“Your idea was good, too,” she countered.
“Which idea?” he said. “You’ve inspired more than one.”
“The bedroom,” she said, taking his hand in hers. She led the way, but stopped abruptly in the doorway. The solemn expression on her face unsettled Richard.
“Cold feet?” he asked, terrified of her answer.
She looped her arms around his neck. “Nothing about me is cold right now.”
“Then why the hesitation?”
“We finally crossed the threshold together.” She smiled up at him cunningly. “I was just making sure I left my inhibitions at the door.”
“What inhibitions?”
“Those nasty little gremlins that could try to stop me from enjoying every minute we’re here together.”
“Barbara, if you’re not sure...if you have any doubts about this—”
“I left them at the door, remember?” Her voice grew very soft. “They were silly old doubts, anyway. I should have gotten rid of them seventeen years ago.”
“You can’t blame yourself for what happened?” He’d never even considered the idea that she might. “God, Barbara, you were...you have nothing to regret.”
“If I hadn’t been such a coward—”
“No, Barbara,” he said, drawing her into his embrace. “God, no. You were the strong one. I was the one who messed up. I didn’t have your strength.”
“Strength isn’t much company in bed.”
Richard’s heart swelled with tenderness. He’d known he’d hurt Barbara with his stupid betrayal, but he’d remembered her in an abstract way, as the innocent victim of his betrayal. He had imagined her broken-hearted and bitter, but his mind had turned her from a flesh-and-blood woman into a symbol of innocence. He’d never imagined her lying in bed, lonely and frustrated and blaming herself for what he’d screwed up.
He pulled her closer, needing the reassurance of her body next to his. “We’ve got so much to make up for.” He kissed her forehead, her temple, her cheek. “So many lonely nights.”
A sigh tore from Barbara’s throat as she drew her head far enough away to see his face. “I agree. But I—this is so incredibly awkward. Richard, I need a few minutes in the bathroom. I’m not prepared—”
He peered into her eyes for a long moment. “Just don’t change your mind.”
“I’m not the one with a history of ambivalence,” she said.
Richard’s fingertips trembled as he lifted his hand to her face. He would have sacrificed anything within his power if he could have denied the accusation inherent in the comment or take away the pain that tinged it. “I’m not ambivalent anymore, Barbara. Just anxious.”
She captured his hand and kissed his palm. “Me, too.”
Music greeted her when she returned from the bathroom. Their special song floated in from the living room. Richard must have searched for it on the tape. The gesture, even more than the music, touched her heart.
Richard smiled endearingly and spread his arms in invitation, and she ran to him.
The old magic flared instantly between them. They hadn’t taken four steps in time to the music before he was kissing her. At first, Barbara just let the magic mellow her, taking solace and comfort from the heat of arousal that curled through her while the familiar song swirled around them. Desire awakened inside her with its old persistence—strong, timeless, intoxicating.
It was the same as it always had been between them—only this time, they were adults. This time, they didn’t have to stop.
Determinedly, she pushed Richard’s shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, then feasted hungry hands on the smooth planes of his back. And when Richard, moaning into their kiss, hoisted her top up so his palms could roam at will over her back, she pushed away from him far enough to claw the sweater over her head and toss it aside.
Breathing heavily, Richard stared at her breasts, revealed but also concealed by delicate lace. “I’d forgotten. I remember every detail, but I’d also forgotten.”
She knew exactly what he meant. She, too, remembered, but had forgotten. She remembered how wonderful it had been to feel Richard’s chest under her cheek, how reassuring his arms were as he embraced her. But reality was so much better than a memory. She hadn’t expected it to be better.
Reaching behind her, she unhooked her bra. Her breasts moved enticingly as she coaxed its slender straps down her arms.
Richard’s gaze never wavered as he reached for her. He touched her cautiously, first grazing the valley between them with trembling fingertips, then the sides and then, gloriously, covering their swollen, sensitive tips with his palms.
“I’m as awed now as I ever was,” he said, his voice a testament to the claim.
“And I’m as...” Sighing, she relaxed against him, letting her bare, heated flesh mold to his. His hand slid away as she allowed her breast to compress against his chest. Arms around his waist, she drew close and, clinging to him, implored, “Show me what I missed.”
He went wild obliging her, touching, tasting. Each brush of his fingers, each stroke of his palms, each swipe of tongue or nip of teeth or unexpected little suckle was new and surprising and arousing. Barbara arched and clutched and strained against him; she tilted her head to allow his questing mouth access to her neck and moaned sensually while he discovered areas she’d never known were erogenous.
She tore at his slacks, he tore at hers until, finally, they were free of them. For a few suspended moments they stood looking at each other, touching only with their gazes. Heat flowed through Barbara’s body like warm wax spilled from a candle. “No one’s ever looked at me the way you do,” she said. “As though—”
Her voice abandoned her as he splayed his hand over the top of her thigh. “Surely your husband—” he said, but she shook her head no.
“Dennis was not given to passion.”
“Dennis was a fool.”
“I don’t want to talk about Dennis. I just want—” Gasping as his hand moved higher, she closed her eyes and threw back her head, savoring the pleasure of his caress. “I want you.”
A hoarse sigh rushed from his throat as he lowered his mouth to hers for a plundering kiss. Hard muscle, body hair, heat, strength, restless hands, clever mouth—Barbara couldn’t distinguish one from the other, couldn’t divide them in her mind, didn’t try. They were all part of Richard, making her feel things no other man had ever made her feel, making her want him, making her burn for fulfillment.
Locked in his embrace, she guided him to the bed and they toppled onto it together, then exchanged quizzical gazes and self-conscious giggles at the shock of finding themselves in bed together, nearly naked, with their arms and legs haphazardly tangled.
And then, suddenly, the momentary self-consciousness vanished, leaving only heated awareness between them.
Barbara’s skin tingled with anticipation of the next brush, the next caress, the next taste. So long, she thought fiercely. She’d waited so long—
Barbara. Richard still couldn’t believe that he was really here with her. The sweetness of having her next to him, naked except for a scrap of turquoise silk, begging him to take her with every ragged breath and sensual moan, was dizzying. If she wasn’t so warm, if the scent of her hair wasn’t so seductive, if her skin wasn’t as alluring as satin under his fingertips, he might believe that he was dreaming, that he’d become so desperate to touch something fine and good that his mind had conjured her out of his past.
But she was too warm, too solid, too human to be a dream, and his desire for her was too human to be a fantasy. He touched flesh and tasted woman. Her scent filled his senses, her caressing hands drove him to frenzied need.
She rolled atop him, straddling him, and sighed languorously. Her eyes were hooded and dreamy, her lips kiss-swollen. She gently guided his face to one side, then kissed his neck just below his ear. “Does it feel as good when I kiss you here as when I tickle you?”
“If it felt any better, I’d spontaneou
sly combust.” Richard sounded as though he’d just run a marathon.
“I’ve never seen anyone spontaneously combust,” she said, then proceeded to torture him by fluttering the tip of her tongue over the skin she’d just kissed.
“Let...me...show...you.” He cupped her buttocks and pulled her closer.
She made a mewling sound of sheer physical yearning, then said breathlessly, “We’re still wearing too many clothes.”
“Understatement of the century, Barbaloo.” Never had two scraps of fabric seemed more formidable than the swatches of silk and cotton knit that separated them. “Why don’t we do something about it?”
“What did you have in mind?” Barbara asked, pushing up on hands and knees above him.
“Your breasts are incredible,” he said, eyes transfixed.
Barbara lowered her bottom onto his thighs, and mischievously slid her finger under the top elastic band of his briefs and popped it. “You’re not paying attention.”
“Oh, yes. I am,” he argued, still staring at her breasts.
“We were discussing our surplus of clothing,” she said, taking hold of the elastic with both hands and heaving. With his cooperative tilt of hips, they gave way—everywhere except in the front. Barbara hooked her forefinger under the elastic to further lower the briefs, taking her sweet time as she did so. “Is that an Uzi in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?”
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned.
Her gaze locked with his for a long moment. “It wouldn’t be fair if just one of us was burning.”
She finished pulling the briefs down, and eased them off.
Richard sat up, combed his fingers through her hair and cradled her head. “Your face,” he said, imbuing the words with adoration and awe.
It seemed to Barbara that it took forever for his lips to reach hers, but she would willingly have waited forever for a kiss as sweet and slow and consuming. His mouth brushed hers, covered it, conquered it. His hands caressed and soothed as he coaxed her back down on the bed—into the fulfillment of a dream and the realization of half a lifetime of fantasies.
Every move seduced. Every touch excited. Every sound aroused. Barbara ceased to think, and simply responded, marveling in the miracle of being with Richard again—for the first time. She stroked, she sighed, she gasped under the magic of his loving touch. She held her breath as he peeled away the last of her clothing; trembled as he adored her with his eyes; cried out as his fingers caressed her in secret places.
“Barbara?”
Though his mouth was scarcely an inch from her ear, his voice seemed to come from far away. “Don’t stop,” she murmured.
His chuckle was a deep, sensual rumble. “Not a chance. But we need—”
She turned her head in his direction saying, “H-m-m? Oh. The trinket box on the table.”
He found it easily and took out a foil packet. “You have me shaking like a schoolboy.”
“Let me help.” Her hand covered his, steadied it, drove him wild with needing her. And then she lay back and held her arms up in supplication. “Now,” she said.
On the last whisper of a sigh, she added as he rolled astride her, “Finally.”
Richard slid his hands up her arms to her hands and twined his fingers through hers, then kissed her with a sweetness and depth that made her squirm restlessly beneath him. He tore his mouth away from the kiss only long enough to utter a single word, a last concession to conscious thought before losing himself in their joining. “Finally.”
Slowly he buried himself in her, moaning sensually as her soft, heated flesh molded around him. He let go of her hands to wrap his arms around her, desperate to hold her body as hard against him as possible.
Beneath him, Barbara moved restlessly, straining, clinging, pressing into him, clawing his back with open, loving hands that set his skin afire. Longer, wider, heavier than she, he seemed to surround her. His arms enfolded her. His legs locked with hers. It seemed almost as though he might absorb her, that they might just meld into a singular entity, and no prospect had ever seemed quite so sweet.
Frenzied, consumed by desire, desperate for relief from the unbearable pressure of longing building inside them, they struggled for the ancient rhythm that would bring them release. There were no mistakes, no errors in the quest; every motion tortured them with pleasure that brought them closer to fulfillment.
Though he fought for control, Richard reached the peak first, tensing in the throes of a climax that rocked him to his very soul. Barbara took the plunge scarce seconds behind him, hugging him with startling ferocity as though her very life depended upon having her arms around him.
Still joined, they lay together for an indeterminable period of time, waiting for their hearts to calm and their breathing to return to normal.
Barbara’s first conscious awareness was of tender kisses on her temple and cheek. She felt the smile curve his lips as they settled on her neck and his sigh of repletion skittered hotly over her tingling skin.
She wanted to speak, to rejoice, but words eluded her, and would have been inadequate had she found them. She stroked his hair lovingly, terrified of the moment they would have to part, because she knew, deep in her heart, that when he rolled away from her, it would be like losing part of herself.
All the years, she thought. All the wasted years.
Eventually he eased away from her, gentle in his retreat, carefully shifting onto his side so he could cradle her as he nestled his face in the crook of her neck, with her hair next to his cheek.
The stereo clicked off. The resultant silence was rich and mellow and, somehow, appropriate to the moment. Barbara felt almost as though such a silence might freeze time so that they could remain exactly as they were forever, without having to think about mistakes of the past or uncertainties of the future.
Closing her eyes, she heaved a silent sigh and wished it could be so. She would have been perfectly content to spend forever here with Richard, with her shoulders wedged against his chest, and his arm around her. She lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed his palm, then pressed it between her breasts, above her heart.
“Told you so,” Richard said.
“Hnmm?” She hadn’t been expecting him to speak.
“I told you it wouldn’t be simple between us.”
Barbara rolled so that she could see his face. “Does that mean it was good for you?”
“No,” he said, his expression stricken. “It wasn’t good for me.”
Goose pimples raised on Barbara’s scalp. “It wasn’t?”
“‘Good for you’ is one of those phrases strangers toss around after they’ve had lunch-hour sex, Barbara. It’s a phrase people use to discuss sex without actually talking to each other.”
He cradled her face and traced her lips with his thumb. “Somehow I just can’t picture you in bed like this with a whole string of men asking, ‘Was it good for you?’ as though you were discussing the weather.”
“I’ve never asked any man that before,” she admitted.
“Then how could you ask me, of all people?” He drew in a pained breath. “God, Barbara, why would you even have to ask? You were here. You know how it was. It wasn’t just good, any more than it was just sex.”
She touched his face. “It was everything I ever dreamed it would be.”
Richard closed his eyes, as if in pain, then forced them open again. “If it had been just sex, I’d be anxious to get out of this bed instead of wishing I never had to leave.”
“Well,” she sighed, “you said it wouldn’t be simple.”
His gaze locked with hers in silent communication. Barbara was almost afraid to speak, afraid of saying too much. She pulled his face down to hers.
Just before their lips met, she smiled seductively. “Didn’t you also say it wouldn’t be just once?”
7
“YOU DON’T MIND if we talk in the kitchen, do you?” Barbara said. “With the cooler weather, I’ve been in the mood for
an old-fashioned pot roast, and if I don’t put it on now, it won’t be ready for dinner.”
“No. That’s okay,” Missy said.
“Good,” Barbara said, leading the way. Anticipating that Missy would be a bit ill-at-ease during her first visit, Barbara had wanted something active for them to do. Cooking, because it was so ordinary an activity, had seemed the most natural choice. “Would you like a glass of milk?”
“Okay.”
“How about an apple?” Barbara asked, with her head in the refrigerator. “I’m going to have one.”
“Thank you,” Missy replied.
Barbara poured the milk, handed Missy the glass, and motioned for Missy to sit. She washed the apples and polished them, then took plates from the cabinet, knives from the drawer and a jar of peanut butter from the pantry and sat down across the table from Missy. “Would you like peanut butter on yours?”
“On an apple?” Missy asked skeptically, crinkling her nose—just as her father had the first time Barbara had offered him a peanut butter apple. Barbara’s heart swelled with nostalgia as she recalled the distant afternoon when Richard had driven her home from school and she’d introduced him to the snack.
“My mom used to make me peanut butter apples when I was a little girl. Do you like peanut butter?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll make one, and you can try it. If you like it, I’ll do the other one.” She sliced one of the apples in two and cored each half, then filled the trenches with peanut butter.
Missy took one of the halves out of politeness and took a cautious nibble. “It’s not too bad,” she said, relieved.
Barbara, happy to note that the girl seemed to be relaxing, ate her half apple, then sliced the second apple and cored it. “With, or without?” she asked.
“With, I guess,” Missy said, smiling shyly.
Barbara returned her smile, prepared the apple, then rose. “I’d better get that roast on.”
What Might Have Been Page 8