Then he picked up the wine glasses and walked away humming again. What an annoying, beastly man he was.
She sipped the hot chocolate and finished up her second Twinkie. It was heaven, really.
A minute later she saw him cross the room with a wine glass of something for himself and head toward the sofa.
After he set his glass on the coffee table, he did the most amazing thing. He took off all his clothes. He did this very slowly, very deliberately, and without any self-consciousness at all. He had turned down the apartment lights, and the city lights were the only thing illuminating him except her bedside lamp.
She watched him unbutton his faded blue denim shirt, fold it neatly, and set it on the table beside him, atop her stack of Harper’s Bazaar magazines. Next he peeled off a white T-shirt he’d worn under the shirt. His naked chest was broad and gloriously muscled from biceps to abs. She licked her lips and got hot chocolate foam in return.
He folded that shirt as well, and added it to the pile. She sat up a little taller to watch him remove his boots, set them to the side, then take off his jeans. Slow and easy they slid down his magnificent legs. He folded the jeans neatly and piled them with the rest.
He turned his back to her, and she had to really sit up against her hands to see the final piece of clothing come off Turner’s amazing body. His rear was truly a thing of beauty. She gasped, then heard herself gasp, and scrunched back down against the pillows in case he noticed. She quickly grabbed a paperback book off the table and pretended to read it.
Turner stretched out on her sofa totally nude, picked up his glass, and took a long drink. He stared out the windows. He didn’t pick up a magazine, turn on the tube, or read the newspaper. He just stared out the window.
After a while he set down the glass and rose from his reclining position. He walked straight across the apartment, still naked, and into her bathroom. She heard water running. She giggled to herself and ate her last Twinkie, washing it down with the last of the hot chocolate. She’d have to go brush her teeth again somehow, but she’d be damned if she’d let him know she’d been watching his gorgeous self get naked.
Turner came out of the bathroom, passed by her, smiled, then lay back down on the sofa, pulling a sheet and blanket over himself. She watched as he again just gazed out the window.
“Paris?” he asked.
“What?” she replied as flatly as possible.
“Your book is upside down.”
She glanced at it, then snapped the damn book shut and threw it across the room toward him. It hit the back of the sofa. She heard his deep, steady laugh echo around the apartment.
Paris threw off the covers, marched to the bathroom, brushed her teeth vigorously, marched back to her bed, turned off her light and pulled the cover over her head. Damn him! Damn Turner Pruitt.
Paris woke up with fear pressing in on her like a pitch-black cloud. It was an old fear—an old dream. She struggled to reach out of it.
“Paris.” Turner’s voice came out of the darkness. His hand smoothed her hair away from her temple and brushed her hot tears away. She reached out, caught his hand, and held it close to her heart.
He slid between the covers and held her with her back to him. She caught her ragged breath as she felt his warmth surround her. He was still naked, and his body responded to her nearness, but he kept holding her quietly until she felt the darkness fold into a softer feeling.
She turned her body to him and let herself have the pleasure of touching his hot, smooth skin. Her fingertips ran from his shoulder, down the small of his back, across his bare hips, and behind him. She heard him groan as she skimmed over to his front and traced lines up and down his thigh, and around his now completely full-blown erection. She smiled to herself as she heard his breath go ragged, and she traced closer and closer with her fingertips, then up and around him, ever so lightly.
She felt a strong wave of desire hit her body. She wanted to be held, and touched, and she wanted him to soothe the fire that was now burning her up. She squirmed out of her leggings and tossed off her nightshirt, then pressed her naked body against his. She took his hand and made sure he felt her patch in place. She was suddenly glad she’d reapplied it, even though she’d had no reason to even think this might occur.
He responded strongly—he must have understood, and that was the end of any control she’d had over him. His lips brushed her neck and he found his way to her mouth, slowly tantalizing her with his tongue on the way.
His arms encircled her, and his kiss was consuming. Paris kept trying to keep her head together, but she slipped deeply into the spell of his lovemaking as he completely took her over. She soaked up every inch of his heat and lust her body could get. It made her forget everything. It made her feel alive. She arched herself into him as he moved her breast into his mouth and flicked at the tip of her nipple with his tongue. This was what she wanted. She wanted him to devour her. He was darkness and pleasure, and his body demanded her. She held his shoulders as he drove her to the edge of unbelievable pleasure, touching her and moving his mouth over her. She wanted to hurry him and slow him down all at once. His body—his amazing body—was all she could feel anymore, besides the burning heat inside her.
Even when she moved herself on top of him, he took control of her and slowly teased her with his fingertips and his throbbing, hot erection. She cried out and begged him. He reached up with his mouth and drew her breast into the heat of his mouth again. As she screamed with pleasure, he moved her gently into place and finally slid himself into her. She stroked her hands across his powerful chest, and he pulled her down into a kiss that made her shiver as he again consumed her with his desire.
Paris thought she would faint. She had never, ever felt anything like Turner. The care and emotion behind his touches, his movements—the slow, pressing, burning movements that brought her to the edge again, so easily, so lovingly. This must be what being made love to was really like. She lost her senses and slipped into the throbbing motion of her own body, screaming in pleasure.
Turner moved Paris under him with one quick motion and let her wrap herself around him. He moved her up against the headboard of her bed so he could touch her better and put his mouth on hers and feel her wanting him. She had reached out to him—not so much for lust but for comforting. He felt that from her with all his senses. It gave him a rare and precious door into her deeper side.
Turner knew she was a sensual, sexual woman, because every part of her showed that right out loud. The way she dressed, her wild red hair, her beautiful lips, her flashing green eyes. But the touches she craved right now were more than that. He could tell by the way she responded to being held and stroked. She was an amazing lover, but Paris ate up love with huge bites—like a starving wild animal.
She also gave back. She was so tender inside her passion that his heart ached as he made love to her. Here was a woman, complex and difficult, but hidden deep inside her was another side—a woman with a huge capacity for love. She’d probably been storing that up her whole life, with no one to give it to, no one to take it.
Turner was so moved that he made love to her with the utmost tenderness and caring possible. Each time he touched her he wanted her to feel what he felt—that he knew her secret. Her eyes told her secret, and he let his body respond to her with his heart and soul.
The heat inside her gathered and exploded around him like a thousand-degree tornado. It made him lose his mind completely. He held her so close that he could feel her heart beating as his own orgasm tore him apart with pleasure. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, and she cried out his name…his name—he heard it like a sob. She didn’t claw him but held so tight they were one moment as one, not two.
When the time drifted down quietly to where he felt the room around him again, felt the soft light, and the sheets, and her head resting on his shoulder, he pulled her into a soft embrace. He kissed her forehead and across her temple, holding her until finally she drifted back into a gentl
er sleep.
What dreams were those that had made Paris cry out so badly earlier? Dreams so bad that she would surrender enough to let him make love to her like this? Turner felt her rapid heartbeat subside to a calmer level under his hand, which she now held clutched to her chest. He rested his cheek against her hair. Her scent was a tangle of her special Paris perfume, her shampoo, their lovemaking, and…Twinkies.
She was such a vibrant, sensual woman. He wanted to make love to her all over again. Having her tonight had left him hungry for more. But not just hungry for more lovemaking. He’d touched a side of her he’d suspected was there, buried under the pain of her early memories.
Would she ever come to him again? Or would she lock the door behind her after this time?
He listened to the night sounds of the city around them as he lay beside her. Through the large window the light was beginning to change from ink blue to yellow streaks.
He missed the beauty of the islands of his childhood at times like this. Many mornings he’d wake so early that he’d race the dawn across the beaches, running on the wet sand until the sun pulled full out above the horizon.
Then his mother would call to him. She was the other early riser. They’d sit on the steps and share the fruit, bread, and tea she always brought. She’d put honey in his tea, and milk, and put it in a fat blue willow mug she’d gotten at the local market. After a while his father would appear at his desk just inside, say good morning, and smile at them both. They had no windows, just board flaps for when the rains came, so it was like his father was sitting with them on the porch.
There was something so comforting about that memory. Father writing his thoughts in his old green journal, which might work into a sermon for the following Sunday. Mom with her morning picnic on the steps. The smell of the ocean, the ripe mangos they were sharing, the scent of Father’s coffee.
Sometimes his father would discuss ideas with his mother as they sat there, the windowless space between them. Turner had loved listening to them talk.
Turner wondered whether Paris had any comforting memories at all. He wanted to make some for her. He wanted her to know this feeling—to have a backlog of happiness to draw on.
When the light flowed in the window enough to see around the apartment, Turner slipped quietly out of Paris’s bed and into the cold morning air. He tucked the quilts around her, then crossed over to the sofa and found his duffle bag. He quickly dressed in some sweats and running shoes and his warm coat. He’d better run out for some breakfast items, because from what he’d seen in Paris’s fridge, he’d either shop or starve. Turner slipped out the door as noiselessly as possible, with Paris’s key from the hall tree in his pocket.
Paris rolled over and thought about getting up, but it was so chilly. She pulled the covers higher over her naked shoulders and snuggled back in. But her mind had already started up, and she couldn’t slip back into sleep.
She lay in bed and remembered her bad dream. Then she remembered Turner’s warm body next to her in bed, and how comforting that had been. Hmm, and then how completely stunningly yummy everything had become as he’d gone quite crazy and made love to her. She let a smile cross her lips and felt his kisses still tingling there. My God, that man could kiss.
Why wasn’t he still there? She pouted about that for a minute. If he was still in her bed she might let him have his way with her yet again. He was so terribly good at having his way.
But now what was she going to do with him? He probably thought that all meant something. He probably thought she was going to decide to let him stay and be married to her and all that insanity. The rest of her problems started to pile up on her mind, and she reached over to the bedside table to fumble for the clock.
She found the clock easily, which was very odd. It made her sit up a tiny bit and look at the table. Instead of stacks of plates, her cup from last night, books and Twinkie wrappers, there was a bare surface. You could actually see the painted wood under the glass top. There was her lamp, and the reproduction Big Ben clock, and nothing else. Was she in the wrong apartment?
A sound from the kitchen made her sit straight up and stare. It was the clink of pots and pans. Paris noticed that the kitchen looked strikingly cleaner than it had when she’d gone to sleep. And something smelled good, too.
“Good morning,” Turner smiled at her from the kitchen.
She remembered his warm, naked body and him moving into her again in a little rush of a moment that made her head spin. A smile played across her lips, but she suppressed it. She didn’t reply.
Sitting up hadn’t gone well with her. She felt crappy. It was too early or something. Bleackk. Paris slumped back against the pillows and pulled the covers up and around her bare chest.
“I’ve made breakfast. Shall I deliver it to you?”
“I don’t do breakfast,” she croaked.
“Miracles happen,” Turner replied. In a few minutes he was walking toward her with a round tray. He set it on her bedside table. Paris took a peek and saw a cup of tea, which smelled divine—peppermint maybe—a bran muffin, split, with butter melting on it, and a bowl of oatmeal. The old-fashioned kind of oatmeal, with brown sugar and a little ring of cream on it.
“I remembered what you liked from school.” Turner stood beside the bed. He handed her a cloth napkin. She didn’t know she owned a cloth napkin.
“What, Sister Julia Child’s lumpy oatmeal?” Paris said from her pillows.
Turner laughed. “I can’t believe the names we made up for those poor nuns.”
“Remember Sister RuPaul? We swore she was a guy under that habit,” Paris said.
“Ah yes, Sister RuPaul. Man, we were mean little brats.”
“And Sister Timothy Leary.” Paris laughed. “She was a total space case teaching us art. I swear she was on acid.”
“And poor Sister Don’t Do That. Nuns should never do sex ed.” Turner wiped his eyes from laughing and leaned on her bedside table.
“It’s a mortal sin for sure.” Paris laughed till she choked. She reached for the tea and took a sip. It was very fine. “Why the heck did your non-Catholic parents send you to St. Mary’s?”
“They had friends that recommended it, and it was close to my great-aunt. Luck of the draw.”
Paris suddenly remembered what she needed to say to Turner. “Listen Turner, pull up a chair. There’s something we have to talk about.”
Turner stared at her for a moment, then pulled her newly unearthed bedroom chair into position beside the bed.
“Before you run off with Anton again I…well. People here don’t know about my early days. About my mother or father or any of that. I’ve put that part of my life behind me. Do you understand?”
“You don’t want me to say anything to your friends about your family. I haven’t done that, Paris, I know you are a very private person. I’m not one to talk about anyone’s business.”
Paris heaved an audible sigh. She fluffed back against her mound of pillows. “Thanks. I guess I just figured you for a little too honest for my own good.”
“Have some faith, Paris, I’m on your side.” Turner got up and went back into Paris’s kitchen.
He was on her side? Paris picked up her plate and silver fork, took a nibble of her bran muffin, and washed it down with tea.
She had yet to go into the part of the story where she explained her bad behavior that night, how she’d tricked him and that she was a terrible woman for getting him to marry her just so she could seduce him. He might not be on her side after that.
She thought about seducing him again before she explained that. He looked so seduceable. Parts of her ached with flashbacks of his considerable skills in the lovemaking department. She’d have to clean herself up to pull that off, though. A quick shower, a slinky outfit.
She set down her plate and slid out of bed, feet hitting the cold wood floorboards. Her head spun. You’d think she’d been on another champagne weekend by the way she felt.
Then she s
tood up. Then she wondered if she’d make it to the bathroom without passing out.
She did make it. Barely. She yakked her guts out till there was nothing left to yak.
Paris splashed cold water on her face till the color revived in her cheeks. Then she brushed her teeth vigorously and tried to keep the room from spinning. She turned on the wall heater, pulled on a robe, and tried to warm her icy body.
She must have some serious illness. That was it. She’d been coming down with something for months, and it had finally arrived. That must be it. It had to be.
Well, she was going straight back to bed until it went away. God Almighty, she felt terrible. And she felt even sicker knowing she was lying to herself like a bold-faced, corrupt politician. Who was she kidding? Herself? Hardly.
After a while she quietly opened the bathroom door. Maybe Turner had left—if she was lucky. Which she wasn’t.
Or maybe Turner was sitting in a tall kitchen chair, leaning on the high counter with his arms crossed across his chest, staring at her with his big, serious brown eyes, looking concerned. Him and his look of concern. She broke his gaze and trudged toward her bed. Bed…give me bed, she thought to herself.
But he was hot on her trail. He pulled the covers open for her and let her fall into the bliss of her bed without any dignity left. He rolled them back over her curled-up body that would not face him if it had to. She made herself into a ball in the darkness of the down comforter and its many quilt companions. “Uuhhhhh,” was all she said.
“Paris, I’m going to the drugstore now and get a pregnancy test. Let’s just face the facts and see what we are dealing with.”
“Flu. Plague,” she muttered.
“How long?” he asked.
“Long.”
“We’ll see. Drink some water because I’m going to need a few drops of pee.”
She Woke Up Married Page 6