by Lora Leigh
Yes, she silently hissed. Yessss. This was what she’d hoped for. What she’d prayed for. He might have changed on the outside, but she knew this man. He’d been her first lover. Her first boyfriend. Her first friend. She needed that gentle man back.
And for a moment or two it worked. Her body sank into his. Ripples of excitement moved down her body. She felt herself swell and moisten as hope sent her spirits soaring.
And then he picked her up.
Bree went stiff, reality returning like the bracing slap of subzero breeze.
Oh God
He set her down on the bed, slipped his shoes off, his hands moving to the fly of his jeans.
She couldn’t move.
He unzipped himself, slipping down his jeans and his boxers in one, smooth motion.
His penis sprang free, the head of it fully engorged. His top came off next. And when he stood over her naked, his eyes were as hot as a swallow of whiskey. “Get undressed.”
She couldn’t breathe.
No, that wasn’t true. She panted. Fear gave everything a crystal clarity. His erection, the veins swollen and engorged. The goose bumps just above his blond pubic hair. The fitness of his body, every muscle pumped and at the ready.
“Bree?” he asked again.
She looked up, her vision having narrowed so that all she saw was his blue eyes. “I can’t,” she said.
“You can’t?” he asked, his voice so low, she couldn’t hear him at first.
“I just can’t,” she said, looking away and then darting to the edge of the bed.
Chapter Two
Trent stared into the eyes of the only woman he’d ever loved, his mind refusing to comprehend her words.
He blinked, and it was as if by doing so he’d washed away a lust-induced haze.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting up. She turned on the king-sized bed so she faced the other direction. “I know you think I’m a tease, but I just can’t.”
He saw it then, saw the tenseness in her shoulders, the way her rib cage expanded and contracted with each panicked breath. Because that’s what she was . . . panicked.
“Bree, what’s wrong?” he asked, the high he’d felt since spying her sitting in front of his job site fading away in a cloud of concern. She was back, yes, but obviously there was more to her reappearance than she’d let on.
“It’s nothing. I just can’t do this.”
But it was more than nothing. He knew by the way she wouldn’t look at him. The woman he remembered was one who’d never have had a problem facing her troubles. It was one of the things he’d most admired about her—and the reason she’d ultimately left town. San Jose had held no challenges for Breanna Miller. So she’d struck out for college with a vague promise of returning. Only she never had.
She’d broken his heart.
Trent bent and recovered his clothes. When he’d finished dressing, he went around to her side of the bed. She hadn’t moved, her face pale, her black brows shielding her eyes. Amazing how little she’d changed. Well, she’d dropped a bit of weight but the black hair and blue eyes were exactly the same.
“Hey,” he said, touching her shoulder.
She jumped about a foot.
Their gazes locked. Trent saw fear.
“God, Bree. Are you okay?”
Stupid question. Obviously, she wasn’t. He stared down at her, unsure what to do next.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said in a monotone. “I just need to be alone.”
“Fuck that,” he said. “Something happened to make you like this. What was it?”
She didn’t answer. Trent almost gave up. But she held him there, Breanna Miller and the past they shared.
“Somebody hurt you?”
Still no answer, but he saw the shoulders twitch, almost as if they’d flinched.
“My God . . . rape you?”
Her head ducked even more. Bile rose in his throat. It shocked him, the rage. He hadn’t seen her in years. Hell, she hadn’t even bothered to call. But the past melted away as remnants of his long-forgotten feelings for her resurfaced. God, he hadn’t ever thought twice about jumping into bed with her.
Someone had raped her.
God damn it.
“Who?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
He thought she wouldn’t answer again, had decided he’d cross over to the armchair in the corner of the room, sit down and wait it out. But then she slowly looked up, and when their gazes met, it felt as if the walls of the room closed in.
She was crying.
“You don’t know him,” she said softly, sorrow, pain and a world of regret in her eyes. “But he was my fiancé.”
Her fucking fiancé had done this to her?
He sat down in the armchair. Actually, he just sort of fell into it.
“When?”
“A little over a year ago.”
“Ah, hell, Bree.”
She went silent again.
“Did you press charges?”
She nodded. “He denied it. Told the cops it was consensual. I couldn’t prove anything. He got away with it.”
“Is that why you came back home? To get away from him?”
She shook her head, her upper teeth coming out to worry her bottom ones. And at least a bit of the fear faded. Thank God for that.
“Actually, I came back to have sex with you.”
Shock. She could see the way his eyes widened. Well, what did you expect, Bree? A whoop of joy?
“Sex with me?”
She nodded. “You were the last man I remember feeling safe with.”
“Shit, Bree. I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“No, Trent, I’ve never forgotten you.”
Something passed between them, something that made Bree feel regret.
“Look, I’m sorry for dragging you into all this. I’ve tried everything I can to get better. God, if you only knew how hard I’ve tried. Nothing’s worked so far and so I got this crazy idea that maybe you could help me, you know, help me get over my—” What should she call it? Anxiety? It was a whole lot worse than that. Phobia? That was closer to the truth. “My fear of men,” she finally finished, although that was probably a poor choice of words, too. She didn’t actually fear men. She just didn’t want them touching her.
When she met his gaze again, it was to see his expression turn to disbelief.
“Guess I better go buy myself a year’s supply of batteries, huh?”
Trent stared at her, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if he got up and walked out. Instead he surprised her by saying, “You’re afraid of having sex?”
It sounded so pathetic when he repeated it to her that way.
It is pathetic, Bree.
“Let’s just say the only kind of sexual stimulation I can tolerate nowadays is of the mechanical kind,” she admitted, reminding herself that this was Trent. Once upon a time they’d been very close. She could have told him anything. “I have a whole drawer of gadgets back home.”
“Are you afraid of me right now?”
No. She couldn’t be afraid of him, not after how close they’d been. Jeesh. She’d almost married the man. And yet . . .
“A part of me is, yes, even though I know it’s you and I really shouldn’t be.”
“Actually, given the fact that we haven’t seen each other in years, you’re right to be concerned.”
But Bree shook her head. “You’re a good man, Trent. I don’t think that’s changed in recent years.”
“But you don’t know that for sure.”
Her heart had started to pound. “No, but I’m pretty certain I’m right.”
“Oh, yeah?” he came toward her.
Bree edged away from him, her back coming to rest against the headboard.
“Don’t play games with me, Trent. Not now.”
“You took a big risk inviting me up to your room, Bree. A huge risk.”
And he was right, damn it. She knew
that. It’d been a stupid idea. But he’d stopped advancing.
She looked away from him, tears burning the edges of her eyes. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d never been prone to foolish acts before.
You’re desperate, that’s what happened.
A hand reached out and gently touched her arm. Bree flinched, but he only did it again.
“The truth is, Bree, you can trust me,” he said softly. “And if you give me the address of the bastard who did this to you, I’ll hunt him down and kill him for you.”
She looked into his eyes, realizing he was absolutely serious. How had it happened? she wondered. How had all the years dissolved? And what was that look in his eyes? It was the same look as before, the one that made her feel . . . odd.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, a part of her realizing the words had more to do with the look in his eyes than her state of mind.
“Let me hold you.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she said, the tears falling down her cheek.
“Let’s try.”
She almost waved him away, but instead she forced herself to nod. He shifted, slowing scooting closer to her—like she was a wild animal about to flee. And maybe she was.
“I won’t hurt you, Bree,” he said softly, taking her into his arms.
Everything inside her froze, and then went wild, her pulse, her breathing, the adrenaline in her veins. She almost wrenched away from him, almost told him to let her go. But instead she made herself stay still, to try and relax, and eventually, slowly, she was able to do that.
He held her. She listened as he murmured soothing words—nonsense things that helped calm her down.
“Do you remember the first night we met?”
She nodded.
“I chased you up and down that cruise strip what must have been a hundred times, but I never caught you. And then, when I pulled into that convenience store, there you were.” He rubbed her back. “My lucky night.”
“I should have never left you.”
“Nah,” he said softly. “You had bigger and better things to do. I understood that. But I never forgot you. You were my first real girlfriend, the first love of my life. When I looked up and saw you in front of my job site, I thought I must be seeing things.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t recognize me.”
“How could I ever forget you?”
She shrugged.
“I still can’t believe you came all the way back to make love with me. What am I? A stud service?”
Which made her smile. His voice was so familiar. And so very, very dear. She’d forgotten that. It also made her remember something else. Something she might be able to do.
“Do you remember what we used to do before we had the courage to actually make love?” she asked.
“Yeah, I remember,” he finally said. Then he laughed. “We were so afraid of getting you pregnant.”
They had been. And though she hadn’t thought about it in years, it all came back to her: the empty pool house, their near silent whispers, their nervous laughter.
“I’ll never forget it.”
“Me neither,” she found herself saying as she slowly regained some semblance of calm. She took a deep breath and said softly, “Do you think we could . . . do that again?” She looked up at him and saw the stunned surprise in his eyes, as well as a question: “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, Trent,” she told him. She licked her lips. “I need to do this. Please?”
He didn’t smile, didn’t nod—didn’t do anything other than stand, release her hand so he could sit in the chair across the room.
With another deep breath she turned toward a drawer and the vibrator she’d stashed there. She’d brought it along in hopes of using it with him. And okay, when she reached in to grab the thing, there was another moment’s hesitation. It looked like a penis, one fully engorged, and the thought of dragging the thing out and letting Trent see it . . .
You just saw the real thing a few minutes ago. Get over it, Bree. Now. Time to throw your inhibitions out the door.
So she grabbed the thing, desperation making her flip her skirt up. She peeked at Trent. He hadn’t moved, but just the sight of him sitting there . . .
She closed her eyes, fear, trepidation, a healthy dose of embarrassment and yes even excitement causing her skin to heat as she slid her underwear down. She wore a thong, one with tiny straps that caressed her hip bones. And as she removed the tiny piece of silk, she caught the smell of herself, the salty-sweet scent warmer than the air around her.
Was she aroused?
Her eyes sprang open when she realized a part of her was. She wanted release. She craved release. Sex had been good before . . . before John.
You’re safe now. Nothing to worry about. It’s Trent. He’s never hurt you.
So she slid her underwear off her ankles and out of lay back. She still wore her heels, she realized, but she didn’t care. She grabbed the damn vibrator and turned it on. She could do this, she told herself, turning on her back and spreading her legs. She could.
And, God help her, the moment she touched herself her body reacted out of reflex. She might not want Trent in the room with her, but she sure wanted sexual satisfaction. It felt sooo good when she pressed that vibrator against herself.
So good.
Trent faded away as she ran the dildo up and down her valley. Her body’s instinctive reaction was to heat and moisten. She even dipped the thing inside her a bit, enjoying the feel of it stimulating her hole.
With each passing second she grew more and more aroused. Something about Trent watching her, something about the way he sat there—objective—and yet not. It did something to Bree.
She leaned her head back, working herself more. She was slick now. And hot. She loved the way her juices felt against her own hand. So she stroked herself, sweet release beginning to build, which was why she spread her legs farther.
Trent didn’t move.
Her rib cage began to expand and contract as her breathing became irregular. God, she wanted to come. She wanted to cream all over her fingers, she found herself thinking, and to do it in front of Trent because he deserved to sit there and watch. He couldn’t have her. No man could have her. They didn’t deserve her.
She moaned, moving on the bed so that her open valley faced him. She thought she heard him moan, too, opened her eyes.
He was hard.
“Take it out.”
He did exactly as she asked and began to stroke himself. He threw his head against the back of the chair, watching her through eyelids that were slits as he ran his hand up and down his cock.
He liked her fucking herself, did he? Well good. He probably wanted some of her come juices, too. Probably wanted to taste her. She stuck a finger in her mouth, sucking her own juices off.
He groaned again.
Her vagina pulsed in pleasure. Just knowing what she did to him, knowing that with every caress, every touch, she drove him nuts—it made her pleasure grow and multiply. She went back for more, loving the wet feel of herself, oh God, she was going to come. She wanted to let it go, wanted to throw her head back and scream her release. But it was too good, watching him stoke himself, hearing his moans as he moved his hand up and down—just like old times—it was all too good.
She moved the vibrator around and took pleasure in taunting him. A brief second of stimulation there, right there, against her clit, then a shallow dip into her vagina. Over and over again she did it to herself, wanting to climax. But she wouldn’t let herself. She had to torment him more. He worked himself faster and faster.
Can’t have me, she whispered to herself.
She ran the dildo around her opening, sucking on a finger at the same time.
She climaxed.
She hadn’t meant to. Damn it. She didn’t want to. But her whole sex organ throbbed in hard climax that flooded her fingers. Her neck arched, her labia pulsed outward, then inward in a series of exquisite contrac
tions that made Bree throw back her head and moan.
Trent moaned, too, and when she looked over at him, it was just in time to see him ejaculate, white fluid surging all over his hand and lap.
Suddenly, their harsh breaths were the only sounds in the room, that and the sound of water running somewhere, and the low hum of the vibrator.
And it was good.
Lord, she could still feel the pleasure ripples flow through her.
She closed her eyes and lay there, her slick valley a yummy reminder of what she’d just done. She wished she could lie there like that all night. Instead she opened her eyes.
Trent gave her a small smile.
She shoved her dress down, pleased and yet . . . not. She’d done it. And he hadn’t touched her while she did it. Even though she’d taunted him, even though she’d all but invited him to stick it inside her, he hadn’t—and that went a long way toward reassuring her. And yet what she really wanted, what she wished she could have was the real thing.
He got up, and her hope that she was cured fled as quickly as it had come. She was still afraid, damn it. The moment he’d moved . . .
He headed toward the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the room.
Shit, what was wrong with her? Obviously she could trust him.
He came out, apparently all cleaned up. Unlike her. She felt like an oil slick, the smell of herself still clinging to her pores.
He’d brought her a towel, one that was slightly damp so she could clean herself up.
Just like old times.
“You still don’t trust me, do you?” he asked after handing her the thing.
“No,” she admitted in a small voice, suddenly unable to move as he hovered over her. He sat down on the edge of the bed again. She could smell him, the scent of his release combining with her own.
“Bree, you know you can.”
“I do know that.”
“But that doesn’t make it better,” he surmised.
She shook her head. “Maybe we should do it again?”
“No,” he said emphatically. “That’s enough for one night. I think we need to take this slow.”
He was going to help her.
Gratitude made tears rise in her eyes once more.
“Why don’t you meet me in the lobby tomorrow night at six.”