As she circled behind the truck, her steps slowed. Somehow the green and white tag on the Blazer had escaped her notice on her last visit. Chalk it up to surprise, she thought drily, due to all Teryl had done—turning wild and unpredictable and just the slightest bit kinky after a lifetime of sainthood. But that was no Louisiana tag on a truck belonging to a man who claimed to live in New Orleans. The license plate was issued by the state of Colorado and, according to its corner stickers, had recently been renewed, which meant that John had very recently left Colorado for the steamier environs of New Orleans… or he had lied.
Feeling grim and more distrustful than ever, she tried the door on the driver’s side of the Blazer. It was unlocked.
Opening it, she climbed inside, automatically grimacing at the heat. The truck wasn’t spotless, like the Camaro, but it was relatively clean. There was dust on the dash, and a few potato chip crumbs in the passenger floor—most likely Teryl’s, she thought uncharitably—but there was no trash. No belongings. No mail bearing a convenient address. There was a little vinyl sticker on the window advising that the Blazer was due for an oil change at sixty-four thousand miles; according to the odometer, he was just over a thousand miles late. There was a handful of coins in the change tray and a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches, and a flashlight in the center console.
Leaning across the stick shift, she opened the glove compartment. Inside was the ever-present manual and—good luck—the registration slip. As soon as she committed the name and address to memory, she would head home and make a few phone calls. There was this cop she knew… or maybe the private detective she’d dated a few times would be a better choice. She had kept him occupied on more than a few long, boring surveillances, so he owed her a favor or two. Besides, he lacked the cop’s ingrained sense of right and wrong. As long as there was something in it for him, he didn’t care if it was legal, fair, or…
As she stared at the registration, her mind went blank, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. They had lied to her. Teryl’s lover, her summer fling whom she’d picked up on a two-day trip to New Orleans, didn’t live in New Orleans; his address was Route 4, Rapid River, Colorado. But his name was John, all right.
John H. Smith.
Chapter Thirteen
After his shower that night, John dried off, drawing the towel carefully over the stitches in his right arm. They should come out after ten days, the doctor had told him, and today was day ten. He could get the name of Teryl’s doctor and make an appointment tomorrow, but it would be a waste of time better spent working. The laceration was healing on schedule. There was no sign of infection, and the wound edges had come together nicely. All he needed was a pair of tweezers and some sharp-pointed scissors, and he could take care of it himself.
He found both items in the drawer, tossed in with a jumble of brushes and combs, razor cartridges, and a broken emery board. It took only one try to realize that he needed something else: an extra hand. He could use the tweezers to pull the suture taut or he could snip the thread while it was being held taut, but he couldn’t do both.
He needed Teryl’s help.
She had come upstairs more than an hour ago, leaving him with an old Lorna Terrill movie. He’d paid little attention to the movie, though, and far too much to the sounds Teryl was making upstairs—a trip from the bedroom to the bathroom, the water running while she showered, and a return trip to the bedroom followed by the closing of her door. When he had finally come up for his own shower, the door had remained closed, a thin line of yellow light seeping underneath it. He had felt thoroughly shut out.
Dropping the tweezers on the counter, he pulled on his jeans, then picked up the tools once more and opened the door. Her light was still on, so she was still awake. She probably wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed, particularly when she had retreated to the privacy of her room, but he was going to do it anyway.
There was a rustle of movement inside the room that stilled when he knocked at the door. He could imagine her standing there in the thin tank top that he’d fantasized about, wishing he would go away, wondering if she could stay quiet enough to convince him that she’d fallen asleep with the light on. He knocked a second time and heard movement; then she pulled the door halfway open and faced him from behind it.
She was ready for bed, with her hair brushed back, her nose shiny with moisturizer, and the bedcovers turned down. She was wearing the tank top and, over it, a cotton robe that reached only to her knees. The robe probably gave her some measure of modesty, he thought with a mirthless smile. After all, it was as demure as any dress. But it was worn and thin and concealed only enough to remind him of what it was covering. As if he needed reminders.
When she continued to hide behind the door, he eased into the room, forcing her to give up its security and back away. “I need a favor. It’s time to remove the stitches from my arm, but I can’t manage with only one hand. I want you to do it for me.”
Her gaze moved to his arm and the row of sutures there, long, red, dotted with small scabs and the black tails of stitches, fourteen in all. “Don’t you think you should see a doctor?”
“I don’t need a doctor. You can do it.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she agreed and took the tweezers and scissors from him. “All right. Sit down.”
The only choices were the wooden chair in front of the makeup table or the bed. He chose the bed.
Standing in front of him, she took a deep breath, braced the heel of her hand against his arm, and used the tweezers to grasp the top suture. She gave the slender black thread a slight tug, snipped it just above the skin, then drew it out the other side, leaving behind only the two small needle marks. He hadn’t known whether to expect a small prick of pain, but all he felt was a curious pulling sensation that couldn’t begin to compete with the feel of her hand on his arm or the heat radiating from her body or the smell of shampoo that scented her hair.
The next sutures came out just as easily. The fifth one, though, tugged at the scab that had crusted around it, making it bleed. So did the next one, and, in spite of her obvious efforts to be gentle, the next.
He was in a pathetic state, he thought, fixing his gaze on the French doors behind her, when he could savor such attention. It said something about how rarely he had allowed himself the pleasure of a woman’s touch, about how needful he had become. And he sure as hell was needful. His entire body was starting to tingle, craving the attention she was giving his arm, wanting her fingers, soft and warm, to stroke there, to caress here, to curl around him there. If she took much longer with this, she was going to make him hard, which would make her uncomfortable.
He was damned sick of making her uncomfortable.
He would sacrifice his soul for another evening like the one they’d shared in New Orleans. For the pleasure of her smiles. For the arousal in her eyes. For the heated kisses, the desperate desire, the incredible tightness of her body gloving his. He would give up a few years of his life to stretch the evening into an entire night, to sleep beside her, to know that she was only inches away, to awaken when the sun came through the French doors and find her against him.
He would even consider giving up Simon Tremont if one evening could become a night, if one night could become a lifetime. He would give up damned near everything if he could have Teryl in return.
Teryl, who was still dealing with the turmoil he’d brought to her life. Who wouldn’t thank him for the doubts he’d created. Who would never accept him without absolute proof. Who wouldn’t forgive him all that he’d done. Who had been perfectly happy before she knew he existed and wouldn’t be that way again until he was once more out of her life.
Jesus, he wasn’t asking for much, was he?
In front of him, she was leaning forward to reach the lower stitches. The movement directed his gaze downward as the ratty robe she wore gapped at the top, and the loose neck of the tank top fell open, too, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of the beginning swell of
her breasts. The skin there, he knew, was creamy and soft. It smelled of powder and perfume and tasted of heat and desire. He had fondled her breasts on a French Quarter street, had suckled them in the backseat of a hired cab and in the cool, dim privacy of her hotel room. He could touch them again now—could raise his hand, slide it between the folds of old, well-worn fabric until he reached the contrast of satiny smooth breast and spiky, hard nipple. He could give her pleasure, if she would take it, and could feed his own hunger. He could ease her desire and satisfy his own craving—at least, for a while. Nothing could ever satisfy him permanently, nothing short of spending the rest of his life with her, and he knew that was impossible. She deserved much better than he could ever give her… and he deserved far worse.
“I have some antiseptic in the bathroom. Let me get it and clean that before you go.” She straightened, backed away, and left the room before her words completely registered. She was almost finished. Another moment or two, a swab with a cotton ball, and she would be done. She would expect him to go to his own room and to leave her in peace.
He wasn’t sure he could. Not when he wanted her as desperately as before. Not when he needed her in a way he had never needed anyone.
In only a moment, she returned, a small brown bottle in one hand, a thick pad of cotton squares in the other. She twisted the lid from the bottle, saturated the pad with the cool, clear liquid, then bent to dab it along the length of the laceration. Her hair fell forward to hide her face, casting shadows across his chest as it swayed with her movements, tantalizing him with its scent. He liked bathing after her at night, liked going into the bathroom when the air was steamy and redolent with her fragrances. He liked using the same shampoo himself, liked rubbing the same soap over his own body. He had never thought of showering as an erotic experience until his first time here, when he had walked into the hot, damp bathroom, smelled her scents, and felt his cock swelling.
Like now.
Sweet hell, he wanted to pull her closer, to bring her to him, to nuzzle the robe and that damned shirt aside and bury his face between her breasts. He wanted to seduce her with kisses and caresses across her breasts, down her spine, over her belly, between her thighs. He wanted to arouse and weaken her, to make her body crave his. He wanted to make her want him in spite of herself, wanted to prove to her and to himself that he held some power over her, some small measure of the power she held over him. He wanted to punish her… and please her… and pleasure her. Christ, he wanted the pleasure.
He shifted awkwardly, seeking a more comfortable position. Tight jeans weren’t made for relentless erections. But immediately he regretted the movement because it made Teryl’s gaze swing up to meet his. “Does it sting? I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”
“No,” he said, his voice too hoarse, too thick. “It doesn’t sting.”
“Then what… ?” Awareness slipped over her slowly. He could actually see her realization that their position was a little on the intimate side, that the entire damned situation was more than a little intimate. He could see her response: her eyes growing shadowy, her lips parting on a faint puff of breath, the flush that seemed to rise straight up from her breasts to spread its warmth up her throat and color her face, and the slight tremble in her hand.
Awareness. Acknowledgment. Arousal. God help him—God save him—she was aroused.
Slowly she straightened and laid the antiseptic and the pads on the night table before turning back to face him. Refusing to consider the right or wrong of what he was about to do, he raised his hand, gliding it along the front closure of her robe, hovering just above, not actually touching her until he reached her throat. Only his fingertips made contact there, rough calluses against powdery soft skin, before he withdrew his hand.
He was a fool. This was wrong. She deserved better. He didn’t deserve anything at all. All the arguments raced through his head, demanding his attention, but every one of them disappeared the instant she clasped his hand in hers and guided it inside the robe to her breast. His fingers naturally curved to fit; his palm naturally moved against her erect nipple with just enough pressure to make her breath catch. Her head was tilted back, her eyes hazy, her expression exquisite.
All his life, he had failed at everything he’d ever tried. Surfing and writing Tremont novels—those were his two big accomplishments. His only talents. Those—and arousing Teryl.
Together those just might be enough for a lifetime’s satisfaction.
Reluctantly giving up the caresses, he untied the knot in the cloth belt, working it loose, and let the robe fall open. The tank top she wore underneath was as shabby as the robe—thin, worn, stretched out of shape, never intended to adequately cover her shape. It dropped straight down from her shoulders, too soft to cling, too threadbare to conceal. Her breasts were clearly outlined, as were her nipples. Soft and hard, sweet and wicked. The damned shirt was the sexiest garment he’d ever seen.
When he laid his hands on her stomach underneath the top, a shudder rippled through her. He pushed the fabric up enough to reveal her panties—gray cotton with a broad elastic band, cut high on the thigh and low over the abdomen—and her belly, pale, flat, delicately contoured. One of his regrets from New Orleans was that he hadn’t seen enough of her, that he hadn’t turned on every light in that hotel room and conducted an intimate survey of every inch of her body. He didn’t know what shade of brown the curls between her thighs were. He didn’t know if her nipples were pink, rose, or brown, didn’t know if a delicate web of veins was visible across her breasts, didn’t know if she had any imperfections, any scars or freckles or birthmarks.
But he had learned other things. He knew the taste of her nipples, knew the feel of her breasts in his hands. He knew those curls between her thighs were soft, knew they had rubbed like silk along the length of him each time he’d entered her; he knew that right now they were damp and fragrant with the silky, starchy powder she used. He knew that his hands fitted so perfectly where her waist curved in, that her hips cradled him just right, that they fitted together as if they’d been made for each other, that she could take no more than he had to give. He knew that being buried inside her was exquisite pain and incomparable joy. He knew he’d never felt that way with any other woman in his life. He knew he would never feel that way with any other woman.
He knew he was damned. But at least he could have her again before he had to learn to live without her.
Sliding one hand underneath her panties, he glided his fingers through the curls until he reached the small, swollen flesh they protected. For a moment when he stroked her, he half believed the heat there sizzled, but the little rush of sound was a gasp instead, and it came from Teryl, suddenly gone weak and limp, her hands braced against his shoulders for support.
“Oh, jeez, John,” she whispered.
His fingers trapped in the intimate caress, he stood up, wrapped his free arm around her, and took her mouth with his. She welcomed him, guiding his tongue into her mouth, sucking it so greedily that he felt it in his cock, swollen, throbbing, and desperate for her attention.
She was on the edge. He could feel it—could feel the little tremblings rocketing through her, could feel her body closing hard around his fingers, could taste the desperation in her kiss. She couldn’t get any tighter, any hotter, any wetter. He knew she couldn’t possibly endure one more second, one more stroke, one more caress.
“Tell me what you want, Teryl,” he murmured just before his teeth closed on the lobe of her ear, tugging gently.
Her voice was thin and insubstantial. “I want you.”
“You’ve got me. Now tell me what you want me to do.”
“Please,” she whispered, twisting so her mouth was against his, her voice hoarse, her words underlaid with torment. “Please, John… want you… inside…”
If there was a single reason why he shouldn’t give her just that, he couldn’t think of it. He hadn’t done everything he wanted—hadn’t touched her everywhere, kissed her all over,
or satisfied his endless curiosity about her body. He hadn’t laid her on the bed, hadn’t settled between her legs, hadn’t gotten a taste of her in the most intimate of kisses. Hell, he hadn’t even seen her naked yet. But the night was long, and there was always tomorrow, and she was pleading, and he was feeling pretty damned desperate himself.
Clamping his mouth to hers in a hard kiss, he maneuvered her around so the bed was behind her, guided her down, and joined her there. Her breathing was coming faster, and the helpless little cries she was making deep in her throat cut through him as he struggled with his jeans and her panties. When he finally dispensed with their clothing, when he parted her thighs and pushed inside her, she was so close to coming that her body had gone tight, clinging to him, fighting his long, hard intrusion. Then at last he was inside her, deep enough to feel everything she felt, every quiver, every tremble, every heartbeat, and she was shuddering, her wordless cries raw and begging, as he thrust once, twice, three times, before erupting.
Through the haze of his orgasm, he was dimly aware that she was moving beneath him, rubbing against him, seeking her own orgasm, finding it not more than a breath later. It made her go rigid, her body as taut as his own, and made the muscles in her belly clench around his penis, sending exquisite little shivers up his spine and all the way down to his fingers and his toes, curled tightly against the intensity.
Relaxation came slowly. His breathing, noisy and harsh, slowed as his heart rate dropped, and the bands around his chest loosened, allowing his lungs to fill with air. Her breaths, soft little sobs, quieted, too, deepening, coming easier. His muscles clenched spasmodically, flexing, releasing, quivering. Hers were still tight, too, slowly letting the tension go, still racking her body with an occasional shudder. A sense of ease was seeping through him everywhere… except, he thought with a faint grin, where it counted. His cock was as stiff and swollen as if it hadn’t just emptied into her, as if he hadn’t just indulged in the most intense quickie of his life.
Passion Page 31