by Teresa Hill
"Don't lie to me. Not about this." He turned back to her, pinning to the spot with the look in his eyes. "Has something else happened here? In this house? Something that frightened you?"
"No."
"You're afraid to be here. God, I didn't know it was that bad."
"It isn't. I'm being silly," she lied. Damn.
"Why did you want me to stay?"
"I thought it's what you wanted," she said because she needed to hear him say it so she could believe it herself.
"It is, but this isn't just about me and what I want. This is about you, too, and I think you really don't want to be here by yourself. Enough that you'd go to bed with me?" He looked pained by the idea. "So you wouldn't have to be alone?"
"I don't sleep in the bed, remember?" she said bitterly, humiliated beyond belief, then forced herself to go on. "And you're right. I didn't want to be alone tonight. But I haven't been with anyone in a long time. It's not something I take lightly."
"I didn't think you did," he said.
"And I would never..." She broke off, heat infusing her cheeks at the mere suggestion that she'd have sex with a man so casually. Intimacy was right up there on the same plane with trust in her book, and he knew all about her trust issues. Which should have told him everything he needed to know. Just in case it didn't, she forced herself to say the words. "I wanted you."
"Oh, Allie." He could make her name sound like a painful thing, as if he hurt for her. He made it sound as if he would take her pain and make it his to bear if he could. "I'm sorry. You tried to tell me this morning, and I just didn't realize. If I had known it was this hard for you to be here, I never would have left you here by yourself for the last five days."
"I can handle it," she said. "I just don't like the stairs. Or the bedrooms."
He turned away and swore softly again and again, shaking his head.
She reached for him, pressing her palms against his chest, feeling the heat and the reassuring beat of his heart. "Stephen, it's okay. I'm dealing with it. Maybe not well, but..."
"No. It's my fault. I'm rushing you. I know everything's a little crazy for you right now. I shouldn't push."
"You're not. Tonight... it just happened, and it was what I wanted, too."
"Too soon," he insisted. "But it won't always be like this, Allie. Things will calm down, and I'll be right here. We'll figure all of this out. Everything that's between us. I promise."
She felt hot tears pooling in her eyes and rushing down her cheeks. He had no idea how much she wanted to believe him. He sat down beside her and hauled her into his arms, holding her gently and stroking her hair, warming her with his body, reassuring her with his presence.
A long moment later he took her face in his hands, and said, "This is silly. You don't have to be here. Come home with me. I have five bedrooms, too. You can take your pick. Or you can sleep with me if you want. I won't touch you. Or, I will, but I won't do anything else. I can handle that, I think."
"Stephen... No."
"This place frightens you, and I'm not leaving you here."
"If I leave now, I may never come back."
"You can come back tomorrow, in the daylight," he said.
"Like a little girl? Afraid of the dark?" Allie thought of the loathsome, spineless creature she'd always been, the one who went along with everything, who always took the easy way out. She never wanted anyone to see her that way again, especially not Stephen.
"You're one of the most determined women I've ever met," he said.
"No, I'm not."
"You are. This place scares you to death, but you're still here. You're still fighting it, and I admire that about you, Allie."
"Stephen, I'm a coward. I've been one my whole life."
"A coward wouldn't have come here. She wouldn't have stayed," he said. "And you've got to stop beating yourself up over what you've done in the past. You did the best you could. And you're not the only one who's ever made a mistake. God knows I've made my share of them."
"You? You're perfect. And you're always right."
"No, I'm not."
"I think you're one of the best people I've ever known," she whispered.
"You don't know me that well, remember?"
"So tell me. Tell me all about the Stephen Whittaker I don't know."
"Tomorrow, all right?" He sighed. "I'm tired. You're tired. Come with me. Come to my house."
"I can t."
"Of course you can. It's a hundred yards away. We'll be there in two minutes. I'll carry you to the bed of your choice."
"I'm staying here, Stephen. I have to."
"Okay. I'll stay here with you. Invite me to stay."
"I feel so foolish."
"What if I want to stay? What if I want you curled up beside me, your body touching mine all over? What if I want to wake up here with you?"
"Well, when you put it that way..."
He was already loosening his tie, pulling off his belt, then his shoes.
It was a tight fit, the two of them curled onto the sofa this way. He shifted her around until she was practically lying on top of him, his body all hard muscles and heat, and the kind of strength she'd never known. She felt absolutely safe here with him and still terribly aware of him, of every rise and fall of his chest, every stroke of his hands along her back.
She knew he was still keeping something from her. But she needed him, and this felt so right. She'd taken so little on faith in her life, had missed out on so much. She didn't want to miss this, didn't want to miss him.
He shifted once again, and one of her legs fell between his, his thighs warm and hard. Her left leg shifted higher into the notch made by his thighs. He sucked in a breath when she realized he was still fully aroused, the hard length of him now nestled against her thigh. She was just as aroused, she realized. That quickly, that unmistakably.
Stephen groaned and pressed her head against his chest. "You're not an easy woman to resist."
She thought he'd done an admirable job of it so far, but if she told him that, they'd argue again, and she liked this spot too much to surrender it to an argument she wouldn't win anyway. So she stayed where she was and didn't contradict him.
"This is nice," she said instead, feeling sleepy and strangely content, just to know he wanted her, too, just to have him here.
"Go to sleep, Allie. I'll be right here."
And she drifted off in his arms.
Chapter 12
Allie woke in the wonderfully warm cocoon made by his body and hers. There was an afghan pulled over them both. She was sprawled on top of him, had hardly moved all night, and she hadn't been afraid. If this was what two glasses of wine, a bit of sherry, and a man could do for her, she'd keep him and a bottle on hand for the duration of her stay.
Lifting her head off his chest, she saw the shadow of morning whiskers covering his jaw, saw his dark hair tousled in sleep, his eyes still closed. She nuzzled her cheek against his, liking the unfamiliar, rough sensations, wondering what it would be like to kiss him this way, wondering if he'd turn her away this morning as easily as he turned her away last night.
She went to lift herself off of him, but his arms tightened around her in what seemed a reflexive action.
"Don't," he whispered.
One hand pressed her hips to his, the other pulled her mouth to his mouth. Her lips parted automatically, fitting themselves to his. His jaw was indeed rough, the feel unexpected and erotic as well. She could just imagine him kissing her all over, his rough jaw tickling her skin, his lips soothing.
Allie opened herself up to the kiss, to the magic that was Stephen. Their legs were scissored together, his, hers, his, hers, in an erotic combination of hardness and softness, insistent pressure and aching emptiness. Just like that, she thought. A kiss, the brush of his hand, the feel of his lips, and she was right there, right back on the edge, as she had been last night when he pressed her up against the wall outside the restaurant.
He kissed her hungrily, gree
dily, his erection throbbing between them. He was so close to being inside of her, where she wanted him, needed him. His hands expertly brushed her clothes aside, finding her breasts, taking them into his hands, his mouth. The way he was kissing her breasts and sucking on them created a hard tugging sensation between her legs, as if there were a direct line running between the two. Her whole body started to tremble, to soften, to open to his. Her hands clutched at his shoulders. She took in great gulps of air between wicked, greedy kisses, as he stripped her of her panties and rolled her to her side. His hand slid between her legs, his fingers slipped inside of her, and she gasped.
His eyes shot open. Sleepy-eyed, he looked at her—truly saw her—then groaned, his forehead coming down against hers. "Dammit, Allie."
But he kissed her again. The urgency of her need sneaked up on her. She felt herself suspended in midair, thinking she might come crashing down or she might go soaring instead. It was a heady kind of heat, the kind that came with being so high and so free. She arched into his touch, his fingers moving inside her, sending her splintering over the edge. She cried out his name, felt as if she did indeed go soaring up and over.
He caught her hard against him, his breathing as unsteady as hers, his heart pounding, too. She felt her body quiver, convulsing around his fingers, which were still teasing and tormenting her, and she wanted him desperately.
"Please." She reached for him. "I'm not drunk. I'm not confused. I'm not scared. I'm a grown woman, and I know what I want."
Her hand slid down his chest, down the front of his pants, and through the material she rubbed her hand against his rigid flesh. He shuddered once again, the look in his eyes telling her clearly exactly what she was doing to him.
"You'll regret this," he warned.
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do."
She answered him with a kiss, a quick, hard kiss on his mouth, and she found herself wondering how his skin would taste as well. She wanted to feel bare skin beneath her hands, to see him, as she took him inside of her. There was a greediness within her that she'd never felt before. She wanted all of this, all of him. Every touch. Every taste. Every sensation. Now.
In the end she settled for pushing his shirt out of the way, so she could at least feel her breasts against his bare skin. He loosened his pants and shoved them down, grabbed his wallet, and quickly sheathed himself in a condom, then he took her by the waist and pulled her down on top of him. Her thighs parted easily. He slid his hands under her dress, took her hips in his hands, guiding her to him, sliding inside of her in one long, sure stroke.
She gasped and shuddered, her body slick and ready, yet still having to stretch and strain to accommodate the full length and width of him.
It had been so long, after all, and she'd never done it like this, with her on top. For a moment she couldn't do anything at all, just leaned forward, bringing the top of her body down to his, letting her head fall to his shoulder. His hands were still under her dress, guiding her back and forth in a rocking motion that had him withdrawing, almost all the way, then pushing inside of her again. She marveled at the feel of him each time he did it, then cried out from the sheer pleasure of it. Already, she could hardly stand it. He soothed her with his hands and his mouth, gently rocking his hips up to meet her shallow thrusts. He slid in and out of her easily, filling her to the brim, and she found she simply loved the sensation of having him inside of her.
He teased her, as if he had all the time in the world, as if he lived to make her come apart in his arms. No man had ever played her body with such skill or such patience. She couldn't understand how he could be so in control when an urgency was building inside of her that would not be denied.
Then he pushed her up, into a sitting position, which brought her full weight down upon him, burying him deep inside of her.
"It's too much," she said, pulling back. "I can't. I can't take it."
"You can," he whispered. "I'll show you."
He pushed up into a sitting position himself and held her. He swung his body and hers around, until he had his feet on the floor, was sitting on the sofa with her straddling him, him still so deeply inside of her.
"Stephen," she said, because she simply couldn't say anything else.
It felt so good, and it most definitely chased all the loneliness away. Eradicated it. Seared it. Vaporized it. He was inside of her, so deeply she'd never forget it.
He arched against her, showed her the rhythm he wanted with his hands on her hips. When she begged, when she pleaded, when she told him she absolutely couldn't stand it any longer, when she screamed, he kept right on going until her body shuddered around him, until he exploded inside of her.
His arms tightened around her. He'd been teasing at the sensitive skin at the side of her neck, but now he bit down gently, sending another wave of pleasure through her until she thought she could die happily in that moment, that there was nothing else in life she needed or could possibly want. This was sheer bliss, unadulterated happiness.
Slowly she became aware of the world around her. His chest was heaving as he strained for breath, his skin damp with a fine sheen of perspiration. She nuzzled her nose against his neck, was happy to feel him shudder in response. He still held her hips in the palms of his hands, still held her tightly against him. She still felt him throbbing inside of her.
She let her head fall to his shoulder, thought life would be just about perfect if they could stay this way for a while longer. She wanted to sleep sprawled all over him again, wanted to have his arms around her and wake up with him again. She wanted to do this all over again, already.
He made her greedy for the feel and touch and taste of him, made her wonder already how she was ever going to do without the sensation of him inside of her.
Was it always like that with him, she wondered? Had she simply been doing it wrong? Or with the wrong man? Maybe it was the fact that Stephen was so very much a man, when the others seemed terribly immature in comparison. Or maybe it was just that this was Stephen. Maybe foolishly, naively, she'd fallen for him completely, and she would simply have to live with the consequences. From the look on his face, he seemed to be considering consequences himself.
"Don't," she whispered. "Don't you regret it, either."
She also didn't want him to forget. She wouldn't. Not if she lived to be a hundred years old and took a dozen lovers to her bed. She didn't think it would ever be like this.
Stephen took her in his arms and shifted them both again until he was lying down and she was draped over top of him once again. She nestled against his chest, finding a spot that felt absolutely perfect.
"I slept just like this," she said.
He nudged his hips against hers. He was still inside of her. "Not exactly."
Allie laughed, then lifted her head to smile down at him. "You do regret it. I can tell. Stephen—"
"Right now, I'd like to enjoy it just a little bit more," he said, pulling her mouth down to his once again, kissing her deeply, smoothly, soothingly, until it was all they could do to breathe.
* * *
She woke the next time to the familiar sound of footsteps overhead. Stephen's arms tightened around her, and she felt him slowly coming awake. Opening her eyes, she found morning sunshine streaming in through the sheer curtains at the back of the family room.
The sound of the footsteps came to her again.
"What the hell was that?" Stephen said, looking incredulous. "Allie, is someone in this house?"
She went cold all over, despite having his warm body pressed against hers. "You hear it, too?"
"What do you mean Do I hear it, too?"
"I thought it was just me," she stammered. "I thought I was hearing things. I didn't think it was real."
His eyes narrowed down to hard, dangerous slits. "You mean someone's been here before? And you didn't tell me? You didn't do anything about it?"
He levered himself up and off of the sofa. She had only a second to admire the c
lean, smooth lines of his body before he pulled on his pants and his shirt, not taking the time to button it.
He shoved his cell phone at her and said, "Call 911 and tell them someone's in the house. And stay down here."
Then he took off up the steps.
Her hands trembled as she punched in the number and gave the dispatcher her address and an only semi-coherent explanation of what the problem was. He wanted her to stay on the line, kept asking her all sorts of questions, few of which she could answer. Against his advice, she broke the connection, straightened her clothes, and headed up the stairs.
There was no one, real or imagined, on the stairs or on what she could see of the second floor. But all the doors to all those rooms were open. She slowly made her way up, closing all the bedroom doors on the second floor. At the bottom of the stairs to the attic, she called out, "Stephen?"
He didn't answer.
She nearly choked. She'd been warned. By Stephen. By Greg Malone. By Mitch Wilson, that she might be in danger here.
Slowly she climbed the last flight of steps and stepped onto the attic floor. Someone grabbed her from behind, and she screamed before realizing it was Stephen.
"I told you to stay downstairs," he said, hauling her into his arms. "Couldn't you do as I asked? Just once?"
"I... I wanted to be where you were."
Because he had his lips pressed against her forehead, she felt rather than saw his exasperated smile.
"Under any other circumstances, I'd agree with you. But not now." Still, his hand was at the back of her head, tucking her face against his chest. "You scared me."
"You scared me, too."
"Did you call 911?"
"Yes. The sheriffs department is sending someone."
"Good." He looked even more stern and more worried than before. "Now, why don't you tell me what's been happening over here?"