Plain Jane Wanted

by Rose Amberly

  She was close to tears. Not because of what she was saying, but because of the sudden chill. What had been a warm, even hot, body behind her was now an impossible distance away. Cool air blew over her back, and the arms on the blanket had dropped to the sides. She could no longer feel his heart beating, the breath going in and out of his chest; she couldn’t even smell his scent. His warm, sexy male scent which had been all around her.

  The wind outside had died down, and there was hardly any rain falling, just the occasional ping of a water drop in the tins.

  She tried one last time. “We can only try and forgive ourselves. For the mistakes we made. For being human.”

  Nothing.

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry, George, I shouldn’t have spoken. I didn’t mean to upset y--.” Her voice splintered.

  There was a muffled curse behind her.

  And then he was there against her back, and his arms pulled her into him in a fierce, crushing squeeze. “Shh, shh. You have nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t mean to make you...” He cleared his throat, as if painful words had been stuck.

  His heartbeat was fast, erratic; she tried to reach back.

  “Don’t move.” He buried his head into the back of her neck. “Just stay like this.”

  His stubbled jaw and chin pressed hard into her skin.

  She tried to twist around, to face him.

  “Damn it, Millie, don’t turn around, or so help me God, I won’t answer for my actions.”

  Heat flooded her. She could feel his body, all of it pressed against her back. She wasn’t imagining his reaction.

  Millie’s own resistance had frayed down to a thread.

  “Do you want me to…” She cleared husk from her throat. “Shall I go and sit in the other room?” She may have had good intentions, but her voice dropped so low it could be lying on a pillow.

  “No.” He breathed into her hair, and his arms tightened around her even more.

  Something pulsed deep between her legs, like a beat. It set off a magnetic current that took over inside her.

  Her mind would have advised against it, but her mind had gone down below to enjoy itself in the warm pool of desire.

  Heart beating out of control, she reached over her head and caressed his hair. Her, hand sank into the smooth, rich gorgeous hair—Oh dear God. Her fingers tangled and maybe pulled—

  George’s strong hand caught her wrist, stopping her. “Millie, for God’s sake.” His voice was a tightly leashed growl. “I’m hanging on by a thread.” But he didn’t let go; his touch was burning hot as his thumb rubbed the inside of her wrist slowly. It pulled at that deep pulse below her belly.

  She tilted against his leg and looked into his face. His eyes were hooded, and a vertical line deepened between his brows.

  “Why?”

  He looked at her. How could eyes—just eyes—do this to a woman? They held her gaze then travelled slowly down her face and settled on her lips. Whatever that pulse between her legs was, it hammered now and wouldn’t be ignored.

  “You don’t want a man like me,” he said. “Trust me, you don’t. I know where this ends.” But his thumb was still stroking her skin. Did he even realize he was doing it?

  She slipped out of his arm and turned around to face him. Her wrist was still in his hand. “No one knows how things end,” she said, trying for soft, but her voice came out husky. “Life is like wild plants; it does its own thing. Yes, there are risks, there always are.” She took a breath. “I’m not afraid. Are you?”

  A burning look came into his eyes, and this time he didn’t stop her when she gently threaded her fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. He closed his eyes, and his chest rose and fell. He reached for her face, cupping her cheek in his palm, tracing with his thumb the line of her brow and down the bridge of her nose, slow, agonizing.

  “That’s how blind people feel what someone looks like,” she spoke softly, barely audible.

  “Have you ever been with a blind man?” He rasped.

  “No, you are my first,” she whispered, closing her own eyes.

  His thumb pressed over her lips, then brushed a trail around her upper lip, across her bottom lip, pulling it down. His thumb rested on the inside of her lower lip.

  She touched it with the tip of her tongue, feather light, and he groaned. She tried it again, this time licking, and suddenly his mouth was on her.

  Just that. His lips covered hers, nothing more. She wanted to kiss him. His lips were full and warm, and she wanted to taste his mouth. But he seemed to be waiting, holding himself back, holding them both on the edge.

  Okay, mein Herr, let’s see your control. She tilted her mouth very slightly, and he responded immediately, parting her lips wider. The tip of his tongue brushed across her lips. She moaned, a sound somewhere between pleasure and longing. Which seemed to end his resistance, and he pulled her hard into him, his mouth taking hers in a hungry kiss, his tongue making deep, slow strokes.

  Her body melted into him, her head fell back, but he was there with her, not breaking the kiss. His hand cradled the back of her head as his face pressed over hers, their mouths locked. She lifted one knee from the floor and hooked her leg around him. And his free hand on the small of her back took her weight as they fell backward on the rumpled blanket.

  * * *

  George kissed her hard, as if his life depended on it, which in a way it did. Years of longing gushed through him and exploded into the longest kiss he’d ever had.

  He could feel her body both soft and firm under him, her breasts inside her shirt pushed against his chest. Uncontrolled, his hands went to press them over the thin cotton, and she moaned again. Urgent heat pulsed in his groin; he wanted to feel her skin everywhere; he grabbed her shirt and dragged it up and over her head.

  Full, soft breasts, warm satin skin, nipples hard as pearls under his thumb, sending his blood crashing like a crazy tidal wave through his body.

  Her hands were in his hair and around his neck. Mouth to mouth again, he moved between her legs, pushing them apart with his hips, and she arched into him.

  The cotton of his shorts and hers was an exquisite torture between them when he moved up and down, rubbing against her, feeling her press up into him.

  Condoms, a faint voice said inside his head. He ignored it.

  She is still married, and you have a girlfriend. With a growl, he silenced his conscience and pushed his tongue deep inside her mouth, searching for oblivion. For more, more, more.

  The voice nagged. A cheater. like father, like son.

  George froze for an instant, and the voice, emboldened, went on.

  More, more, more, just like your father. But here? In this of all places?

  “What’s wrong?” Millie’s question seemed to come from inside a fog.

  George blinked. He was two feet away from her on his knees.

  “George?”

  She lifted herself on her elbows. Her hair tangled, face flushed and naked breasts almost broke his will. He picked up her discarded shirt and gave it to her, but she ignored it.

  “Please, Millie, if you have a drop of mercy, get dressed,” he said, closing his eyes. You couldn’t even wait a few hours to break up with Beatrice. Just like your father; he could never wait.

  “George. Talk to me.” She touched his knee, and he sprang up and turned away from her, walking blindly until he stubbed his toe on the edge of the bathroom door.

  “Ow,” he shouted. “Fuck, bugger, bugger, fucking, fuck.” He lifted his foot and held his toes in his hand, leaning on the door frame.

  “Are you okay?” She spoke from just behind him.

  George flung his hand out to stop her. “Are you dressed?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was full of confusion.

  He opened his eyes and caught sight of her legs. �
�Not enough.” He needed to break something. He needed to punch and hit and smash, something, anything.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for the blanket.

  “Okay, you can look now. I’m like a nun.”

  He looked at her covered from head to toe. Even though his heart was full of anger and pain and a million warring sensations, he laughed.

  There was a window near. He hopped over and sat on the ledge, his foot on his knee. “Fucking door frame.” He gave her a tight smile. “I think you can lose the blanket. Your clothes should be dry by now.”

  Millie opened her mouth, but whatever she saw in his face changed her mind. She went to the bathroom to find her clothes and left him to his dark thoughts.

  The voice of his conscience kept rhythm with the throbbing pain.

  Really, George? Here, of all places?

  On Le Cou?

  The home that was your mother’s refuge, a safe haven from a cheating Du Montfort?

  In the end, you turned out just like your dad.

  Shame beat back desire, but not completely. When Millie came back, fully dressed, and gave him his clothes, he kicked into his jeans and buttoned them up, regret sharpening with every button.

  She knelt before the fire and tidied up. On the floor, just where they had spent most of the night.

  Wasted most of the night not making love.

  Bitterness filled his mouth.

  * * *

  Dawn

  I should go, right now. Millie’s brain advised. Walk out, tide or no tide. She folded her shorts and stuffed then into the tote, then wasted more time folding the blanket.

  I can’t sit here after he’s just rejected me. Again. She collected her herb cuttings and placed them carefully into the bag, careful not to crush them.

  Her heart shrank with humiliation. What am I waiting for? Stop tidying up like a housewife and just go.

  She stood up.

  “I am sorry, Millie.” George spoke up. “Christ—all I seem to do when I am around you is fuck up.”

  “I don’t want an apology.” She didn’t look at him; her eyes would show too much. “An explanation, however, would be good.”

  “My bloody father.”

  His father? “He’s not even here.”

  “He is always here, in my head.”

  Must be very crowded in there with all the anger and the controlling and God knows what else.

  “Also, I…” He blew out a breath through his lips. “I have a girlfriend.”

  Her eyes snapped to him.

  Of course, the phone call he wouldn’t take. BW. This situation was getting better and better.

  “Nothing serious,” he said. “It was virtually over, but we talked earlier, and I...” He paused, took in a deep breath, his chest swelling, then blew it out.

  Oh, for God’s sake. Millie watched him, not caring now if her anger showed

  “I think I gave her the impression we’re still on.” He went on talking, something about his father cheating and breaking hearts. Millie was no longer listening.

  So. She was rejected and the other woman at the same time

  “…but later I thought,” George was saying. “…they were just women who fell in love and they were hurt too.” He pulled on his pollo shirt and straightened the collar.

  Why was he talking about his father when he didn’t behave any better himself? Why did he kiss her if he had a girlfriend? Not just kiss her but roll her on the floor, push her clothes up and touch her— And then her mind took her back — it wasn’t George who’d initiated the kiss. She’d made the first move. And the second, and third. In fact, he had tried very hard to resist her. Ugh, as if I wasn’t feeling rejected enough five minutes ago.

  “You deserve better,” George said. “Christ, every woman deserves better.” He gave her a difficult smile. “I don’t know, I am not making much sense. Throbbing toe and frustrated erection don’t make for a clear head.”

  The flippant words didn’t hide the emotion in his eyes.

  She softened. “It’s okay. You make more sense than you think.”

  “Millie, I want you very much.” His eyes were almost black in the grey light. “You mean a lot more to me than one night of passion. I won’t let this become something sordid. Something guilty. And not here.”

  Millie’s heart kicked up faster. Just when she thought she understood what happened, everything changed too quickly. She needed time to think, and her mind and body were sending her conflicting advice. Not to mention Mr Mixed Messages here.

  She needed a little clarity, deserved a little more clarity. “So, what happens now?”

  Contrary to all her expectations, he smiled.

  “I need to finish with Be—with my—” He pressed his lips and didn’t finish the sentence.

  Good. She didn’t need a name. Or a description.

  “I’ve never overlapped relationships.” He came to stand before her now, looking into her eyes. “It’s disrespectful to both women and to myself. I’m no saint but at least, I always end things cleanly.” He reached and took her hand. “So, I need to do that before I can be free.” He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss on her fingers before letting go.

  She’d have to think later when she was alone. For now, they needed to stop talking about this before she found herself agreeing to something she shouldn’t.

  No one, least of all a woman in love, could be expected to think clearly when those silver-flecked grey eyes looked at her like that.

  With an effort, she tore her gaze away from him.

  The night was over, and the broken window showed a pale sky. Sunrise was her favourite time of the day.

  “What say we go and check the tide?” She walked past him and through the door. “And if the isthmus is walkable, I think we should try and find some proper English breakfast in the village?”

  It made him laugh and broke the tension. Almost. Because when she caught his eye, she had to turn away from the burning look she found there.

  SIXTEEN

  The day after. Du Montfort Hall, Study, 2:30pm

  “What’s wrong with you, girl? Did you get sunstroke on your day out yesterday?” Du Montfort’s words pulled Millie back from watching the afternoon sun through the open window. The same sun she had watched come up this morning on her walk home, hand in hand with George. They’d stopped for breakfast in one of the farms, and somehow over soft-poached eggs on toast, he had charmed himself back into her good books. The air had been fresh after the rain, and an extraordinary number of birds and butterflies had danced in the tall grass.

  “Sorry,” she said, dragging her mind back indoors with difficulty. “Do you want me to read you a different article?”

  The old man flicked his hand away. “What’s the point? War here, war there, bad news everywhere. Read me something funny.”

  Funny? She looked around the room, the opened letters in a neat stack on the desk, the water jug on its tray, the medicine box. He’d never asked for funny before; she wasn’t even sure there was anything funny in his library.

  Oh, please don’t be difficult today. Her mind wasn’t in the right place to think up entertainment. She needed time alone to think. “I can do a quick trawl through the internet, if you like, or maybe a YouTube clip?” she asked.

  She went over to the desk to return Newsweek back to the magazines rack. She could still feel George’s scratchy stubble dragging over her shoulder and neck. The skin around her mouth felt raw and her lips tender. She remembered the taste of him in her mouth—a shiver ran through her body.

  “What happened to you yesterday?” Du Montfort’s question called her back. Once again, she’d forgotten herself, standing behind the desk, her hand on the magazine for long minutes.

  “Nothing,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I ju
st went for a long swim in Blue Sage Bay and fell asleep in the sun on the beach.” She sent a silent prayer to the gods of conversation to distract the old man.

  The last thing she needed was people in the house knowing she’d spent the night with George and think she was—what? Chasing him? Making herself too available? Memories of Joanie and Ann joking about her predecessor making a play for the boss filled her with embarrassment. She couldn’t bear for them to think of her the same way.

  This morning as they had come within sight of the house, she’d made George let go of her hand, with difficulty. She’d walked to the house five minutes ahead of him, as if coming back from her usual early-morning walk.

  “You probably got too hot. Mrs Baxter told me she sent George out to find you. That must have cheered up your day.”

  Millie turned her blushing face away from his curious eyes and pretended to tidy up books and papers. “I’m afraid he was a bit cross because I made him miss his flight.”

  Du Montfort guffawed. He actually threw his head back the way he always did when he laughed at her. “Millie, you are the queen of understatement. ‘A bit cross,’ indeed.” He was still laughing. “So my son hauled you over hot coals, did he? That’s why you’re blushing? I’ll deal with him.”

  “No, really, it’s okay.”

  “You mustn’t let him frighten you. George is always cross. I swear my son would buy misery on the stock market if he could.”

  Millie didn’t want to encourage the old man; she felt disloyal discussing George behind his back. He was her George, the man who had held her so tight and confessed his heart’s pain. And his face looked almost boyish when he closed his eyes, when she touched his face—

  “Leave the bloody magazines. Come and sit with a decrepit old man.”

  Her lips twitched as she pulled a chair closer to him. “If you ever become a decrepit old man, I’d really like to see that.”

  “I’m a lot less likely to become decrepit with you around to keep me entertained.” The old man took her hand in his. “You have transformed all of us, even my son. You might think him a misery-guts, but it’s not a patch on his usual self. He usually comes to the island for three days, blows through the house like angry tornado and flies away.” The words were critical, but there was a layer of affection below the surface.