Taboo (A Classic Romance)

by Mallory Rush

  Why did he always have to make such sense? she wondered. She'd never liked fighting with Grant because he had a way of making his point of view sound perfectly reasonable, no matter how off-base he was.

  "I don't think it's that simple," she countered. "There's a price tag attached to everything in life. You never get something for free."

  "True, but whatever the price might be, I'd pay it ten times over to have a life with you."

  Frantically, she tried to deflect his quiet but firm, heartfelt words. They were words that could weaken her, their simplicity striking hard at her resolve.

  "There's a problem, Grant, a very big problem that you're overlooking. It wouldn't just be your price or my price to pay. Innocent people who deserve better from us could end up hurt—badly hurt."

  "That's possible. Then again, you could be underestimating Mom and Dad. There's only one way to find out, and even if the worst happened and they were hurt, what's the worse crime—them having to get over a blind spot in their principles and learning to live with a situation they can't condone, or us having a whole lifetime of regret and emptiness for turning our backs on the best thing either of us could ever have?"

  "Don't you think you're taking a lot for granted? Just yesterday morning you were what you've always been, and tonight you're talking changes that can affect a lot of people for their whole lives. You're going too fast, Grant."

  "Maybe. But then again, I've never been what you thought I was, and the changes I'm talking about have been on my mind a long time. I've thought these same questions through till I've turned them inside out."

  "Well, I haven't."

  "Then I think it's time that you did."

  What comfort she'd sensed earlier was gone. Grant's eyes met hers in challenge, in demand. She shifted uneasily and glanced away. He always made sense, and maybe that was why she'd always sought his counsel. Only this was different and far riskier, the stakes so high it made her queasy.

  She needed time. Even more, she needed distance. She couldn't trust her judgment with her senses and emotions in such turmoil. The smartest thing she could do would be to end this conversation before it went any further.

  "I think I'd better go in. It's late."

  "If you say so. But we're not through talking, Cammie. Sleep on it. Think about it. And while you're at it, think about this."

  Her breath caught sharply when in one smooth, lightning motion, he shifted her across the car and onto his lap. Her bottom was pressed against the strain of his groin, and she thought she might die of the urgency of her answering want. Before she could try to stanch her instincts, he wrapped strong arms around her, pulling her close, tucking her head into the crook of his neck while pressing her right breast against his chest.

  It was the scent she had longed to inhale just this close, and she fought not to press her lips against his throat, not to thread her fingers through his hair and bring his mouth to hers. The best she could seem to do was nuzzle into his neck, keeping herself from giving in to an action she couldn't take back.

  "Oh, Lord," he groaned. "It's killing me, Cammie. I've been dying by inches wanting you so much for so long; I can't ever remember not wanting you. Say you want me too."

  "No," she whispered, trying desperately, futilely, to run from the truth.

  He pushed his hips upward, against her. A sob of frustration caught in the back of her throat. She clutched at his shoulders as her body betrayed her and moved in counterpoint, seeking to soothe the unbearable ache.

  She heard the vibration, felt it against her lips, as he moaned in response. His breath rushed hot against her hair as he worked his mouth into the thickness and brought a hand up to stroke the mass of curls.

  Her scalp tingled while her heart hammered against his chest. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart answering hers, and she pressed closer until they meshed, until she didn't know which was his and which was hers because they seemed to beat as one.

  At first, the caress was so light, she didn't realize it was he causing the rise of her nipple, not until he increased the pressure to a rhythmic, insistent thrum.

  Then he was freely stroking her breast until she thought she might go mad with the delicious pleasure. She didn't cry out from the near hurt of her straining nipples, but he was only making the throb between her thighs worse by moving against her, retreating, and arching up again. And she was grinding herself against him, because she couldn't help herself if her life depended upon it.

  His hand stroked slow and deliberate over her knee, then up, up, between her thighs. Silently she cursed the jeans she wore for muting his already scalding touch. When she should have been closing tight her knees, she allowed her senses to revel in the spiraling sensation of his palm pressing over her mound, fingers curling into a possessive grip.

  "Grant," she sobbed. "Grant."

  "It's not enough. Sweet heaven, I've waited so long, it's just not enough."

  Suddenly she felt him leave her and she wanted to weep for the loss, but then there was the press of his fingers releasing the button, and the hiss of her zipper as he rapidly slid it down.

  What was she doing? she wondered frantically. What was she letting him do? Oh, Lord, Lord, she couldn't be letting this happen. But she was, she was someone else, someone she'd never been before, pleading for the crime, for the release, and not caring about tomorrow or who might be hurt in the process.

  "No," she whimpered suddenly. "No, don't..."

  "Yes. Oh, God, yes..."

  And he did. He pushed past the lace of her panties, groaning as he touched the forbidden texture of her hidden curls. Then he slid his fingers between the folds of her flesh and the cloth of her pants.

  Her breath hissed between her clenched teeth, and she cried out at the overwhelming sensation. If she died now, she knew it would be worth it just to embrace this taste of ecstasy at long last.

  His fingers slid back and forth against her wetness, and she knew in that instant that if he breached the barrier, she would beg him to make love to her. She was mad with wanting him. Just as she had to be mad to allow what was happening, because she was so far gone, if they didn't stop now there would be no stopping.

  "Cammie... Cammie... touch me..."

  Outwardly, she was shivering. Internally, she was contracting and grasping only emptiness, and the one man who could fill her was a man she had no right to have. But how would he feel in her hand, inside her body? She ached for the knowledge.

  Her hand drifted down from his chest, and he shifted, parting his legs farther, giving her access.

  She stopped.

  "I can't." Her chest heaved with a sob she contained. "Forgive me, Grant. I can't. And... oh, God, what are we doing?"

  "More than just this." His finger grazed over her in a slow, erotic, and loving caress. "So much more than this, Cammie. Enough that there's nothing to forgive if you can't touch me. I can wait. You shared yourself and I love you for that, for more reasons than I could ever name."

  When she would have given in to the melting, in to the sensation of him anchored in the harbor of her heart, he squeezed her once before gently letting her go, tugging the zipper back up and refastening her jeans. He embraced her and held her so close, she thought her skin would become his.

  "I'd better see you inside before I lose a grip on my good intentions," he whispered into her ear.

  "You're a very special man, Grant."

  She rubbed her cheek against his, loving the feel of his late-night beard abrading her soft skin.

  "I'm glad you think so. But I'm also very human. Too human when it comes to you."

  His voice held an undercurrent of warning she couldn't mistake, and she quickly drew away. His eyes met hers, and even in the shadows she saw just how human he really was. The fire of unappeased hunger washed over her, almost staggering in its intensity.

  Without another word, he opened the car door and drew her out with him. She reached for her purse while he unlatched the small trunk to retrie
ve her dress and a bag of leftovers Dorothy had sent along.

  At the front door, she fumbled awkwardly with her keys, afraid he would try to kiss her—a fear that seemed pretty ridiculous after what had just transpired.

  "I'll get it." He already had his own key in the lock. He opened the door, and she thought for the first time that their having keys to each other's houses was not a good idea in light of the intimacy they had shared.

  As if reading her thoughts, Grant flipped on the porch light and held his set of keys between them, the yellow glow glinting off the metal. His eyes meeting hers in challenge, he slowly returned the keys to his pocket.

  Want to make an issue of it, Cammie? his gaze silently asked. You'll have to dig for it if you want it back, and I wouldn't advise that at the moment.

  "Wait here," he said when she didn't move or speak. "I'll go check out the house to make sure you're safe."

  "Really, Grant, you don't have to—"

  "Wait here."

  She watched his retreating back as he strode down the front hall of her quaint, old-fashioned home, flipping lights on, then off again. His shoulders had always been broad, but now they seemed far broader. And his walk had always been something she liked about Grant, but now she saw it as even more assured, as though he could forge a trail where no one else could see past the wilderness.

  She dropped her purse beside the couch where Grant had left her dress and the paper sack filled with food. The scent of home cooking wafted through the room. She couldn't smell the aroma without thinking of Mom stirring something at the stove while she hummed, or looking up from the oven, her face flushed from the heat, and, after letting them lick the bowl of batter, setting out a plate of hot chocolate chip cookies and telling her and Grant that it was their job to sample them.

  Cammie stared at the bag, the memories creeping insidiously through her mind to rob her of the wrongful joy she had so weakly succumbed to.

  She couldn't take it back. And it was too wonderful to want to, the womanly part of her nature cherishing an experience that had made her feel more than human, and yet the most human she had ever been.

  Only it was tainted now by reality, the staggering repercussions that could reach far beyond the present.

  "All's clear."

  She jumped at the sound of his voice, then again as he rested his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. Cammie cursed herself for being a coward, but she couldn't make herself meet his gaze, especially when the unsated remnants of desire still lapped at her.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "I feel guilty."

  He muttered a low, graphic curse.

  "Don't be angry with me, Grant."

  He tilted her face up until she looked at him. She read frustration in his eyes, but understanding as well.

  "I don't want you to feel guilty," he said, "and I can't help but resent it that you do. But what's making me angry more than anything are the circumstances we can't control."

  She nodded, feeling the sting of unwanted tears. Too much had happened, and she couldn't lay the blame at Grant's feet. She had been a willing participant, after all; she and Grant had been partners in crime. It was horrible to feel so wonderful about giving in to the forbidden.

  "Grant, I'm so confused. And I'm scared."

  "Don't be. I'm here."

  "That's what scares me."

  "Ah, Cammie, don't be afraid of me. We've always been there for each other."

  "Be there for me now?" She could feel the salty sting break loose as she whispered, "Hold me, Grant. Hold me like you used to."

  "I don't know if I can do that, Cammie." He drew her into his arms and cradled her head against his chest. "Because I want to hold you even better."

  She didn't try to stop them. She let the tears fall, the confusion spilling out from inside her. Grant rocked her back and forth, giving her comfort while he threaded his fingers through her hair.

  When she was spent, she let him support her, leaning into the strength he offered. It was then she realized that while he had soothed her, something else had happened as well.

  His hand was cupping her buttocks and he was hard, his erection pressing into the softness of her belly. She looked up at him, and his eyes simmered with an odd mixture of tenderness and riveting hunger.

  "I can't stop what you do to me," he said softly, "and I'll never apologize for wanting you so bad, it's eating me alive. But I care enough to give you what you need before taking what I want."

  He lowered his head, and she prayed he wouldn't try to kiss her. She could feel the momentum of passion gather, wanting it as much as he did, and that want was as unwelcome as it was strong.

  He pressed his lips against her forehead, and she shut her eyes in gratitude and weariness and disappointment. Before he could work his way down, she latched onto what surely was as wise as it was painfully difficult to say.

  "I need some time alone, Grant."

  "I know."

  "Don't call me or come see me this week. Please."

  His hands tensed. "If that's what you want."

  She didn't want it, any more than she wanted him to leave. But it was rational, her only hope to make some sense of this insanity that was unraveling their lives.

  "It's... yes. It is what I want."

  "Then I'll pick you up Saturday morning. We can talk on the way to Mom and Dad's."

  The celebration, of course. She dreaded it already. How could she face them after tonight? How could she sit next to Grant in their driveway in the very car they had nearly made love in?

  "I—" She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I think it would be a good idea if we took separate cars."

  "Son of a—Dammit, I know what you're thinking and I want you to quit it." His voice was harsh. "Quit wallowing in your guilt, Cammie Walker. I won't have it."

  He gripped her arms tight, and his brows drew together ominously as his mouth loomed dangerously close to hers.

  "No, Grant." She shook her head in fierce denial, as much for her own benefit as his. "Don't do it."

  "Don't worry," he growled. "When I kiss you it won't be with any reservations on your part. As much as I'd love to go at your mouth right now and drive out that conscience that's working overtime, you'd regret it the minute I was out the door."

  He released her abruptly, uttering a curse.

  She watched him stalk to the door, frustration and anger evident in each step.

  "Grant, wait. Listen—"

  "No, you listen." He swung around and pointed a stern finger at her. "While you're thinking it all over this week, keep one thing in mind. What we could have together is something a lot of people don't find in an entire lifetime. The guilt that's all over your face is going to poison what could be honorable and good between us. Think hard, Cammie. Because what I want with you has no room for guilt."

  She stared after him as he shut the door firmly behind him. Almost immediately he opened it again and reached in to flip the latch.

  His face was still thunderous as he ordered, "Don't forget the chain."

  Slumping onto the couch, she nearly sat on the paper sack reminder. She hurled the bag across the room, then buried her face into an old pillow she had made when Mom had taught her to cross-stitch.

  "Damn it all to hell," she cried, pounding the cushions.

  Raising her head, she stared at the door he had locked, and felt the familiar sense of protection Grant had always provided. She also felt the unfamiliar ache between her thighs he had created and left unsatisfied.

  How was she not supposed to feel guilty about that? For once Grant hadn't been understanding when she really needed it. He was different as a man, and even alone now she flushed to remember the intimacy he had initiated while she had been so shamelessly eager to succumb.

  Sweet Lord, they had almost made love. She had only herself to blame for letting it get out of control. But hadn't Grant loved her enough to stop when she had asked?

  Love. Why did t
here have to be so many kinds and why did one have to be sacrificed for another? Or choices made of whom you loved more loyally?

  The questions gave birth to so many others, she finally shut them all out. Emotionally drained, she wrung what few tears she had left onto the couch.

  It held no warmth or comfort. It held no heat, no flesh and blood reminder that there was a man who loved her and had the power to make her body weep.

  Chapter 5

  The problem with safe but outdated cars, Cammie decided, was that in their old age they had a propensity for failing health. She grimaced as the oil light flashed on. Thank goodness she was only a few miles away from Mom and Dad's. She had some extra oil with her, but come Monday she was going to have a transportation problem.

  Grant had always been there to help her out before, glad to give her a lift about town. She would have to find another alternative this time.

  Her stomach lurched at the thought of him. It had been lurching for the last five and a half days. She wondered if she was working on an ulcer.

  Food was tasteless. She couldn't sleep. She couldn't think straight, even with his all-too-blatant absence. She missed him like crazy, and misery was her only company.

  As it must continue to be. She still couldn't come to terms with what they had done, any more than she could accept the responsibility for possibly creating a rift in the family.

  The question she had pondered about Grant's attitude toward his parents' ability or inability to deal with the situation had at least come into focus. He belonged to the family by birth, and therefore felt he had the right to call his own shots.

  She, on the other hand, had been taken in because of their generosity. Because of that, she felt compelled to earn her right to belong, to prove she was worthy of their unconditional love.

  As she rounded a last familiar curve, the white wood house gleamed in the sun, the bright red shutters winking in welcome. She had always found comfort in coming home, but not today. Grant's car was parked out front.

  The twist in her stomach was joined by a tightening in her lungs. An ominous and disturbing sense of premonition shot through her fragile resolve to stay calm.