Gwynneth Ever After

by Linda Poitevin

  Her fingernails bit into her palms.

  Now what?

  She watched a lazy wisp of smoke drift from the chimney and across the paling blue of the late afternoon sky. The distinct chatter of an irate red squirrel sounded somewhere in the distance, the only sound other than the thud of her own heart in her ears. She drew a shaky breath. Her gaze roved over the cottage, a small, cedar-sided box tucked in beneath soaring pines and naked maples. A lake shimmered behind it. An immense stack of firewood sat on the deck against the building, running most of the length and height of the wall, stopping short of the single window and screen door.

  Cozy and rustic, it was the perfect place for a weekend away. A weekend with –

  The screen door squeaked open. Gareth stood in the doorway, wearing faded jeans and a thick, black turtleneck that deepened his eyes to unreadable shadows. Propping the door open with his foot, he folded his arms across his chest and rested his shoulder against the frame, waiting.

  For her.

  Gwyn tucked her trembling hands behind her. She leaned against the sun-warmed fender.

  “So.” Gareth’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Are you planning to stand there all day?”

  His words summoned a flash of déjà-vu. She remembered their last parting, when she’d sat on the stairs, too tangled up inside to face him. Just as she’d done then, she replied, “Maybe.”

  The shadows in his eyes softened. Warmed. His voice took on a husky resonance. “Will you at least come and say hello?”

  She stuffed her hands inside her pockets to hide their shaking and forced herself upright from the vehicle. But when she began walking around her car to retrieve her bag, Gareth’s gruff command stopped her.

  “Leave it,” he said. “I’ll get it for you later.”

  Gwyn turned. Her nerve faltered once again. Gareth held the door wide for her in invitation. She stared at him. She’d told Sandy she could handle this, but was she right? If she left this man now, before anything had really happened between them, she would already face an unfillable hole in her life. But after a weekend in his arms? She drew a jagged breath as anticipated anguish flooded her soul.

  How would she survive?

  Gareth held out his hand to her in silence. In the same silence, she walked toward him, no more able to deny him than a river could turn away from the ocean that would swallow it.

  He took her hand when she reached him, and his fingers threaded with hers, strong and warm.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.

  “Neither was I,” she admitted.

  “I’m glad you did.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across her knuckles, then turned her hand over and pressed another kiss to her palm.

  Gwyn’s insides began a slow, sinuous melt.

  Gareth lips grazed the inside of her wrist. A tiny gasp escaped her. His grasp tightened. He untangled his fingers from hers and slid his hand up her arm…over her shoulder…around the nape of her neck. His thumb traced the curve of her ear.

  She tried to pull back, just enough to recapture the sanity she felt slipping away from her, but Gareth held her fast, his gaze traveling over her face with a nearly physical touch. Slow heat trailed in its wake.

  “Do you have any idea how much I’ve wanted to do this?” he muttered. “How many nights I’ve lain awake imagining…”

  His lips brushed her forehead. “Wanting…”

  He feathered kisses along her jaw line. “Aching…”

  She thought she might go mad with the tension building inside her. “Gareth.”

  “Ssh.” The sound whispered against her hair as he tugged her inexorably closer. Panic fluttered in her breast.

  Too fast, she thought. Too soon. But the hands she put up to brace against him betrayed her, clinging to his thick, soft sweater instead of pushing away. Then his mouth covered hers, his need exploded into her own, caution vanished like shadows before sudden bright light.

  Abandoning her grip, she slid her fingers up to tangle in his glorious hair – and to pull him recklessly, desperately closer. She barely registered the slam of the screen door behind them when he stepped back, tugging her with him.

  As long as his mouth didn’t leave hers, as long as his hands continued their exploration of her neck, her shoulders, her spine…

  His fingers splayed across her hips and tugged her closer yet. Hardness met her belly. Gwyn gasped, her mouth breaking free of his, and then bit back a groan when his lips targeted the hollow of her collar bone. His hands slipped beneath her sweater and curved over her bare ribcage, thumbs teasing the undersides of her breasts. With a sudden surge of courage – and a lack of inhibition that she vaguely supposed should shock her - she let her own hands glide over his chest and down to his stomach, glorying in the sharp contraction of muscles beneath her touch.

  Gareth went rigid, his groan muffled in her hair. “God, Gwyn, this isn’t what I intended,” he muttered, his breathing harsh. “I wanted to kiss you, yes - and hold you – but not attack you the second you walked in the door.”

  Gwyn squeezed her eyes shut and rested her forehead against him, her fingers digging into the cable knit of his sweater. She struggled, through a haze of want, to make sense of his words.

  Kiss her? Hold her? She might have expected that to begin with, but now that a thousand fevered sensations coursed through her body? Dear Lord, the man couldn’t be serious.

  Not when it took every atom of willpower she possessed just to remain upright instead of sinking to the floor, taking him with her.

  But Gareth’s hands had closed on her shoulders, and he’d actually taken a step back. A step away from her. Gwyn bit back a protest and then, ashamed of her need but shameless in her desperation, skimmed her hands under his turtleneck and across his chest. His nipples pebbled under her palms.

  Swearing softly, he gripped her upper arms. He held her away.

  “Behave yourself,” he said hoarsely. “I’m trying to apologize.”

  From arms’ length, Gwyn pushed the bottom of his turtleneck out of her way and drew her fingernail down the vertical line of hair bisecting his muscled diaphragm.

  “I didn’t ask for an apology.”

  Determined hands grasped hers and held them wide, away from their path.

  “Fine,” he growled. “Then I’m trying to convince at least one of us that I’m not some kind of Neanderthal.”

  “I don’t think you’re a Neanderthal.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Giving up her fight against his hold, she twined her fingers with his. Strong, lean hands closed over hers with a gentleness that belied the almost palpable hunger between them. She imagined the rest of their bodies tangling together the way their hands did. Heat flared deep in her belly. She drew an uneven breath, the tang of wood smoke tickling her nose, mingling with the musky scent of Gareth.

  “No,” she said again, “but I do think that if you leave me like this, I might come apart at the seams.”

  Gareth swallowed audibly. His hands tightened on hers. “You’re not playing fair. We’re supposed to have candles, and music, and wine – I want to do this right, damn it – ”

  “But this is right.” Her gaze left their linked hands and traveled slowly up his length. It slid along his tense, muscled thighs, so tightly defined in soft, faded denim; touched oh-so-briefly on the hardness that, for a fleeting instant, had held unparalleled promise; rested in unashamed admiration on the sculpted abdomen that she herself had uncovered…

  The fire in her belly became molten.

  Gareth’s grip on her hands tightened.

  She lifted her eyes to meet his, struck by the simple truth of her own words. She whispered them again. “This is right.”

  His iron hold on her hands loosened.

  “I suppose we could have candles later,” he said unevenly.

  Her heart leapt.

  “And music,” she agreed, tugging her fingers free.

  “And wine.”
>
  His knuckles grazed her jaw, then his hand traveled lower…lower…she tilted her head back and felt her breath catch in her throat.

  “And then we could do it right,” she whispered.

  “Twice,” he promised.

  He took possession of her lips with a hunger that sent reality spinning into oblivion. She met him eagerly, kiss for kiss, touch for touch. His fingers encountered the bottom edge of her sweater, fumbled with it, thrust it out of his way. Hers slid under his turtleneck and dug into the coiled tension of his shoulders.

  He tugged her sweater over her head, and she felt it whisper past her back as it slid from his hands. The feel of a carpet beneath her feet told her that they’d moved further into the cottage, but the realization was fleeting, and when the cool air grazed her belly, unimportant. From a long way off, she marveled at her own boldness when she pulled impatiently at his turtleneck, and then, when he paused to strip it off, at the way her hands strayed to the waistband of his jeans.

  A fraction of a second later, his hands spanned her waist, followed by the warmth of his mouth.

  Need became her world, defined only by Gareth’s lips, his hands, his body. She ached for him in ways she was sure she’d never known; hungered for him in places that were dark, and moist, and secret. Her touch became frenetic. She wanted, needed, to discover him – all of him – before the last shreds of coherence vanished.

  Her bra gave way, spilling her breasts, unconfined, into his welcoming hold. Crisp, curling hairs scraped against her skin, taking sensitivity to a new level.

  She kicked aside her shoes, and thought she might die of sheer, exquisite torment when Gareth slowly – dear Lord, so slowly – slid her jeans down, over her hips and legs, until she could step out of them. Her panties followed. Torment stepped up to torture when he pinned her hands in one of his and followed the garment’s route with tiny, barely-there kisses.

  She crumpled to the floor beside him. She tried to say his name – to beg him to do something, anything, to ease her distress – but he folded her into his arms and buried his face in her neck, and her throat closed on her words.

  Gareth lowered her to the carpet, its fibers rough – but not unpleasantly so – beneath her bared skin. He rested himself on one elbow and pushed back her hair.

  “You are so beautiful, Gwynneth with two n’s,” he whispered. “So very, very beautiful.”

  Gwyn couldn’t have responded if she’d tried, for his fingers had left her face and began a slow, insistent exploration, trailing here, darting there, pausing to incite, tease, inspire. Existence blurred into sensation and sound and insatiable, unquenchable thirst. Thirst for his hot mouth, for the taste of his skin, for what she could no longer stop – or deny.

  Reality threatened to intrude once, when his warmth left her, but he stilled her protests with a murmur and a promising touch. She did little more than register the sound of something tearing open before he returned, lowering his length along hers once more. She wriggled to meet his touch.

  “Open your eyes.”

  The sheer unexpectedness of the command made her obey.

  “What?”

  “Open your eyes,” he repeated, nuzzling her ear. “I want to see you.”

  The request took her breath away. “S-see me?”

  “When I do this,” he said, his voice low. Rough.

  His hand slid over her belly, down her thighs, then trailed upward again. Gwyn parted beneath his touch, her uneven breathing harsh in her own ears.

  The dark intensity of his eyes held her captive and she returned his gaze, unblinking.

  “And when I do this.”

  His fingertip grazed her. Electricity jolted through her belly, wringing a startled moan from her.

  “And this,” he growled, shifting his weight to cover her, nudging against her.

  Arching beneath him, she squeezed her eyes closed against the myriad of sensations threatening to overwhelm her. Her lips parted in a soft, almost silent inhalation.

  “Open your eyes, Gwyn,” Gareth ordered again.

  She bit back a moan. She couldn’t…

  He moved against her, teasing, tormenting. Something wondrous stirred inside her. Her eyes shot open.

  “Yes,” Gareth murmured. “Like that.”

  Balancing himself on his elbows, he cupped her face in his hands – and then slid into her. Once, twice, again.

  Her eyes widened. “G-Gareth - ?”

  “Go with it, love,” he urged. He moved again, faster now. “I’m right here.”

  Her fingers raked his shoulders, seeking a hold as her world rocked beneath her. Her breath quickened. Her lashes drifted down…

  “Look at me, sweetheart.” His voice, thick and ragged, held a note of urgency she couldn’t deny.

  She spiraled upward in ever-faster circles, her gaze fastened desperately to his, sensation washing over her in vast, incessant waves. Sheer, mindless need lifted her hips from the floor to meet his every thrust, and his eyes darkened an impossible shade more.

  “God, Gwyn – ” he rasped.

  She shattered then, her cry mingling with his, into a thousand splinters of color and heat and light - and an ecstasy so exquisite that she knew, in a moment of pure and absolute clarity, that she would never be the same again.

  Not ever.

  Chapter 31

  Gwyn woke on Saturday morning to bright sunshine, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and a man whistling a lively tune. None of which held any familiarity. She blinked at the unpainted, wood-planked ceiling above her.

  In her world, she rose before the sun, didn’t smell coffee unless she made it herself, and was the only one in the house who knew how to whistle.

  She stretched her arms over her head, basking in the sheer pleasure of sleeping in and being waited upon, then winced at another unfamiliarity: the kind of intimate tenderness she hadn’t experienced in a very long time. With a rueful grimace, she eased herself into a more comfortable position.

  Her movements stirred the bed linens, releasing Gareth’s clean, male scent and letting it mingle with her own, stirring vivid memories of how the tenderness had come about.

  An involuntary, muffled gasp escaped her.

  The whistling stopped.

  Gareth’s dark head appeared in the bedroom doorway.

  Okay, so maybe not such a muffled gasp.

  “Good morning.” Gareth looked rested, relaxed, and satisfied enough to cause her face to heat. “I thought you might sleep the entire morning away.”

  “What time is it, or don’t I want to know?”

  “It’s not that bad. Only nine-thirty.”

  “Not bad? That’s awful. You should have woken me.”

  “I tried. Twice. You’re very unfriendly when you’re tired.”

  “Really?”

  “Something about how I should go away and get my own cereal.”

  She would have apologized, but Gareth chose that moment to lean against the door frame and cross his arms. Her gaze reflexively followed the movement, settling on the torso she had –

  She gulped.

  Gareth regarded her with a lazy, knowing grin that turned her internal thermostat up several more degrees. “Sleep well?” he asked.

  She nodded, trying discretely to ensure that the covers hid as many inches of her as possible. “You?”

  His grin widened. “Very.”

  Gwyn bit her lip and looked away, searching for something to say and coming up frustratingly short.

  “Well?” he asked. “Are you getting up or not?”

  She clutched the down duvet a little tighter, supremely conscious of her nakedness beneath it. Mischief sparked in Gareth’s eyes, assuring her he was aware of her predicament – and that he derived a great deal of enjoyment from it.

  She screwed up some of the directness he claimed to like about her. “Of course,” she said. “But not with you in the room.”

  He chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll pour coffee.”

  She
waited until she heard the clink of cups being taken from a cupboard, then pushed the duvet aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A new dilemma presented itself. With her clothes from yesterday presumably still decorating the living room floor and her overnight bag in the car, she hadn’t a stitch to wear.

  She weighed her options. Asking Gareth was the most obvious solution, but that mischievous amusement in his eyes pretty much guaranteed at least some kind of comment to add to her discomfort. And parading out into the living room clad in the duvet would almost certainly engender a similar reaction.

  Her gaze fell on Gareth’s open suitcase atop the wooden bench at the foot of the bed. She dismissed the notion out of hand. Way too forward.

  Or just the sort of thing a confident, worldly woman might do in the same situation, her inner voice countered. A woman self-assured enough to drive two hours out into the country to spend a casual weekend with a man. One who was capable of that kind of fling and who knew how to behave on a morning after.

  She drew up her knees and dropped her forehead onto them. Therein lay the real trouble. Clothes – or the lack thereof – weren’t the problem at all, nor were they likely to make much difference to the real issue.

  The issue of exactly how one did behave on the morning after, when the very concept of a fling was foreign…

  “I didn’t think to bring cream,” Gareth called out to her. “Will milk do?”

  Gwyn lifted her head. Much as she wished otherwise, she couldn’t hide under the covers all day.

  “Milk is fine,” she called back, forcing a lightness into her voice that, combined with a tension she couldn’t quite disguise, made her sound a little like Tweety Bird.

  Rousing herself to actual motion, she picked up the thick, cable-knit turtleneck Gareth had worn the day they met. Not because of any sentimental reasons, but because it seemed to offer the most coverage. Then, semi-clad, she strolled out to the kitchen with a hard-won casualness she hoped would hide her mass of seething nerves. A casualness that fled the instant Gareth’s eyes raked over her and settled, glowing, on the sweater’s edge a scant few inches down her thighs, putting to rest any illusion of coverage.