She unbuttoned his jeans without faltering, slid the zipper down, then started pushing both jeans and briefs over his hips, until she got lost somewhere along the way. As she cradled him in both hands, he sucked in an edgy breath and muttered, “Damn, sugar.” His voice was thick, ragged, his accent so pronounced it added additional syllables to the words. She stroked him, caressed, tenderly explored until, with a groan, he pulled her hands away, dragged her close, and took her mouth. His tongue plunged inside before she had a chance to protest, then with a new bout of fever spreading through her, she forgot what she wanted to protest.
He finished removing his clothes one-handed while, with his other hand, he held her for his kiss. She freed her mouth, moved out of reach of his. “Now,” she demanded. Pleaded.
“In a minute.” He began lazily unbuttoning her blouse. When she tried to help, he pushed her hands away. When she started to unfasten her trousers, he claimed both hands and settled them on his shoulders. “I’ve been wanting to undress you since about two minutes after I first saw you. Let me do this.”
“I can’t wait.”
He chuckled softly, gently, wickedly. “Trust me, darlin’, it’ll be worth it.” He slid her blouse off her shoulders so slowly that her skin felt raw, as if every nerve ending were exposed. Just as slowly he removed her bra, wrapping the wisp of lace and ribbons around his big dark hand before dropping it to the floor. By the time her slacks joined the other clothes on the floor, her skin was on fire, burning, tingling, and need throbbed inside her with an urgency that made her damn near incoherent.
He cupped her through her panties, no more substantial than her bra, then rubbed hard and made her sink against him for support. “Please,” she whispered.
“Please what?” He slid his hand underneath the lace and stroked one finger inside her.
“Now.”
“What do you want now?”
“You. Inside me. Please, Ben.”
Still tormenting her, he lowered her onto the bed, then stripped off her panties. She tried to help, but couldn’t manage more than raising her hips. Her legs were too weak, her muscles too unsteady. Her entire body was hypersensitive, quivering wherever he touched her. When he bent to suckle her nipple, she cried out, tried to push him away, then pulled him closer. When he settled between her legs, she moved restlessly, achingly, until he’d filled her, stretched her, made her feel incredibly whole.
Bracing himself on his elbows, he leaned over until they were practically nose to nose. “Okay, darlin’, I’m inside you.” He shuddered as she tightened her muscles around him, and his voice sounded significantly less controlled. “What do you want now?”
She raised her hands to his face, touching his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth. He automatically opened, taking the tip of her finger inside, nipping it, sucking it, making her body convulse around his again. “Teach me,” she murmured.
“Teach you what?”
“Everything you know.”
Slowly he grinned, and it was sexy, charming, and endearing as hell. “It might take a while, but it’ll damn sure be fun.”
“I could use some fun, and I’ve got a while.” A night, a day, a weekend … the rest of her life.
“Hold on tight, sugar,” he murmured against her mouth. “I’m gonna take you for the ride of your life.”
Ben lay on his back, utterly exhausted, and stared at the faint patterns created on the opposite wall by moonlight through the windows. His breathing was finally as close to normal as it was ever going to be again, and the sweat had dried from his body, but he felt weak, spent, even achy in some places he hadn’t thought possible. He hadn’t yet decided if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life … or just done the rightest thing in his life. Probably both. Only time would tell just how right and wrong.
Lynda lay beside him, curled on her side, her dark gaze on him. He knew he should be next to her, holding her, but after the last time, they’d both been so hot, slick with sweat, and barely able to breathe. He’d sprawled on his back on one side of the mattress. She’d chosen to lie on the other.
He could hear her breathing—quiet little puffs, a drastic change from the desperate gasps that had racked her earlier. It had been quite an experience—the oh-so-aloof-and-cool Ms. Barone looking, sounding, and behaving thoroughly wild.
The mattress shifted as she did, then her voice, quiet but not quite controlled, drifted across the bed to him. “It’s all right if you regret it.”
Surprised, he turned to look at her. The lamplight fell over her shoulder, lighting part of her face, casting the rest in shadow. She looked beautiful, serene … except for the insecurity in her eyes. He rolled onto his side, stuffed a pillow under his head, then reached for her. His first impulse was to cup her perfect small breast, to see if he could make her nipple swell again with nothing more than his fingers. Instead, he rested his palm against her cheek. “You’re the only part of my life I don’t have any regrets about, sugar.” Except he wished he were more. More acceptable. More her type. He wished there was something he could give her besides long nights of good sex, wished he could have some value in her life.
After a moment, he gave in to his own insecurities. “Are you having regrets?”
“Oh, no. You’re the best time I’ve ever had.” The smile that curved her lips was one he’d never seen before—playful, seductive, innocent, and sinful. “By my count, that was only three times. You promised at least eight or ten. Can we do it again?”
He drew her close and tucked her body against his. “So you’re pretty and sexy and greedy, too, hmm?”
“I can’t help being greedy. I’ve lived a deprived life, remember? It didn’t have you in it.”
A few days ago she hadn’t wanted him in her life. A few hours from now, she might feel the same. Or she might decide it was all right to keep him around as long as their relationship remained private.
“Lyn …” He hesitated, wishing if he could have mastered one of Emmaline’s lessons, it would have been knowing when to speak and when to shut the hell up. He shouldn’t say what he was about to, but he couldn’t not say it. “I’m the same man you told to go to hell Wednesday night. The same one whose integrity and character you questioned Thursday morning. Nothing’s changed. You know that, don’t you?”
She hid her face against his shoulder. With his fingers on her chin, he gently forced her to meet his gaze. “I’m not looking for an apology.” But he did want to hear her say that she trusted him, that she knew he wouldn’t cheat her in any way, that she thought better of him than that. “I just want you to understand that the things you don’t like or respect about me are still there. Whatever it is you don’t trust about me is there, too.”
She laid her palm along his jaw, stroking his skin, making him want to rub against her. “Do you think you’d be here right now if I didn’t trust you with my life?” she asked regretfully. “The things I said Thursday morning … I was upset. Embarrassed. Disappointed.”
“I’m pretty good at that. I kept Emmaline in a constant state of disappointment, right up to the day she died.”
“I don’t believe that. She loved you.”
“And she was disappointed in me.”
“Melina says just because you disapprove of a person’s actions, that doesn’t mean you disapprove of the person, too.”
“So you can think I’m lacking in character, but still want to have sex with me.” He tried to sound as if he were teasing, but it didn’t sound very convincing to him. Apparently to her, either, because she pulled away from him, found a corner of the covers rumpled beneath them, and pulled it over her when she sat up.
“I don’t think you’re lacking in character, and I’m truly sorry I ever suggested it. It’s just … I don’t understand how the man I know could turn his back on the woman pregnant with his child. I don’t understand how you could weigh a baby’s needs against your own and decide yours are more important. It’s so selfish, so immature.”
“Y
ou’re right. It is. And if you remember, I told you that Wednesday night. I screwed up. I was selfish. But you’re right about one other thing, darlin’. The man you know didn’t—wouldn’t—do those things. I was nineteen years old, still a kid in most people’s eyes. Do you remember what it was like to be nineteen? Did you ever do anything then that you wouldn’t dream of doing today?”
“Of course. But … a baby who needed you …”
Feeling as if he were arguing a losing battle, Ben sat up, too, but didn’t bother with the cover. There was nothing left to be modest about. “This may surprise you, darlin’, but I’m not the only teenage father who didn’t stick around to change diapers and give bottles. Kids can grow up perfectly fine with one parent or one relative to love them. You’re judging me based on your own experience of a perfect childhood, the perfect family, a father who worked and supported the family, and a mother who stayed home and had cookies and milk waiting for you after school. I bet you never saw your parents fight, or come home stinking drunk with some stranger, or lie, cheat, and steal on a regular basis. I bet your mother never got tired of you and disappeared for days at a time, and I’m damn sure she never knocked you around just because she needed a target and you were handy.”
She stared at him, her brown eyes huge and glittery as they filled with tears. “Oh, Ben,” she whispered.
“Aw, don’t do that. It was a long time ago, and it’s not worth crying over.” He wiped a tear from her cheek, and felt it, hot and damp, on his fingertips. “My point is that while what I did was unforgivable in your experience, it was pretty normal in mine. It’s not the choice I would make today, but I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve learned what’s important.”
She furtively wiped her eyes, then drew her hand through her hair. He’d had the incredible pleasure the second time they’d made love of removing the pins that held it and tangling his hands in it. It was as silky as he’d imagined, and had wrapped around his fingers before sliding free. When she’d kissed him, it had brushed his face and tickled, and when she’d curled up in his arms, it had tantalized him with its softness and its exotic fragrance.
“So … what’s important?”
Alanna was. Making connections. Having ties. Not being alone. Mattering to someone.
And Lynda. He’d never meant for her to become important. She was way out of his league. She needed someone who could fit into her world, someone she could take to those parties and dinners with congressmen and every last hotshot on the East Coast. Someone with a hell of a lot more status than a mere carpenter—smarter, better educated, better everything than he could ever be.
“People are important,” he said slowly. “Leaving someone to notice when you’re gone. And being able to live with the choices you’ve made. Knowing you’ve done your best.”
“Then why haven’t you contacted your daughter?” she asked in little more than a whisper. “Why haven’t you tried to make up to her for not being there the first twelve years of her life?”
He studied her a long time, debating how much he could afford to trust her. His chest felt tight, and there was a sick feeling in his gut, reminding him that the last time he’d confided in her, all he’d accomplished was lowering her opinion of him. Could he afford another disappointment?
Could he afford to not take the risk?
He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Did I mention that you’re the only person I’ve ever told about my daughter?”
She shook her head.
“You are. You’re the only one I’ve ever trusted enough.…” He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, then went on. “That’s why I’m in Bethlehem—to see her. To meet her. To tell her I’m sorry.”
“You mean …?”
He nodded. “She lives here.”
Lynda couldn’t remember ever in her life staying in bed past nine o’clock, but it was after twelve before hunger dragged her out Sunday afternoon. She felt thoroughly lazy and decadent as she dried off from her shower and dressed in a short, sleeveless summer dress, then pulled her hair back in a ponytail, before heading down the back stairs barefooted.
Ben stood at the stove, wearing nothing but jeans, stirring the contents of a cast-iron pan and looking about a thousand miles away. She wondered if he was thinking about his daughter, who lived there in town, or her mother, his former lover, who presumably also lived here in town. He hadn’t offered any names, and she hadn’t pressed for them. It was his secret, and only he could decide when and what to tell her. That he’d told her so much already touched her deeply.
After he’d fallen asleep last night, though, she’d tried to make a mental list of every girl about the right age. It hadn’t taken long to realize that she was only vaguely familiar with the pre-teen-age set in town. And, truthfully, she’d been as interested in the mother as the daughter. He’d wanted her once, lived with her, created a child with her. Had he seen her yet? What if he discovered he still had feelings for her? What if the sense of responsibility and commitment he’d gained with age extended to making a real family for their daughter—with her mother?
She hesitated on the last step, suddenly unsure how to act. What she really wanted to do was sneak up behind him and see if she could interest him in yet another round of lovemaking. Or just wrap her arms around him and count on him to do the same, simply holding her for a minute. In her experience, though, men weren’t fond of just holding. They wanted either sex or separation.
In the end, she didn’t do anything she wouldn’t have done a week ago. She walked into the room as if it were any other morning, smiled politely, and said, “Whatever you’re making, it smells good.”
She was walking past him to reach the coffeemaker when he snaked his arm around her waist, snuggled her close, and kissed her. It was a sweet, warm, lazy kiss, not the kind that led straight to hot, passionate sex, but it could get there … eventually.
“Good morning,” he said when he lifted his head.
“Oh, yeah,” she murmured, clinging to him.
His chuckle was knowing and amused. “Breakfast will be ready in a couple minutes. Emmaline Bodine’s best butter-dredged biscuits and sausage gravy.”
She turned to look at the gravy, bubbling in the iron skillet. “You haven’t had time to go to the store.”
“No.”
“Then how could you make biscuits and sausage gravy when I didn’t have biscuits, sausage, or gravy?”
“You had flour, baking powder, and cream, and I brought the sausage the day I sprained my wrist because Gloria wanted to learn to make gravy. She put it in the freezer to wait until I came back.” He grinned at her. “Just for the record, we would have had the cooking lesson on our own time, not yours. And who knows? We might even have shared with you.”
She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know you’ve put in more hours than you’ve billed me for, and I’m sorry I ever opened my mouth. I normally never say stupid things like that.”
“But you normally don’t let emotion get in your way.”
That was true. But from the first time she’d seen Ben, it was as if somewhere a switch had been flipped, pushing her pragmatic side to the back and bringing the long-neglected emotional side to the forefront.
And for the most part she’d enjoyed it. Tremendously.
“Will you come back to work? I promise I won’t be stupid again.”
His smile was sweet. “Sorry, darlin’. I’ve already accepted a job with Sebastian. Sophy and I start tomorrow.”
She nodded once. She had no one to blame but herself, but she would deal with it. She would eventually find someone else to work for her. And who knew? She might still see Ben from time to time. Every night would sound fine to start.
He ushered her to a seat at the dining table, already set for two, then joined her a moment later with a bowl of gravy and a tin of biscuits. The biscuits were golden and crusty on top and bottom and tender inside, and the gravy was too good
to even think about the calories until she’d taken the last bite.
Leaning back in her chair, she sighed. “You’re handy around the house—”
“And handier in bed.”
“You’re handsome as sin, and you cook, too. Why aren’t you married? Don’t those Southern belles know a good thing when they see it?”
“I’ve had my chances. I’ve just been waiting for the right one.”
And what constituted right for him? Was there any chance it might include a born-and-bred Yankee career woman who couldn’t think of any better way to pass her nights—or her days—than with him?
“Actually, I never planned on getting married. It doesn’t seem to mix too well with folks in my family.”
“You marry the wrong person, and of course it’s not going to last—or if it does, it’s going to be miserable. But if you choose the right person …” She gave a sigh that sounded equal parts satisfaction and wistfulness.
“But how many people have thought they were marrying the right person, only to find out down the line that they were all wrong?”
“How many have married the right person, only to realize when the first problem came along that it was easier to give up, divorce, and try again with someone else than to compromise and sacrifice to make the marriage work?”
“Spoken like the product of a long, happy marriage.”
“And you sound like the cynic who’s survived his parents’ unhappy marriage.”
He carried their dishes to the sink and began filling it with hot soapy water. “I’m not a cynic, darlin’,” he said when she joined him. “If I were, I would have accepted that my kid more than likely wants nothing to do with me, I would have stayed in Georgia, and I never would have presumed that I could show you anything. In fact, all things considered, I’d say I’m a damned-fool optimist.”
Something about his tone, or maybe it was the look in his eyes that bordered on bleakness, made Lynda ache to wrap her arms around him. Instead, she set aside her coffee, picked up a dish towel, and helped him with the dishes. When the phone rang as they were finishing up, she answered, expecting Melina. It was Janice. “Hi, Mom.”
Getting Lucky Page 23