Love's Own Reward

by Dana Ransom

  Almost.

  She crossed the space between them, spanning his rigid shoulders with her arms, pressing her face into the soft leather of his coat. “Thank you, Jess. I will never, ever forget how much you’ve done for me. It was a wonderful day. Like a dream come true.” She should have stepped back then, but she couldn’t. Her fingers clutched the back of his jacket. Need was a flood inside her. Finally she felt him take a breath, and then his arms came up to encircle her in a cautious embrace, as if she were something he feared he could crush too easily.

  “Don’t go.”

  That slipped out before she could catch it. She felt a tremor run through his arms. Floundering for a way to back down from the obvious interpretation of those quiet words, she rambled, “I hear you make a great lasagna.”

  “You hear? Where did you hear that?”

  “It was written on the ladies’ rest room wall on campus.”

  He chuckled and the rumbling vibration shook the very fibers of her soul. “I’m flattered. And it’s true.” He leaned back to see her more clearly. “Are you saying you have the ingredients for lasagna in that bacterial no-man’s-land of a refrigerator?”

  She smiled smugly in the face of his doubt. “So happens I do. At least I think so. I have the noodles and the cheeses, and tomatoes and herbs for the sauce and—”

  “Stop it! Stop it! You’re killing me. This I have to see.”

  Spurred by basic appetite, he accompanied her to the galley kitchen and made a hasty inventory of what she’d bought—just in case. He was instantly at ease, in his element rummaging about for the proper-sized pots.

  “Oh, yeah. This will do.” He examined the wine and his brows shot up. “Nice.”

  Charley leaned on the counter, thoroughly enjoying the sight of him taking charge of her cooking space. “Can I do something to help?” she asked timidly, expecting him to say, “Yeah, stay out of the kitchen.”

  But he didn’t. He cast a swift, too casual look at her and remarked with a smooth nonchalance, “You could put on that black dress.”

  She lit up inside like a pinball machine at full tilt. “Okay,” was all she could manage in a breathless little voice. He smiled thinly and began to chop the fresh herbs with a vengeance.

  When she emerged from the bedroom, the smell of savory sauce permeated the air. Jess paused with the tasting spoon halfway to his lips to stare at her. Blushing, she turned to present him with the row of gaping buttons.

  “Could you do me up?”

  She heard the clatter of the spoon and a muttered curse, then a husky, “I sure can.”

  By the time he reached the top button, she was nearly in a state of sensory shock. Her knees rattled together, and her mind was so dazed with anticipation she could barely remember how to function. His fingers stretched along the slender column of her neck from collarbone to earlobe, stroking softly as if to quell the frantic pulse thundering beneath them. Her head lolled back languidly, and she felt the stir of his breath at her temple. The waiting was sheer agony.

  Then the kitchen timer began buzzing.

  Jess ignored it for as long as he could, and then he stepped away from her, muttering something that sounded like a fervent wish that he’d shoved dinner in the microwave.

  The food was marvelous, the wine superb, and the company strained to the nervous limit. For the fourth time Charley complimented Jess on the meal and he thanked her, using the same words each time as if he didn’t remember uttering them moments before. Their table talk was not in cumbersome words but in a delicate conversation of glances and flirtatious half smiles. When their anticipations had simmered and steeped to a restless boil and the pressure of want had built to an intolerable level, neither of them could pretend to enjoy another mouthful. They both stood at the same time and reached for the same dish to clear the table. Fingers brushed and gazes collided in a recognition of need. For a moment neither one of them breathed. Then bodies leaned one toward the other, eyes slowly closing and lips touching—once briefly; twice softly; three times slowly. Charley made a low, contented sound. This was the perfect end to the day, this sweet mingling of breath in a surrender to the inevitable. The money, the shopping, the spending had all been fun, a frivolous adventure for the spirit. But this . . . this was a reality for the heart and soul. One she’d longed for since that first unplanned kiss. The one dream her riches couldn’t buy. Then abruptly he broke away and grabbed a handful of her plates. Silverware rattled noisily.

  “I’ll just clean up here and get going. I’m sure you’re tired and you want to—”

  “No.” She was panting, hanging on to the edge of the table for balance.

  “What?”

  “You can’t leave, Jess.”

  He stared at her, plates clattering dangerously in his hands.

  “Not until you undo my dress.”

  Her logic was simple. But there was nothing simple about the invitation in her dark, liquid gaze.

  The plates were dropped to the countertop and forgotten. And it took the span of a heartbeat for them to come together in a galvanizing kiss. With one long stride he was close enough to catch her face between his hands, to take her lips with a frantic roughness. Even after the bountiful meal, Jess’s mouth was hungry, ravaging, as if he’d been starving for the taste of her. Hers parted for the thrust of his tongue as he feasted on the moistness inside her mouth. He reached for the buttons, moving down them, popping them free with the deft movement of thumb and forefinger. His other hand skimmed along her ribs, over her hip where his fingers began to gather the fabric, moving it up higher and higher. Until he could feel the smooth stocking covering her thigh. Even higher until he came to a band of elastic and nudged beneath it. And came in contact with an unmistakable sleekness.

  Silk.

  And Jess McMasters caved in completely.

  Twelve

  JESS, BACK DOWN. Walk away. Don’t do this. Don’t do this. You’re going to hurt her. Don’t hurt her.

  Jess retrieved both hands, using them to mold her tightly to him. He broke from the kiss, and when she tried to recapture it, he clasped the back of her head, forcing it into his shoulder. Securing her there, firmly, gently, while his mind raced out of control. His teeth bit together, jaw aching from the strain of it. Tension gripped his muscles, making them tighten to the point of trembling. Want washed over him, pooling hot and heavy in his groin. He couldn’t hold out much longer.

  “Stop me, Charley.” It was almost a plea.

  Her head moved within the cove of his shoulder. Her voice was muffled. “I don’t want to stop you, Jess.”

  Oh, God. Do something. Think of something. You’re a smart guy. A resourceful guy. Get out of this. Now!

  “We have to. I—I don’t have anything with me. Guess I’m not a very good Boy Scout. This caught me unprepared.” He laughed nervously and tried to push her away. But this time she hung on, refusing to give, refusing his delay tactics.

  “I am,” she whispered huskily. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Worry? God, he was coming unglued. He took a stumbling step backward, colliding with a bank of kitchen cabinets, leaning against them while his legs shook fiercely. Then he felt her hand nudge beneath the bottom of his sweater, lightly rubbing the body-warmed cotton of his T-shirt, purposefully tugged it up and out of the band of his jeans.

  Goddammit, Jess, don’t let this happen! Stop it now. Push her away. Think, man. Think of Charley.

  It was impossible not to when the soft pads of her fingers reached bare skin. His flesh jerked taut across his ribs and quivered beneath that skimming caress. Her hand rose higher, her fingers threading through the mat of hair on his abdomen, following it up to where it spread in a V over his chest, until her thumb stroked over one of his nipples, rousing it into a hard nub of attention. Jess’s head smacked back against the cupboards, and hi
s eyes squeezed shut. His big, unsteady hands clutched at her bottom through the fabric of the black dress, dragging her hips across his in a restless seduction of the senses. His breath labored, coming in short, jerky gasps that never quite brought an adequate supply of air down into his burning chest.

  There was a second of respite when her hand drew out from under his shirt. He should have taken the opportunity to run. But he couldn’t move for the life of him. Then he felt the tormenting trace of her fingers against denim where it was strained to the limit. His whole system short-circuited.

  “Don’t . . .” Was that him? His throat closed up around the sound, strangling back the protest as he heard the rasp of a zipper and experienced the relieving give of encasing material. A short-lived relief.

  “God . . .”

  Her mouth pressed hot and wet just below his furred navel. He raised his arms over his head in an unconscious pose of surrender. The backs of his hands fluttered and knuckles thrummed against the wood of the cabinet as sensations of surprise and intensity ripped through him. He pushed down with his heels, digging them into the floor tiles, struggling to lock his knees. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stand it . . .

  With fingers clenching in her tousled hair, Jess dragged her up to meet the urgency of his mouth. Hers opened, wide and wild for him. At the same time he wrestled the hem of her dress up to her waist and skimmed down the barriers of nylon and silk. An impatient sweep of his arm sent dishes crashing into the sink. With fingers hooking behind the curve of her thighs, he lifted her, turned and set her down quickly on the kitchen counter. He heard the sound of her soft, panting cries through the roar of blood in his head. He felt the backs of her knees convulse over the tops of his shoulders and her heels beat frantically against his back as he used his mouth to drive her to an explosive release.

  “Jess . . . oh God. Jess . . .”

  And then it was very quiet, the calm after the storm, with only the ragged saw of their breathing. Jess was sitting on the kitchen floor, dazed beyond thought, slumped back against the lower cabinets with Charley’s bare feet dangling over either shoulder. His heart was racing like a stock car engine. He ran his tongue over his lower lip and tried to speak.

  “Whew! What was that? What happened?”

  “Earthquake, I think,” came her hoarse voice from above him.

  He managed a smile and a raw, croaking laugh. He caught one slender ankle and turned his face against her smooth calf. His lips traced the soft curve and she began trembling again. “Oh, baby . . . what are we going to do?”

  Her other foot twisted. Her big toe rubbed along the angle of his jaw and tickled his ear. “You’re going to do my dishes, and I’m going to work on taking a shower.”

  “Okay.”

  Her toes grazed his neck. “You’re easy, McMasters.”

  “I know.”

  She came down off the counter, straddling his outflung legs. He glanced up drowsily and got an eyeful of lush, rounded bottom. He reached up and caught the edge of her hem, coaxing the wrinkled fabric down with a gentle tug.

  “I love this dress,” he muttered.

  “I love you,” she replied.

  It took Jess a moment to grasp that, but by then she’d already gone. He moaned wretchedly and let his head roll against the front of the cupboard. He tried to get up, but nothing wanted to work right. His every sinew had gone as limp as the cold lasagna noodles. Finally, cursing himself under his breath, he rolled to hands and knees and hauled himself up by clinging to the sink. It took a full minute for the shaking to stop, and by then his mind was beginning to function. Sort of. He looked vaguely into the sink. Hell, most of the dishes were broken anyway. He began distractedly to pick out the pieces and throw them into the garbage bag under the basin. Don’t think. Don’t feel. He moved in a staggering reel to the table and gathered up the remaining dishes, scraping what he could and putting the rest to soak in hot, sudsy water. Oh God. His stomach muscles tightened around a familiar ache, and his heart pounded with one that was frighteningly new. Help me, God. Help me find the strength from someplace. I don’t want to hurt her. Give me some Hail Marys, some Our Fathers, and get me the hell out of here before it goes any further. He rested his forehead upon soapy forearms and swayed like a drunk.

  With the sink drained and wiped out and the pots and dishes drying, Jess walked with a numb calm into the living room. He paused, listening to the spray start up in the bathroom. He licked his lips and forced a dry, dragging swallow that hurt all the way down to the burning pit of his belly. And he reached for his jacket.

  OH MY . . . OH MY . . . oh my . . .

  Charley stared at her reflection in the mirror, seeing a wide-eyed, bruise-lipped stranger with subtly made-up features and a tangle of expensively coiffed hair. What had happened? The shivering started up again, nerveless, tingling, exhilarating. She’d never wanted anything in her life the way she wanted Jess. She closed her eyes, unable to face her image with the memory. Of what they’d done . . . of what she’d done to him. And he, to her. She’d never . . . never wanted to . . . But Jess . . . She’d just gone crazy. Wanting to touch, to taste, to give and take in ways that left modesty, even sanity, behind. Knowing there was more to discover had her breathless.

  Stop daydreaming about the man, she chided herself, and get down to business. The awkward business of showering with her hands still swaddled and sore. She wanted to be all clean and soft and sweet smelling for Jess. For when they would come together as man and woman for the first time. Hurriedly she scrubbed her face free of the cosmetics, wondering as she did if she could ever master the same clever tricks of highlighting, contouring and, shadowing. She should have gotten a paint-by-number chart to follow. Then she brushed her teeth, smiling as she remembered Jess’s offer to do that for her. As if he didn’t already do enough. For her. To her.

  But she was digressing again. Thinking of Jess was much more pleasant than pondering the shower predicament. She shimmied out of what she now considered her favorite dress and shook out the lesser wrinkles before hanging it on the door. In just her slip and silky bra—her pantyhose and underpants were someplace in the kitchen—she stretched out to turn on the water, testing it with her fingertips to get the right temperature before switching to overhead spray. She was working the clasp of her bra when there came a soft tap on the door.

  “Charley? Can I come in?”

  In a second of panic she looked about and started to grab for a towel. Oh, for heaven’s sakes, she laughed at herself. Hadn’t they gone beyond the stage of shyness with each other?

  “Sure.”

  He peeked around the edge of the door, his eyes darting up and down. He looked nervous and that made her relax completely.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He edged in and leaned against the sink. He’d taken off his sweater and his shoes and looked heart-stoppingly wonderful in his white T-shirt and jeans. And bare feet. “How you doing?”

  Her hands shook with the want to touch him, but they were still fencing cautiously with their emotions, so she held back. Physically, at least. “I’m fine. Better than fine. I never realized I could enjoy myself so much in the kitchen.”

  He grinned fleetingly at that. “Yeah, well, I know my way around a countertop.” His toes brushed over hers. “And you’re not so bad, yourself.”

  “I was inspired.”

  “Give me your hands.”

  Perplexed, she stuck them out and frowned slightly when he slipped sandwich bags over them, securing them at the wrist with rubber bands.

  “Watertight,” he explained and she looked down at them, marveling.

  “You’re a helpful guy to have around, McMasters.”

  “Right now I’m a guy who needs a shower bad. I can wait—or I can scrub your back.”

  Charley hesitated all of half a second before handing him a was
hcloth. “I’m all for conserving natural resources.”

  “I was hoping you would be,” he admitted gruffly. He reached for her, his big, powerful hands sliding over silk-clad breasts, then skimming around to release the hook in back. Without pause, without dropping his gaze from her eyes, he let his hands stroke down the curve of her spine, catching his thumbs in the band of her half-slip to ease it down over her hips. When he let it go, it pooled around her feet.

  “Get wet,” he told her huskily. Get ready, his gaze concluded hotly. Then he nudged her toward the shower.

  Charley was trembling beneath the warm spray. She heard the jingle of the curtain and tensed in expectation. She couldn’t make herself turn around. After a second she felt the bar of soap move up and down her back in slow, unhurried strokes. The breath she’d been holding expelled noisily when he moved closer, letting the friction of skin on skin work up the lather. He rubbed against her, his chest to her shoulders, his thighs to her buttocks, the hard swell of his groin to the small of her back. Then he chafed the soap vigorously between his palms and began on the front. He started with her arms, his palms gliding up and down them before easing over to her taut-tipped breasts. His hands kneaded slowly, sensually, until she was arching against him. Then they slipped downward, gliding on wet skin, circling over her flat belly before converging in a sleek, plunging V between her thighs. Her body bucked and quivered in the circle of his arms.

  “Easy, baby. It’s just a shower.”

  She revolved abruptly, her arms sliding over his shoulders to curl about his neck, pulling him down so she could kiss him deeply, with desire-drugging thrusts of her tongue. His hands kept moving, building the lather, building the intensity of passion to its extreme. Charley broke away from his eager mouth, gasping frantically against his wet neck.

  “Jess.” She twisted in his embrace as he tasted her earlobe, her throat, the slope of her shoulder. “Jess, I want us to make love.”

  “Rinse first.” He reached for the shower head and angled it up and down. Then, reluctantly, he stepped away from her and turned them both to face the spray.