by Bonnie Pega
He brought up his other hand to cup her face, his thumb tracing her lips. If he had tried to kiss her right then, she could have resisted. But he didn’t. When she felt his fingers tracing the shape of her ear, she knew he didn’t intend to play fair. No, his plan was insidious. He was going to seduce a kiss from her. And the way he was going about it, he’d get it too.
His fingers lingered on her ear, then trailed slowly down her neck to the small hollow at the base of her throat where an out-of-control pulse fluttered. His fingertips drew little circles there before moving up to her cheek. His touch was deliberate and impetuous, demanding and giving, innocent and passionate.
His head lowered toward hers, but he bypassed her lips in favor of her forehead, her nose, her eyelids. Each kiss was the barest touch, hardly more than the brush of butterfly wings, but it still seemed as if each had the jolt of a thousand volts of electricity.
“I’ve missed you.” The words were so soft, she wasn’t sure whether she’d really heard them or merely felt them. When Gregory’s lips covered hers a moment later, she no longer cared whether the words came from him—or her. And, still, the only parts of them that touched were their clasped hands, the barest caress of his other hand on her face, and their lips. It was, at one and the same time, far too much and not nearly enough.
Even though she knew it would only complicate her already bewildering feelings for Gregory, she couldn’t stop her free hand from sliding behind his head and holding him to her. With a jerky move that showed more need than finesse, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. He slid his tongue along hers, stroking and teasing. Slick, hot, talented.
Gregory had always approached kissing like a sculptor approached a lump of clay, she thought hazily. He had molded each kiss, shaped it, made it his. Oh yes, when it came to kissing he used to be good. Now he was better. She could feel desire curling in her middle, spiraling outward, reaching its molten fingers to tickle every nerve ending.
She was terrified. Terrified he’d stop kissing her. Terrified he’d continue to kiss her. Deep inside, she knew this wasn’t a good idea, but she felt powerless to do anything about it. Powerless against the irresistible force of his lips, his arms. She could only weave her fingers through his hair, open her mouth wider to his, melt fully against him. He kissed her as though he were the world’s thirstiest man drinking from a cool clear spring. He kissed her as though he’d never get enough.
Her thoughts became fragmented, disjointed. So long, she mused. It had been so long. Her breasts fit against his chest just right, his arms held her just right. No one had ever made her feel the way he had. Her breasts were full and swollen, aching for his touch. She pressed even closer to him, wordlessly, mindlessly.
His hands slid down her shoulders and slipped just beneath the edge of her crop top, his fingers splaying over the bare skin of her back. He’d always been so in tune with her, known just what she needed, wanted, when they made love. And so he knew now. As if he’d read her mind, he moved his hands around to cup her breasts in their lacy covering, his thumbs unerringly finding her rapidly hardening nipples.
She gasped and braced her hands against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat. It thumped hard and fast against her hands. As hard and fast as her own. She could feel the desire that bunched his muscles beneath his shirt, the same desire that whirled through her. She could feel the ragged breaths he drew in as he continued to cradle her breasts in his hands—ragged breaths that she echoed at his touch. And she could feel the sudden deep breath he drew in as he slowly, reluctantly, removed his hands from beneath her shirt.
He pressed one more kiss to her lips, a soft, sweet kiss, then ran his hands over her shoulders and gently set her away from him. Annabelle couldn’t think of anything to say. Apparently he couldn’t either, because he just looked at her, searching her face as if looking for the answer to something, to some question only he knew.
“Annabelle—”
She didn’t want to hear what he had to say, didn’t want to stay there any longer. It wasn’t safe for her to be around him. What had happened just a minute before was proof of that. “I’ve got to go.” She jumped to her feet, ran a shaky hand over her hair, and all but ran down the aisle. She paused long enough to grab her purse from the pew where she’d left it and cast one glance back at Gregory. He stood motionless, watching her as though he wasn’t surprised at her flight. Without another word, she turned and left.
Gregory gazed after her, long after he’d heard her car pull away. He’d almost gotten the question out that time, would have had she not fled. Frustration joined the heady arousal still humming along his nerve endings, finally replacing it altogether. She was always running away from him. Just as she had nine years ago.
Dammit! He held on to his anger long enough to stride down the aisle of the church and out the door, securing it behind him. When he got into his car, he slammed the door with a satisfying thud, then clenched his fists on the steering wheel. He muttered a quick prayer of apology, then swore violently.
He swore for several minutes straight, long and hard and savagely, though he managed not to take the Lord’s name in vain even once. When his anger was spent, he said another prayer apologizing for his lack of self-control. Still he had to admit there seemed to be times when only swearing could adequately express one’s feelings—especially when those feelings had to do with Annabelle. Since God had created both man and woman, Gregory had to believe He would surely understand.
He turned the key in the ignition and headed home, wondering if Adam had ever felt this way about Eve. Had he ever had the desire not to just taste the fruit she offered, but to throw it at her?
FIVE
Annabelle woke the next morning bleary-eyed and cross. She also had a crick in her neck from spending most of the night with her head hanging off the bed. At least she assumed that was why her neck hurt—particularly when she met the unblinking gaze of the cat who lay purring on her pillow. Annabelle gave a long-suffering sigh.
This had all the earmarks of a miserable summer. Between a weird cat, a heat wave, and a sinfully sexy minister—who probably had something to do with the heat wave—she was sure she’d be crazy by August. What had possessed her to tell Gran she would stay in White Creek through the summer, rather than just until Gran’s cast came off? Sure, she was considering moving back to White Creek for good, and this was an excellent way to find out if the place still suited her. But she was afraid she’d never be able to survive being around Gregory, at least not with her sanity intact. And her heart.
Not only did she still find him desirable, she found him more desirable than she ever had. The man he’d become appealed to the woman she’d become. The icing on the cake was that she liked him. She really liked all the new things she was learning about him.
That kiss last night, though, had ruined everything. She’d been able to spend the past couple of weeks on a casually friendly basis with him, carefully glossing over the deeper emotions that ran inside. Their kiss had kicked the facade away and exposed all the raw need and old hurt that still lay beneath.
She spent the morning at home. It felt safer. She did a little housework and helped her grandmother bathe Marigold, her pet pig, in the inflatable wading pool in the backyard.
“So how’s the work on the play going?” Virgie asked as she reached for the brush she used to scrub Marigold.
“Gran, I’ll do that. You just watch and keep that cast dry.”
“Marigold likes to be scrubbed a certain way, honey,” Virgie said, though she relinquished the brush. “Use small circles and a firm, but gentle pressure. And work up a good lather. She likes lots of suds.” She patted the pig on the head. “Did you see the preacher at church last night?”
As if you didn’t know I would! “Mm, yeah,” she murmured. “You know, Gran, I think I’ll run out to Magda’s later this afternoon. Daisy and I haven’t had much of a chance to just sit and talk.”
“Did you get along all right
?”
She pretended to misunderstand. “Daisy and I get along fine, Gran.”
“I mean you and the reverend.”
Annabelle gritted her teeth, but kept her expression impassive. “We get along fine, too, Gran. Why shouldn’t we? He’s a preacher. It’s his job to get along with everyone. I’m not sure I remember how to get to Magda’s, so you’ll need to tell me before I go. I never can remember whether it’s the first road after Denning’s Creek or the second.”
“When do you see him again?”
“See who?” she asked in an innocent voice.
“Why, the reverend, of course.”
“How should I know? I may run into him tomorrow night at rehearsal. If not, I’ll probably see him on Sunday at church. If I decide not to sleep in,” she added deliberately, hoping her grandmother was astute enough to hear the exasperation in her voice.
Apparently her grandmother was astute enough, because she dropped the subject. Annabelle was grateful for the reprieve, though she knew it was only temporary. But she really didn’t want to talk about Gregory. She didn’t want to think about him, either. What a shame she could ask her grandmother to drop the subject, but couldn’t make her own brain click off.
She worked hard the rest of the day to think of something other than Gregory, and with the distractions posed by her drive out to Magda’s, she managed to repair some, though not all, of the chinks in her emotional armor.
She smiled as she drove down the dirt road, riddled with mud puddles, that led to Magda’s. She’d always loved this part of White Creek. The long dirt road was bordered on either side by the fields of strawberries that Magda tended. She sold the fruit at a couple of roadside stands over in Waverly, and used the money to help pay for food for the dozens of stray cats she made a home for.
Annabelle could remember spending many a summer afternoon here with Magda’s daughters, surrounded by purring cats and stuffed with sweet juicy strawberries. She missed those days, especially since she’d developed an allergy to strawberries about five or six years ago.
When they were teenagers, she and Danni had spent hot summer evenings with the girls giggling over one boy or another. If she remembered correctly, Lily, not Daisy, had had a crush on Buddy Wilson throughout high school.
As she negotiated the potholes in the road Annabelle quickly called a few clichés to mind, in case Daisy wanted to know how she was handling seeing Gregory again. Honestly, it’s fine. We’re just good friends now. No, too vague. It was over long ago. The problem was she wasn’t sure it was over. Oh, come on, let’s talk about something more interesting—like your love life. Maybe that one would work.
Unfortunately, no one except the cats were home at Magda’s, and Annabelle certainly didn’t want to go back to Gran’s and stare at the walls. She needed distraction, so she headed farther down the dirt road to Ferndale, Lem Petrie’s fancy-sounding, but dilapidated farmhouse. She chatted with Lem a while, admired his horses Sally and Pepper, and left with a bushel basket half-full of baby squash and early cucumbers.
On the way home, she stopped by Caterina’s shop and visited, then went by Bosco’s and treated herself to a Bosco Sunrise Special—a lemon Sno-Kone with a swirl of orange and a squirt of cherry in the center. She spent a few more minutes chatting with Bosco’s mother, Ada, who cashiered for Bosco two days a week.
It took some effort, but she managed to keep her mind off Gregory, even during an evening spent with Gran and Lute watching television. Gran, bless her heart, was more interested in hearing about Lute’s drive up to Richmond than in pumping Annabelle for more information about her relationship, such as it was, with Gregory.
By bedtime she was feeling pretty pleased with herself. Every time Gregory’s face had popped into her mind during the evening, she’d been able to distract herself long enough to get past it. She wasn’t just pleased, she was downright proud of herself. Maybe she’d survive this summer after all.
She should have known, she told herself later, that pride goeth before a fall. Her conscious mind had been moderately successful in not dwelling on Gregory, but her subconscious mind didn’t even try to fight it. She couldn’t have been asleep long before a vivid dream—a memory, really—swept her back into the past.
Gregory unlocked the door to the tiny one-room apartment he rented off campus. Before he entered, he turned to Annabelle. “Are you sure, babe?”
Annabelle had loved Gregory for nearly all the three months she’d known him, but going to bed with him was still a big step. When she looked into his eyes and saw the tender yearning there, her answer was clear. “I’m sure.”
When he closed the door, she burrowed into his arms and he kissed her. She opened her mouth to him, shivering when he deepened the kiss. His kisses had always been a wonderful end to their evenings, but tonight she knew it was just the beginning. She wrapped her arms tighter around him, pressing her suddenly sensitive breasts to his chest.
He pulled back far enough for his gaze to search hers. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he lowered his head and kissed her again. He kissed her until she pushed away and began to unbutton the denim shirt she wore. Gregory brushed her hands aside and finished the job himself, then drew her shirt down her arms.
She felt her face flush when he unfastened her plain white bra and tossed it aside and she fought the urge to cover herself with her hands. All her self-consciousness disappeared when she saw Gregory’s face. He looked at her in awe as he cupped each breast in his hands and groaned. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re so beautiful.”
She felt beautiful as he caressed her breasts, kissed them, sucked the aching tips into his mouth. She also felt things she’d never felt before. She felt as if all the blood coursing through her veins had suddenly pooled low in her body and heated to the boiling point. She whispered his name, but didn’t know how to say what she was feeling, didn’t know how to ask for what she needed.
Gregory, with flawless intuition, seemed to know. He took her by the hand and led her next to the bed. Instead of pulling her back into his arms, he pressed a kiss on the palm of her hand, the inside of her wrist and elbow, her shoulder. He pressed tiny kisses up the side of her neck before taking her lips again and filing his hands with her breasts. He circled his thumbs around her nipples until she moaned and clutched at him for support. Then he quickly removed her jeans and panties and lay with her on the bed.
He caressed her again and again, as if he couldn’t get enough. He caressed the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the valley between her breasts. He caressed her rosy nipples, the flat smoothness of her stomach, then finally the silky nest of curls between her legs. When he’d found her slick heat, he caressed her until she shivered and clutched at him, until her eyes widened in joyous pleasure and she cried out his name. Only then did he shed his jeans, removing a foil packet from his back pocket.
“That sure of yourself,” she murmured breathlessly.
“Where you’re concerned?” His voice was hoarse with passion. “No. Just hopeful. Eternally hopeful.” He hurriedly rolled on the protection, then returned to her waiting arms. “I’ve been ready for this since the day we met,” he said against her throat. “Are you ready?”
She nodded and braced herself for the sharp pain she expected. What she didn’t expect were the shivers of pleasure that followed. She opened her eyes and saw Gregory’s face above her, his eyes closed, his jaw tight, as he fought a battle of self-control. Finally, he opened his eyes and smiled at her as he began to move against her. She knew that for as long as she lived, she’d never be able to forget his face—strong and tender, his eyes hazy with desire.
He slid a hand between their bodies and stroked her until she cried out again. She felt as though she were coming apart and the only thing keeping her together was his arms around her.
Later she lay with her head on his chest as he cuddled her close, his hands caressing her. He pressed little kisses to the top of her head, and she smiled as she
tunneled her fingers through the soft curls on his chest and nuzzled his neck. Gradually their caresses became more serious as the passion flared again, but Annabelle winced when he touched her. “Oh Gregory, I don’t know if I can so soon.”
He smiled tenderly and kissed her. “That’s okay, babe. There are other ways to make love,” he said and slowly began to move down her body, his lips—
“What?” Annabelle sat up in bed, her heart pounding, her body slick with perspiration. Her gaze met the inscrutable glowing eyes of the cat, who’d apparently just jumped onto the bed, jostling her awake.
She sighed and hugged her knees. Some dream, she thought. Her breasts felt swollen, aching to be touched. The rest of her felt warm and slick and ready—and frustrated as hell. She sighed again and flopped back onto her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. After about five minutes of this unproductive activity, she sat back up, turned on her light and searched through her nightstand for a book, all the while wondering why her traitorous body couldn’t listen to her infinitely more sensible head. For once.
Gregory flopped over on his stomach, though he was careful not to land on the erection that he’d awakened with after an especially sexy dream. He pulled his pillow over his head, but that didn’t shut out the memories—or shut off his brain.
He’d dreamed about the first time he’d made love with Annabelle. She’d been shy and self-conscious and so sweetly passionate that he’d nearly lost his mind. He’d known it was her first time and he’d been determined to take it slow for her. His efforts had been hampered by a desire that had grown to nearly painful proportions in the past three months he’d known her, a desire fed by his equally intense love.