Turn My World Upside Down: Jo's Story

by Maureen Child

  “Oh yeah.”

  Screw reason. Screw logic. Nothing was going to get in the way of this now. He had to be in her. Had to feel her heat surround him and draw him deep. Had to look down into her eyes as she climaxed, as she rode the pleasure he would give her.

  He tipped her back onto the closest sofa and while she lay there, naked, but for the high heels, watching him, he stripped out of his own clothes in record time. Then he was there with her again, sliding along her body, tasting every inch of her, swirling his tongue over her nipples, each in turn. She arched into him and moaned and Cash fed on the sound.

  Eyes glazed with a passion that had been storming through him for more than a year, he dipped one hand to her center and found her damp. Not ready yet, but close.

  She flinched at his gentle touch, then lifted her hips, looked him in the eye and said, “Now. I want you in me, now.”

  A part of his brain clicked, but that little warning voice was too quiet, too distant, to really be heard. Instead, he listened only to her words—not whatever might be fueling them. His mouth claimed her nipples again, licking, nipping, teasing, as his fingers worked her center, dipping in and out of her heat, working her body until she rocked her hips in silent assent, invitation.

  And when he couldn’t stand it another minute, when her hands fisted on his back and pounded his flesh in insistence, he entered her with a quick push that jolted him to his bones and had her gasping and arching her neck.

  He moved within her, diving in and out of her depths, and he watched her face, wanting to see the moment happen in her pale blue eyes. Wanted to see the flash of completion in her features, hear the satisfied whisper of sound that would slip from her mouth.

  And he wanted to feel the quick contractions of her muscles pumping him dry. Wanted to know that even when she left him, he would have this one moment to remember.

  “That’s so good,” she cried, her voice breaking. “So good. Harder, Cash, harder. Faster.”

  His body a piston, he gave her what she wanted, moving on her, in her, with a fierce need and desire driving him. Release hurtled toward him. He felt the tension in her body as she tightened reflexively, legs locking around his hips.

  And as his body erupted inside hers, she mirrored his own reaction.

  Her hips lifted into him. She screamed his name and her body trembled from head to toe, just as it should.

  She was all. She was amazing.

  But most importantly, she was faking it.

  His body still nicely buzzed, Cash drew away from her and helped her sit up on the couch. He watched her, trying to figure out just what had happened. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t touched a woman. What the hell was going on?

  The TV still blasted away in the background and puddles of lamplight gave the big room a golden glow. Jo sat in one of those puddles and the pale yellow light highlighted her unbelievably great body as she gave him an overbright smile.

  “That was great,” she said, and stood up. “Thanks.”

  “Oh, my pleasure, believe me.” He watched her, stunned, as she moved across the room to scoop up her discarded coat and slip into it.

  Feeling at a decided disadvantage, he grabbed his jeans and pulled them on before he stood up to face her. She was still smiling as she whipped her hair back from her face. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said on a laugh. “You didn’t rock my world out of orbit or anything. I’m not running off to join the circus—or a convent—or Greenpeace.”

  “No?” he asked, voice tightly controlled—for which he gave himself silent applause. So, she wasn’t affected by his “curse.” Was it because that whole orgasm had been a fake? Was the secret to keeping a woman being a lousy lover?

  “Nope. I’m going home and to work in the morning.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Where’s my purse?”

  “In the hallway.”

  “Oh.” She stopped and looked at him. “What’s with you?”

  “Just curious,” he said, walking closer to her as the baseball announcer in the background shouted in appreciation of some “miracle” play.

  “About what?”

  “About why the hell you’re putting on such a great act.”

  Her eyes darkened and her mouth flattened into a grim slash. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do,” he said, reaching out to grab her upper arms and drag her close. “I know you faked that climax.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Bullshit,” he ground out through gritted teeth. He was good at this, damn it. In her arms, he’d felt more than he ever had before and he had to figure out what had gone wrong for her. “And I want to know why.”

  She squirmed in his grasp and her breathing quickened. Finally, she yanked free and he let her go.

  “If you didn’t want sex,” he demanded, “why the hell did you come over here?”

  She lifted her chin, looked down her nose at him and said, “I have sex every six months. It was time.”

  A harsh laugh shot from his throat as anger clawed at his insides. He’d just been used. Reaching up, he scraped both hands through his hair, dragging his nails across his scalp. Heart pounding, fury mounting, he looked into her eyes and saw walls coming up. There was some irony in here somewhere, he just couldn’t put his finger on it at the moment.

  “Now if you don’t mind . . .” She took a step and stopped, turning her head toward the television set.

  Cash followed her gaze and saw the screen had shifted to a commercial. Steve Smith, candidate for state senate, filled the screen. An incredibly handsome man, he had one arm draped around the shoulders of his model-pretty wife. He smiled into the camera and promised that if people voted for him, it was a vote for integrity and a return to old-fashioned values.

  Beside him, Jo coughed.

  Choked.

  Staggered.

  Cash caught her, pulled her around to face him, and felt fear lap at his insides when he saw how pale she was. How wide and empty her beautiful eyes were. “Are you all right?” he demanded, and gave her a shake to snap her out of whatever it was that had such a grip on her. “Josefina!”

  She sucked in air like a dying woman and, trembling, wrenched herself free of him. Eyes haunted, pain etched on her features, she stumbled back a step or two and, facing him, snarled, “You want to know why I didn’t see the stars, Cash? Want to know why no blinding white flash erupted inside me when you touched me?”

  “Josefina . . .” Instinctively, he took a step closer, but stopped when she lifted one hand to keep him at bay.

  “Because,” she said, breath hitching, voice breaking, eyes filling, “because no man has touched me—really touched me—” She slapped one hand against her chest. “Here. Inside. No one. Not since him.”

  She threw a glare at the television, and though the baseball game was back on again, she trembled anew as if she could still see the man and his wife.

  “Smith?” he asked, though he knew. And a part of him knew what she was going to say next. Though it broke his heart to hear the words choke out of her strangled throat.

  “The honorable Steve Smith,” she said, lips twisting as a single tear spilled from the corner of her eye and snaked a silver trail along her cheek. “Ten years ago, that smiling son of a bitch raped me.”

  Eleven

  Oh God.

  Jo’s eyes filled with tears, her throat snapped closed, and a ball of oily nausea rolled through her belly. She clapped one hand to her mouth and backed away from the horrified expression on Cash’s face. He took a single step toward her and she stopped him fast with a shake of her head and one upraised hand.

  “I’ve never said that out loud,” she murmured thickly, still fighting the urge to run to a bathroom and be completely, thoroughly sick. “Can’t believe I said that. Can’t believe I—”

  “Josefina . . .” His voice was a caress.

  She groaned tightly and shook her head again. God, she couldn’t
let him touch her. Not now. Not when she might shatter like crystal. She glanced at him, then away again, but his image was burned into her brain. Broad, bare chest, tanned to the color of burnished copper. Muscles rippled as he helplessly fisted his hands over and over again.

  “Josefina . . .” Her name again, said on a sigh of sound filled with anguish.

  “No. Don’t. No sympathy,” she said, as a choked-off laugh scraped her throat and brought fresh tears to her eyes. “Give me sympathy and I’ll dissolve.”

  “You’ve got a right,” he muttered, taking another half-step toward her.

  “Don’t—just—stay—” She scrubbed both hands across her face and felt the dampness of her own tears. Stubbornly, she rubbed them away, refusing to give Steve Smith one more ounce of moisture.

  Over the years, she’d cried an ocean of tears and it hadn’t changed a thing. Hadn’t made her feel better. Hadn’t faded the memories or eased the pain. And wasn’t there a statute of limitations on tears? Shouldn’t she be cried out?

  “I still can’t believe I said that out loud,” she murmured, blowing out a heavy breath, looking everywhere but at Cash. For ten long years, the truth had been locked up inside her, chewing at her, gnawing on her, taking nips of her soul when she least expected it. And not once had she said the words aloud. Not even alone in her room. Not even in a whisper.

  “I can’t believe—he raped you?” Cash waved one hand at the TV where a baseball game was again playing out. “And he’s running for office? How is that possible?”

  It was possible because she’d never told a living soul—until tonight—what had happened on that long-ago night. Steve Smith had gone on with his life. Apparently he’d married, God help the poor woman, and he’d probably never once given a thought to the girl he’d left bruised and shattered on the floor of a frat house bedroom.

  And just like that, it was all back. Here. Now. She could smell the beer again. Hear the music. Feel bone-racking chills sweeping through her.

  “God. I have to go. Have to—” She turned for the hall, anxious now to be . . . away. God, she didn’t want to look into Cash’s eyes again and know he knew. Know he could see what she’d been through. What that bastard had done to her. Turned her into.

  “Josefina, wait.”

  “Why?” she snapped suddenly, riding a rush of bile that raced through her system like a toxic injection. “So I can tell you all the details? No, thanks. Don’t want to think about ’em. Don’t want to remember.”

  “You do remember already. Do you think I can’t see it on your face?”

  “You don’t know anything about this, Cash. Don’t pretend you do.” Man, how had she let this happen? All she’d wanted to do was have her biannual roll in the hay.

  She’d been in control. He’d touched her and she hadn’t reacted. He’d kissed her and she hadn’t let the fires combust. He’d pounded himself inside her and she’d refused to feel good. Refused to allow the tingling sensations coiled within to escape.

  She hadn’t had an orgasm—ever. She simply couldn’t allow herself to lose control of the situation long enough to relax into one.

  But tonight—it had been close.

  For the first time, she’d felt something.

  Almost.

  Nearly.

  There’d been a sensation of waiting, of expectation, and she’d thought—for a moment—about letting go. Seeing if she was even capable of feeling what other women took for granted. But she hadn’t been able to quite take that final step.

  For years, she’d listened to her sisters rhapsodize about making love. About the fireworks they felt, the heat, the closeness, the tenderness. About doing what she should be able to do. And for years now, she’d played the game, made all the right noises, said all the right things. But it was all bullshit.

  She’d never felt it.

  Would never feel it.

  All because ten years ago she’d loved the wrong man.

  Trusted the wrong man.

  “You don’t know,” she said, tired now, the fury seeping out to be replaced by an exhaustion that went bone—no, soul—deep.

  Cash’s voice came again, soft, coaxing, as if he were trying to soothe a cornered wild animal. “I know you’re in pain. I know you don’t deserve it. I know I want to hunt down Steve Smith and bash his pretty face into the concrete for an hour or two.”

  Her gaze snapped up to his and she saw the truth of his words written in his eyes. She was unexpectedly touched and the tears sprang up again. Jo had to blink furiously just to see him, not two feet from her.

  “Thanks,” she said, and swallowed hard. “It’s nice of you to offer. And a great visual, by the way.”

  He smiled sadly but kept his distance, as if afraid she’d bolt if he tried to touch her again.

  And Jo was afraid of the same thing. But at the same time she was so tired. So tired of running, hiding, lying. She lifted one hand to her aching head and sighed. “Could I have a glass of water or something?”

  “I think we can do better than that—” He half turned and then stopped. “Will you sit down or are you planning on making a break for the door the minute my back’s turned?”

  She gave him a wan smile, the best she could offer at the moment. “I’m not leaving. Yet.”

  She didn’t trust herself to drive. Not with the way her hands were shaking—the way her vision was blurred by a sheen of tears.

  “Good. Sit, then.” He waved her toward the sofa they’d just made love on, but Jo wasn’t quite ready to revisit the scene of the crime, so to speak. So she took a seat on the couch opposite. Oh, good choice. Now you get to look at the scene instead.

  Nope.

  Can’t sit.

  She jumped to her feet and shot a look at Cash, heading behind a wet bar in the corner of the huge room. Nerves danced inside her on football cleats. She felt the tiny spikes jabbing at her, poking at her, prodding her to move. To run. To hide.

  But this time, she stood her ground.

  Sort of.

  Too much nervous, pent-up energy pumped through her to allow her to stand still, so she walked across the room, her heels tapping against the floor. Ordinarily, she might have taken the time to notice the beauty of the house. The glory of the wood and the building’s simple clean lines. Tonight, though, she just couldn’t manage it. She walked to the far wall and stared out the bank of windows at the black night beyond.

  The moon reflected off the still surface of the lake’s inky surface and shimmered slightly when a soft wind kicked up, rippling the water into echoes of each other that swam toward shore. Outside, night birds called, wind blew, the ocean roared.

  Inside, there was only the still-muttering television, Cash, her, and memories.

  God, they felt thick as summer gnats on the meadow, flying around her face, blinding her to all but the past. And as they raced through her mind, unfettered, Jo wanted to curl up and groan until they passed. But this time, she wasn’t at home. She couldn’t turn out the lights and burrow under her covers. She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin, to fight that inclination.

  Cash walked toward her, carrying two chilled glasses of white wine. He handed her one and she instantly took a sip, letting the cold, tart liquid slide down her dry throat. After a moment, she said, “Thanks. And um, sorry about the meltdown, but seeing him like that really hit me hard and—”

  “Don’t,” Cash said, and was forced to make a conscious effort to dial down the fury churning inside him. “Don’t apologize to me.”

  She turned her back on the view and leaned one shoulder against the glass as she looked at him. “I don’t respond much better to anger than I do to sympathy.”

  “Tough shit. You get ’em both.” He looked down into his own glass and studied the wine as if trying to read a crystal ball. The truth of the thing was, he’d lowered his gaze to keep Jo from seeing just how much her admission had affected him. “I can’t help feeling sorry for what happened to you so long ago—or for wanting to
beat the shit out of that guy, now.”

  She inhaled sharply, deeply, and blew it out again in a rush. “You don’t need to feel bad for me. I’m fine. I survived.”

  “This is surviving?” he demanded, as the anger crashed and rolled inside him like storm surf. “Faking your way through sex you obviously didn’t want or enjoy?”

  She stiffened. “Didn’t mean to take a punch at your ego.”

  That little dart hit home with an almost surprisingly sharp sting. “You think that’s what this is about?”

  “No.” She said it quickly, without hesitation, and Cash knew she meant it. He could see it in her eyes, those pale blue depths that shone with more emotion than he’d ever seen there before.

  She took another sip of wine, and used her free hand to idly pull at the belt of her raincoat. “I know that’s not what you meant, so now I guess I’m sorry.”

  He hated knowing she was in pain. Hated seeing her emotionally beaten. He’d much prefer her spitting and snarling, arguing, threatening to hit him with a hammer.

  This Josefina broke his heart.

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said softly, and took a chance, reaching out to lay one hand on her arm. When she didn’t shake him off, he didn’t know if he was pleased or sorry. He wanted to comfort, but more than that, he wanted her to not need comforting.

  Jack lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Moonlight speared through the open curtains and lay in silver strokes across the whitewashed beams. Bear’s big head on his leg felt like a comforting blanket, and he stroked the dog while his mind wandered.

  It wasn’t too bad here, he thought. Nana liked him and Jo was turning out to be pretty nice. Cash was great and now Jack was on the baseball team. So that was good and stuff, but there was still something that tickled his stomach and sort of made him nervous.

  Papa was coming home.

  He loved his father, but right now everything was good, and once Papa got back, things would be different. He wouldn’t see Cash so much and Jo would go away, back to her own house. And, he realized, he would miss her. She didn’t talk to him like he was just a little kid. And she was fun, too, and knew lots of stuff.