Fireside

by Susan Wiggs

  She let go of him and stepped away, taking a seat at the opposite end of the sofa from him. This had to be a new form of flirting—promising a woman he would improve himself for her sake.

  “So I’m ready when you are,” he continued.

  She nearly choked on her schnapps. “Ready for what?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to teach me to be a gentleman for the media?”

  All right, she’d been wrong. He wasn’t flirting or looking to improve himself to impress her. This was a career move. Of course it was—as it should be.

  “Not tonight.” She drew her knees up to her chest, looped her arms around them. Yet even in the protective tucked position, she couldn’t stop herself from staring at his mouth.

  “What can you teach me tonight?” He stared right back.

  “I thought you were tired,” she said. “I thought you were sore.”

  “I’m better now. Your massage cured me. I’m just...damn, Kimberly...” He moved in close, cornering her on her end of the sofa, gently trapping her. On one side she could feel the glow of warmth from the fire. On the other was Bo, a wall of solid heat. He was making a mockery of her vow to resist him.

  She tried. She really did, curling her hands into fists and pushing against his chest. But after the hot tub at Camp Kioga, it was even harder to keep her distance. Somehow, it only seemed to draw him closer, a gesture of resistance that turned into a kiss.

  She rationalized the impulse. Perhaps this time she wouldn’t be so swept away, as she’d been after the photo shoot. Perhaps she’d discover her interest was misplaced. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been taken in by a pretty face and great hair. Here was a guy with an agenda, a guy who had too much going on in his life, who had a whole host of priorities stacked above her. How good could it be?

  As it turned out, this was not just any kiss. This was her favorite kind. The I’ve-been-wanting-you-since-the-moment-I-saw-you kiss. Making out in the hot tub had only been a prelude. He was tender and generous, yet at the same time completely honest, in a nonverbal way, about what he was feeling. He held her close and kissed her and told her with every inch of his body exactly how he wanted her.

  Kim felt dizzy with the sheer, raw need she felt. It was a powerful contrast to the usual warm attraction she’d had for former boyfriends—even Lloyd, whose memory spun away on a wisp of thought. All of those past desires were burned to ash when she kissed Bo Crutcher. She’d thought the first time had been a fluke, that she’d felt turned on by the moonlit setting and the champagne, and the completion of a fine day of work at something she loved.

  Now she couldn’t deny that there was a lot more going on. This was so wholly unexpected that she pulled back with a gasp, torn between bolting for the door and asking him for more. The latter impulse nearly won out. Her limbs felt warm and heavy, and all she wanted was to melt against him. Drawing on her last reserves of willpower, she tried to pull away.

  “Not so fast,” Bo whispered, keeping his arms around her. “I’ve been wanting to do this again ever since that time in the hot tub. And I got to say, honey, I am not disappointed.”

  She tried to deny the warm affection she heard in his voice. “This is such a bad idea. How many reasons do I need to give you?”

  “None, because none of them would make a bit of difference for me,” he said easily. “And I lied earlier. There is something I’m disappointed in.”

  She extricated herself from his embrace and sat back, arms folded in a shield across her chest. Now he was talking like the kind of man she had sworn off. Self-absorbed. Critical—hypercritical—of others. Particularly of her.

  “You’re disappointed in me,” she said.

  “In us,” he corrected her.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He smiled, then gently unfolded her arms. He leaned forward to press a kiss to her mouth, the light play of his lips on hers slowly dismantling her resistance. He tasted and felt so good that her toes curled inside her woolen socks.

  “Honey, what I mean is, don’t get me wrong. I like making out with you. But I’m disappointed, because what I really want is to make love to you.”

  Kim didn’t move a muscle, but she knew she was inches from a mad impulse to rip off her clothes, right then and there. She tried to take offense. “That’s rude.”

  “Rude to want you, or rude to say so?”

  “Both.” She realized she was still clinging to him. She let him go. Instantly, she grabbed him again. This was insane, but she couldn’t help herself. “We’ll go to my room. And you’re not spending the night. And we’re not telling a soul.”

  “Those are your ground rules?”

  “Yes.” She jutted her chin up in defiance.

  He offered a low, murmuring laugh. “Yeah? Well, I got a few rules of my own.”

  Good, she thought. He was going to spoil everything by being a jerk. And then she wouldn’t be attracted to him anymore, and that way, no one would get hurt.

  “What kind of rules?” she asked.

  “Rule number one is, you let me know how you want me to make love to you. I mean that. I want to know what you like, and you have to tell me without getting all bashful about it. Or, if you can’t help feeling bashful, you could try to let me know like this. Hand signals.” He demonstrated, his hands slipping up under her sweater.

  She was so stunned, she neither spoke nor moved.

  “Rule number two is, you have to let this be all about you. No worrying about reciprocation, nothing like that. Because believe me, if I’m making love to you, I’m already getting exactly what I want.” With studied gentleness, he slid his hand down and unbuttoned the waistband of her jeans.

  “And rule number three is, no faking orgasms. I can’t stand that. I don’t take shortcuts and I’m not in a hurry. Which leads me to rule number four.” He bent low and whispered, his breath warm in her ear.

  Prior to this whispered suggestion, which made her blush to the roots of her hair, she’d believed she had a shot at resisting him. Now, however, she was a goner. She didn’t even remember leaving the room and taking his hand, leading the way upstairs to her bedroom. She barely heard the gentle creak of springs as they fell together onto the bed.

  Then he kissed her in earnest, and she didn’t think at all. The day spent out in the cold, in vigorous physical activity, suddenly took its toll. Coupled with the narcotic effect of the peppermint schnapps, she felt amazingly relaxed. Their bodies seemed to fit perfectly together. He was big and warm, and seemed happy enough to lie still for a while and hold her. Just as he’d promised, he made no hurried demands, just showed a curiously sweet affection.

  “What’s this sweater?” he asked, toying with the front of it.

  She watched his hands steal upward, over her rib cage. “Your excuse to feel me up.”

  “No, I mean, yeah, I intend to feel you up. But this sweater. What’s it made of? It’s really soft.”

  “Angora.”

  “Nice. Makes you feel like a giant plush toy I won in a shooting gallery.”

  She was trying to decide what to make of the remark, but it only made her laugh. “I’ve never been called a giant plush toy before.”

  “It’s meant as a compliment. Everybody loves a plush toy. I like your green eyes, too. They remind me of my favorite flavor of Jelly Bellies.” He started kissing her again, and she let him, thinking perhaps the newness would wear off and she would not feel so desperate with wanting him.

  Yet an extraordinary thing was happening to her. Something she’d never expected or felt before, ever. It wasn’t mere lust but something else, a sense of comfort and safety, which made no sense at all. The feeling persisted even when he lay back and pulled her into the curve of his body so that they fit together as precisely as pieces of a 3-D puzzle.

  He touched his lips to her temple. “This is nice.”r />
  “Mmm, it is,” she agreed.

  “Today was nice,” he added. “Even though I nearly broke every bone in my body, I kind of like snowboarding.”

  She was enjoying the vibration of his deep voice as she rested her cheek on his chest. “After all that whining, you liked it?”

  “I liked trying something new with AJ,” he said. “And with you. I like you. A lot.”

  She sighed, smiling as she closed her eyes. She lay still for a few minutes, riding the gentle rise and fall of his chest and listening to the settling sounds of the old house at night. A warm breath of heat blew gently from the furnace register.

  “You probably hear this stuff all the time,” he said.

  “I swear, no one’s ever told me my eyes are like green Jelly Bellies.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She did. And she knew if she lived to be a hundred, she would never feel this way again. It was a curious thing to know, considering she wasn’t all that old, yet she deeply felt the truth of it in a hidden place inside her. The thought made her sad, because she wanted so much more than a fling with him. She wanted forever, and they couldn’t have that.

  “I like you, too,” she confessed, her voice an intimate whisper in the darkness. “That came as a surprise to me. I mean, I didn’t expect to like you. I thought you’d be like so many of my former clients, self-absorbed and well, frankly, a jerk. And instead, you turned out to be sort of a good guy. I think. You’re kind, and you are trying hard with AJ. You make me laugh and...” She paused, weighing her words, wondering if she should own up to this. He was so quiet, such a good listener. “I like the way you kiss me,” she confided. “No, that’s a lie. I actually love the way you kiss me. I think—against my better judgment—I might have a crush on you.”

  She was grateful for the darkness and for the deep silence of the night, hiding her blush and cushioning her whisper. It made the heartfelt admission come easier. She was amazed at what she heard herself revealing to him, yet now that she’d started down that road, she couldn’t stop herself.

  “I’m supposed to be training you to deal with your career, and here you are teaching me something. Or at least reminding me of something. Namely, that not every single guy I meet is an insensitive jerk.”

  She smiled in the dark, the beat of his heart strong and deep against her cheek. He smelled so good, and knew just how to hold her to make her feel safe and cherished. Everything about him felt good.

  “You’re an amazingly good listener,” she added. “I hope I’m not making you too uncomfortable, baring my soul like this.”

  He kept quiet, except for his gentle breathing and the steady pulse of his heart. Kim bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Oh, Lord. He was giving her the silent treatment. She’d said too much. She’d been too honest. And clearly, it was freaking him out. He was speechless. Perhaps speechless with horror.

  “I’ve said too much, too soon,” she admitted. “It’s probably too much information, and it just might be the schnapps. Okay?”

  Silence.

  “Bo?”

  More silence.

  Reluctant though she was to shift from her position of warm comfort, she braced herself on one arm and half sat up. “Bo? Did you even hear a word I said?”

  Amber light from a streetlamp slanted through the window. Kim could just make out his features.

  He was sound asleep.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “That was the best conversation I’ve ever had with a man, and you’ve been dead asleep. No wonder you’re so easy to talk to.”

  He didn’t react. In sleep, his face looked completely relaxed and unguarded. Boyish and vulnerable. The crush she had on him didn’t go away. It intensified.

  Very gently, she laid her head back down on his chest. “I am in such trouble,” she whispered, drawing the quilt up over them both.

  * * *

  Bo dreamed he’d had his arm amputated. His left arm. His pitching arm. And in the dream, it just wasn’t that big a deal. So this was not some athlete-losing-his-gift dream. It was something else. What, he wasn’t sure.

  He awakened slowly, hugging his soft pillow closer as though to keep himself in the grip of an incredibly relaxing moment. No bed had ever felt so warm or soft or—

  A breathy female sigh drifted from the pillow, snuffing out the amputated-arm dream. A moment later, he was wide-eyed, fully awake.

  Dang. He’d fallen asleep. How the hell had that happened? He finally got Kimberly van Dorn in bed with him, and he’d fallen asleep immediately. He couldn’t even blame it on the drinking, not this time. They’d each had a glass of schnapps, not a sip more.

  His left arm—his pitching arm—was leaden, completely numb.

  He gently lifted his head from the pillow and saw the reason. Kim lay sleeping in the crook of his arm, her cheek against his chest and her hand splayed over the flat of his stomach.

  Well now, he thought. This was a first for him. He’d never slept with a woman without sleeping with her.

  Now here was Kimberly, fast asleep in his arms. She’d been thoroughly kissed by him, but that was all. Not a damned thing more.

  He couldn’t believe it. That was just purely wrong. No way around it. She’d given him his chance, and he’d—good Lord almighty—fallen asleep. And with Kimberly, of all people. The one woman he wanted to stick around. Generally, the women in his life were temporary wayfarers. There would usually be wine, a few laughs and the sex, of course. But inevitably, they would figure some things out about him. And then, of course, they would leave. He hadn’t blown a chance like this since...

  He found himself remembering a certain day in April when he was fourteen years old. He had been home alone as usual that day. His mom was at her job—that year she was selling Mary Kay cosmetics, and she traveled around the suburbs with a tackle box of samples in the trunk of her car. Stoney had been off somewhere with his latest sugar mama. That was what Stoney called the women he dated who were older than him, women who cheerfully gave him money and let him drive their Cadillacs or HumVees anytime he wanted.

  That long-ago April day, his mom’s friend, Shasta Jamison, stopped by, the way she sometimes did. Shasta and Trudy went way back, or so they said, but when Bo asked what that meant, they just said, “We’ve known each other forever.”

  Shasta was pretty in a weary, too-many-cigarettes way, with yellow hair and a good figure. She always seemed a little sad to Bo. A little lonely. She sometimes had a suspicious-looking bruise on her face, and maybe she moved slowly because her ribs were sore. She was a fool for love, that was the way Bo’s mother put it. She tended to go out with guys who roughed her up.

  That day she had on a long-sleeved sweatshirt even though it was hot and muggy outside. The skintight sweatshirt was unzipped to show off a red bikini top stretched taut across her amazing boobs. They glowed softly with a suntan, creating a deep cleavage that made his mouth water.

  Reminding himself not to stare, he turned down the music and said, “My mom’s not here. I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

  “Oh. I got time,” Shasta said. “I’ll just wait for her.”

  “Um, okay. It might be a while.”

  “Don’t mind me,” she said. “Just go on with what you were doing.”

  Right, like he could do that. He’d been reading a book on sports psychology about Nolan Ryan and listening to the Talking Heads turned up loud. It would be rude to do that with Shasta around.

  “I wasn’t doing anything.” His gaze slipped, and he quickly corrected himself, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

  She noticed. She slid the zipper of her sweatshirt down another inch or two. “It’s okay for you to look,” she said, taking a step closer to him. “I don’t mind.”

  She was trouble. He didn’t have to be a genius to realize that. Even so, he couldn’t keep
himself from staring at her. She liked it, too, letting him know by trailing her hand down her arm and then back up, briefly touching her lower lip.

  “It’s okay to touch, too.” She moved in even closer.

  “Ma’am, I—”

  “Don’t ma’am me. It makes me feel old. I don’t like feeling old.”

  “Yes, m—yes, okay.” His voice was husky, yet due to nerves, it squeaked on the ends of his words.

  She smiled and rested her hand on his chest, then went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. He caught the cindery scent of cigarettes smoked hours ago, mingling with the flavor of a more recent breath mint. The smell of her, combined with the feathery action of her lips moving across his cheek, was so sexy his knees almost buckled.

  “So tall,” she murmured. “You’ve grown so tall.”

  As though she could read his mind, she chuckled and gave him a gentle shove toward his bedroom. It was small but he kept his side neat because he hated losing stuff. He had his Nolan Ryan and Randy Johnson posters on the wall, and his Little League trophies lined up on a shelf over the bed.

  Shasta kissed him full on the mouth, her tongue startling in its quickness as it darted invitingly past his lips. Bo caught on fire, every nerve ending flaring up with a need he’d never felt before. Light-fingered, her hands traced the shape of his shoulders and headed downward, circling the waistband of his jeans, undoing the top button. Sirens went off in his head, drowning out everything. His hands, clumsy with excitement, tried to figure out what to do. He found the front zipper of her sweatshirt and oh-so-slowly coaxed it downward until the shirt fell open, exposing the low-cut top.

  Bo had spent many an hour picturing what it would be like the first time. This was nothing like the experience he’d conjured up in his imagination. This was...overwhelming, the biggest thing that had ever happened to him and that included catching a home-run ball at the Astrodome when he was twelve. He couldn’t believe she was going to let him do it. She was an angel, a goddess, a dream come true.

  His hands shook as he slipped them around her and up to her shoulders, feeling her impossibly soft skin. He was close to losing it and making a fool of himself, and he clutched her upper arms to steady himself. She gasped and winced—with pain, not pleasure.