He headed into the kitchen and started brewing some coffee. I waited in the other room for a minute or two, anticipating an angry shout to bellow out once he noticed what was missing. The shout didn't come. I ventured in.
He was sitting and looking up at the empty shelves where the alcohol bottles had sat. In a surprisingly calm voice, he asked, “Doing some spring cleaning this morning?”
“Yes.” I refused to apologize.
“I see you respected the Douglas Scotch.” He nodded at the family’s brew. I nodded as well. “Okay, then.” He got us out two mugs, then poured us both some coffee. Astonished as I felt, I said nothing. I wouldn't let my surprise at his lack of response throw me off my game.
We both sat at the kitchen table. “Vic came over uninvited last night,” he began. “I sent her away right after you saw us.”
“And if I hadn't seen you? How would the night have gone then?”
“You don't have to believe me, Annie.” He looked rumpled and disheveled, as if he hadn't slept much either. “I'll tell you the truth regardless. I was going to end things with her before you got there.”
“Who is she?”
“A girl I used to spend time with.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
I could stop right there. It would probably be safer to stop, letting my anger continue to put distance between us. But I didn't stop. I continued my interrogation. “What type of relationship did you have with her?”
“Sexual.” He answered me frankly, even though I didn't like hearing it.
“For how long?”
“On and off over the past year or two.”
“Exclusive?”
He scoffed at the question. “Hardly.”
Then I asked what I really wanted to know. “What did she mean to you?”
He exhaled again, heavy. “An escape. Nothing more.”
I nodded, letting his words sink in. I took a sip of my coffee. It was good, nice and strong. I appreciated that he wasn't sugarcoating his relationship with this woman. He could easily have tried to squirm out of it, telling me she was someone he'd just met, saying they were just friends. This way, though, I could tell he was telling me the truth. But my pride had been hurt and I still felt mad.
“I know I probably shouldn’t be prying,” I continued. “I’m just your maid.”
“Annie.” He reached across the table and tried to take my hand. I kept it clasped around the coffee mug. “Don’t be ridiculous. You know you’re much more than that.”
“Yes, I also cook and buy your furniture.”
“I mean more than that.” He reached out to my mug this time, peeling my hand off and taking it in his. He caressed me with his thumb. Angry as I felt, his touch mesmerized me. I watched our hands, where our bodies joined, feeling myself start to melt.
“Am I?” I didn't want my voice to come out frail and squeaky, but it did. I’d never been any good at hiding my emotions.
“You are.” He brought his other hand up as well, capturing my palm, cradling it between his. With the most sincere expression I'd ever seen on his handsome face, he admitted, “I know I’ve handled things badly, Annie.”
“You can be so cold.” He wasn't being that way at the moment, but I forced myself to remember some of what had upset me in the first place. I'd been in a state even before Vic had shown up in her skivvies. The night before last, I’d found myself shivering, naked and alone on a couch, promising myself I'd never let my guard down with Ian again.
“I don’t know how to do this.” He gestured between us. “Whatever this is.”
“It’s a transaction, right? Remember you told me that?” I tried to put some distance and reality into this conversation. The way he was looking at and touching me, he was drawing me in all too quickly. He had a way of making me feel so safe, so cocooned in his presence, as if he cherished me and wanted to be with me always. I had to remember that was all in my head.
“I said that, didn't I?” He scratched his head, looking sheepish. “I can be quite unpleasant, can’t I?”
“You can be a real ass.”
“Yes, I can. I apologize.” He looked at me and, dammit if I didn't feel a smile tugging at my mouth. There was nothing like admitting fault to disarm me. I could get all puffed up and angry over someone who insisted that they were right. But the minute someone apologized, I never could stay angry.
“You’re different, Annie. I'm not saying it excuses my behavior. But it does explain some of it. I’m used to dealing with women like Vic.”
“I did not like her.”
“She’s harmless, Annie,” he assured me. Looking into my eyes, holding my hand, he promised, “she doesn’t mean anything compared to what you mean to me.”
I caught my breath. He looked a little taken aback, too, as if he hadn’t meant to say that. He took his hands away, coughed into his palm, and finished his mug of coffee. “Well, I don't expect you to forgive me all at once.” He brought his coffee mug to the kitchen sink, then gave me a rueful smile. “I'll have to do some work to get back into your good graces.” He left the room.
I sat at the table, speechless and motionless. Just when I thought I'd figured him all out, he threw me this curveball. I didn't know what to think. But I knew what I felt. Happy.
* * *
§
* * *
Over the next couple of days, if I didn't know any better I’d say that Ian was romancing me. He brought me flowers. They were plain wildflowers picked from the grounds of his estate, but I couldn't have liked anything better. Lush purples and blues, he held them out to me and said, “Simple and beautiful, like you.”
He didn't push. He seemed to be giving me space. The irony was, of course, I wanted the opposite. I'd forgiven him. But he stayed away, nowhere to be found in the evening.
The next day, I noticed new artwork in the living room. He'd taken down a rather monstrous portrait of what I assumed was a long-deceased ancestor. In its place now hung a watercolor painting of the gardens outside and the ocean beyond by an up-and-coming Scottish artist, none other than Ms. Annie Mitchell.
He found me standing and staring at it, wondering how it had come to pass. I'd never given him permission to go through my artwork. I mostly sketched, rough, quick, and in a hurry, but in the last few weeks at the estate I found myself with more time on my hands than usual. I’d rustled up some cheap watercolors and brushes at home, and splurged on some nice paper. Seeing it hanging on the wall in such a magnificent frame, I had to admit I felt impressed.
“What do you think?” He gestured to my painting. “I'm not sure the light in here does it justice.”
“How did you get it? How did you even know I'd painted it?”
“I watched you paint it. And I got it by looking through your artwork.” He said it as if it was no big deal, common sense.
“Really?”
“Are you upset that I framed it?”
“I'd be more upset if I weren't so flattered.” I had to smile, tilting my head and looking at my work from another angle. Even though I was a harsh critic of my talent, I could tell it was good. “I’m happy you framed it.” I gave him a sly look. “Just tell me you're not rifling through my underwear drawer.”
“You're safe on that count.” He ran his hands along his legs, reminding me of his disability. He would not be walking up the stairs to rifle through my bureau.
“Right.” I shook my head. I didn't know how to explain my oversight. I saw him in a wheelchair all the time, but I sometimes forgot. He was just Ian to me. I saw his eyes and his smile, felt the power and warmth of his touch, and somehow his inability to do much walking faded into the background. When we sat together on the couch, I wasn't thinking about his physical constraints.
“No problem.” He turned his attention from me and back to the paint again. Tilting his chin toward it, he told me, “You know, one of these days I'm going to insist that you move to Edinburgh and do something with your talent
.”
I laughed, shaking my head at his simplified version of the world. “Yes, I’m sure I could show up with my notepad and have a high-paying job within a week. How about you?” I turned the tables on him, preventing yet another back-and-forth about how I was squandering my talent. “I get you don't have to work. But don't you want to do something?”
“Have you been talking to my father?” He had a glint of humor in his eyes as he asked, taking the edge out of his question.
“Is that a favorite question of his?”
“One of his most favorite. He'd like me to run the distillery.”
“Oh, you should do it!” The minute he said it, I knew that's what he should do. He had such passion for his family’s scotch, and he clearly knew all about it. “Why don't you?”
He shook his head. “Lots of reasons. I’ll see you later.” Looking slightly subdued, he left the room. I wished he would stay. How quickly I'd turned from avoiding him, to wanting to seek him out.
Friday night, once again I didn't see him at all. I deliberately stayed downstairs in the kitchen, humming and cleaning things that didn't need to be cleaned. I almost thought about heading down to his bedroom and knocking. But I felt shy, unsure what it was we meant to each other.
On Saturday, I felt determined to spend time with him. Sunday, I'd spend the whole day with my family, and Monday, too. My mother had asked me to take an extra day off and look after Brian. His school's spring break didn't line up with the break of the boarding school where she worked, and she needed my help for the day. I surprised myself by feeling sad about going away for two whole days. I wanted to make the most of our last night together.
I found him soon after he woke up. “Tonight let me make a roast for us for dinner.”
“All right.” He smiled. “You are about to leave me for two days.”
“I'll be back.” I smiled right back at him. I felt like I could freeze that moment and live in it for some time to come, basking in the warmth in his eyes, his gaze caressing me.
“Well, let's have a good night together then,” he agreed.
When I walked into the library later that evening, Ian had set the table and lit a fire. He even had music playing, a light classical piece that filled the room with a sense of romantic expectation.
We sat together and enjoyed a sumptuous meal. The wine he chose was delicious and the roast came out just right, the vegetables surrounding it crackling in its juice. Afterwards, we settled onto the couch as had become our habit, but this time I felt so relaxed. He'd put me at ease over the past couple of days, first with his apology and then with his kindness. I almost didn't recognize him as the man I'd met two months before.
Sitting together, talking, he toyed with a strand of my hair, admiring me in the firelight.
“I have a question I want to ask you,” I warned him.
“You do? Why did I expect that?” He gave me a smile.
“It’s personal. About a topic you don’t like talking about.”
“Ah. Those are your favorite, aren’t they?”
“They seem to be.”
“Well, Annie. I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I do believe you're right. My whole proposal of a transaction is fairly fucked up.”
“Does that mean you don't want to answer my question?” Here he was admitting I was right, but mostly what I felt was anxiety over losing my connection with him.
“Why?” He stroked my cheek, his voice dropping low and intimate. “Do you want to fulfill your side of the bargain?”
I bit my lip and smiled down at the couch. I felt shy about it, but yes, I was practically starting to crave his touch, and the longer I went without him, the more willing I was to agree to whatever terms he wanted.
“Is that a yes?” He took my chin in his fingers and tilted my face up to meet his eyes. I blushed and closed them briefly. Not looking at him, I admitted, “I've been thinking about you a lot.”
“Have you now?” Heated interest in his voice, he brushed back my hair off my shoulder and caressed my neck. I swallowed and nodded. “And what do you think about when you think about me?”
I shrugged, embarrassed to admit the explicit, X-rated fantasies I’d been indulging in late at night.
“Do you think about our time together here in the library?” His voice itself was a caress, asking me to open up, tell him the truth.
“Yes,” I answered in a soft whisper.
“Do you think about it when you’re in bed?” He stroked my throat as he talked, thumb making a lazy trail up and down. I wondered if he could feel my pulse skitter.
I wondered if I should I answer his question. Honesty might reveal more than I wanted. But I couldn't lie to Ian. I nodded yes.
“Now, Annie.” His voice sounded stern and serious. I opened my eyes to meet his gaze. “I want you to answer the next question truthfully.” He brought his thumb to my lower lip and traced it, fixating on it with eyes nearly drunken with desire. “Have you touched yourself?”
Hell, yeah, I'd touched myself. But I wasn’t going to tell him that. “I don't really think—”
“Trust me, Annie,” he demanded.
“Oh, I trust you,” I rushed to assure him.
“Then tell me. And I'll answer that question you said I wouldn't want to discuss. I won't even hold you to the terms of our old bargain.”
Why did my heart sink when he said that? Before I could think better of it, I blurted out, “What if I want that?”
“Annie,” he murmured, dark and husky as he leaned in to give me a kiss. “You’re going to be the death of me.” His hands stroking me, his kisses raining down on my mouth, my neck, it felt so good, so right there sharing everything with him.
He leaned back into the couch and I instantly missed his heat. “Why don’t you ask that question of yours so we can get it over with?”
I gave my brow a quick rub, trying to compose myself. He was so good at making me forget everything but pleasure. But this was something I’d been wondering about for a while, and I finally had the chance to ask him. I wasn't the most up-to-date on cutting-edge research and technologies, but it seemed like reports came out every day about breakthroughs and advances. I wondered if there might be something that could help him. He wasn't a paraplegic. He had feeling and sensation in his legs. It seemed to me like he should be able to gain more mobility.
“I want to know what you've done about your injuries,” I ventured. “And what you could still do about them.”
He nodded. “I thought you might get around to asking me that.”
“You've called me nosy and curious before,” I reminded him. “I prefer caring and concerned.”
“How can I say no to that?” He caressed my hand. Though still seeming somewhat reluctant, he launched in, giving me a head-spinningly long list of treatments, surgeries and therapies he'd undergone. It sounded like for the first seven years after his accident, until he was 21, he'd pursued recovery like a full-time job.
“You flew to London for a surgery?” I asked after he described an experimental procedure he’d undergone at 18.
“My parents spared no expense to try to make me normal again.”
“I'm sure they also wanted you to experience less pain.” I hated the bitterness and pain in his voice.
“I'll let you see it in your rosy, optimistic way.” He caressed my chin, giving me a quick kiss. “Someday I'd like to take a trip to your world. Is everything the color pink?”
“I'm not that bad,” I protested, though my sisters had accused me of exactly the same flaw on many occasions. I couldn’t help it if I liked to stay optimistic. The alternative didn’t seem that appealing.
“To answer your second question, the honest response is I'm not sure. There seem to be a lot of options, but it's hard to separate the hype from the breakthroughs. Back when I was a teenager, my parents both got swindled. They believed any doctor who told them that he could cure me. I don't want to fall into the same trap.”
�
��But, what if there's something you could do, Ian?”
“Like reconstructive surgery, or stem cell regeneration in my spine,” he filled in the blanks. “I know.” He nodded, but then he gave me a teasing look. “Is now the moment when you're going to encourage me like a peppy cheerleader? Go Ian!” He waved pretend pompoms. “You can do it!”
“Am I that bad?” I had to ask.
“Come over here and I'll show you how bad I think you are.” He pulled me onto his lap. Wrapped in his arms, I grew drunk on his kisses as we tasted and touched. He kept the pace slow, leisurely, his hands at 10 and 12, caressing my shoulders, my hair. But he’d taught me how good it felt when he roamed lower, and rushing need built, surging through me. I squirmed in his lap, wanting more contact, eager to feel if he felt as aroused as I did. But for the longest time, he kept it PG, making me tingle and burn.
When he finally drew his fingers to my inner thighs, stroking in and out in the way I craved, a low moan escaped my lips.
“I've missed you, Annie,” he murmured.
“I've missed you so much,” I panted, hands against his chest, kissing his throat. No more playing it cool. I needed him and I wanted him to know it.
When he pressed against my pussy, even through my clothes it made me gasp. I pushed back, wanting him to make me feel so good again, the way only he knew how. Unfastening my top button, he murmured, “Let's get these jeans off.”
Eager, I stood and slipped them off. “Everything,” he instructed, watching me undress. “Bra and panties, too.” I removed my top, removing every piece of clothing without hesitation. He patted his lap, inviting me back, and I happily scrambled into his arms.
“There was something you said earlier,” he reminded me, wrapping one arm around my waist and scratching his head as if he was having trouble remembering. “Was it something about you touching yourself?” He gave me a searching look.
All I Need: Ian & Annie Page 13