by Julia London
And then she felt his mouth over her panties, heard his strangled moan, and then the cry of pleasure that was hers. He moved against her, and she realized she was panting. The fabric of her panties suddenly disappeared, and she was shaken by the flawless and intense pressure of his tongue between the slick folds of her sex.
Rebecca cried out to the ceiling as her body seized around his head, quivering uncontrollably with the pleasure. With his hands, Matt pulled her farther down, then held her hips steady as he slowly and deliberately licked the valley. Her panting turned to groans of pure bliss as the pressure in her groin built to an intolerable pulse. “Make. Me. Come!” she said through gritted teeth, grabbing onto his shoulders, his head, his hair, whatever she could grasp in the fog that surrounded her, unable to endure the torture of his lips or his tongue another moment. And suddenly, so suddenly she could not catch her breath, his lips closed around her flesh and he sucked it into his mouth.
The climax was deafening in her mind, a heart-stopping release of four years of pent-up frustration, spilling out of her like water over a dam, spilling onto his mouth, his hands, his couch. Her cry sounded garbled and raw, a primal voice in the hot air around her, and she felt herself sinking fast, sinking and sinking . . .
The next thing she knew, she was lying on the couch. Alone. And everything was spinning. Rebecca opened one eye. Then the other. Matt was standing above her—both of him, their hands on their hips, their eyes peering down at her. She tried to smile, and the Matts came down on their haunches next to her, put their hands on her damp forehead. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she whispered.
“I have that effect on women,” he said, and picked her up, carried her to the guest bath.
That night, Rebecca dreamed of the person she might have been. Her father had died and she was the head of LTI Enterprises. And she wasn’t an inexperienced fool, but a terribly competent executive, and the members of the board of directors were all looking at her with great approval.
The only problem was that she was naked.
That caused her to sit up with a start . . . to discover that her head was aching something fierce, it was pitch black, and she had no idea where she was. She blinked against the darkness as her memory began to return in little pieces, and it at last seeped into her brain—she was at Matt’s place.
Oh. Hell.
Not only had she kissed Big Pants, she had let him do things to her that had never been done to her quite that well. Oh yeah, it was all coming back to her, tumbling in her brain like so much debris, bits and pieces of a night—and while it was, best to her fuzzy recollection, spectacular, she had not intended this to happen, ever! Never!
Rebecca promptly fell back on the bed, slung an arm over her eyes. Still . . . it had been outstanding. So outstanding that she felt it now, a shiver of it coursing her body and landing in the pit of her groin. Or maybe, because it had been four years, she was just all giddy with the excitement of having been freed . . . but she could remember the strength of his hands on her hips, holding her still while he sent her into an oblivion of pleasure, where she knew nothing but the feel of her body pressed against his, every rock hard inch of him, the sensation of his mouth on her, the sound of his breathing, the moans, the release . . .
And then what? Rebecca suddenly sat up, looked to the rest of the bed, felt it with her hands. Empty. Okay. But what did it mean?
It meant, she suddenly remembered as her stomach rebelled, that she had had too much to drink, and with a start, she forced her legs over the side of the bed, felt the spin in her head spiral down to her stomach with violent force, and lurched forward, groping along the wall until she found the bathroom.
Afterward, she lay on the cold tile floor until she was certain that she was going to live. Not that she particularly wanted to at this point, but if she was going to be lucky enough to die, she at least hoped it would be somewhere other than his bathroom floor, please God.
When she was able to sit up at last, she realized she was wearing nothing but a skirt and a bra (that was on her very crookedly), and couldn’t even begin to guess where blouse, boots and, hell, her panties might be. This was not good. While she was all for loosening up a little bit, she could clearly see that the new, alter ego Rebecca was going to have to be lassoed and hog-tied.
Planting her hands on the bathroom counter, she hoisted herself up and had a good long look in the mirror. Just take me now, Lord. Please.
At the end of the long vanity was a medicine cabinet, and she lurched toward it. Much to her considerable relief, she hit pay dirt. Obviously, Matt often had female visitors, as there was a toothbrush. And toothpaste. And tampons, facial moisturizer, shampoo, conditioner, aspirin. And a bottle of Maalox? Priceless.
Rebecca took the toothbrush and toothpaste, the aspirin and Maalox. When she was done, she dragged her fingers through her hair, determined she was going to have to find her bag with the comb and little makeup kit before she could even begin to think how to get herself out of this mess. Very cautiously, she stepped into the bedroom again, made her way to the window, drew the drapes aside, and instantly staggered back, blinded by the sun. Damn, what time was it?
“Definitely time for you to go, you little four-year idiot,” she muttered hoarsely. “You could be the poster child for why people shouldn’t drink. Ah, but you did, and then you just had to go there, didn’t you?” she angrily chastised herself as she turned away from the window and went in search of her boots. “Why stop there? Why not just go ahead and tell him everything? Like how you hoard Haagen-Dazs ice cream, and how you’ve never had a job, and Bud never ever, not once, gave you an orgasm all by himself.”
She found her blouse at the end of the bed. How thoughtful. No panties, she noticed as she snatched up her blouse and struggled into it. And no boots. It would be hard to escape without boots.
She harkened back to her bazillion books that would advise her how to cope with this. “How about Rule Five?” she asked herself. “When mistakes happen, step out of the batter’s box, regroup, and then step right up to the plate again. There you go, Rebecca, just step back—like all the way to China. And by the way, your boots are obviously not in this room.”
She made for the door, turning the handle very slowly and cautiously so as not to wake anyone she did not want to see ever again in her lifetime, then quickly pulled the door open—and shrieked bloody murder.
“Jesus!” Matt yelped, as Rebecca stumbled back, slapping her hand over her pounding heart. She was having a heart attack. It served her right!
Matt gripped the doorjamb and stood there, muscular arms, bare chest tapering to a trim waist, pajama pants that rode low on his hips. His feet were bare and his thick hair looked slept in, and that being said, he looked about as fine as any man Rebecca had ever seen. Better. Man, this guy was hot.
“I thought I heard voices,” he said apologetically, looking past her into the room.
“No one but us chickens,” she muttered, self-consciously pushing her hair behind her ears. In that instant, she realized that if she didn’t get out of that room right that very minute, she’d explode, and moved so quickly that he sort of jumped as she slipped past him and hurried down the hall, past two doors, one closed, one open (through which she could see a huge platform bed, the sheets all messed up, which made her heart flutter wildly), and into the big, sterile expanse of chrome and black he liked to call home. And there she stood, staring at the couch and trying to gather what was left of her obliterated wits.
She heard his sigh then, and wincing, risked a glance over her shoulder. Matt had followed her; he was leaning against the bar on one arm, his legs crossed at the ankles as he watched her. He pushed a hand through his hair and made it stand up even more. “I assume that as you are hurtling through the house like a rocket that you’re going to live after all. You want some coffee?”
Dizzy. She was so dizzy. Maybe because she wasn’t breathing. “Yes,” she said in a whoosh of breath.
Mat
t walked into a kitchen that was separated from the room by a long granite bar, on top of which sat her bag. Her boots were just beneath it, tucked neatly side by side against the bar. She quickly made her way over and looked around for her panties. Unfortunately, those puppies were still MIA.
Matt glanced up as he poured a cup of coffee and slid it across the bar to her. “So . . . are you all right?”
She nodded.
“Need anything?”
She shook her head.
“Hungry?”
“Ah, no,” she said, holding a hand up to protest even the mention of food. Matt smiled. “Don’t,” she warned him, finding her voice at last. “I’m mortified enough as it is. In case you didn’t notice, I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Really?” He poured himself a cup of joe. “You seemed to be doing a pretty good job of it last night.”
Rebecca winced, took a sip of coffee, immediately determined coffee was not a good idea and carefully pushed the cup away so she wouldn’t have to smell it. Matt watched her curiously; she put her fingers to her temples and rubbed them. “Matt . . . I’m . . . really sorry. I’m really very . . . sorry.”
“Don’t sweat it,” he said easily. “I figured out that day on the capitol grounds that you were dangerous.”
“I’m really not,” she said, and looked at the curve of his mouth, felt a sudden shiver as she remembered, with surprisingly clarity, everything that mouth had done to her last night. “God,” she muttered helplessly.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ah, well . . . as much as I, ah . . . enjoyed our . . . encounter,” she stammered, avoiding his gaze and the couch where IT had happened, “I’m really not the type to come on to a guy like that.”
“Somehow, I knew that,” he said amicably as he walked around to her side of the bar, which she was gripping with all her might. He moved closer—very close. Rebecca risked a glance at him, saw the warm light in his gray eyes, and remembered those same eyes looking down at her last night with compassion. Even now, he was smiling sympathetically. Remembering him as he had been before her just a few hours before, she couldn’t help herself—she dared let go of the bar to touch his bare chest, tracing a line down the center to the top of his pajama pants and back again. “I had too much to drink. I’m really sorry.”
Matt covered her hand with his own; the warmth of his fingers spread up her arm, to her heart. “One apology is okay. Two could give a guy a complex,” he said softly. “But don’t worry about it, Rebecca. I’m not the kind of guy to take advantage of a sot. We messed around a little, okay? I mean, look at it—a drunk, sexually repressed woman sees her opening and—”
“I am not sexually repressed!”
“No? Well, that was one helluva it’s-been-four-years kiss you laid on me last night. And I believe all that wailing was you, too—not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he added with a wolfish wink.
Her alter ego, who was, apparently, as hungover as she was, was dying to ask him if there were really no complaints, but she laughed sheepishly and muttered, “I didn’t wail that loud.”
“Are you sure?”
“No,” she said, her smile broadening.
Matt didn’t say anything, just looked at her, then murmured, “It was great.” He bent his head, tenderly kissed the corner of her mouth. “We had fun. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”
“Oh, thank God,” she said with relief. “I hoped you didn’t think that I . . . that I am wanting anything.”
Matt let go of her hand and stepped away. “Who, me? Nah. Listen, why don’t you grab a shower? You’ll feel a lot better. I’m sure I’ve got something you can wear,” he said, and indicated she should follow him.
“You’re going to make me wear girlfriend clothes?” she whined as she grabbed her boots, her bag, and followed him back to the room she had slept in.
“Sister clothes,” he corrected her as they walked into the room. “My sister lives almost to the middle of nowhere like you, and she crashes here sometimes when she is in town.” At the closet, Matt pulled out a T-shirt and pair of tennis shoes. “Here, try these on.” At the sight of her frown, he put them in her hand. “Try them.”
Rebecca donned tennis shoes a size too big, and a T-shirt that said Stubbs Bar-B-Q across the front. As she checked herself in the mirror, Matt opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of panties.
“Oh no,” Rebecca said. “I have to draw the line somewhere. Which, ah, reminds me . . .”
“You know, I’m not really sure,” he calmly answered.
“Oh. Well.” She could feel her face go full throttle red. “That’s okay—you can keep those.”
“Then—?”
“Don’t worry,” she muttered.
Something passed over Matt’s nonchalant expression. “Oh, I’m not going to worry. But I’m damn sure going to think about it.” He walked to the door again. “Shower’s in there. You’ll find all the stuff you need in the medicine cabinet or the linen closet.” And he flashed a smile and walked out so collected that Rebecca could imagine he had done this very thing a thousand times before. Nevertheless, she fell back onto the bed for a moment and closed her eyes, wanting to remember it all just one more time.
In Los Angeles, Bonnie Lear had just emerged from the shower herself when the phone started to ring again. She padded across the carpet to look at the caller ID. Dammit! Aaron again.
She stood there, debating. If she answered it, she’d be drawn back into his bullshit, and she was so sick of his bullshit. But if she ignored it, he’d just keep calling because the man had the tenacity of a deranged goat. Bonnie irritably snatched the phone up. “Yes, Aaron?” she snapped. “What do you want?”
“Christ! Have you moved? Been out of the country? Lose your phone?”
“Aaron!” she said sharply. “Are you stalking me?”
“Of course not!” he said angrily, then sighed. “Ah, Bonnie, what you must think of me. I’m sorry.”
No, he wasn’t. The word sorry came off his tongue like so many watermelon seeds—he constantly spit it out without even thinking “What do you want?” she demanded.
He sighed again. But it wasn’t a tedious sigh, it was a sad sigh, a sigh totally unlike anything she had ever heard from Aaron in the more than thirty years they had been married, separated, or whatever they were. “What I want . . . what I want is not easy to put into words,” he said softly. “That’s always been my problem, you know. The ugly stuff comes right out, but what’s really inside me gets stuck there.”
“Don’t start,” Bonnie groaned. “You’re always saying shit like that and you don’t mean it. You grovel for a while, and I come back, then you forget all your promises and I leave. I’m sick of it. I am sick of your promises and I am sick of leaving. I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Please don’t say that!” he exclaimed. “I called to tell you that I want you back, Bon-bon. I’ll do anything if you’ll just come back.”
Bonnie didn’t say anything at first, just sank onto the edge of the bed, staring blindly at the brightly patterned wall.
“Let me say first that I am sorry,” he said quickly, filling the silence. “I mean it this time, Bon-bon. I am sorry for everything. For all the years, all the heartaches, just like you said. And then, when I found out I was sick, you came when you didn’t have to, and I know how hard you tried, and what did I do? I just pushed you away again, I know I did. The girls, too. But I’ve thought long and hard about it, Bonnie, and I see the mistakes I made. I don’t know why I didn’t before, but I do now. Please give me one last chance. Please come back one last time! I swear you won’t regret it, I swear on my life you won’t.”
Bonnie sucked in her breath, closed her eyes and squeezed them shut. What was this, the hundredth, maybe thousandth time they had had this conversation? How did he do it time and time again? How did he keep drawing her back in with his promises? But more importantly, how was it possible that after all they had been through, she could st
ill love him so?
“Come on, Bon-bon . . . what do you say?” he asked.
Bonnie opened her eyes. “I say no, Aaron.” And she hung up before he could draw her in again.
Chapter Fourteen
When your personal boundaries are stretched to new dimensions, you cannot return to the old dimensions. You will transform to fill your new boundaries . . .
TRANSFORMATION STRATEGIES SEMINAR, TRACK 2
Rebecca emerged a half hour later still a little pale but nonetheless remarkably improved, so Matt decided to call off the funeral after all. Nonetheless, now that he had held her, seen her up close and personal so to speak, he had decided she was too thin. And without the knee-high boots, her very shapely, long legs looked more like bird legs stuck into enormous sneakers. The Stubbs Bar-B-Q T-shirt, which she had tucked into her skirt, swallowed her whole. Probably the result of some stupid beauty queen diet. For the life of him, Matt couldn’t figure out why women thought stalag-thin was attractive. Flesh was attractive. Soft, sweet-scented, succulent flesh like her flesh . . . flesh that was now forever seared into his memory, thankyouverymuch.
He’d grabbed a shower, too, and had whipped up some steak sandwiches. Rebecca blanched when he said so, but after her little wine binge last night, Matt wasn’t about to let her walk out the door without eating something, and made her sit at the bar and try it.
Rebecca sat. She even ate a little. But she was not the same, dangerously appealing you-owe-me-a-favor Rebecca that she had been under the considerable influence of alcohol. That sexually repressed Rebecca had knocked his socks off, and truthfully, he couldn’t get that unexpected kiss or its wake out of his head—the big head or the small head. In fact, the small one had awakened bright and early, remembering last night with some enthusiasm. What was a guy to do? From the moment she had said four years, every male fiber in him had kicked into testosterone overdrive.