And Erin's own curiosity, aroused beyond even her fevered dreams and wild imagination, met his, touch for touch, move for move.
She slid her hand over the soft flannel of his shirt and felt the heat that radiated from his back. She rubbed her fingers along the worn denim inseam against his thigh.
Deke swallowed a groan. His breathing quickened, and he pulled back again to meet her eyes once more.
"Erin?" His voice had a ragged edge to it. He was looking at her as if he'd never seen her before.
Probably this Erin he never had. Probably this Erin was shocking his socks off. She would actually like to shock his pants off. The thought, spontaneous and unexpected, made a tiny laugh burst inside her.
"What?" Deke said.
Erin shook her head. "Nothing." No matter how grown-up she was, there were some things she still couldn't say.
He looked perplexed, a little worried. "It was funny? My kissing you?"
She shook her head, smiling, giddy almost. Deke Malone had kissed her! "It was wonderful."
There were some perks to growing up, getting older, having had a life, she decided. She was less self-conscious now, more honest. Capable of admitting what she wouldn't have dared to admit fifteen years ago. All her inhibitions seemed to have fled.
She tilted her head and, feeling oddly daring—was it the wine? she wondered—smiled at him. "You're a very good kisser."
The frank comment raised his brows, and he gave her a speculative look. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "I'm not too bad at other things, either." There was gentle but clear innuendo in his words.
"Aren't you?" Erin's own words seemed almost to catch in her throat. She wasn't used to flirting—wasn't even sure she was flirting. Was she daring him? Was she daring herself? She felt a heady breathlessness that was foreign and tantalizing at the same time.
Deke's expression grew serious. He stroked her hair, her ear, her jaw, angling her head so that she looked straight at him. "Do you want to find out?"
Did she want to make love with him? Is that what he meant?
Erin's brain buzzed. Her mind whirled. Go to bed with Deke Malone? Here? Now? Tonight?
It was all her teenage fantasies coming true. Or was it? Might it not destroy everything they'd ever had between them? Might it not turn into a nightmare instead of a dream?
And if it did, then what? she asked herself caustically.
He wasn't offering her forever. He wasn't promising happily ever after. He was offering sex. He was offering intimacy. Connection. Not forever. Just for now.
But still, to have all those things even once with the man she had loved more than any man on earth… She had only to say yes. But… She was Erin.
Erin could always think of a thousand buts, could always find a hundred reasons to play things safe, to refuse to admit how very much she wanted to see Deke Malone naked, to have the freedom to run her hands over his body, to feel him become, however briefly, a part of her.
Not an hour ago, she'd admired his friend Violet who had always been up-front, who'd gone after what she'd wanted, who'd grabbed life with both hands, who had, Erin thought with amusement, probably grabbed Deke with both hands!
And Violet had had his son. She'd had intimate memories of Deke. How much richer her life, short though it was, must have been because she had dared.
If loving Jean-Yves had taught her anything it was that even a brief love was better than none at all.
Now Erin smiled at Deke. She touched his cheek. "I'd like to find out," she said.
Deke's hand stilled. He cupped her jaw and stared deep into her eyes. His own reflected his surprise at her response. He didn't speak.
"Unless you don't want to?" she added, because all of a sudden she felt panicky, as if she'd been too forward.
Deke shifted her hand on his thigh a little higher. "Does it feel like I don't want to?"
Heat coursed into her cheeks. "Oh!"
"Yeah. Oh." He looked at the sofa. "Here?"
Erin got to her feet and held out her hand to him. "Come upstairs."
Her bedroom was at the top of the stairs. Across from it was the room she had put all her books and photos and work-related stuff in, hoping someday she might call it an office and not a catch-all. Beyond them was the bathroom and Sophie's room. At the far end of the hall was the large room that Gabriel and Nicolas shared, and two other bedrooms that she thought she might turn into two bed-and-breakfast rooms, if she could figure out how to carve another bathroom into the floor plan.
She wasn't thinking about that tonight.
She was thinking about the man who followed her up the stairs, who stepped into her room and closed the door behind him with a quiet, deliberate click. The room was in shadows cast by the pinkish glow that came from a single streetlight and a snowy night. She didn't turn on the light. Didn't—couldn't—move at all.
Deke put gentle hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him, then slid his hands down her back and drew her close, bent his head, kissed her again, deeply, longingly.
And Erin, raising her arms to wrap them around him, thought, Yes. Yes. Just like this.
She backed up one step, two, three, and fell back onto the bed, bringing Deke with her. They rolled together, touching, stroking, kissing, caressing. His hands slipped up under her sweater, walking their way up her ribs, then cupping the fullness of her breasts. His head dropped to brush against them.
If she leaned forward she could bury her face in his soft hair. She breathed deeply, caught a hint of woodsy shampoo, of snow and leather and something uniquely inexpressibly Deke.
She'd forgotten it. And yet, the minute she drew a breath, everything—the memories, the conversations, the feelings, the yearnings—all the details came flooding back. It was as if a dam had broken, a door, long shut, had opened.
And if she'd had the slightest qualm about what she was doing, about the wisdom of making love with this man here tonight, it fled. It was something she'd wanted so long that even knowing their loving would go nowhere, she knew she wouldn't regret it.
When she shut the door later tonight, when he got back in his truck and, tomorrow, drove off to New Mexico, she would have the memory.
But for tonight, for these few hours, she would have Deke.
She tugged at his shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of his jeans, then slid her hands up underneath, relishing the hot smooth muscles of his back, letting her fingers walk up his spine, knead his shoulders, caress the short hair at the nape of his neck.
He lifted his face and she kissed the line of his jaw, rubbed her cheek against the faintest hint of stubble there. He must have shaved right before he'd come to the opening. He'd looked urbane and professional, very nice indeed, but she liked him better in jeans and boots. She thought she'd like him even better out of them! The thought made her swallow a giggle.
"Laughing at me again?" Deke said gruffly, kneeling up and tugging her sweater up and over her head in one quick movement. Then he was kissing her breasts, nuzzling between them and dropping tiny kisses down her belly to the button of her jeans.
"Not laughing at you," Erin gasped when he drew a line with the tip of his tongue from her bra down to her navel. "Want you," she added breathlessly.
"Feeling's mutual." He pulled back and started to unbutton his shirt, but she stopped him.
"Let me."
Deke's hands dropped to his sides, his fingers hung loosely as Erin undid the buttons one by one, parting his shirt and leaning forward to kiss his chest, to breathe in again the scent of him, to nuzzle his hair-roughened chest, to touch her lips to his flat nipples. She felt a tremor run through him. His fingers curled into fists.
Then she ran her hands down his chest to his belt and unfastened it, her fingers trembling slightly, fumbling as she did so. But Deke didn't do it for her. His jaw was clenched as he held perfectly still, not even breathing.
Then she undid the button on his jeans and drew down the zipper. Her fingers s
trayed over the soft cotton of his boxer shorts. Deke's breath hissed through his teeth as his hips moved forward, pressing the hot, hard length of him against her hands.
"My turn," he said raggedly, and he reached around behind her to unfasten her bra. She felt a tremor in his fingers as he did so, and she knew satisfaction at the notion that he was no more steady than she was. Her bra fell away, and his fingers came around to stroke her breasts. Then he bent his head and he kissed them and bore her down on the bed once more. He made quick work of the button and zipper on her jeans, then peeled them down her legs.
The cool night air teased her feverish body, and Erin scrabbled to tug his jeans down, as well. He pulled hers off. But his own tangled in his boots, and he muttered under his breath.
Quickly she rolled to a sitting position again. "Cowboys do it with their boots on?" she teased.
He managed a strained laugh and grimaced. "Rather not."
"Then allow me." She pushed him onto his back and reached down to tug off first one boot and then the other and, after them, his jeans. But then she stopped, unable to take the last step, to hook her fingers in the waistband of his shorts and pull them down. She simply sat, staring, appreciating the hard, muscular body—all angles, planes and shadows—that was Deke Malone.
He lay on his back, watching her just as intently, his eyes hooded, his breathing shallow, short and quick, until he could stand it no longer. And then he held out a hand to her. "Come here," he said softly. It was an invitation, a beseeching.
And Erin stretched out alongside him and put her hands on him, and he stroked her ribs and slipped his fingers inside her panties and drew them down, then pulled off his own shorts. And they were naked together—heated flesh to heated flesh, mouth to mouth, heart to heart.
She and Deke Malone.
His name reverberated through her mind. The boy's body she had dreamed of so long, harder now, tougher, filled out—a man's body—pressed hers into the bed. And she knew the joy of it. Relished it. Wanted it.
She eased her legs apart, opening for him, touching him at the same time, stroking him, making him tremble and suck in a harsh breath, even as his fingers sought her. Her breath came quick and ragged, too, as he found her ready for him. He stroked her, teased her. And Erin squirmed, trying to draw him down, to bring him in.
"Wait," he muttered desperately. "Slow down."
Yes, of course. Slow down. Take it easy. Savor. Relish. Memorize.
She knew that. Of course she did! But saying it and doing it were two different things. What her mind wanted, her body resisted. Her body was hungry, desperate, starving. It wanted Deke. It wanted him now.
And his body had a hunger of its own. He was biting his lip, tensing, fighting release.
"Deke," she whispered. "Come to me."
Love me. The words she could never say echoed in her head. She wouldn't spoil it by speaking them. She knew better.
This was Deke whom she had always loved, Deke who was her friend, who wanted her tonight, who needed something from her now, something that she could give—and would receive herself.
It was enough.
He came to her then, let her guide him down, arched his back and she felt him shudder with the sheer pleasure of sinking into her warmth.
"Yessss." The word hissed through his lips and then, trembling, he braced himself above her and dipped his head to kiss her. A deep hungry desperate kiss, not leisurely at all. And then, with exquisite slowness, he began to move. His body caressed hers, his sweat-slick skin slid over hers.
And Erin rose to meet him, to embrace him, to welcome him and now—just now! just this once—shuddering, shattering, she made him her own.
No regrets. She had no regrets.
She'd wondered if she might. The seconds after her climax splintered her, in the moments after Deke had surged into her one last time and then collapsed, shuddering against her, Erin wondered if doubt would now set in.
It did not.
And as she lay there, stroking Deke's hard muscled back, learning the ridges and dips of his spine, the smooth hollow at the small of his back, while still she held him inside her, she shut her eyes and knew a sense of fulfillment.
Another time in her life it surely would have been wrong. When they were teenagers, making love with Deke would have been a mistake. She would have wanted more, needed more, hoped for things that Deke couldn't give her.
She'd had those things from Jean-Yves. She'd had love, pure and full. She'd had a relationship of heart and soul and body and mind.
She didn't expect those things from Deke now. She had his friendship still. And now she had this memory.
This time it had been right.
No, she didn't regret it any more than she regretted loving Jean-Yves. It had hurt losing Jean-Yves. The pain of it had nearly killed her. But she never regretted loving a man whose job had put him in harm's way. She would never wish she hadn't in order to have saved herself the pain.
It was the same with Deke now.
He might stay a few more hours. He might kiss her again, hold her close, might even doze with her for a brief time. But then he would rise. He would dress.
He would touch her hair and kiss her lips and smile at her.
And then, inevitably, he would get into his truck and go. And she would hurt.
Erin had no illusions about it. Tomorrow she would feel hollow. She would ache with missing him and wish she had him still. But at least she would have the memory. She would have this night. She would have to remember that when she watched him go.
Some things were worth the cost.
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
She didn't sleep a wink all night.
While Deke had been there, lying in her bed—in her arms—there was no way Erin could have slept. She'd simply lain there watching him, savoring his presence, storing up memories, relishing every moment.
And after he'd left, when he'd kissed her goodbye at the door with a tender smile and a whispered "Take care, Erin," she'd gone back upstairs and crawled back beneath the quilts to wrap her pillow in her arms and relive it all again.
Until daybreak she tasted his kisses over and over, crushed the pillow to her chest and remembered the hard warmth of his body covering hers. She rubbed her cheek where his rough stubble had grazed hers and tried to recapture the sensation. And finally she buried her face in his pillow, breathing in the scent of him and feeling her throat tighten and begin to ache.
She resisted it. Refused to give in. She wasn't going to hurt. She wasn't going to regret anything. It had been worth it, damn it!
But simply lying there thinking about it was too hard to do. She was restless, unfocused, tossing and turning. She needed to do something. So, throwing back the covers, Erin jumped out of bed—and felt twinges where she hadn't felt twinges in a very long time.
They made her smile. They focused the restlessness. They were her secret—her memory of last night. It was a memory she would hold dear forever.
But now, Erin knew, was not the time. Last night she had, she assured herself, exorcized her past. She had a memory of Deke to take with her always. But she couldn't dwell on it—not even to the extent that she had dwelt on her marriage to Jean-Yves.
She had to face the future. She had to get on with her life.
Brimming with energy, she took a quick shower and went downstairs. She let the dog out, then started the laundry. Then she swept the stairs. When the kids got up, she fed them oatmeal and fresh fruit and muffins—practicing for possible bed-and-breakfast guests, she told them when they blinked at the more-lavish-than-usual spread. Then Taggart came by to pick up Gabriel and offered to take the others, as well.
"They can play with Will and Abby or watch the bull and bronc riding," he said.
Nicolas was eager. Sophie was bouncing. "I can help Becky baby-sit."
"Okay?" Taggart asked his sister. "I'll bring 'em back this evening."
"Fine," Erin said. While
they were gone she would get something done, too. She had procrastinated ever since they'd come from Paris. She hadn't picked up her camera once. Editors had called her and she'd declined jobs. She hadn't been ready.
Now she was. Ready for something. She had to do something—or she'd spend the day thinking about Deke.
That was the long and short of it right there. And she knew she couldn't think about Deke. It wasn't productive. It wasn't helpful. Someday she could take out the memory and savor it. But not today. Not for quite a while yet.
So she threw herself into work. She started with standard household chores. She vacuumed the whole house, then dusted everything that wasn't nailed down. She washed the kitchen and bathroom floors. She would have cleaned the drawers and cupboards, but since she'd only stocked them a month ago, they weren't much of a challenge yet.
But still filled with restless energy, she went upstairs and resolutely began stripping the wallpaper off the walls of one of the empty bedrooms. If she was really going to try doing bed-and-breakfast, the first task was getting the rooms redecorated. The second would be to find a plumber who could figure out how to put another bathroom on the second floor.
By lunchtime she had both bedrooms stripped of wallpaper and had scrubbed down the walls. Next she tackled her potential darkroom, putting up the bookshelves Taggart had brought over for her, then unpacking boxes and putting books on the shelves.
All that was left were the slides and prints. Boxes and boxes of them. Hers and Jean-Yves's. She knew she had to go through them, sort them out. But it would be too emotionally draining to do it now—and not nearly physical enough.
So instead she went downstairs and made turkey soup for dinner. It would have been therapeutic, she thought, if she could have chased the turkey around the yard first. Then she baked banana bread—wishing she could have climbed the banana tree—and whipped up three kinds of cookies.
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