Chesapeake Blue

by Nora Roberts

  "Looks like Mike's got a little crush on you," Seth commented as he booted the door closed.

  "I'd say Mike's double-timing it back to Village Pizza so he can spread the word that the artist and the florist are having hot pizza and hot sex."

  "I hope he's right. If we're going to make the first part come true, we'd better dig into this." He dropped the box on the bed. "You need a plate?"

  Her heart had given a little lurch, but she nodded. "Yes, I need a plate."

  "Now, now, don't get twitchy. I'll get you a glass of very nice Chianti instead of the beer."

  "I can drink the beer."

  "You could," he commented as he headed into the kitchen again. "But you'd rather have the wine. I'll drink the beer. And, sugar, if you don't like people talking about you, you shouldn't live in a tight-knit little community."

  "I don't mind people talking about me so much." Not the way they did here, she thought, that was different, so much less bitchy than the way they gossiped in Washington. "I just don't care for them talking about me doing something before I have a chance to do it."

  "Would that be the pizza or the sex?" he asked as he came back with paper plates.

  "I haven't decided." She pushed through the clothes in his packing box until she found a denim work shirt. "Put this on."

  "Yes 'm. Can you handle sitting on the bed to eat if I promise not to jump you?"

  She sat and, using one of the white plastic forks Mike's grandmother had put into the bag, worked a slice free. She plopped it on her plate, then using the same method, lifted a piece of his half. "You know, we've been dating for a while now—"

  "We are not dating. This is not a date. This is a pizza."

  "Right. Anyway." He sat down, cross-legged, his shirt carelessly unbuttoned.

  It was worse, she realized than no shirt at all. "We haven't asked some of the essential questions to make sure this relationship has a chance."

  "Such as?"

  "Vacation weekend. The mountains or the shore?"

  "Mountains. We live at the shore."

  "Agreed." He bit into the pizza. "Favorite guitar player. Eric Clapton or Chet Atkins?"

  "Chet who?"

  He actually went pale. "Oh God." With a wince, he rubbed his heart. "Let's skip that one. It's too painful. Scariest movie ever—classic category, Psycho or Jaws?" "Neither. The Exorcist."

  "Good one. Who would you trust, with your life, against the forces of evil? Superman or Batman?"

  "Buffy—the vampire slayer."

  "Get out." He swigged beer. "Superman. It has to be Superman."

  "One whiff of kryptonite and he's down for the count. Besides"—she polished off her slice and went for another—"Buffy has a much more interesting wardrobe."

  He shook his head in disgust. "Let's move on. Shower or bath?"

  "It would depend on—"

  "No, no, no." He snagged more pizza. "No depends. Pick."

  "Bath." She licked sauce off her finger. "Long, hot and full of bubbles."

  "Just as I suspected. Dog or cat."

  "Cat."

  He set the slice down. "That is just so wrong."

  "I work all day. Cats are self-reliant, and they don't chew your shoes."

  He shook his head in deep regret. "This might be the end of things between us. Can this relationship be saved? Quick. French fries or caviar?"

  "Really, that's ridiculous. French fries, of course."

  "Do you mean it?" As if hope had sprung giddily into his heart, he grabbed her hand in a tight grip. "You're not just saying that to string me along so you can have your way with me?"

  "Caviar is fine on occasion, but it's hardly an essential element of life."

  "Thank God." He gave her hand a loud kiss, then went back to eating. "Other than a woeful ignorance of music and poor judgment over pets, you did really well. I'll sleep with you."

  "I don't know what to say. I'm so touched. Tell me about the woman in the painting—the brunette sitting in front of the window in Rome."

  "Bella? Want some more wine?"

  She lifted that eyebrow in the way that stirred his blood. "Are you stalling?"

  "Yeah, but do you want some more wine anyway?"

  "All right."

  He got up to get the bottle, topped off Dru's glass before sitting down again. "You want to know if I slept with her?"

  "Amazing. I'm transparent as glass to you." She took another bite of pizza. "You could tell me it's none of my business."

  "I could. Or I could lie to you. She's a tour guide. I'd see her now and then when I was out and around. We got to know each other. I liked her. I painted her, and I slept with her. We enjoyed each other. It never got any deeper or more complicated than that. I don't sleep with every woman who models for me. And I don't paint every woman I sleep with."

  "I wondered. And I wondered if you'd lie to me. That's a habit of mine, assuming someone will give the handy lie instead of the more complicated truth. You're not the kind of man I'm used to."

  "Drusilla—" He broke off with a muttered oath when his cell phone rang.

  "Go ahead. I'll put this away for you."

  She eased from the bed, gathered the pizza box, the plates, while he flipped on the phone. "Yeah? No, I'm okay. I was distracted. Anna, I'm fine. I finished the painting I was working on. As I matter of fact I'm not starving myself to death. I just had pizza with Dru. Uh-huh. Sure. I'll be home tomorrow. Absolutely. I love you, too."

  He hung up as Dru came back in. "Anna."

  "Yes, I heard." She picked up the phone, set it on a nearby table.

  "Do you know you have beer, wine, a month's supply of soft drinks and now leftover pizza as the total contents of your refrigerator?"

  "There used to be half a meatball sub, but I ate it."

  "Oh, well then." She walked to the door. Locked it. The sound of that turning lock might have echoed in her head, but it wasn't going to stop her.

  She crossed to him.

  "The last time I went to bed with a man it was a humiliating experience for me. That's been nearly two years ago now. I haven't particularly missed sex. It's very possible, on some level, I'm using you to take back something I feel someone else took from me."

  Since he was still sitting cross-legged on the bed, she slid onto his lap, hooked her legs around his hips, her arms around his neck. "Do you mind?"

  "I can't say I do." He ran his hands up her back. "But here's the thing. You may get more than you bargained for."

  "Calculated risk," she murmured and brought her mouth to his.

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

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  HIS HANDS GLIDED over her skin, and nerves sparked under it. She wanted this, wanted him. The decision to come to his bed had been her own. But she knew the pounding of her heart was as much from panic as from desire.

  And so, she realized as those wonderful hands rubbed up and down her back, did he.

  "Relax." He whispered it as his lips trailed over her cheek. "It's not brain surgery."

  "I don't think I want to relax." Those nerves were a separate kind of thrill, running fast along the tingle of needs. "I don't think I can."

  "Okay." And still he stroked, easy hands, easy lips. "Then just be sure."

  "I'm sure. I am sure." She eased back. She wanted to see his face. "I never seem to do anything unless I am." She brushed at the strands of hair that fell over his forehead. "It's just… been a while."

  How could she tell him she'd lost her confidence in this area?

  If she told him, she'd never be sure that whatever happened between them now was as much her doing as his. "So we'll take it slow."

  She steadied herself. Intimacy, she'd always believed, took courage as well as desire. She'd taken the step. She'd locked the door. She'd come to his bed. Now she'd take another.

  "Maybe." Watching him, she unbuttoned her shirt, saw his gaze drift down. Saw the blue of his eyes deepen as she parted the cotton, let it fall off her sho
ulders. "Maybe not."

  He trailed his fingertips along the swell of her breasts, the soft flesh above the fancy white lace of her bra.

  "You know one of the really great things about women?" he said conversationally as his fingers danced down over lace and back again. "Not just that they have breasts—which can't be over-appreciated—but all the cool things they put them in."

  It made her laugh even as her skin began to shiver. "Like lingerie, do you?"

  "Oh yeah." He toyed with the right strap, then nudged it off her shoulder. "On women, that is. I used to swipe Anna's Victoria's Secret catalogues so I could… Well." He nudged the left strap. "Probably shouldn't get into that at such a moment. You wearing panty things that match this?"

  A quickening of power began to throb under the nerves. "I guess you'll just have to find out for yourself."

  "I just bet you are" He leaned in to rub his lips over her shoulder. "You're a coordinated sort of woman. You know what other part—anatomically speaking—I really like about you?"

  His lips were gliding along her throat now, rousing and soothing at the same time. "I hesitate to ask."

  "This right here." His fingers stroked the nape of her neck. "Drives me crazy. I'll warn you I'm going to have to bite it in just a little while, so don't be alarmed."

  "I appreciate you… mmmm." His teeth scraped along her jaw, closing lightly over her chin before they nipped at her bottom lip.

  "You were starting to relax," he whispered when her breath caught. "Can't have that."

  This time his mouth took hers, hot, hard, in a proprietary kiss that was almost a branding. The leap from playful to possessive was so fast, so high she could do nothing but cling while he ravaged.

  Steady, she thought as her mind reeled. Had she believed she'd needed to be steady and sure? Oh no, this breathless race was better. So much better.

  Her legs tightened around his waist, her body strained. On a jolt of need she answered the demand of the kiss with demands of her own.

  No, this wasn't just want, she realized. This was craving.

  She shoved at his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders so that her fingers could dig into flesh, could mold muscle.

  Her scent was everywhere, as if she'd bathed in wildflowers. The delicacy of it, the silky texture of that fragrant skin misted his mind. The quiet, throaty moans she made when he touched, when he tasted, sprinted through his blood.

  The light was changing, softening toward evening. He wanted to see that gentle sunlight glow over her, watch it catch in the green and gold of her eyes.

  Her breath trembled out, and she arched back when he feasted on the long line of her throat. Flowed back, as if boneless, when his tongue slid toward her breast.

  Struggling not to rush, he lifted his head to look down at her.

  "Flexible, aren't you?"

  "I take"—she shuddered, bowed—"yoga. Twice a week."

  "Mother of God," was all he could manage as the long, lean length of her stretched back with her legs still locked around his waist.

  Almost reverently now, his hands moved over her, exploring the slope of shoulder, curve of breast, the line of torso. He flipped open the button at her waist and eased the zipper down. Slowly.

  "I was right." He tortured them both by slipping his fingers just under the elastic of white lace panties. "Coordinated. In more ways than one."

  Tucking his hands under her hips, he lifted them. And nuzzled at her belly. He felt the muscles quiver under his lips, then jerk when he pressed his mouth to the lace between the V of cotton. The thrill coiled inside her, tight as a fist, then spread, fingers of pleasure that stroked toward an aching. When her legs trembled, he nudged them down, then drew the trim, tailored slacks away.

  "I need to work my way up to the nape of your neck." His lips and fingers played over her legs. "It may take a while."

  "That's okay." Her breath caught, then released on a sigh. "Take your time."

  He didn't rush. As the aches built she fisted her hands in the sheets to stop herself from begging. She wanted to comb her fingers through his hair, to run them over his body, but was afraid if she released her anchor, even for an instant, she would fly out of this pool of swirling pleasures. She wanted to drown in it. He nipped lightly at her thigh and had her turning her face into the mattress, choking back a moan. His tongue slipped and slid along the edge of lace, turned moan into sob. Then stroked under it so sob became quick, gasping cries.

  Her need was his need, and still his hands were easy as he rolled the lace down, as he brushed his palm over the heat. Watching her rise up, seeing her eyes go shocked, go blind as he urged her up, was glorious.

  When she went limp, he moved up her body with lazy kisses. He wanted her to tremble, to call out his name, to clamp around him as if life depended on it.

  And she would, he promised himself as he suckled her breast through the lace. Before they were done, she would.

  Her heart was thudding under his mouth, and its beat kicked higher when he pulled the lace away and took flesh.

  Her fingers tangled in his hair, pressed him closer, then streaked down his back.

  "Let me." Her voice was thick and dreamy as she tugged at his jeans. "Let me."

  The music was a low, pumping, primal beat, as urgent as her pulse. She rolled as she dragged denim away, pressed her body along the length of his. Found his mouth in a desperate kiss.

  She needed, needed to fill herself with him, and took her lips on a wild journey over his face, his throat, his chest. God, so hard, so lean, so male.

  She wanted, wanted him to fill her, to know that shock, that wonder of being invaded, of being joined. But when she would have straddled him, have taken him into her, he reared up. "Not yet." And flipped her over on her stomach. "I want—"

  "So do I. Christ, so do I."

  When he closed his teeth over the nape of her neck, the erotic shock had her crying out. Her hands closed over the iron rungs of the headboard, but there was no anchor this time.

  She went wild.

  She bucked under him, felt herself hurtling toward something like madness. "God. Oh God. Now."

  His hand shot under her, and those clever fingers plunged into her, into the heat and the wet. She came on a violent leap that left her helpless and shuddering.

  When her hands unclasped the rungs, he pushed her to her back. "Now," he said, and crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing her scream as he drove into her.

  She closed around him, arched to him. A fast rise and fall, flesh pounding damply against flesh. Each time her breath would catch, his blood beat.

  So he watched her as the last glints of sunlight glowed on her face, caught in the green and gold of her eyes as they hazed with tears.

  She lifted a hand to his cheek, and there was a kind of wonder in her voice when she said, "Seth."

  The beauty of it all but drowned him.

  He watched her still as everything inside them shattered.

  THE NEXT BEST THING to making love, in Seth's opinion, was floating along on the warm river of satisfaction after making love. There was something incredibly soft and lovely about a woman's body after completion that made it the perfect resting place.

  They'd lost sunset and were drifting toward dusk. Somewhere along the way, he realized, his last CD had finished playing. Now there was only the sound of wind rising up and Drusilla's breathing.

  Rain was coming. He could smell it—could sense the storm dancing on the air.

  He'd have to shut the windows. Eventually.

  He lifted a hand to stroke it along the side of her breast. "I guess you're relaxed now," he murmured. "Whether you like it or not."

  "I guess I am."

  He certainly was, she thought. That was a good sign. Wasn't it? She hated herself for being stupid. Hated knowing that now that her mind was clearing again, the doubts were creeping in.

  She could hardly ask if it had been good for him without sounding like a ridiculous cliché.

  But
it didn't stop her from wanting to know.

  "Thirsty?" he asked her.

  "A bit."

  "Hmm." He nuzzled in. "I'll get us something, when I can move again."

  She combed her fingers through his hair. He had such soft hair, so straight, so full of lights. "Ah… you're all right?"

  "Uh-huh. Rain's coming in."

  She glanced toward the windows. "No, it isn't."

  "I mean rain's coming." He turned his head to look out at the sky. "Storm's blowing in. Your car windows up?"

  Why the hell was he asking about her car windows when she'd just had a life-altering experience? "Yes."

  "Good."

  She stared at the ceiling. "I should go, before it rains."

  "Uh-uh." He wrapped her close, then rolled over with her. "You should stay, and we'll listen to the rain when we make love again."

  "Again?"

  "Mmm. Did you know you have this little dimple right at the base of your spine?" He skimmed his finger there as he opened his eyes, and saw her face. "Something wrong?"

  "I don't know. Is there?"

  He caught her head in his hands, and considered. "I know that face. You're mildly peeved and working toward seriously pissed. What's wrong? Was I too rough?"

  "No."

  "Not rough enough, what? Hey." He gave her head a little shake. "Tell me what's wrong, Dru."

  "Nothing. Nothing. You're an incredible lover. I've never been with anyone as thorough or exciting."

  "Then what is it?" he demanded as she pulled away and sat up.

  "I said it's nothing." She could hear the testiness of her own voice. God, she thought, she'd whine in a minute. The first threatening rumble of thunder seemed the perfect accent to her mood. "You might say something about me. Even the standard, 'Oh baby, that was amazing.'"

  "Oh baby, that was amazing." He might have laughed, but he saw the glint in her eye wasn't just temper. "Hold on." He had to move fast to grab her before she could scoot off the bed. And to avoid a tussle, just rolled on top of her again to keep her in place. "Just what happened between you and that guy you were