by Mallory Rush
The room was suddenly so still, like the aftermath of destruction. He waited, glad he'd spelled it out, yet wishing he hadn't. Maybe it was more than she could accept, maybe she could only care for the shiny new penny, the bright, successful man he had become. He'd always wanted it all, prayed that she could take all of him, and not just what everyone else saw, Maybe, just maybe, he wanted too much.
The softness of her body beneath him, the sweet rasp of her breath against his face obliterated the shadow of ugliness past. It was the memory of her that had brought him this far. This was his Micah. His only love.
He gathered her close. He'd take what he could, get.
"I'm sorry, Micah. I never meant to tell you all this. You were never meant to—"
"Never meant to what—see your life? Live the way you did? You were wrong, Chance. I never would have hated you." She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he could feel his spirit soar, his heart swell with an emotion that was savagely possessive. "I never would have dreaded you touching me. And you never would have been bitter. I wouldn't have let you. We would have worked together. We would have sacrificed together. Somehow everything would have worked out, and neither of us would be lying here now with the regrets the years have been so generous with. You've made your mistakes, and I've made mine. Well, I'm tired of mistakes. I'm not about to make one now."
"No? And just what mistake would that be?"
He held his breath in anticipation. His hands—hands that hadn't quavered in the face of violence—vaguely shook.
Micah pulled his head down to her own. "Not asking you to kiss me," she whispered against his mouth.
The lips that met his were hungry, tender, and bold. The skimming of mouths, the mating of tongues. And the whimpering sounds she couldn't mute, the answering growls he made no effort to restrain.
His lips skimmed the length of her neck, tonguing the pulse that beat wildly in the warm hollow. She held him close, and urged him on, pressing him closer. His hands reached for the buttons of her blouse, and he forced himself to move slowly, though he wanted to tear them away. Her hands treaded through his hair greedily; he welcomed the tug, the slight discomfort.
If only there were a candle, even some small light to let him see the miracle of what he was feeling. Her breasts, so full and heavy as he fondled them through the gossamer silk of her bra, needed to be suckled—this she told him with no more than the upward tilt of buds he remembered to be the color of roses.
"Remember the first time I kissed you there?" he whispered against the wet silk, raising the flesh beneath his mouth.
"I remember," she whispered shakily.
"And do you remember the first time I undressed you?"
"The only time... yes. I could never forget."
The blouse was gone now, so too the bra. He rubbed his chest against her, feeling the fabric of his shirt graze the soft nudity of her flesh; he relished the way her breasts rolled beneath the expanse of him. He lowered his head once more and laved them, then unable to help himself, he moved so that his hand skimmed beneath her skirt. Her legs were parted, and insistently he tried to nudge them wider.
She clamped her legs tight, capturing his hand between them as though she were still a virgin protecting the barrier. He laughed quietly, seductively.
"You did the same thing when I had you against the car before we went parking. But you opened them for me before the night was through." He massaged the bone beneath his palm, feeling the silk of panties covering her, silk that was unable to hide the evidence of moisture against his trapped fingers. He moved them to excite her, to caress her, and persuade, using the fabric to tease the velvet texture he ached to more intimately touch.
"Chance," she whispered. "Chance, it's too soon. Once this starts, well never be able to quit."
"You're right. And you don't really want me to stop now, do you? We know how good it is with us, how it's always been... always will be. Tell me not to stop. Tell me you're ready to pick up the pieces, to make love the way we should have all those years Instead of wasting it on other people."
He heard the quickening of her breath, the sign of heightened arousal sliding wetly against his fingertips. He needed her—Lord, how he needed her—and he would do whatever it took to take what he needed. Deftly he rolled a nipple over his tongue and between his teeth. Before she could refuse, he breached the barrier of the panties, sliding his fingers around the elastic. Into the heat he slipped them, deep inside. The pounding of blood rushed through his veins at the contact; the hated prison of his pants cloaked the pulse of his virility, which moved in an insistent rhythm against her thigh.
"There's no one else now, Micah... there's just us. Ask me to undress you, that's all you have to do. Just two simple words, 'undress me' and we'll share something wonderful again... something sacred." He flexed his fingers. She gasped; contracted. He did it again.
"Chance... please...."
He smiled in the dark. So ready to take her, to make her his own.
"Please... not yet... I... I need more time."
The dark swallowed his curse. He withdrew his hand and sat up. Abruptly, before she could cover her breasts, or push down the bunched fabric of her skirt, he leaned over and turned on the lamp, not caring if she minded. His eyes feasted while they could, challenging the startled irises of green to deny him this.
"You're beautiful." He growled the words like an accusation. "Not tonight... but one day I won't have to ask. One day, Micah, you'll be mine. Each rosy-tipped breast, each shuddering contraction... mine."
She sat up, pushing her skirt primly over the knees, and crossed her arms over her chest, while moving for the blouse, the bra. He brushed her hands away as they reached, and picked the garments up for her.
"I can dress myself." Her voice wavered in spite of the assertion.
"I'm sure you can. But tonight, let me. If I can't take you to bed, at least let me do something I've imagined a thousand times or more."
Gently, in amazing contrast to the harshness of his voice, he replaced the clothes, inhaling the scent of her body that clung to them. Doing it slowly, making it last.
His only consolation on the lonely ride home, and in the stark solitude of his bed, was the fine tremble he remembered as she let him dress her; and the silent tear that escaped as he kissed her forehead tenderly and whispered, "Goodnight."
Chapter 9
"Roll, you jerk! I said, roll, damn you!" Micah gave the long-handled stick another shove over the ceiling. The round brush skidded obstinately and plopped yet another big dollop of white over the paint-spattered T-shirt she wore. It did the same to the kerchief covering her head.
She made a noise that was somewhere between a curse, a groan, and a sob.
"Oh, excuse me. I must have taken a wrong turn. Here I came looking for a lady of high society, and ended up with a sailor on the wrong side of the deck. The foul language always gives them away."
Micah swung around at the sound of his voice. She was used to his impromptu visits, but it was a constant source of irritation that he always managed to come when she was in the middle of an impossible mess—most of them worse than the botched dinner and what had followed.
Micah shivered in spite of the hot room. Chance had dressed her so tenderly, she had wanted to beg him to stop, to undo the buttons once more. And when he had driven away, it was torment the way he had left her hungering for him: Body and mind and spirit. It was getting harder and harder to remember just what it was she was trying to prove, and that fact alone irked her. Suddenly she felt a prickle of anger. It must be the heat. Yes, the heat of the house, not the heat he was inciting by simply standing there.
"Couldn't you call or at least knock first?" she muttered crossly.
"It's my house too." He dangled his copy of the house key.
They stared at each other in what seemed a standoff for a few moments before Chance began to chuckle.
"You've got paint on your head."
"I know."
> "And on your arms."
"So what's new?"
"Not to mention, your clothes look like they've been whitewashed."
"Enough, Chance. If I decide I want your opinion on my appearance, I'll ask for it."
"I'll give it to you anyway. Anyone told you lately you look good enough to eat?"
"Stop it. Chance!"
"I'm glad I'm the only one then. I'd hate to get messy by beating someone up for trespassing on my turf."
"Chance...." So she was his turf, was she? The man was impossible! Maddening! To even have the gall to say he didn't want to get messy while she stood there with paint from her head to her toes and he just sauntered around in his fresh linen business suit.
Micah pointed the uncooperative paintbrush at him. "Messy?" she repeated. "I'll give you messy, by golly. You come one step closer and we'll look like the Bobbsey Twins. Now go away and don't come back until you're dressed for the occasion."
She slapped the roller back into the once-silver container that was now thickly coated in white. After it was loaded, she deliberately ignored him, and pushed the roller against the ceiling once again, silently praying just this once it would go on right as he watched. She'd show him! She was good at this. The next time she might run away screaming if she had to buy yet another supply of white paint, rollers, and masking tape—but, by gosh, this time she'd show him, that was all.
"You know, it would help if you loosened the screw beside the roller. Then it might actually roll instead of—"
She whirled around and fixed him with a lethal stare.
"Yes?" she said testily. Down came the roller, the stick thudding squarely against the drop cloth. Micah held it like a staff meant to do bodily harm to anyone who got in her way.
Chance shrugged, and she thought she saw the hint of a smile tug at his lips. If he dared to smile at her predicament now, she just might be obliged to share the wealth. Fancy suit or no.
Looking at him standing there so immaculately dressed—his hair neatly brushed, and more than likely remnants of air-conditioning still clinging to his skin while the big box fan was coursing a humid breeze around the room—gave her an almost overwhelming urge to wipe that big, stupid grin off his face. A grin, yes. The man was most definitely grinning.
"You're grinning," she accused.
"Is that a crime?"
"Around here it is. Please take that silly smirk along with your Gucci shoes out of my sight. Or else."
He quirked an eyebrow, and his grin grew wider. "Or else... what?"
"Or else I'll belt you with this." She hoisted the sodden roller.
"My goodness, Micah, you're touchy today. Sorry the air-conditioning's down... it must be the heat."
"I'll give you heat." She jabbed the roller in his vicinity.
"Promises, promises." He started in her direction. "Come on, Micah. Show me a little heat."
"I'm warning you. Get back unless you—"
"Unless I what? Want to find out just how hot you can get?"
"Why don't you just keep your nasty thoughts to yourself, you... you—" She took a threatening step forward.
"Scallywag?" Chance stopped a few inches away from her dubious weapon and touched his finger to the sopping roller.
"Yes! And—'"
"Riffraff?" In the blink of an eye he grabbed hold of the stick attached to the roller and jerked it out of her grasp, sending it sailing across the room. Micah watched in horror as it hit against her newly painted wall. The roller left a blob of white over the peach tint she'd put on the day before.
"My wall!" she gasped. "Just look at what you did to my wall!"
"Oops."
"Oops? I spent hours on these walls yesterday, and all you can say is oops?" Impulsively she lunged at him, throwing her paint-streaked body heedlessly against his expensive suit.
"How dare you!" she raged, striking a white hand against his chest. "There you sit, day after day, week after week, shuffling papers behind your cozy little desk, probably drinking cafe au lait out of your silver chalice. While I'm sweltering here, painting, grouting, tiling, papering... you name it! Do you have any idea when the last time was I dressed in something more elegant than a T-shirt and beat-up jeans? No, of course not, because you're too busy in your air-conditioned office, wearing your ritzy Italian silk ties, your pompous Georgio Armani suits—"
Micah's eyes suddenly riveted to where her fists clenched his jacket, the white imprint of a hand on his tailored shirt.
"Your suit! Chance, I've ruined your suit! Oh, no... quick! Let's get to the bathroom, maybe if we hurry I can get it—"
"Micah." Chance stilled her frantic attempts to pull away, drawing her closer instead. One hand smoothed down her spine before catching her around the waist. "I don't care about my suit. I care about you." His other hand came up to tilt her face to his.
Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes. Ridiculous. How could she further disgrace herself by crying at a time like this?
"What's wrong, ma cherie? Tell me what's troubling you."
And then she did disgrace herself. The tears, hot and stinging, burned the back of her throat as she tried to close them off. But in spite of her most valiant efforts they broke loose.
Chance made a shushing sound and rocked her back and forth against him in what was meant as a comforting gesture. Her head against his chest, he rubbed her back soothingly.
"There now," he murmured, "There now." And it was such a small thing, this paternal inflection she had never seen in him before, that made her suddenly think of what he would be like as a father. Loving, fair... but sometimes unbending. A good father, to make up for the one he hadn't had.
The old feelings flooded through her, the ones she couldn't control or ignore. But there was more, something in him she hadn't considered before this moment. And it made him all the more desirable. She was tired of the tug-of-war between her head and her heart that went on every time they were in the same room. Even when they weren't.
No more words were spoken, but she raised her face to his, and reached for him.
"Chance," she whispered. "Please... I need—"
That was all it took, as though he had been waiting on edge for these very words since the night on her couch over three weeks before.
She opened her mouth, invitingly, drawing him deeper.
He wanted her to give. Even as she took, she knew he did, the way he urged her tongue to trail the path of his own. The haze beat wildly, mercilessly through the flame coursing her veins. Damn the defenses, the plague of too much thought. She let him take her to a place they had been before, where instinct and desire ruled; a place where innocence was lost, where she embraced the joy, the exquisite fury of untender love.
"Touch me," she moaned against his mouth, not caring if she pleaded. Take me. Burn me. Make me your own. He had to put his hands on her, to mold her curves to his sleek, hard thighs. She had waited for too long, this slow burning to cinders and ash, this hollow want that cradled her when all she really wanted was him.
In the agony of the small moment when his hand was moving, she caught it, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. His hands, his beautiful, work-worn hands were hers for now. She loved them, just as she loved him.
And she did love him. She didn't care anymore who he was to anyone else, only that now he was hers completely. In all his goodness, his badness, his wonderful complexity, she did love him. She'd never stopped. No, never...
"Oh, Micah," he groaned, his eyes slitting open. "Micah. I—"
He stilled abruptly, the fallen kerchief lying like an accusing, dead weight on the floor.
His brows drew together, and his mouth, swollen from their kisses, slanted disapprovingly.
"You cut your hair." She heard the regret in his voice. The sound seemed misplaced in the sudden, wilting stillness that continued to crackle with the hum of sexual tension.
Micah touched the short-cropped curls, suddenly self-conscious. She hated the cut, too, had hated it as soon as it
was done. That had been the reason she had lashed out at him earlier, trying to transfer the disappointment.
Too late, she wished for her long hair back.
She sniffled; she was being ridiculous. But Chance was looking at her with such visible disappointment, while his hand, the one that even now should be caressing her breast, hovered beside her head.
"I was so hot. Here, at home..." she lifted her chin. "Please don't look at me like that. I hate the way it looks, and you're making it worse." She was still aching with longing, and at the same time stinging with the knowledge that he didn't like what he saw. His reaction was the most deflating blow of all. Worse than the heat, or the frustration of her work. She wanted Chance to pretend he liked her hair whether he did or not. And most of all she wanted to grab the moment back, so that he held her until she didn't care about paint or the heat or especially not the cut of her hair.
"I'm vain." She looked away. "I wish I looked better for you. You only see me like this these days, like a drudge. And now... you don't even want to touch my hair."
Her voice caught. She hated feeling like this, robbed of some feminine extension. Silly. Vain. Where was her pride, letting him see her so emotionally naked over something so trivial?
Chance caught her shoulders and pulled her to him as she pushed away. Then slowly, very deliberately, he brought his hand to her hair. She tried to pull back in some idiotic surge of pride when his touching her was what she really wanted.
One of his arms slid around to her back until he braced his hand at the nape of her neck, immobilizing her head. His eyes searched hers as though he were looking for something he'd lost, and then skimmed to the short, dark locks as his fingers lightly touched their springy texture. And then he was stroking his fingertips through, watching the waves of onyx tread between them.