by Mallory Rush
Six weeks down, six to go to judgment day. She dreaded it. She was also weary of the farce. Grant was chomping at the bit, but he was making a valiant effort to give her time. He slipped occasionally, pressuring her. And the episodes were on the rise. But he had her number, always managing to turn a battlefield into a negotiation that ended in passion.
He was bent over the turkey, basting it with his usual level of concentration, she noticed. She longed to go to him, to slip her arms around his waist and rest her cheek against his broad, strong back.
"Hey, Bro," she said instead. "Are you about done with that, or do we have to wait till Christmas?"
Grant turned at the sound of her voice. The nickname no longer irritated him. It had become a joke of sorts, and he was glad they had come far enough to laugh about things that hadn't been funny in the past. Progress. Yes, they were moving ever forward. Only not fast enough to suit him.
"I figured if I stayed out here long enough," he said, "they'd send you to check on me. Just another reason why we need to fess up, babe—so they could eat on time. Not to mention you could mosey on over here and plant one on me right this minute, instead of standing there looking hungry. " He gave her a leering grin. "And we both know I'm not talking turkey."
"You're incorrigible." She smiled, then wet her lips in a deliberately seductive gesture.
"If you like living on the edge, just keep that up."
To taunt him, she slowly repeated the action, then giggled. "I'll keep it up."
"Okay, that does it. You've pushed me too far this time."
"Grant!" she yelped as he quickly strode over to her and hoisted her over his shoulder. "What do you think you're doing? Someone could come out here any minute!"
She kicked her feet and he gave her a swat on the behind.
"Keep up the ruckus, Sis, and we'll have an audience for sure."
He rounded the corner to the side of the house, glanced around to make sure they were alone, then slowly slid her down his length and pressed her back against the wood. All play ceased, and they seized the stolen moment of privacy. His lips found hers, quick, sure, proprietary. He hated the subterfuge, just as he craved the haven of her mouth, the familiar warmth of her body molding into a natural fit against his.
"Ahem."
Cammie pushed him away, distress immediately surfacing on her flushed face, marring the glow of desire. Oh, how he hated it, resented her retreat.
He was slow to release her, but faced their intruder with an expression of challenge, and pleasure. To be seen together, openly, the way it was meant to be. Yes, he delighted in that.
Heedless of her furtive struggles, he embraced Cammie with a firm arm beneath her breasts, pulling her intimately against him, her back to his chest.
"Hello, Trish," he said in a lazy, nonchalant tone. He hoped Cammie would take the cue to relax, find her own ease with the openness he felt. "What brings you here?"
"Just thought I'd check on the status of what's cookin"—she chuckled—"before Mom could beat me to it."
"What's cookin' is us, as apparently you've already guessed."
"I'll say. Some of those looks you've been exchanging lately could torch Antarctica. I'm horribly jealous, of course. Seeing you together makes me realize how much I miss Mark."
"You don't think Mom and Dad know, do you?" Cammie's voice was anxious. Grant stifled an angry curse.
Trish looked from one to the other, then shrugged. "I don't think so. They're pretty nearsighted when it comes to us, as we all know."
Grant could feel the sigh of relief leave Cammie's chest, and he tightened his hold in reflexive frustration.
"Cammie and I are serious, Trish," he said.
"So I gathered."
"But we don't see eye to eye about how the folks might take the news."
"Grant, would you quit trying to drag Trish into our dispute? This is between us and not—"
"Hey, she's family," he argued. "I thought we should get an objective perspective."
"I don't think—"
"Look, y'all," Trish interrupted, "I'm bowing out. Cammie's right. This is between the two of you. I don't know how Mom and Dad might react, but as for me, I'm for you one hundred percent." She gave them a considering look and added, "Anybody ever tell you what a cute couple you make? You look good together."
"We are good together." Grant pressed his palm flat against Cammie's abdomen and kissed her temple. "Aren't we, Cammie?"
"Yes, Grant," she said, loud enough for Trish to hear, which was the most encouraging sign he'd had yet. That and her impulsive kiss on his hand. "And we're good for each other."
Her stiffness had gradually yielded to softness. She leaned against him naturally. The way it should be, he thought, proud to be seen together. Recognized as the inseparable, match-made-in-heaven couple they were. Trish's discovering them had validated them somehow—and it only made him yearn for more. A ring, an altar, a church full of witnesses.
Unexpectedly, Trish dabbed at her eyes, then stepped forward to put her arms around them both.
"I love y'all so much. You've always been there. In the best of times. And the worst. And it makes me so happy to see you this way. It shows on your faces, makes me remember how much I miss—" Her voice caught. "Ah, hell, I'm such a sap for a love story. Just be good to each other. Don't ever take what you've got for granted, 'cause one day it's there and the next it's gone." She dashed aside a runaway tear, then summoned a jaunty smile. "Okay, while you finish swapping some spit, I'll tell everyone the turkey's on it's way."
As soon as Trish rounded the corner, Grant turned Cammie to him.
"She still misses him," she said sadly.
"Would you miss me as much?"
"At least."
He regarded her a moment, his head tilted in thought. "Given that, dare I hope you're coming around?"
"Time, Grant. But I'm getting there."
"I know. That's the first time you've kissed me in front of someone. And it felt good, Cammie. For me it was something I needed. Did it mean nearly as much to you?"
"Yes," she confessed. "It was good not to hide for a change. It felt almost natural after a little while."
"That's what I wanted to hear. Life's too precious, Cammie. And Trish is right: We should make each minute count." He pulled her close and pressed his lips to her forehead. "Know what I'm giving thanks for today?"
"The same thing I am?"
He smiled. "Depends on what that is."
"Do you even have to ask?" Wrapping her arms tight about his neck, she urged his mouth to hers.
* * *
"Go ahead, open it."
"I want to guess first." Cammie shook the elaborately wrapped gold and silver box. "Now let me see... Could it be a new dorm shirt? The one you gave me a few years back is getting a little ratty."
He chuckled. "Fat chance. I'd rather see you in nothing than that. Of course, a few years ago that was the closest I could get to sleeping with you."
"Little did I guess."
"And if you'd known?"
She cocked her head, thinking back. "I would have been shocked."
"Offended?"
"I don't think so... but then again, I wouldn't have been ready for this." She reached for Grant's hand and kissed it, close to his ring finger.
A wedding ring would be there by now, he thought, if he could have his way. Clamping down on the never-ceasing urge to propose, he settled for testing the waters.
"Are you ready, Cammie? We could see the new year in together without sneaking off alone like we are tonight. I think the folks are pretty disappointed we're getting in so late for Christmas Eve."
The careful tearing of the foil wrap suddenly ceased. Cammie bit her lower lip.
"Grant, please. Let's not spoil Christmas Eve by beating a dead horse. This is a special time, and it's up to us to talk to your parents when we won't upset their holidays. That would be really selfish on our part."
"So you do admit we are going to talk
to them."
"It's inevitable. Eventually."
He snorted his disgust. "At the rate we're going, they'll get the news at the pearly gates. I gotta tell you, Cammie, all this pretense over the holidays is taking its toll. I won't go through this again next year."
"Next year..." She sighed. "I'm sure by next year we'll have everything worked out."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'm in love with you, Grant. And, I know things are coming to a head. But it's Christmas Eve and we've only got three hours until we have to be at the folks', and we aren't going to solve our problems before then. I want to make what little time we've got left count. Now let me open my present so I can give you yours."
The only present he wanted was her acceptance to a proposal of marriage. While she returned to unwrapping the package, he tried not to think of the ring in his pocket, the real gift he longed to offer, to slip on her finger and seal with a vow of love.
The black satin-and-lace teddy spilled out, followed by a pair of heart-shaped diamond studs. They were meant to match the locket and the hairpins she wore on the news each night. A lover's gift, a husband's gift, suitable to wear down the aisle.
"Oh, Grant," she breathed. "They're gorgeous... and outrageously extravagant. You're spoiling me rotten, and—"
"And you can come here to thank me properly."
He reached for her, and she went eagerly into his arms, feathering kisses over his face.
"You didn't say anything about the lingerie," he said.
"It's beautiful. But where did you find something so decadent? It's sexy as sin."
"Like you, babe. I want you to wear it tonight."
"You mean you want me to try it on now?"
"No. Tonight. When everyone's asleep and you sneak into my room. Trish won't care if she sleeps by herself."
"You've got to be kidding."
"I'm dead serious. We've slept together every night for over a month. I have no intention to start sleeping by myself on Christmas Eve."
Cammie drew back, firmly shaking her head. The teddy slipped from her hands and onto the floor, but she didn't seem to notice. Grant picked it up and nuzzled his nose in it.
"I also intend to get this close. I want you in my bed—the one I spent years alone in, dreaming you were with me. It's important to me, Cammie. Tonight. That bed. That house. It means more, something no other place can touch. If you can't bring yourself to say what needs to be said, at least give me that much of a commitment. Show me you want me, even there. Especially there."
Still she shook her head. "Grant, it's too risky. I want to sleep with you too. But what you want isn't right. Someone could hear. Or walk in. Or we could fall asleep and they'd discover us—No. I still can't forget what happened at the cottage. This could prove even worse."
"We'll be quiet. No one comes in my room when the door's locked. I'll set the alarm to go off before anyone else is up." He pressed his lips against her neck, then nibbled on her earlobe. "You're out of excuses, Cammie. Take your pick. It's them or me tonight. I need to know who's more important. Like I said a long time ago, I want it all. And your loyalty is part of the package."
The delighted smile of a few minutes before was replaced by an expression of painful uncertainty. Grant tightened his lips as his frustration escalated. What she was giving wasn't enough. He wanted, needed, craved more. What he'd just demanded was a test; he had to know where he stood.
"Open your present," she urged, sidestepping the commitment he was pushing for as she extricated herself from his grip. She picked up a small package from beneath the tree they had decorated together, and extended it to him. He looked from the box to her.
"That's a pretty poor substitute, don't you think?"
"How do you know? You haven't opened it yet."
Gritting his teeth with what little he had left of the Christmas spirit, Grant tore open the wrapping. His frown transformed into a smile.
"Grant and Cammie," he read from the engraving on the back of the thin gold watch, "Forever in Time."
"Like it?" she asked anxiously.
"I love it. But not as much as I love you."
They embraced, and for the moment what they had was almost enough.
* * *
"Good night, Mom. Good night, Dad. Good night, Grant. Merry Christmas."
"'Night, Cammie," Dorothy and Edward echoed. "'Night, Trish. Good night, Grant. See you all on Christmas morning."
Trish bid everyone a pleasant sleep before climbing into bed and saying, "Hey, Cammie. Is it just me, or does this sound like an old rerun of The Waltons?"
"I always liked The Waltons," Cammie answered with a sad smile. In so many ways the Kennedys were that same wholesome, ideal family that seemed too good to be true. But for how long? How much longer before Grant issued an ultimatum and all illusions were shattered?
"I'm glad Audrey finally fell asleep in the other room," Trish said. "She's always so wound up this time of year, it's enough to drive me crazy. Santa Claus and ho, ho, ho and all that sugar Mom feeds us doesn't help much."
"Yum, fudge. Right up there with her pastries. I'll have to go on a diet to fit into my new ted—"
Cammie stopped suddenly, strangely shy in spite of Trish's discovery and acceptance.
"Your what? Spill it, Cammie. Grant gave you a teddy, didn't he? And not of the bear variety, I'll bet."
"It's black satin and lace," she admitted, the feel of it beneath her dorm shirt seductively wicked against her skin. "He gave me some diamond earrings to wear with it."
"Something tells me it's not the only diamond you'll get this year."
Propping herself up on an elbow, Cammie gazed seriously at Trish's beautiful, animated face. "I'm afraid of dividing the family. You're not nearly as conservative as Mom and Dad are, Trish. They took me in, they never held anything back. I just can't bear the thought of jeopardizing their sense of stability by giving Grant the total commitment he wants. And deserves."
"It's a tough row to hoe, Sis. And you're the only one who can make that decision."
She sighed. "I know. And I just keep putting it off. Like the problem's actually going to go away. Grant says I'm afflicted with something called the Ostrich Syndrome."
"He's getting impatient, isn't he?"
"You know him as well as I do."
Trish chuckled. "Not quite. And speaking of impatient, I'll bet he's wondering what's keeping you."
Cammie shot her a sharp glance. "What makes you think that?"
"Oh, get real, Cammie. You're just waiting for me to fall asleep to sneak in there. The same as I used to do when Mark and I were engaged and he slept in the den."
"Grant and I aren't engaged. And besides, our circumstances aren't exactly the same."
"So what? Would you rather gab with me all night, or cuddle up to your honey?"
They could get caught, Cammie thought, but not likely. It meant a lot to Grant—as it did to her. Yes, it would be a step forward. Not an easy one, but a commitment they both needed. They seemed to be stuck at a plateau, and it was either go forward or retreat.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Cammie got up. Her heart was beating fast and her steps were slow. But she took them just the same.
Pausing at the door, she whispered, "Thanks for the nudge, Trish. And for understanding."
"Sure, Sis. Sleep tight." As the door quietly shut, Trish's smile disappeared, and she muttered sadly, "Lord, I need a life again too."
Looking anxiously in all directions, Cammie walked quickly down the hall, careful to avoid the squeaking board to the right of Grant's room. The door was cracked open, and she pushed it in. The small "creak" sounded loud as an alarm, giving her away, she thought apprehensively.
She quickly slipped into the room and closed the door. The clicking of the lock was magnified in the stillness. While her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made her way toward the direction of his voice.
"I knew you'd come," he whispered, and she could see him
push back the covers, extend his hand. She stopped beside the bed's edge, then dropped the dorm shirt to the floor.
His low, sensual murmur of pleasure reached out of the dark and brought her into his open arms. The bed was warm from his body, a bed she had seen him sleeping in since his youth. But he was naked, already hard. This was a man who knew her body as well as his own, who whispered intimate words of love while he stripped her in the forbidden sanctuary of his family home.
What they were doing should be wrong, she told herself. Then why did their hands, caressing with a familiar, heated passion, seem to seal their destiny as never before?
In the pale moonlight, she gazed up at him as he mounted her. His eyes met hers with the intensity of purpose, and then he plunged into her. He entered her swift and deep, sinking to the mouth of her womb and claiming her in a way that was somehow different than ever before.
He raised up, poised, then thrust again.
"The bed," she whispered urgently at the giveaway sound. "Grant, it's—"
Before she could protest, he maneuvered her to the floor with a quick, lithe silence. She felt the thick rug against her cheek, her breasts, before he tucked a pillow beneath her head, then pushed another under her belly. With sure hands he lifted her hips, and drove himself into her contracting warmth again and again.
She couldn't see his face, but his roughly whispered words were potent, as was his driving need for possession. Haze was clouding her mind, but even so she suddenly understood the difference in their fevered lovemaking. He was taking her with a primal hunger that seemed to echo possess... possess... possess.
"You're mine," he said hoarsely before he pushed aside her hair and kissed her neck, roughly enough to leave a telltale mark. Would anyone see his mark? She didn't know and she didn't care. All she could think of was the drugging sensation, the suction on her neck shooting down to her womb.
"Mine," he whispered when he lifted his mouth. "Now. Always. Everywhere. Here."
How long their bodies battled and loved, she wasn't sure. When she would have sobbed her shattering release, she bit her fist to keep from crying out. Grant groaned into her hair, then collapsed over her body, his chest slick with the exertion.