began washing a rear leg.

  Jenny looked at herself. Naked. She was naked.

  It shouldn't have shocked her. She remembered very well that she'd been naked for a good part of the night before. But still, it did startle her. It reminded her too forcefully that everything she remembered had actually taken place.

  She glanced back at the man on the bed: still sleeping. And her clothes were all the way out in the living room, for heaven's sake.

  She had to get them on and then wake him, ask him to drive her home. Oh, why hadn't she had sense enough to bring her own car? Then she wouldn't have to wake him, wouldn't have to face him—at least not right now, when she had to get home, get cleaned up, collect her daughter from all the way across town.

  She turned for the door to the hall. Lord, it was a long hall, she thought as she strode down it, almost running, her breasts bouncing in an undignified manner, only longing to get to the end of it and get some clothes on.

  In the living room, the fire still danced along those logs that never burned. The half-empty bottle of wine sat on the black-lacquer coffee table, next to two full glasses. Strewn on the floor in front of the sofa and under the coffee table, were her clothes and Nick's. The room looked like just what it was: the scene of a recent seduction.

  A seduction.

  Yes. Nick had seduced her.

  What had happened was all his fault.

  But even as she thought those words, she knew they weren't honest. They were part of the truth, perhaps. But not the whole truth.

  If Nick had seduced her, he hadn't done it alone.

  She had helped him. Conspired with him to create the perfect opportunity for it to happen—after a lovely day together, after a beautiful dinner, with the help of a couple of bottles of nice wine, to the accompaniment of a cartridge full of music they had chosen together.

  Jenny glanced from the fire to the bottle and glasses on the coffee table and then to the tangled clothing on the floor. Well, at least the music she had helped to choose didn't play on. Sometime in the night, the thing had switched itself off.

  "Get dressed," she said to herself and the huge, silent room. "Get your clothes on and then march back to that bedroom and tell Nick you have to go."

  She strode to the coffee table and crouched down, yanking her clothes from under there, getting them free of Nick's. She had her bra and panties on and was zipping up her jeans when he spoke from behind her.

  "Jen."

  She knew she had to face him, had to look in those dark eyes. But she couldn't bear to do it with her jeans unzipped and her shirt off. Swiftly she yanked up the zipper, pressed the top snap shut. Then she grabbed for her shirt, pulled it on and made herself turn as she buttoned it up.

  He stood in the wide entrance to the long hall. With some relief she saw that he'd pulled on a pair of Levi's and a long-sleeved shirt before he came looking for her. He hadn't bothered much with buttons, however. The top button of his Levi's remained undone. And his powerful chest with its mat of dark, curly hair confronted her between the open sides of the shirt. He looked so … aggressively male, standing there with his shirt open and his feet bare. Or at least, that was her initial impression.

  But then she looked up, into his eyes. She saw tenderness and real concern.

  Her throat closed. She felt the silly tears rising.

  She bit them back, pressed them down. All at once, she wanted to shout at him. To leap across the marble floor between them and pound on that hairy chest, to scream, Don't look at me like that, with those caring eyes. Not after what you did—what we did—last night!

  But no. She would not do that. She would not scream and shout and act like some wild woman. What had happened had happened. And she had to be on her way.

  She told him just that in a tight, brisk voice. "Listen, I really have to get going. I have to pick Polly up, over in Greenhaven."

  He said nothing, only stood there, with his caring eyes and his unbuttoned shirt.

  She dropped to the edge of the couch, picked up a sock and pulled it on her right foot. She grabbed for the other sock, pausing before yanking it on to glance over at him. He was still just standing there, watching her. "Please, Nick. Really. Will you put on some shoes and drive me home?"

  He came toward her then, striding silently on those bare feet. She wanted to shout again, Stop! Don't come any closer…

  But of course, she didn't. She merely jerked on her sock and grabbed for a shoe.

  He had reached her side. She could see him there, out of the corner of her eye, see his powerful legs in worn denim, feel the warmth his body gave off.<
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  She spoke to his bare feet. "Could you just … please put your shoes on?"

  He dropped to a crouch before her—and took her tennis shoe from her suddenly limp hand. "Jen. Come on. Will you look at me, at least?"

  "Just give me my shoe."

  "Jen."

  "My shoe, damn you! Give it to me!" She actually shouted the words, so loud that poor little Daisy, who'd appeared from the hall, arched up her back, hissed and danced sideways until she ran into the wall. Then she whirled and bolted off the way she had come.

  Dead silence—during which he did not hand over her shoe.

  Finally, he whispered, "Look at me, Jen."

  She didn't want to, she sincerely did not. But she did. She raised her eyes. They locked with his.

  She fisted her hands—to keep them from hitting him. She longed to shout some more, to demand, Is this what my daughter taught you? All this kindness and concern? Did she tell you to be so sensitive and caring the morning after?

  "We have to talk about this," he said, very gently.

  She spoke through clenched teeth. "No, we do not. It was a mistake—"

  "It wasn't."

  "It was. A mistake. It never should have happened. And I'm sorry it happened."

  "I'm not."

  "Well. You should be."

  He tried to reach out. She flinched. "Don't. Please. Don't." She stood, backed away from him, between the couch and the big coffee table, stopping when she'd reached the far end.

  He rose then, too, still holding her shoe. "Come on, Jen." He looked so hurt, so bewildered.

  How could he look like that? How could he stand there, holding her shoe and looking at her as if she was the one who'd done wrong here?

  Even if she had done wrong. At least she was willing to let it go. At least she was willing to—

  He cut into her thoughts. "Jen, I realized something yesterday, something I think I've been hiding from myself for months now. I realized—"

  She threw up a hand. "Stop. No. This is … insane. There is nothing to discuss, the way I see it. Right now, I'm, well, I'm fed up with you. And disgusted with myself. You never should have kissed me. I never should have kissed you back. And we certainly shouldn't have allowed ourselves to end up in bed together."