This Love of Mine

by Miranda Liasson

  He instantly felt guilty for thinking something was up. Of course nothing would be. Meg was as transparent as sea glass. An open book. The ability to connive simply wasn’t in her DNA.

  “Let me see,” he said as professionally as possible. Except there was no way he was going to open that Pandora’s box of a robe. He could not touch her bare skin. Or look at it. Or it would be hormone Armageddon.

  He was certain she’d pulled a muscle, maybe needed a little assurance that nothing else was wrong. He’d peruse it quickly and bring this murderous night to a quick end.

  Meg stared at him with wide, serious eyes. Her grip tightened on the belt.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “It’s just that it—it really hurts. I must’ve done something bad to it. Especially after hurting it last weekend at camp.”

  “Well, here, let’s have a look.” Dammit. He’d have to lay eyes on her. She couldn’t be naked under that robe, could she? Not her style, but then, she hadn’t been wearing underwear when her dress tore, either.

  He took the belt from her and unworked the knot. The garment flapped open, revealing a silky lilac—thing—that clung to her amazing curves from the tip of its lacy bodice to its hem, which barely crossed her satiny midthighs.

  He let out an I-can’t-fight-this-anymore groan of helplessness and lust and despair. He’d fought so hard and so long to do the right thing. And now it was all going to shit.

  He must have hesitated, sitting there trying to tear his eyes away from her. It was she who took his hand and placed it carefully over her hip. The warmth of her skin permeated the thin fabric as he slid his hand over it.

  He ventured a panicked look into her eyes, which in contrast were tranquil and assured. “Right here,” she said in a seductive tone, rubbing his hand over the area, her gaze unwavering.

  “I thought you said it was your back,” he said.

  “Yes, my back. And my side.”

  He swallowed hard. He thought he saw triumph in those wide-eyed, innocent green orbs. Or perhaps it was the victory of a predator when its prey was finally cornered.

  “Meg, I—this a bad idea. You know it is.”

  She rotated his hand in a little circle. “I think it’s a very good idea, actually, Benjamin. A little lower, please. That’s it. Ooh, yes. Feels much better.”

  He ripped his hand away like he’d just touched a hot pan, but that didn’t stop her. She fisted his wet T-shirt and tugged. “The past is gone. Let it go.”

  Somehow she’d snaked off his shirt and tossed it backwards over her shoulder and somehow, he’d let her.

  “I’m sweaty from running with the dog,” he said.

  “You’re going to get even more sweaty.”

  “I’m wet, too.”

  “So am I.” She let that settle. “I’ll lick the water drops off you with my tongue.”

  “Geez, Meggie!” He looked around helplessly, desperate for some other thought to enter his head that wasn’t related to ripping that silky thing off her and pinning her to the couch. As if she could read his mind, she lay back, propped up on her elbows, and let the robe drop open. She arched her back a little so he could catch the perfect view of her beautiful breasts hidden behind violet lace.

  He was holding onto reality by nothing more than a thin silk string. “I-I think I forgot to lock my car.”

  “I’m going to make you forget about everything that’s ever bothered you. Even possibly your name.”

  That made him laugh. Suddenly he became aware that he was still resting his hand on her hip. The satin thing was warm, but the soft flesh underneath seemed scalding. He slid his hand down the silky garment and hitched it up until the skin of her hip and thigh was exposed.

  That’s when he spotted the thin film of her lacy pink panties.

  Call it lack of restraint or self-control, or just plain surrender, but he tossed up the flag.

  “Better. Keep going.” She closed her eyes, like she was relishing every movement of his hands, memorizing every move he made.

  He slid the nightie up another few inches. Ran his fingers over her flat stomach, along her midriff, and down the sides of her abdomen, luxuriating in the softness of her skin and the way her muscles flexed lightly under his touch. She shifted a little and let out a soft sigh. “How’s that feel?” he asked.

  “I feel a little hot,” she said, sitting forward and yanking off the nightie.

  Then, lord have mercy, she was lying in front of him naked except for that tiny scrap of panty. The candlelight played off her curves and angles, emphasized the fine contours of her breasts. He skimmed his hands over them like he was touching something reverent. “God, you’re beautiful.”

  She reached for him, brushing her hand over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles with her fingertips. Every touch seemed electrified, sending a jolt of arousal straight to his groin.

  He placed a knee between her thighs, and gently lowered himself down, burying his hands in the luxuriousness of her silky hair. As he lowered his mouth to her neck, she angled her chin upward to give him better access. He bit down gently on the soft skin between her neck and shoulder until a gasp escaped her. Pleased, he kissed the sensitive skin, inhaled her soft clean fragrance, and reveled in how responsive she was to just this, the very beginnings of their touching.

  At last, he worked his way to her mouth. Lowering his lips until they almost touched hers, he felt her tremble as his words brushed softly against her mouth. “I don’t want to hurt you. But God help me, I can’t stay away.”

  Her fingers tangled in his hair, scraped against his scalp as she cradled his head firmly in her hands. She looked lovingly into his eyes. “I don’t want you to,” she said, and pulled his head down to hers.

  Their kiss was perfect. Long and slow, like they had the rest of their lives to get it exactly right. The kind of kiss a man waits a lifetime for, that he feared he’d never experience, the kind that tastes of forgiveness and hope and a pureness way too good for his sorry ass. One that makes every kiss he’d ever had before seem pale in comparison.

  Ben suddenly felt something cold nudge his back. Startled, he turned to find the dog standing near the couch, his wet nose nuzzling him.

  “He’s lonesome,” Meg said, reaching over to pet Albie. “Either that or he thinks you’re smothering me. You know how Saint Bernards were bred for rescue.”

  “Sorry, buddy,” Ben said, giving the dog a gentle push, “but the only one who’s going to drool over her is me.”

  As Ben’s lips teased her soft, pink ones, he had the sense that something had cut loose from around his neck. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might have been that albatross that had been strangling him for years.

  Meg hoped that someday Olivia would forgive her. For bringing Ben back to her house. For raiding her drawers for a racy nightgown and getting her hands on all the candles she could find. And the worst thing of all, rummaging around her medicine cabinet for condoms, no easy task in a pregnant friend’s house. But after a lifetime of waiting, she was taking no chances in giving this night every chance to work out.

  She stretched out under Ben in languid supplication, enjoying the weight of him, the tickle of coarse-soft chest hair against her bare skin, and the wicked tug of his lips as he teased and stroked and explored. He smelled like summer night and an essence that was uniquely his, which she couldn’t get enough of. Now he was exploring her breasts, taking up a nipple in his mouth and teasing it with his tongue. Each time his lips pressed against her skin, she shivered with anticipation, as if she were a long-awaited birthday present left for last and he was unwrapping her bit by bit.

  “Ben,” she said as her body arched uncontrollably under his licks and teases. Her hands drifted along the solid muscle of his torso, and came to rest on his belt. She gave it a serious tug.

  “Yes, Megan,” he said, tracing her cheek with his thumb.

  “I didn’t—seduce you or anything, did I? I mean, you’re doing this of you
r own free will and accord, right?”

  He laughed, a rowdy, raucous laugh that sounded snorty and funny and made her laugh, too. “If you mean are you making me do something I haven’t wanted to do for years, the answer is no. There isn’t anything I want more than to make love to you. But we may have to do some other fun stuff tonight. I didn’t bring any protection.” He grazed a finger lightly over the edge of her panties.

  For a second, her chest strained against his as she reached under the couch and pulled out a box. A ribbon of condoms unfolded like a fan.

  “Wow,” he said. “All this in twenty-some minutes. You’re good.”

  “Don’t get too excited. They’re Brad’s.”

  “You stole my brother’s condoms?”

  “He won’t be needing them for about seven months anyway. We’ll replace the one we use.”

  “Ones, plural,” he said, shaking the box.

  “Optimist,” she said.

  “Realist,” he countered, still smiling. A smile that reached his eyes, that for once didn’t appear to carry a trace of worry or concern.

  “And here I always thought I was the one who was optimistic about our relationship.”

  “I’m very, very optimistic . . . that we will use this entire box.”

  His grin faded and his magical lips pressed against hers, kissing her in soft, slow strokes. He undertook a slow, careful exploration of her body, every lick and touch drawn out and thorough.

  “Ben, I’m so ready.” She tugged on his belt until it slid free, then at last slid her fingers under his shorts. “Take these off.” She wanted to feel him, all of him, naked and warm on top of her.

  He traced the lace of her panties again, nudging a finger gently under the edge and running it teasingly along her lower abdomen. Lord, she felt fragile as a sheet of glass, ready to shatter into a thousand desperate shards. “Please,” she added.

  “Patience, sweetheart. We’ve waited years for this. Let me work my magic. I am the anatomy expert, after all.”

  “Well, my anatomy’s going to explode right now and we’re not even completely naked yet.”

  He stood up. “Well, first thing is, we’re going to start with a real bed.” He scooped her up into his strong arms as if she weighed as much as a couch pillow. “One where there’s not a hundred-fifty-pound dog drooling all over us.”

  She reached out her arm toward the couch. “Don’t forget the box.” He leaned forward until she was able to snatch it up. “Got it. All set, Mr. Optimist.”

  Meg felt as light and as carefree as dandelion fluff as Ben walked with her down the back hallway and into the spare room, which was lit by a small bedside lamp. She kissed his neck, nibbled his ear, and ran her hands up and down the smooth, taut lengths of his arm muscles, unable to get enough of touching him. She wanted to kiss every blessed part of him, wrap herself around him, touch every part of him with every part of her. Everything she’d imagined for so long was now real, hers for the taking, and if she had her way she was going to savor him for hours on end. At last.

  He tossed her lightly onto the bed and quickly shed his shorts and boxer briefs. The sheer beauty of his naked body made tears prick her eyes. He saw them before she could blink them away.

  “Why are you crying?” He sat on the bed and gently swiped the tear track with his thumb.

  “Happy,” she managed.

  He nodded solemnly. “Me, too.”

  She didn’t want him to think she was melancholy, so she tugged on his arm and smiled. “Really happy.”

  “Well, hold that thought because we’re only just getting started, sweetheart.” With that, he grasped the sides of her panties and rolled them off of her in one practiced movement.

  He came to her, stretching out his long lean body. His skin was so much darker and more tan than hers, and the contrast between bold and fair fascinated her. “Let me make you come,” he whispered in her ear, making all thoughts flee as he traced his fingers along the inside of her thigh, slowly slipping into her slick heat.

  “No,” she said, sighing a little as she struggled to speak over the rapidly building pleasure. “Together the first time.”

  She wrapped her hands around the perfect hills and valleys of his back, vastly aware of his pure male strength as she tugged him over her.

  He paused to roll on a condom and lowered his weight down until he was on top of her, propped up by his arms. His warmth engulfed her. She luxuriated in his masculine heat and the surprising softness of his skin against hers as their bodies poised to join. He brushed back her hair, stroked her face with his fine long fingers. “I always want to remember how you look right now,” he said as he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her nose. “So beautiful.”

  His gaze was intent, and she matched it, unable to take her eyes off of him, either. “I’ve waited a long time for you, Ben Rushford.”

  “And I promise you, Megan, you won’t regret it,” he said, dipping his head to place full, languid kisses on her lips.

  She lowered a hand to guide him into her body.

  He entered her slow and heavy, taking his time, allowing her body to adjust to his long length, and filled her completely, each inch rife with heart-stopping pleasure.

  “Together the first time,” he said, kissing her deeply as he began a rhythm of relentless strokes that she met and matched with her own, until she threw back her head and cried out his name, and he let out his own guttural cry.

  Meg had never known such—joy. She’d never made such desperate, greedy love, where she shuddered and trembled and collapsed exhausted, only to want him again moments later.

  It was the only upside of wanting him and not having him for so many years.

  At three in the morning, they raided the refrigerator. Ate cold pizza by candlelight. Suddenly, Ben tugged her up by the elbow.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, giggling, but she went with him willingly. She’d go to Botswana and back if he asked.

  He took up one of her hands in his big, competent ones, and rested the other on her waist. They’d just made love three times, but her body was getting ready for him again. “Giving you a dance lesson. Dancing can be an expression of intimacy.”

  She stopped for a minute to roll up the too-long sleeves of her robe. “We’ve already been intimate.”

  He twirled her around. “Not like this.”

  He tugged her close and held her tighter. “Close your eyes,” he said, and started to hum. The low, sensuous tones wafted around her.

  She did close her eyes, and leaned her head tentatively against his bare chest, reveling in the barest brush of his hair against her cheek, the hard planes of muscle, and his enveloping warmth.

  She began to recognize the melody to a love song, sweet and slow, that she heard through the vibrations resonating between their bodies as much as through her ears. They swayed together, and she got lost in his confident guidance and the soft notes of the music.

  “Why don’t you like to dance?” he asked.

  “Because at prom, Ryan Miller—who happened to be my bio lab partner—told me I was as asexual as an amoeba. That I had no rhythm and I was embarrassing him.”

  “Douche bag. He was just saying that because you wouldn’t sleep with him.”

  “Well, I believed it. After that I—I just couldn’t risk ever being seen like that again.”

  He unthreaded their hands and brought his to her cheek. “Darlin’, you’re the cutest little amoeba I ever did see. And trust me, I’ve seen a lot of amoebas.”

  She gave a little shrug and looked into his sinfully dark eyes. “Who am I to argue with a medical expert?”

  She settled back against his chest, and he began singing some country love song she’d never heard before, low and sweet and kind of off tune. “By the way,” he said, “I can dance but I sure can’t sing, but that doesn’t stop me.”

  “Well, that’s the difference between you and me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I actually su
ffer embarrassment for doing things badly.”

  “You can’t do anything badly in front of me.”

  She’d never felt so accepted for exactly who she was. And powerful, as Ben responded enthusiastically to her every touch. During their lovemaking, he’d told her over and over how beautiful and exquisite she was, something no other man had ever done.

  After a long while, he pulled back and looked down at her. He was so tall, her neck strained to look up at him. “You like?” he asked with a lazy grin.

  She smiled right back. “I love.”

  Happiness radiated through her. This was not the dreamy haze she used to feel anytime she was near him, the one that clouded her brain and made her mouth work as creakily as the Tin Man’s before Dorothy oiled his joints.

  It was deeper, more real, and all encompassing, and she knew exactly what it was.

  Love. And she would never, ever say it, because he would run away fast and furiously.

  She loved him.

  She gripped him hard, held him so tightly he backed up a little and looked at her strangely.

  “You okay?” he asked in a low, concerned voice.

  “Never been better,” she said.

  “I’ll take that as a challenge,” he said. He kissed her temple, her earlobe, then her neck just under her jaw. The last one made her shiver.

  “I want to take you back to bed,” he said, scooping her up in his big arms and carrying her to the table where he held her as she leaned over and blew out the candles.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You knew all along dancing was foreplay,” she said a little indignantly.

  “Precisely, my little amoeba. Precisely.”

  CHAPTER 17

  As Meg approached her shop early the next morning, she found Spike lazing against the glass door in his black leather jacket, jeans, and a plain white T-shirt, drinking some fancy coffee drink and texting on his phone.

  It was one of those dewy summer mornings, angled sunlight kissing the tops of the old buildings and making the town look fairytalish in its quaintness. Early-bird tourists lined up at Mona’s for their coffee hits, and a few runners and bikers putzed around the square with its tall oaks and wide walkways, the row of old Victorian houses staunchly standing guard.