“Where’s Doe?” She kept her voice low.
“This is a big house, with plenty of additions. She and Aaron have their own separate wing. So does my dad, but he’s usually only here during the winter. He’s in Europe now.” Mac’s voice carried a nonchalance she wished she felt.
“So we won’t be bothering anyone?”
“Nope.” Mac pulled her into a large and well-organized kitchen. Copper pots hung from an iron rack over a black granite kitchen island. More granite countertops and heavy oak cupboards lined the expansive space. “Now that Aaron sleeps through the night, so does Doe. Can’t wake her up unless you’re louder than a fire alarm.”
“Oh,” she said, inanely, then realized her jaw was open and snapped it shut. Foster Mom Number Six used to tell her she was like one of those ventriloquist dummies with the wooden mouths.
“Hungry?” Mac asked, letting go of her hand.
She shook her head.
He opened the refrigerator and stuck his head inside. A bowl of floating camellias on the kitchen island caught Trudy’s attention. She bent low and breathed in the heady scent, an attempt at steadying her nerves.
Mac sidled up to her, pressing her back against the counter with his hips. In his hands he held a basket of strawberries, a can of whipped cream, and a jar of what appeared to be homemade chocolate sauce.
Trudy smiled. “Got a sweet tooth, there?”
“The strawberries are from the garden. Early bloomers. Sure you don’t want any?” Mac pressed in closer, his chest tight against hers, and dropped the items on the counter. He reached forward, framing her face with both hands, tipping her chin upward. Rather than kissing her, he simply stroked her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, his gaze flitting about her face.
A frisson of sexually charged energy shot through her. But she wasn’t ready to act on her desires—not just yet. She needed some composure first. Instead, she said, “I didn’t know you had a gardener.”
He leaned back and opened the jar of chocolate sauce, then dug around inside with a spoon. He smeared chocolate over a strawberry. Trudy’s mouth watered. “I don’t.” He took a large bite.
“But…you said you had a garden…”
Mac took the can of whipped cream, shook it twice. He tipped his head up, opened his mouth, and sprayed a shot of frothy creamy into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and gave her a wide grin. “I do it all myself. Cheaper than a gym. Nothing like swinging a pickax or hauling a wheelbarrow full of boulders to get you buff.” He pumped a fist in the air, showing off the hardened bump of his bicep.
Trudy laughed.
“Sure you don’t want any?” He waved a strawberry at her.
“No, you go ahead, though. You look hungry.”
Mac drilled her a look that spoke of untamed desire. “You keep hanging out with me and you’ll see how hungry I can get.”
A nervous flutter of laughter escaped from Trudy’s lips. “I get the feeling you’re not talking about food.”
Mac held Trudy’s gaze captive, his eyes revealing a smoldering sensuality. He slid a hand down, fingering the fluttering pulse along her neck, stroked lower to her breast. She stole a glance at his wandering hand as it dipped inside the vee of her dress.
With his other hand, Mac untied the thin bow at her waist. “Hop up on the counter for me,” he murmured.
It took little effort for Trudy to reach behind her and ease her way to sitting on the countertop. Mac’s fingers flicked at the front clasp of her bra and suddenly her breasts were spilling into his hands. She kicked off her heels and hooked her bare feet behind his back, holding him close. His erection pressed through his jeans against her inner thigh. Her head lolled back on her shoulders.
“This time you get naked and I stay dressed.”
Gentle fingers slid her dress off her shoulders. Soft kisses followed the path of the falling fabric and then—
Ice shot through her veins as Mac fingered her scars. She scrambled, tugging the sides of her dress back together, desperate to cover her belly.
“Stop.” Mac grabbed her wrists and held them in his hands. “I want to see your stomach.”
“No…”
“Sweetheart, we all have scars. Some wear them on the outside, some on the inside. I don’t mind how your tummy looks. Now, unless we keep the lights out, we aren’t going to get far with this whole sex do-over until we get naked.” He chuckled. “And we both know what fumbling around in the dark got us last time.”
Trudy stopped struggling against Mac’s grip. Slowly, he released her wrists. Eyes still closed, she reached for her dress and pulled the fabric off her shoulders, letting it pool at her waist.
She opened her eyes to see Mac staring at her midriff, his brow wrinkled.
“Car crash?” he guessed.
Trudy shook her head.
“Appendicitis?”
She gulped. The surgeons had assumed the same condition early on, performing an unwarranted appendectomy. But Mac didn’t need to know the specifics. Not now. Maybe not ever. “One of the surgeries was an appendectomy. I also had a few laparoscopies to remove scar tissue that formed afterward.” True, although she was lying by omission. But this was only their second date.
“This is why you didn’t want the light on at the hotel, right? And why you tried covering up your naked belly and not your breasts when you caught me taking pictures of you posing as Warrior Woman. You didn’t want me to see a couple of scars. Big whoop.”
Trudy laughed, sharp and brief. “You can hardly call this mess a couple of scars.”
Mac released her wrists to place his hands on her chest. Firmly, he pressed her backward until she lay on the countertop, legs still wrapped around his middle. He followed her down and gently kissed each breast. Then he traced a finger over her marks; the long vertical scar on her right side, the crisscrossed inch-long markings on her lower abdomen, and the six-inch horizontal swath of silver that hovered below her bellybutton.
Trudy mewled, a mixture of emotional pain and sensual pleasure.
“Don’t hide who you are,” he stated. “Not from me.”
When he followed his statement with feather kisses along the lengths of her scars, she let out a shuddering cry. She wouldn’t hide from him—not tonight—at least, not completely. Tonight, at least, she would open herself up to Mac, trust in him, let him see the warrior woman he claimed to find inside.
Tonight, she’d simply be.
Five minutes later, Mac found himself swearing as he cast his gaze about his room. Now where the hell had that box of condoms gone? He knew he’d placed it on his nightstand earlier that day, long before he’d driven down to Sacramento to pick up Trudy for their babysitting adventure. But besides the softly glowing lamp and a half-eaten chocolate bar (Doe apparently hadn’t grasped the concept of housecleaning), the nightstand was bare. Trudy stood next to him, naked and ready for him. But he had to find the damned condoms first.
Had he actually put them away? He opened the drawer and fumbled inside. Chewing gum, pens, several rolls of film, crumpled Post-Its, but no box of condoms. He stood and scratched his head.
“Uh…Trudy?”
“What’s wrong?” Trudy asked, sidling her naked form against his.
Regrettably, he still was dressed, as situation he planned to remedy as soon as he located the errant condoms. “I’ve misplaced the protection.”
“Didn’t you say the box was on your nightstand?”
He raised both hands in the air, palms upward, and shrugged. “So I thought.”
“Your patio doors are wide open.” Trudy pointed out. “Would someone have come in and stolen them?”
Across the room, the soft gauze curtains lining the French doors billowed, caught by a gentle breeze. Huh. “Who would steal a box of condoms?” With both hands, he shoved the curtains back on the rod and looked outside. Moonlight streamed in the room and illuminated the patio. A soft bleating caught his attention. Nanny. He squinted, peering into the dark night. The
blasted creature had once again escaped the barnyard and was now standing outside his bedroom on the patio.
Right next to…
“Hell!”
Trudy came up behind him. “What’s wrong?”
He pointed to where the goat stood. There, at Nanny’s (appropriately cloven) hooves, lay the remaining half of a chocolate bar. And a box of condoms.
“The goat stole them?”
He groaned. “Appears so.”
She burst out laughing. “Okay, so I’ve heard the excuse ‘the dog ate my homework’, but never ‘the goat ate my condoms.’”
He glared at Nanny. “Goats don’t actually eat everything, they just have sensitive mouths. It’s how they figure out their world, by using their mouths as means of assessment. Not that you wanted a lesson on goat behavior at the moment.” He waved violently at Nanny, who lowered her horns at him, then apparently thought better and dashed off into the dark in a flurry of motion.
“What I want,” Trudy said, her voice low and throaty, “is sex. Yummy, juicy, butterflies and glitter sex. If you’re worried about birth control, though, you needn’t be. I’m…um… I’m protected. And I donate blood, so I know for a fact there’s nothing communicable here.”
He headed outside, scooped up the box, and after checking out the package, heaved a sigh of relief. Nanny had done little than carry the box outside. Apparently the chocolate bar had held more of an interest than latex wrapped in foil. “I’m clean too,” he called over his shoulder, “but I’d rather have as much protection against unplanned pregnancies as we can get.”
Trudy’s hands on his shoulders startled him. She’d snuck up on him in the dark. “Oh, hey, you’re here.” Sweeping his gaze down her naked form, he added, “Naked, in the moonlight,” then gulped.
“No one can see us out here, right?”
“Uh…” He sucked in a breath when her hands worked the button of his jeans. “Besides the goat, you mean? Nope. Doe’s wing is on the other side of the house. Why?”
Trudy didn’t answer. Instead, she tugged his zipper down until his jeans hung loose around his hips, then tunneled her hands underneath his shirt, sending waves of arousal shooting through his body. In seconds, she’d pulled shirt off and dropped it to the ground. And then slender hands slid across his chest, down his ribs, and caught his jeans and jockeys with long fingertips.
God, he loved this. Loved seeing her naked, outside in the pale moonlight, removing his clothing. He could see no trace of the insecure Trudy now. No, this was his warrior woman. The woman he’d seen at the gallery. The woman posing on the dais, in full victory pose.
She caught his gaze and stared deep into his eyes. “Mac,” she whispered.
It was just one word, but the way she said his name caused all sanity evaporated. Mac swept her into his arms and kissed her, so hard he could taste blood on his lips. She wound her arms through his, clutching at his back, her nails pressing deeply into her skin. He broke the kiss long enough to bend low and scoop up the box of condoms, then covered her mouth with his once again, reveling in her sweet taste, her heady scent. He pushed her backward, refusing to break the kiss, until they’d crossed the threshold and he had her against the bed. Only then did he let go of her and followed her down.
Under the covering of his body, Trudy shook. She grabbed one of his hands and pressed it to her belly, then arched against him. “Now, Mac. Take me now.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to make love to her until she saw butterflies and glitter. But he wanted to extend the pleasure, make up for the terrible, no good sex he’d given her last week.
“Please,” she said, a catch in her voice. “I need this—I need you.”
He’d heard what he needed to hear. He adjusted his position, nudging himself against her opening. She reached up with trembling arms and caught his shoulders in her hands. The moonlight streamed down on her face, illuminating an expression of something that bore more than mere passion. What, he couldn’t say, but it struck him deep and hard. He pressed his hips to hers, and in one smooth motion, entered her.
He buried himself deep, and for a moment they both held still, eyes connected, heartbeats thudding loudly in tandem. Then Trudy moaned and her eyes drifted shut and he moved, enthralled with the way she rocked her head back and forth on the pillow in time to his thrusts. With eyes still closed, Trudy wrapped her legs around the small of his back, pulling him closer to her. He braced his forearms on either side of her head, careful not to catch her hair, and pressed his forehead to hers. With each sway forward she let out a soft gasp, the sounds building in intensity as his rhythm increased, until he rooted deep inside her, a loud cry emanating from the back of his throat.
Shuddering, he collapsed on top of her, sucking in deep breaths of air, vaguely aware he most likely was crushing the life from her. When he caught his breath he turned his face to stare at Trudy.
Languidly, she opened her eyes, a wide smile growing.
“Butterflies?” he asked, not bothering to inquire after the unicorn glitter (because really, what the heck was that anyway?).
She nodded, grinning wide. “Absolutely. You did good this time, Mac Johns. You did real good.”
He chuckled. “Glad now that you agreed to a do-over?”
She stretched, long and lean, then snuggled up to him, her head cradled against his chest. “Very glad,” she yawned. “There’s just one thing…”
He stroked her hair with a hand. In this position he could feel the flutter of her heartbeat in her neck against his chest. He closed his eyes and smiled. “What was that, sweetheart?”
“We forgot to use a condom.”
His eyes flew open and his heart started to pound. And not in a good way.
* * *
Mac spent a rather sleepless and quite uneasy night. Trudy’s casual proclamation had sent enough adrenaline through his system to make him compete in the Iron Man triathlon. Or run a marathon. Or a 10-K, at the very least.
Thoroughly satiated and apparently completely unbothered, Trudy had slept soundly through the night, curled up in his arms.
Thoroughly panicked, Mac had spent the night with her hair tickling his nose and sleep rather elusive.
By the time the morning sun had penetrated the still-open French doors of his bedroom, he’d managed to settle his mind down to a dull roar. Trudy obviously wasn’t panicked about getting pregnant. She must be on the Pill, like most single women. He shouldn’t worry, then. The chances that they’d impregnated her last night were slim to none. If Trudy wasn’t worried, then he shouldn’t be, either.
But next time he’d make sure they used those rubbers. He couldn’t take any more worry-filled sleepless nights.
* * *
Trudy had awoken the next morning starving for sex and strawberries. Mac gave her both—in bed. The night before, she and Mac had managed to prove to the gods of lust that their first clumsy sexual tryst had been an aberrance, never to be repeated. Now, Trudy put the number of combined orgasms at five, and not a single “oop” out of her.
She was hoping to go for an even ten, but when the strawberries were gone, Mac jumped out of bed and into the shower, clamoring for her to join him. Now, shower over, and with Mac toweling her off, she realized he’d asked her a question as she’d zoned out thinking about sex with him. She gave herself a mental shake. She’d better be careful or she’d become a starving sex addict. “Sorry,” she said, “but what did you just say?”
“I want you to come see my workroom. Check out my art.”
“Um…really?”
Mac hesitated, then rested his hand on her hip. “I’m asking you to see my work. So you can see who I am.”
Chagrined, she added, “Sorry. I do want to see what it is that drives you.”
His expression softened. “Thanks,” he said. A simple reply, but one that held meaning.
Five minutes later, now dry and dressed—Mac in a royal blue polo shirt and a pair of faded jeans that fit him like a second
skin and Trudy in a skirt and top he’d stolen from Doe—she followed Mac down the flowering path to his studio. The day she’d unwittingly modeled for Mac, Trudy had changed in one of the rooms in the outbuilding Doe had called former servant’s quarters. She realized as on her approach to the building that she hadn’t before noticed how expansive the space was. Mac explained that he and his father had separate offices and work studios, and that his darkroom occupied the space of the former kitchen.
He opened the door and flipped on a light switch, gesturing to Trudy to enter.
With some trepidation, she stepped inside. She cast her gaze about the room, then froze. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting—maybe glossy color fashion shots of cover models or cheesy wedding party portraits—certainly not this enigmatic collection of images. Mac’s black and white photographs in varying sizes, some framed and some taped to the walls, captured her attention. She wandered about the room, transfixed by the images staring back at her. Although the collection contained a few still lifes and landscapes, most of the photographs featured people, either in portraits or candid shots. Each photograph told its own story: humorous, poignant, painful, or haunting.
“Why black and white?” she asked, standing before a three-foot square framed photograph of a lithe, dark-haired woman in a bridal gown, her back to a crumbling brick wall but in front of her, a gentle river where the woman stared far downriver, her gaze holding both hope and a flicker of pain.
A past beyond repair, a future steady and clear.
Mac cleared his throat, then said, “I like the visual impact black and white photography gives—bold, decisive.”
Trudy nodded in silent agreement. She traced a finger along the gunmetal frame. “Some of these are huge. Are they posters?”
“Nope. That’s an actual photograph.” He wrapped his arms around her neck and pointed toward the photograph. “I used my 1948 Speed Graphic large press format camera. Got it from an actual press photographer who worked for the New York Herald Tribune back in the forties and fifties. The negatives in that type of a camera are four by five inches, which allows for much greater clarity when enlarged. Sorry,” he added, “didn’t mean to get into a whole lecture mode.”
Finding The One (Meadowview Heroes 1; The Meadowview Series 5) Page 12