His, Unexpectedly

by Susan Fox

  His heart hammered so hard in his chest he could barely catch his breath, and his head actually ached from pressure. “My God,” he got out between gasps.

  She had sagged forward as if she didn’t have the strength to hold herself upright. He couldn’t see her face. “Jenna, are you okay?” He rested his hands on her waist, feeling the gentle swell of her hips.

  Slowly, she straightened, as if the strength was returning to her body. Upright again, with him still lodged inside her, she flicked damp hair behind her shoulders. “Okay?” A smile spread in a gleam of flashing eyes and white teeth. “Oh yeah, I’m great.”

  “I mean, not just, uh, climaxing, but okay about this? About us doing this?” Normally, he treated the decision to have sex as a rational one, one he and his partner discussed ahead of time, comparing expectations.

  “Having sex? Duh, yeah. Haven’t I been chasing after you all day?” She lifted herself off him and shivered.

  He was chilled too, the heat of Jenna’s body gone, the fiery impact of climax fading. At least, now that he’d almost caught his breath, the headache had gone. “Well, uh, maybe. But still, it’s an intimate act and I—”

  “It’s just sex, Mark,” she said, sounding slightly annoyed. She pulled on a tiny thong, and her shorts. “It’s about two people having fun. Don’t go all heavy on me.”

  Okay, that was a pretty clear statement of how she saw things. No big surprise that unconventional Jenna would toss out all the messy complications society had attached to the act of sex and strip it down to its essence.

  As she slipped the tank top over her head, he began to put on his own clothes.

  Not that he wanted commitment, emotion, all of that relationship stuff, with Jenna. Their whole approach to life was too different, their lives were on opposite courses, and this short meet-in-the-middle time was only about enjoyment.

  He’d had casual sex before, though he’d known the women in question for weeks or months beforehand. Tonight wasn’t all that different. Maybe it just reminded him too much of the free love philosophy at Freedom Valley. Perhaps that was why he felt an achy burn in his chest.

  Dressed, he and Jenna climbed out of the driftwood shelter, put their sandals on, and walked back in the direction they’d come from. A crescent moon and a few stars gave enough light to find their way, but they might have trouble when they got into the park where the trails were overhung by trees. It had been foolish staying on the beach after sunset.

  But for Jenna, he wouldn’t have done it. She turned him into a man he barely recognized. He threaded his fingers through hers. “When we were talking about jobs,” he said tentatively, not wanting to insult her but trying to understand, “you said there are so many interesting things and you like variety. Is that how it is with men, too?”

  “Sure,” she said promptly. “With people in general. You like someone, so you hang out with them for a while. You’re turned on by someone, you have sex with him. Easy, fun, no complications.”

  Yeah, that was like Alicia and the others at the commune. To Jenna, he was just one of a string of guys she’d slept with. If she’d asked some other man for a ride, she’d have had sex with him tonight.

  That wasn’t exactly flattering. The pain throbbed in his chest again. A residual ache from the vigorous sex? Or a twinge of primal male jealousy?

  Ridiculous. Jenna wasn’t his mate. As bewitching and fun as she was, he wanted a woman who was more serious about life, more committed to a worthwhile cause. She was good-hearted, but a dilettante. And then there was the true bottom line. Unevolved though it might be, when he found his mate for life, he’d want her to be faithful.

  He’d want her to want to be faithful. To love him so deeply she had no desire to ever make love with another man. He wanted a woman he’d love the same way.

  What were the chances of finding that? He wasn’t even sure what love was. He and his grandparents rarely spoke the word and when they did it meant security, blood ties, affection, but not powerful emotion.

  Alicia had tossed the word here and there with abandon, rather the way Jenna did. Jenna had even said it to him when she’d finally twisted his arm into giving her a ride. I love you, you’re the best. A few minutes earlier, she’d said virtually the same thing to the mechanic.

  An odd thought hit him. Maybe she had no better idea than he of the deeper emotion that could give the word so much power. The kind of emotion he knew Adrienne felt for her wife and their unborn child.

  “You think sex is about fun and monogamy’s archaic,” he said. “So, how do you feel about love?”

  Chapter 5

  Love? Involuntarily, my hand twitched in Mark’s. Not wanting him to know he’d strummed an old hurt, I joked, “Why’re you asking? You falling in love with me, Science Guy?”

  “I barely know you.” His tone wasn’t insulting; it was that matter-of-fact way he had of stating what he saw as truth. “I’m … curious.”

  Love was dangerous. More dangerous than the night-dark ocean that crashed on the beach behind us.

  “Love’s great,” I said flippantly. “Look at today, all the things to love. Strawberry pie, a great mechanic, just the right man turning up to give me a ride, Glass Beach, stone-skipping and skinny-dipping and—”

  “Not that kind of love,” he broke in. “The serious kind.”

  “Well now, there’s your answer. I don’t do serious.” Before he could push, I gave a dramatic—and genuine—shiver. “I’m freezing.”

  After the great sex, a residual chill from the cold ocean had sunk into my bones. Shorts and a tank top weren’t doing much to warm me.

  “It’s a steep trail.” Mark pointed ahead. We’d almost reached the end of the beach, and the path up the hill loomed ahead. “The climb will heat us up, then we’ll hurry back to the camper and grab stuff so we can take hot showers.”

  “Showers in the plural?” I teased. “Shouldn’t we be green and share one?” Now that would be fun. Streaming water—hot water—a naked Mark, soapy bubbles … Arousal stirred again. Having sex with him had been pretty amazing.

  His fingers tightened around mine and I wondered if he was imagining the same thing. Dryly, he said, “Men’s and women’s—separate facilities?”

  “You are such a coward.”

  “With kids using them, too?”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Too bad.”

  We paced steadily upward, toward the top of the hill, both silent now.

  Yes, I wanted him again, and yet I felt an odd uncertainty. What was it about Mark? Maybe just the pheromone thing, that odd chemistry when we kissed. When we’d had sex in that driftwood shelter, I’d avoided kissing him, afraid that … I shook my head. Afraid of what? That we’d combust and set fire to the shelter?

  I was being silly. He might be the most potent kisser I’d ever met, but he was just another guy. That was all any of them would ever be.

  All the same, maybe it was safer not to kiss him again. You didn’t have to kiss to have great sex.

  We set out on a path, walking as quickly as we could, but the park was so dark we could barely make out the trail. Above our heads, branches rustled in the breeze. It was cool enough to raise goosebumps, and some people might have found it spooky, but I always felt at home outside. Trusting Mark’s map-reading memory, I let him choose the route until we ended up back at our campsite.

  Quickly, we gathered towels, soap, shampoo, and fresh clothes, and hurried to the service area where there were restrooms and showers. The campground seemed to be full, some sites overflowing with vehicles and tents. As we passed by, people moved about or sat at picnic tables, their voices relaxed and happy. Smoke rose from campfires and the scent of wood smoke and meat cooking drifted to us, making me glad we’d had a snack earlier—and that salmon didn’t take long to cook. Here and there, music played, but not loud enough to annoy neighbors.

  When we reached the shower building, Mark said, “They’re pay, by the way. I read it in the brochure.” />
  “Now you tell me.” I hadn’t brought any money. I held out my hand. “Buy me a shower?”

  When he held out some coins, I took them gratefully. “Meet you back at the campsite. I might be in here for a while.”

  “Sure you can find your way back?”

  I rolled my eyes and joked, “If I don’t, I’ll just have to crash with someone else.”

  He studied me as if he wasn’t sure whether to take me seriously. “All your gear’s in the Westfalia.”

  I winked. “Not to mention that double bed. And the bottle of wine.” I opened the door to the ladies’ shower. “See you soon.”

  “Want a coffee? I’m going to make some when I get back.”

  “No, thanks.” I drank coffee occasionally, but was more of a tea person.

  Inside, I stripped off hurriedly and stepped into a shower stall. Too bad we couldn’t shower together, but all the same it was sheer bliss standing under hot running water and lathering the salt out of my hair and off my skin. Once I warmed up, I felt terrific.

  What could be more invigorating than a chilly skinny dip followed by steamy hot sex? My instincts had definitely been on target when they sent me to Mark.

  I toweled off vigorously until my skin tingled. Tonight, we’d have a great meal, another lovely round of sex, and tomorrow we’d be on the road again. Easy and fun. I paused. He must realize that, too, mustn’t he? I hated it when guys suddenly went serious on me, and Mark had asked about love …

  No, that was just his scientific curiosity. When he envisioned his perfect life partner, she sure wouldn’t look like me. She’d be all serious and dedicated, not half as much fun and probably nowhere near as sexy.

  Ooh, man, that was a little bitchy. I liked Mark. He deserved everything his heart desired. A woman who was dedicated and fun and sexy. Of course, that was what I wanted for him.

  My body was cooling off again, so I quickly slipped into jeans and a long-sleeved tee and gathered my stuff. I’d forgotten to bring a comb and my hair was too tangled to finger comb.

  Back at the campsite, Mark, in jeans and a denim shirt worn loose rather than tucked in, had his back to me. He was laying kindling and logs in the fire pit, absorbed in his task, and didn’t notice me. A camping lantern lit the picnic table and a mug sat there, too.

  Inside the camper, I found his damp towel spread over the back of one of the front seats, so did the same with my own. A French coffee press, half-filled with freshly-made coffee, sat on the counter. The cupboard above was almost empty of food items but did contain a plastic freezer bag of ground coffee. There were no tea bags.

  I rubbed conditioner through my hair, then took my wide-toothed comb and went outside again. Mark stood by the fire, sipping coffee and watching as tendrils of flame licked the kindling, making it spark and crackle. He smiled at me. “I didn’t hear you come back. Enjoy your shower?”

  “Mmm, it felt great.” I perched on the end of the picnic table closest to the fire and gestured to his handiwork. “That’s nice. I love campfires.”

  “I thought you might.”

  I began to work the comb through hair stressed by wind, sun, and salt water. He stared at me so intently, I said, “What?”

  “It’s a pretty picture. You combing your hair in the light of the fire and the lantern.”

  “Thanks.” One thing I’d come to realize with this guy: he wasn’t into compliments; he just said it as he saw it. I liked that.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Starving. I could eat a … mmm, how about a salmon?”

  “I’ll get out the barbecue.”

  He went into the camper and a few seconds later I heard, “Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?” I called.

  He stuck his head out, looking pissed. “I haven’t used the barbecue in a while and was sure I had a full fuel container. Turns out it’s an empty. Guess I saved it to recycle it and … Well, doesn’t matter how it happened. I’ll drive to the closest store and buy more.”

  Hah. So Mr. Organized wasn’t perfect. The poor guy sounded so annoyed at himself that I said, “Or we could eat sashimi.”

  “No, we don’t know how fresh the fish is, and salmon’s particularly prone to parasites.”

  “Spoil sport.” Still, no doubt he was right. “D’you have any tin foil?”

  “Uh … let me look.”

  He disappeared then reappeared. “I do. Why?”

  “Let me play in your kitchen.” I tore myself away from the fire. In the doorway of the Westfalia, I said, “You be man, tend fire. Woman cook.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I definitely see you as the gender stereotype type of person.”

  When he jumped out of the camper and went past me, I squeezed his butt, feeling hard muscle under well-worn denim. Oh no, he wasn’t the typical desk or lab scientist, not for one moment.

  Inside, I ripped off a fair-sized sheet of foil and plunked the salmon in the middle, skin side down. After opening a couple of cupboard doors, I found salt and pepper and sprinkled them on, then sliced the lemon and lay the slices on top.

  I found the chardonnay in the tiny fridge and a corkscrew in a drawer. This mini kitchen was so much fun. After opening the wine, I splashed maybe an ounce over the salmon, then pulled the edges of foil together and folded them together to make a seal.

  I rinsed my hands, then took the neat foil bundle out to Mark. “Can you shove the fire away from one corner of the fire pit? Leave the coals and ash.”

  When he did, I slipped the packet into the cleared spot. “Salmon en papillote. Or hidden salmon, take your pick.”

  “Huh?”

  “The French wrap food in parchment paper with herbs, spices, and a little liquid. En papillote. And in Greece, guerrilla fighters did the same. Meat, potatoes, veggies, all wrapped up in parchment with enough liquid to cook everything. They didn’t want the smell of dinner cooking to lead their enemies to them.”

  “Hence hidden. Fascinating. How do you know all this? No, let me guess. You dated a chef?”

  I chuckled. “You’re getting to know me. No, it was two different guys. The French one was a chef. The Greek was a sailor whose grandmother told him the story.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask. How many men have you dated?”

  The judgmental tone was back in his voice. I stuck out my chin and tilted my head to look up at him. “Dated? Meaning, had sex with, or hung out with for a while, or what?”

  He shifted feet, looking ill at ease. “Uh, had sex with.”

  “I don’t notch my belt. Most places I go, there’s a fun guy or two to hook up with.”

  “Two? Not, uh, at the same time?” He sounded almost appalled.

  I raised my eyebrows. “We already established that monogamy’s not my thing.”

  “Sorry. I’m being judgmental. It’s sort of a habit.”

  “A bad one. Who elected you God?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. You just hit a sore point. Reminded me of Alicia, the commune. Believe me, it’s no fun having a mother who’d rather sleep with a bunch of guys than spend time with her kid.” He shook his head. “You’re not her. Sorry. But I am curious. You’re so different than me.”

  I softened. A man who could admit a mistake. “Curiosity’s okay. I’ll get the wine and we can talk while dinner cooks.”

  A few minutes later, we were settled across from each other at the picnic table, sitting at the end closest to the fire, wine glasses in front of us. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled carelessly up his forearms and enough buttons were undone at the neck to show a V of strong chest. His skin looked dark in contrast to the pale blue denim.

  He lifted his wine glass. His hands were big, long-fingered, yet he wasn’t clumsy. A scientist needed to have a deft touch. After dinner, I hoped to experience more of that touch myself.

  “This trip’s turned out to be more interesting than I expected,” he said in a sort of toast.

  I always expected things—especially journeys—to be interestin
g. And they always were. This afternoon was one I’d save in my memory bank. Clinking my glass to his, I said, “You need to raise your expectations.”

  I sipped the chardonnay, enjoying the green apple and kiwi notes, tarter than the sweet Fuji apple I’d eaten earlier.

  “Guess I don’t like being disappointed.” A pause, then he said softly, as if speaking to himself, “That happened a lot when I was a little kid.”

  Equally quietly, I said, “But not with your grandparents, I bet.”

  “N-no.”

  “Mark? That wasn’t a resounding no. I’d have thought your Grandma and Grandpa would have been totally reliable.”

  “Oh, they were. And once I figured out what to expect, they never once let me down.”

  “So why the hesitation when you answered me?”

  He took a long swallow of wine. “In the beginning I hoped for something … Well, people can only give what they’re capable of giving, right?”

  If he thought I was going to let it go at that, he sure didn’t know me. “What weren’t they capable of giving?”

  He sighed, then after a moment said, “Warmth. Hugs. At Freedom Valley there was lots of hugging, but it was indiscriminate. When I went to Grandma and Grandpa, I got all their attention, but not—” He broke off, shrugged awkwardly. “I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

  “You didn’t feel loved?”

  He took a long breath. “I know they loved me but they aren’t emotional, demonstrative people. Even with each other, they connect intellectually. I’ve rarely even seen them kiss each other.”

  I nodded. “I get what you’re saying. My parents are a bit more demonstrative with us and each other. They’re not really cuddly people, though.”

  “But you know they love you.”

  “Yeah, though with me it’s more the I love you, but kind of love.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Like, Jenna, we love you, but we really wish you’d get a real job. You know. We love you, but you don’t measure up to our standards.”