by Gayle Wilson
They told me you were half-dead, Dr. Callaway had said. For the first time she thought about what injuries that severe might mean to any man, especially one whose entire adult life had, of necessity, been lived at a peak of physical perfection.
Although there was now no outward sign of infirmity—other than the limp she hardly noticed anymore—she could imagine the psychological toll his injuries must have taken. Whether the lack of sexual activity he’d just confessed was a result of that or of the injuries themselves, she couldn’t begin to guess.
The only thing she was sure of was that after a long abstinence, she was the one he had chosen to make love to, a choice that carried with it an unwitting burden. One she wondered if he was even aware of.
“In that case I hope you’re right about the bicycle.”
She smiled at him, seeking both to reassure him and, at the same time, to acknowledge the absurdity of her own worries. She had never met anyone who exuded more sexual magnetism.
Jeb Bedford didn’t need—or want—her concern. All he wanted was the same thing she did right now. The mindless oblivion of this very human connection.
“Would you feel better with the lights off?”
He’d already started toward the lamp, making that logical assumption from her behavior. But she knew the images that waited in the darkness. She’d wrestled with them before she’d given up and fled to the comforting moonlight of the veranda.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
Surprised, he turned to look at her.
“The dark is full of things I don’t want to think about.”
He didn’t ask because he knew what she feared. And that trying not to think about that was why she was in his room.
“Then maybe I should warn you.”
He said nothing else, letting her puzzle out the meaning of that cryptic phrase. As she did, his eyes didn’t leave her face. And seeing what was in them, she knew she was again being tested.
She had just acknowledged how terrible Jeb’s wounds must have been psychologically. In only a few minutes she would be forced to confront the physical reality of them. And she had no idea what she should prepare herself for. Scars, of course, but beyond that, she was as much in the dark—
Would being in the dark be better? Safer, at least, because then there would be no chance she might betray shock or dismay. Except she wasn’t a child. Or a fool.
Although the fire she’d been through was in no way similar to that Jeb had suffered, it had taught her the things in life—and in people—that mattered. Appearance wasn’t one of them.
“Consider me warned,” she said, smiling at him again.
Tension built in the resulting stillness, but she didn’t allow her smile to falter. It wasn’t important what his body looked like. She’d felt its strength. And whatever else she saw tonight, she had already seen the goodness of his soul.
Finally Jeb took a step toward her, holding out his hand. As she had on the porch, she put her fingers into his, allowing him to draw her toward the bed and the tangled sheets to which she knew would still cling the warm, clean scent of his body.
HIS FINGERS TRACED the halo of lamplight that limned the peak of her breast. Under their sensitive tips, the clear translucence of her skin was cool. Incredibly smooth.
She lay watching him, her eyes almost slate in the dimness. Her face was calm and composed. A little mysterious, even now that he knew every inch, every perfect centimeter of her body.
He had wanted to make love to her from the moment she’d handed him her car keys that first evening. He had drawn her to him tonight with such anticipation it had almost destroyed the dread that had kept him celibate through these long, painful months.
He had told himself then that he didn’t have time for romantic involvement. Not of any kind. Every minute had to be devoted to the goal that had driven him since he’d awakened in the field hospital in Iraq, his body broken and helpless.
He had told himself that, and all along, on some level at least, he’d known it for a lie. He’d been afraid. Afraid of what he would see in a woman’s eyes when she looked at him.
Before he’d been wounded, he would have said that, although he was guilty of a lot of sins, vanity wasn’t one of them. Despite the dread with which he’d approached tonight, he still believed that. He’d had his share of women through the years, but he’d never believed his looks had a lot to do with that.
Still, having to expose his body to Susan was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. Far harder than the rigorous training Delta had demanded. Harder even than the long, painful hours of therapy he’d endured during the past ten months.
And because of that, he had approached it the same way he always approached something he dreaded. Or feared. Even before he had eased the lace straps off Susan’s shoulders and allowed the sheer nightgown she wore to puddle at her feet, he’d methodically stripped off his own clothes. First the T-shirt, locking his fist in the material at the back of his shoulders and pulling it off over his head.
Her eyes had fallen, just as he’d known they would. And he had known exactly what she would see. He had deliberately looked at the scars that marred his chest and stomach in the mirror as he stepped out of the shower every day until they no longer had the power to repel him.
And as she’d studied them, he had refused to look down. He waited instead, anticipating what might be in her eyes when she looked up again.
When she did, there was nothing there of what he’d dreaded. No shock. No horror. No pity.
Untroubled, her gaze had held his, waiting for whatever came next. Almost defiantly he’d begun unfastening the metal buttons on the fly of his jeans. He’d worked quickly, hurrying over the task in order to hide the slight tremor that made his fingers clumsy and uncertain.
When they were finally done, he glanced up again, only to find the same calm certainty in the depths of her eyes. Still he hesitated, wondering what he’d do if this time…
Then, instead of trying to imagine either of their reactions, he pushed his thumbs inside the waistband of the worn jeans, forcing them over his hips and allowing them to fall down the length of his legs. He stepped out of them, standing before her just as he’d gone to bed hours ago, completely nude.
For an eternity she held his eyes. Afraid, after what he had already revealed, that she wouldn’t be able to control her reaction this time?
“It doesn’t matter,” she said softly.
Prove it.
That challenge had been issued only in his head, but her lips tightened, as if in response. Her gaze fell, examining the damage in the cruel, revealing light of the lamp. When her eyes came up, they were again clear, seemingly undismayed.
Now what? He wasn’t sure if he’d read that question in them or in his own mind. The only thing he was sure of…
He took a step, avoiding the jeans at his feet, and then another. As he approached, her chin had tilted slightly until she was looking up into his eyes.
Just as he’d stripped the waistband of his jeans over his hips, he put his thumbs under the straps of her nightgown and slipped them off her shoulders. Although she’d made no protest as the garment fell, he had expected that familiar protective gesture, her arms crossing over her breasts.
They didn’t. Instead, she stood still, exactly as he had only seconds before, while his gaze examined the slender perfection of her body.
He had known she’d look like this. Her breasts small and high, despite the fact she had borne a child. There was no evidence of that pregnancy in the flat stomach or the narrow hips. Almost as if the baby she’d lost had never existed.
Except she had. She still did. Sleeping tonight within a few miles of where they now lay together.
“What are you thinking?”
Her question brought him quickly back to the present. His fingers hesitated before they renewed the journey upward, moving over the same smooth skin they had just caressed.
“How different this was from what I expected.”
<
br /> Her lips curved. “I told you I was out of practice.”
“Not that,” he said, answering her smile. “Besides, I’m not sure, given my delicate state of health, that I could deal with anything more ‘practiced.’”
Release had been quick for both of them. He’d felt a ridiculous sense of relief that he hadn’t exploded inside her until he’d felt the first telltale tremor of her body. It had, however, been a very close thing.
“I think what you told Doc was the truth.”
“What I told Doc?” He couldn’t think of anything he’d said to the old man that made sense in this context.
“That reports of your demise have been greatly exaggerated. I didn’t notice anything delicate about your…responses.”
“And here I was flattering myself on their subtlety.”
“Subtlety wasn’t on the agenda. Not for either of us,” she added, her smile fading.
“Don’t,” he advised softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t think about it.” Don’t think about Emma.
She took a breath, deep enough that the tip of her breast made contact with his fingers. “I thought that was your job.”
To keep her from thinking. She was right. That’s what this had all been about. At least at the beginning. Now…
“Do I detect a note of criticism?”
The teasing lightness of seconds ago fell flat. The life had gone out of her eyes and the curve from her lips.
The reality this interlude was designed to deny was always on the periphery, the anxiety it produced tearing at any peace she found in his arms. He understood that, but in the sweet satiation of their lovemaking, he’d forgotten those thoughts must be kept at bay. That was his job. And she couldn’t know how much he relished it.
He leaned forward, putting his lips against her forehead. Her eyes followed the movement, but when he pulled back, looking down on her face, they were closed. Beneath the fan of lashes, the light from the bedside lamp illuminated a sheen of moisture.
He leaned forward again, putting his lips against the delicate skin. He kissed away the salt-sweet taste of her tears, first from one eye and then the other.
And when he leaned back this time, she opened them, again looking up into his. Her lips parted as she lifted her head.
He met her halfway, mouths aligned at the perfect angle. Their tongues engaged, mirroring the movements of the ageless duet that would follow. Thrusts and retreat.
The small niggling question that this might be happening too soon dissipated as her body moved over his, pushing him down against the mattress. Their mouths never broke contact throughout the transition.
Her hardened nipples brushed sensuously against the hair on his chest, awakening an aching need that immediately tightened his groin. It took a second or two for him to realize that the slightly guttural sound he heard had come from his own mouth.
Her hand slipped between their bodies, flattening as it slid downward. She hadn’t touched him before. Not like this. As her palm encountered the first ridge of scar tissue he wondered—briefly—if that could have been why.
Although no longer painful in the normal course of bathing or dressing, he was always aware of the traumatized nerve endings in the damaged skin and underlying muscle. The sensation of her hand moving across it was strangely erotic, pleasure balancing on the delicate edge of pain.
Something of what he was feeling must have been communicated to her, either through the sudden tension in his body or by another unconscious sound. Her hand hesitated, lifting until it was no longer in contact with his stomach.
For the first time since she’d leaned forward to meet his kiss, she raised her head enough to whisper, “What’s wrong?”
He put his fingers over hers, pushing them down again until the hard ridge of scar lay under their joined hands. His breath was coming in small, audible gasps.
“Jeb?”
“Nothing.” The word was breathless. Torn from his lips.
He guided her hand downward, anticipation stirring in his lower body so that he knew she must be able to feel the quick heat and strength of his erection. After a moment her fingers closed around it, again taking his breath.
His mouth found hers, trying to tell her how he felt. Trying to thank her for touching him. For all the ways she had touched him.
She moved again, her left knee sliding to the other side of his hip as her body settled over his. Her hand guided him into the sweet hot wetness created by their previous lovemaking.
He closed his eyes, feeling the silken muscles enclose him as she slowly, so slowly lowered her body. His hands found her waist. Her palms flattened against his lower chest as she leaned forward. Even the slight shift of position was enough to send him too near the edge. Too near the point of no return.
He tried to think of anything other than what she was doing. Snow-topped mountains in Afghanistan. Icy streams tumbling down rock slopes in Colorado. Cold showers.
And then she moved, her body lifting away from his so deliberately its ascension could be measured in millimeters. Each one intended to drive him mad.
His hands tightened around her waist, trying to keep her still. She ignored the entreaty, rising until he thought she’d gone too far. Hoping for that reprieve, even while praying she hadn’t.
And then, before he had time to realize his prayer had been granted, she began to lower her body over his again, the wet heat of it slipping downward over his aching hardness like a glove. Enclosing him. Accepting every inch.
Accepting him.
The thought was enough to destroy what little control he had left. The cataclysm began before he had time to visualize any of the images that had kept his climax at bay.
Not that they would have had any effect this time. The reality of what she was doing was too powerful. Too real.
Too late.
His back arched, thrusting his hips upward as hers descended the last few centimeters. His fingers clenched, holding her body over his as convulsion after convulsion racked his frame. All thought of taking her with him was lost. He was conscious of nothing but the driving force of his own desire. For endless minutes it left him mindless, unable to do anything but ride out the storm of sensation.
When it had passed, leaving him breathless and again sated, he opened his eyes to find her lost in her own ecstasy. Her head was back, her eyes closed as her body shook in orgasm.
Unable to do anything else, he watched her, reveling in her release, as he had in his own. Finally her eyes opened. They were slightly glazed, almost disoriented, but when she realized he was watching her, she smiled at him.
Hands at the small of her back, he urged her forward. She lay down on top of him, her cheek against the damp, heaving muscles of his chest.
His arms tightened around her, trying to say without the words he couldn’t formulate how sorry he was to have left her behind, even momentarily. The fingers of her left hand found his cheek, resting there a moment before they moved over his mouth. Although his breath was still coming between them in audible gasps, his lips pursed, kissing the tips.
He wished he could see her face, but he was too exhausted to move. And almost afraid of what he might find in her eyes.
“Sorry.”
“For what?” she asked, moving her fingers again so that they lay on his opposite shoulder.
“For not waiting.”
She laughed, the sound a breath.
“Waiting also wasn’t on the agenda. I didn’t expect you to. I didn’t want you to.”
There was nothing he could say to that, so he wisely said nothing. He held her instead, gradually feeling her heartbeat slow as did his own. Their bodies were still joined, but the connection now had nothing to do with need. At least not the kind that had driven their frenzied climaxes.
This was a mutual need for closeness. For human comfort perhaps. For love.
She stirred against him, settling her leg into a more comfortable position over his thighs
. The weight of it was pleasant, her skin silken in contrast to the hair-roughened texture of his. Feminine. Right.
As if it belonged there.
The thought was so foreign to those that normally occupied his mind in the few minutes after good sex that he examined it again, trying to be objective. He couldn’t be. He wanted her here. Not because they would make love again, but because he wanted her here. Because he enjoyed holding her. Comforting her. Keeping the darkness at bay.
All the darkness, both his and hers. He had never before realized this was as much a part of lovemaking as what had just happened between them physically. And never before realized how much he needed this, too.
Eyes wide in the dimness, he lay holding Susan in his arms as her breathing slowed, becoming deep and regular, her breath softly fluttering over the moisture on his skin.
As she slept against his chest, he knew he’d given her what she wanted—freedom from thought. And what she’d given him…
What she had given him was another kind of freedom. For the first time in his adult life he was thinking more about someone else’s needs and desires than his own. Thinking about someone in terms of permanency and commitment, something that would have been inconceivable to him only a few weeks ago. And thinking about what he’d found tonight rather than of what he had lost ten months ago.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DESPITE THOSE TERRIBLE weeks after Richard and Emma disappeared, today had ranked as the longest in Susan’s memory. Unlike last night, there had been nothing Jeb could do to distract her while they waited.
As the afternoon hours had ground away, Jeb had still been determined they couldn’t afford to confront Diane. Not without some authority to back up their demand that she hand over Emma. And the FBI agent from Jackson, whose name the Bureau had given her last night, had yet to return Susan’s repeated calls.
Just when she thought she couldn’t stand the searing anxiety a second longer, Jeb had relented, agreeing to at least drive her by Diane’s house, which she’d found listed in the local phone directory. As impeccably maintained as Callaway’s Victorian, the modern brick two-story sat at the end of a cul-de-sac in what was, certainly by Linton standards, an upscale neighborhood. The contrast between it and her brother’s shabby bungalow was striking.