by Lanyon, Josh
“I don’t want it.”
He reached around me, took my hand and pulled it forward. Not roughly, but not playing. He pressed the key into my palm.
“The truth is, I never had this.” He folded my fingers around the bite of cool metal. “You were never open to me. Not really.”
He turned, opened the door and I reached past him, slamming it shut.
“So…saving my life…that wasn’t anything personal. That’s just your job, right?”
I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes, but his voice was level. “Right. It’s my job. And wrong. Of course it’s personal. Of course I still have feelings for you. But the bottom line is, it didn’t work between us.” He shrugged.
The shrug hurt more than the words—and the words hurt plenty. Mouth dry, I said, “I want to be open to you. If you’ll show me how.”
He said very gently, “You’re still acting, Sean.”
It was like taking a hard and unexpected fall. The air seemed to slam out of my lungs. “I’m not.”
“Sean…” He sighed.
I said quickly, “You’re going to say it won’t change anything. And I guess that’s true, but I want to make love to you. One last time. And for the first time.”
He said, still trying to be kind, “It wasn’t about sex, Sean. It was about intimacy.”
“And intimacy is about trust. I do get that, Dan.” I controlled my voice. “I still want my first time to be with you.”
His eyes flickered.
We were close enough that I could feel his heat, feel the warmth of his breath fanning my face. I held his gaze with mine and I could see the darkness there, the hunger.
Into his silence, I whispered, “Isn’t ex sex supposed to be the best?”
He put his hand behind my head and pulled me forward, his mouth hard on my own. It was a grinding kiss, an angry kiss, the bump of teeth and the smear of lips. I closed my eyes and opened to him, and almost at once he gentled. We breathed in balmy moist unison until at last he broke contact.
He said softly, “You’re too good an actor, Sean.”
“You’re not being fair to either of us.” I found his hand and put it on my crotch. “I’m not that good. I want you.” He felt me over, and I strained against his hand, craving his touch through the stiff material of my jeans. “Do I have to beg? I will.”
“Sick, shameless pervert,” said my father’s contemptuous voice next to my ear. I closed my ears to that memory, focused on Dan’s face. It was a handsome face, but I loved the strength and caring and intelligence more than the trick of bone structure and coloring.
I loved him.
My hands went to my fly, and then I rethought that and reached for his. And Dan bit off a sound that could have been a laugh or maybe just impatience, and undid the button at my waist. He pulled, and the buttons popped through the denim, one by one. His big hands, warm and knowledgeable, slid inside my jeans, fastened on my hips.
I pulled his Levi’s down and his boxers, and his dick sprang free, ready and willing, regardless of whatever his brain was telling him.
“You don’t have to beg,” Dan said, acknowledging what we both knew to be true.
“Bedroom?” I asked hopefully.
He nodded, and then he was pulling his shirt over his head. I stepped out of my jeans, kicked off my boxers, and preceded him into the soft gloom of the bedroom, bouncing down on the bed.
I reached for him and he lowered himself beside me.
I was braced for his resentment to play out in roughness or haste, but Dan took his time kissing and caressing every inch of my body: His tongue scraped my nipple in pleasurable chafing, a fingertip lightly scratching the back of my knee; he brushed his nose against mine in a child’s Eskimo kiss. I smiled and sighed and relaxed, kissing him back when he’d let me, stroking his lean hard flanks.
“Please…” I whispered. I didn’t finish it. Even I wasn’t sure what I was really asking. His leaving had left me empty, aching. I wanted to fill that emptiness with memories if nothing else.
At last he helped me over onto my belly. I ignored the tightening in my gut—partly anxiety but mostly desire—and spread my legs. There was no going back now, and I wouldn’t if I could have. This was as much for me as for him.
The slide of the drawer, the squirt of the lube. I shivered convulsively as he worked warm lube between my ass cheeks. His finger delicately pierced me. I moaned at the strangely familiar invasion.
He paused. “It’s not necessary, Sean. You don’t have to prove anything.”
“Want to…” I wriggled back against his hand, trying to force him to action.
“Why?” He didn’t so much as twitch his finger.
I groaned. “Dan, why are we talking?”
“Because I need to understand what’s really happening here.” I heard the pain in his voice, and it startled me. If I could still hurt him, then on some plane he still cared for me.
I swallowed hard. “I’m trying to tell you. Trying to show you. I love you. I want to share this with you. Even if it’s…too late for you.” I pushed back against finger. “Please give me this.”
He moved his finger again, and I caught my breath. His oily thumb lightly stroked across the sensitive mouth of my hole.
“Keep breathing,” he said.
I whimpered as his thumb pressed in. He massaged, pushed a little deeper, rubbed some more.
“Relax.”
I tried. I concentrated on loosening my muscles. The tip of his other thumb slid in and he used both to massage me strongly, widening my entrance. My breaths came in shallow pants as he prepared me. He was tender, but very thorough; I’d said I’d wanted it, and he was taking me at my word. It was intense and invasive, and seemed to go on forever.
My stomach muscles were quivering, and my legs felt like jelly by the time he withdrew.
“That didn’t hurt, did it?”
I shook my head. I didn’t think I could manage my voice. I rolled over onto my back, and tucked my legs up neatly.
He leaned over me, and his mouth found one of my nipples. He tongued it, wet heat turning the tip to a hard point. Distantly I felt the pressure from the blunt head of his shaft building at the entrance of my body, but more immediate was the tease of his lips as he moved to my other nipple. His teeth closed delicately on the bud, and I writhed beneath him, aching for more.
It was almost a relief when the pressure on my hole built to a distracting pain—and then, staggeringly, I felt my body’s resistance give.
Dan’s cock slipped past the tight ring of muscle. Nerves and muscles spasmed. He was inside me.
“Okay?” He seemed to have trouble squeezing even that one word out.
I gulped and nodded. And I was okay. My shivering body was already adjusting to that thickness. I wasn’t tearing apart. I was still whole. Still me. I could still breathe. I could still move…
Dan’s thighs tightened in response, and he thrust against me, just once. “Don’t move yet,” he gasped. His hands continued to stroke and smooth my belly, my ass.
Wonderingly I reached down and touched where our bodies were joined. We were like some astonishing mythological creature—not the monster my parents pictured, but something very old and powerful. I felt wrapped in the wings of an unexpectedly sweet revelation.
“How’s that?” Dan’s voice sounded strained.
“H-hey, it’s not bad,” I said.
He laughed shakily at the wonder in my voice and cautiously began to rock his hips against me. It was a relief to give up all control and just feel, just let it happen, just ride it out.
Not bad? It was actually pretty damn good.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “Just let go.”
I looked into his face. It was too dark to read his eyes, and I wanted to watch his eyes while he took me. He was pounding me harder now. I began to move too. Awkwardly. My fists clenched on the comforter. Dan’s hands slid under my ass and he lifted me up, shoving a pillow beneath m
y hips.
The changed angle sent a jolt of sheer exquisite feeling surging through me.
What the hell was that?
I found my own rhythm, straining into the push and pull cadence of our bodies. I jerked out, “Dan…”
He pegged me over and over, deep, powerful thrusts. It went on and on, lightning strikes of pleasure—and who was it said lightning didn’t strike the same place twice?
My fists relaxed back into hands, and I reached for Dan, stroking his sides, running my fingertips down his back, fondling whatever I could reach. Trying to tell him with touch that this wasn’t an act, that there was no pretense here.
He murmured encouragement. His face bumped my face, his mouth closed over mine, hot and wet and urgent.
Dazed, I realized that he was going to make me come just like this. I didn’t think that was possible.
At the same time Dan yelled my name, and I felt liquid seed pouring into me. I began to come, white hot waves shivering through my bones and muscles and nerves. It went on and on, like a supernova.
Then, from a long way away I felt Dan gathering me up against him, saying comforting things—like I would need to be reassured after that. I kissed him back dizzily. Lights out, I thought.
Fade to black—although it was more of a soft and restful gray.
“Was it everything you expected?” Dan asked when he got his breath back. His voice was a little dry, but his callused hand was warm on my bare skin, lazy and caressing.
Was it what I had expected? I felt wrung out, used up, boneless. I felt sated. Complete. And at the same time I felt naked and unprotected. But it was okay to be vulnerable with Dan’s arms around me. I felt closer to him than I ever felt to anyone in my life.
I shook my head. I didn’t begin to know how to answer him. I said, “Are you going to leave me, Dan?”
He licked his lips, like this was going to be a difficult thing to say.
I reached for him, and his arms came about me, loving and strong. “I’m sorry for not trusting you, for the stupid things I said, for everything,” I said into his shoulder.
“Shhh. Listen, Sean, I let you down. I screwed up. I should have listened to you. I did think you were letting your fears get the better of you.” He took a deep breath. “I did believe the strain was too much for you.”
It was painful to hear; clearly it was equally painful for him to say.
“I guess it was,” I admitted.
“No. You’re second-guessing yourself now, but the fact is, your instincts were correct. I let my own fear affect my judgment—and ultimately put you at risk.”
I could hear the guilt and regret in his voice. And what was the point of that? We had both made mistakes, both let each other down. Was the important stuff where we had failed each other or the parts where we had got it right? It felt to me like we had got a lot of it right a lot of the time.
I was afraid to ask, but I had to know. “Is it too late for us?”
After what felt like the longest moment of my life, he said almost inaudibly, “It’s not too late.”
I closed my eyes and pressed my face into his throat. I could barely hear him, but I felt the words against my mouth.
“It’s not that easy to turn it on and off.”
I said, “I don’t have a lot of experience.”
“Neither do I.” He must have caught my surprise because he said, “Oh, I have experience at this—” He ran a light hand down my back, leaving goose bumps of sensation. “Not with loving someone. I’ve never even used the word before.”
My throat closed up and I had to struggle against the bubble of emotion threatening to tear out of my chest. Love. He was right. That’s what this was about.
I managed to get the words out. “So this was your first time too?”
“Yeah, I guess it was.”
“Was it everything you expected?”
He turned his head on the pillow, and I saw the glimmer of his smile in the darkness.
A Vintage Affair
Chapter One
The house was one of those old antebellum mansions—though more reminiscent of Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte than Gone with the Wind. Four fluted, peeling columns and short white railings lined the once-elegant façade. Faded green shutters framed the windows. There was a large moss-covered fountain in the front courtyard and an iron gazebo that looked like an inhospitable birdcage. The house was named Ballineen. They named houses here in the South. Then again, they also married their first cousins, so that was hardly a recommendation.
Austin caught his expression in the rearview mirror of his BMW 507.
“It can’t be that bad,” he muttered and slid out of the roadster, slamming the door briskly behind him.
It needed to not be that bad. He couldn’t afford any problems with this cellar appraisal. Not with Whitney Martyn already hunting for a reason to get rid of him and replace him with Whitney’s fiancée, Master Sommelier Theresa Bloch. Losing his position as auction director for one of the oldest wine shops in North America was a thought too painful to contemplate. Austin had worked too hard to get where he was. His family thought his career was frivolous; being an unemployed master of wine would make him a bigger joke than he already was.
He turned at the rattling scrape of metal on stone. A young black man was raking dead leaves and twigs from a narrow walkway. He wore black jeans, a red leather jacket, and a purple do-rag. As he raked, he sang tunelessly along with an iPod.
Austin slung his laptop case over his shoulder and headed for the house. As he strolled past the fountain, it spat up a trickle of gray water. The whole place had an odd earthy scent—like an herb garden gone to rot. The petals of cherry blossoms littered the courtyard and steps to the front veranda like dirty pink confetti after the parade has passed. Spring in Georgia was supposed to be very pretty, but this was March, the wettest month. The skies were slate, and an eerie light seemed to bounce off the dark stone urns with their dead vines.
As Austin reached the covered front porch, the door swung open, and a young woman dressed like the last of the Southern belles in a yellow satin ball gown leaned seductively against the frame and smiled at him.
“Why, hello,” she drawled. She was probably in her early twenties, a bit younger than Austin, petite and very pretty with dark curls and dark eyes. “Y’all must be Mr. Gillespie.”
“That’s right.” Austin automatically shook the unexpectedly square, blunt-fingered hand she offered.
“I’m Carson Cashel, the daughter of the house. Did you have any trouble finding us?”
“Uh, no.” With five stepmothers and four stepsisters, Austin liked to think there wasn’t much a woman could do to surprise him, but he couldn’t help staring. Carson Cashel was wearing a hoop skirt, for crying out loud. “No, no trouble.”
Just make a hard right after the end of the civilized world.
She smirked at him. “What do you think of my dress, Mr. Gillespie?”
Blushing, Austin tore his gaze from her bodice. Not that he was scoping her out—hardly—but her creamy, pert breasts were all but popping from that nest of lace and ribbon like a pair of doves about to take flight.
“It’s very pretty.”
“It is, isn’t it? I thought you’d look different. Older. Like one of those wine snobs.”
Austin smiled lamely because what was he supposed to say to that? He was, probably by definition, a wine snob. Snobbery was part of the master of wine job description. He was paid to be a snob. An articulate, witty snob with a trained palate and a sensitive nose.
Carson burst into a peal of laughter. “I guess y’all are wondering why I’m dressed like it’s Halloween.”
“Well, I…”
“I’m modeling my costume. For the annual Madison Masquerade Ball on Saturday.” She turned away, throwing him a sassy look over her bare shoulder. “Well, come on! You’ll want to see the cellar straightaway, I guess.”
He wiped his feet on a grungy-looking mat and steppe
d over the threshold. “Thanks. I think I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Roark Cashel.”
“Oh, Daddy is…indisposed just now. He’ll see y’all later.” The bottom of Carson’s gown swept along the parquet floor as she bustled along leading the way. Austin had a glimpse of her bare feet as the hoop skirt billowed lightly from side to side.
The house had clearly seen better days. The carpet was a patched and faded blue laurel-wreath pattern; the wallpaper was coming loose in places and had discolored through time and trouble to an uneasy butterscotch hue. There was a lot of furniture, some of it good, a lot of it rubbish. The rooms smelled of rain and disinfectant and…burned bacon. It was at times like these that having a highly trained nose was a liability.
As they passed open double doors leading into a room that appeared to be some kind of back parlor, a woman’s thin voice called out, “Carson, honey, is that him?”
“Yes, ma’am!” Carson called back. She paused a few feet down the hall and whirled to face Austin. The full skirt of her gown nearly knocked over a small table. A red vase that looked a lot like Ming rocked wildly. Not that Austin was really an expert, but Rebecca, Stepmother #3, collected Ming ceramics.
“That’s Auntie Eudie,” Carson whispered. “You don’t want to talk to her right now.”
“Okay,” Austin said. It was true enough.
“Not unless you want to spend all afternoon confabulating your family tree.”
“My family tree?” Proof of Austin’s own prejudices, he thought she must be implying something social or even racial. He had inherited his mother’s wide, rather exotic hazel eyes and her honey-colored complexion—courtesy of Eurasian ancestry—but in most respects he was as WASPish as a man could get and still make his living buying, writing, and consulting on wine. He was certainly as WASPish as one would expect of any of Harrison Gillespie’s offspring.
“Genealogy. Six degrees of reparation, Cormac calls it.”
“Cormac?” He was starting to lose track. How many people lived in this mausoleum?