Breathing Room

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  It was so tempting to answer the invitation of his kiss. But the idea of exerting her own kind of power over this dark-haired beast was too exhilarating to give up, so she scooted out from under and gave him a good push. He obliged by rolling to his back. “This just keeps getting better and better,” he said.

  “We aim to please.”

  When she settled on top of him, he couldn’t quite keep the devil from his eyes. “Happy?”

  She grinned. “Pretty much.”

  A nicer, more sensitive man would simply have let her do this on her own terms, but he wasn’t a nice man, and he nipped her shoulder, biting just hard enough so she felt it, then sucking on the spot. “You shouldn’t play with fire unless you’re ready to feel the burn.”

  “You’re scaring me.” She slid her leg over his hips. “And when I get scared, I get a little hyper.” Drawing up her knees, she settled on top of both him and his silky midnight blue boxers.

  He sucked in his breath.

  She wiggled. “Do I need to slow down a little? I wouldn’t want to frighten you.”

  “Uh . . . no. Stay right where you are.” He pushed his hands under her skirt and curled them around her bottom.

  She’d never imagined how exquisite it would be to have both her mind and body so aroused at the same time. But she wanted to laugh, too, and the contrast made her dizzy.

  “Are you going to sit there all night,” he said, “or are you going to . . . get moving?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Whether I’m ready for you to excite me.”

  “You need more excitement?”

  “Oh, yes . . .”

  “That does it!” He pushed her off him and flipped her to her back. “Never expect a woman to do a man’s job.”

  Her skirt flew to her waist. He shoved her thighs apart. “Sorry, sweetheart, but this has to be done.” Before she could object, he plunged down on her and buried his mouth.

  Rockets shot off inside her head. She let out a low, hoarse cry.

  “Hang on,” he muttered against her wet flesh. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

  She tried to clamp her legs together, but his head was there, and her knees wouldn’t have shut anyway, because it was all too exquisite.

  His tongue delved, his lips stroked, and wild shards of sensation made her feel as if she were floating up off the bed. He could have teased her, but didn’t—and she flew.

  When she came back to herself, the midnight-blue boxers were gone. He rolled her on top, then pushed inside, not quite all the way. His expression grew tender, and he reached up to brush a lock of hair from her face. “It was necessary.”

  To her astonishment, her voice worked, although it croaked. “I told you I didn’t want you to do that.”

  “Punish me.”

  Oh, she wanted to laugh, but he’d stretched her full, and she was languid and hot and ready for more.

  “I’m only wearing one.” He tilted his head toward the condom wrapper on the bed. “You’ll have to hope for the best.”

  “Go ahead and make fun of me, lover boy. You won’t be laughing for long.” She crossed her arms over her body and pulled off her dress, conscious of the feel of him embedded inside her, almost—but not quite—all the way.

  He drew her fingers to his mouth and kissed them. Now she wore only a black lacy bra and her gold bangle with breathe engraved inside. Slowly, she began to move, reveling in her power, feeling every inch a woman who could satisfy a man like this.

  His hands didn’t stay still for long. They flicked open her bra and tossed it aside so he could claim her breasts. Then he gripped her bottom and stroked her where their bodies met. Finally he drew her down so he could have her mouth. His hips thrust beneath her, and she wanted it to be as wonderful for him as it was for her, so even as their mouths mated, she forced herself to hold back, move slower and slower, ignore her own body’s fierce demand.

  His skin gleamed with sweat. His muscles quivered. She moved slower . . . Slower still . . . She was dying, and so was he, and he could have driven into her to finish off, but he didn’t, and she knew that the effort was costing him. Costing her . . . But she went even slower.

  Slower still. Barely moving.

  Only the slightest friction . . . The smallest contraction . . .

  Until even that . . .

  . . . was too much.

  15

  The bells of San Gimignano rang softly through the morning rain. The hotel room had grown chilly during the night, and Isabel huddled deeper into the covers, warm and safe, sheltered by the ancient watchtowers and ghosts of the faithful.

  Last night had been a pilgrimage for her. She smiled into her pillow and rolled to her back. She’d been in control, out of control, mindless and mindful, and every bit of it had been wonderful. Ren had been an indefatigable lover—no surprise there. The surprise had been that she’d kept up with him.

  Now she was alone in the room. With a yawn, she threw her feet over the side and made her way to the bathroom. She found his backpack lying unzipped on the floor beneath her black fringed shawl. Inside she located a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste missing its top. He’d planned ahead, something she always appreciated.

  After a quick bath she wrapped herself in one of the hotel’s big towels and looked inside the backpack to see if he’d thought to bring a comb. No comb, but a red lace thong.

  He poked his head in the door. “A small token of my affection. As soon as you put it on, I’ll share breakfast with you.”

  “It’s not even nine o’clock. You’re up awfully early.”

  “Day’s a-wastin’. Things to do.” He smiled at her in a way that indicated exactly what those things might be.

  “Leave me alone while I get dressed.”

  “And exactly why would you want to do that?”

  Ren had never seen anything as cute as Dr. Fifi all rumpled and damp from her bath, curls everywhere, cheeks glowing, nose shiny with freckles. But there wasn’t anything innocent about her curvy body or that bright red thong dangling from her competent little fingers.

  Last night had been crazy. She was either ordering him around like a dominatrix or lying limp and pliable in his arms. It had been more fun than he’d ever had with a woman, and he couldn’t wait for the fun to start all over again. “Come here.”

  “Oh no you don’t. I’m hungry. What did you bring me?”

  “Nothing. Drop that towel.”

  She twirled the thong on her finger. “I smell coffee.”

  “Your imagination.”

  “I don’t think so. Pour. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He shut the door, smiled again, and retrieved the white paper sack containing the coffee and rolls he’d bought. The guy behind the counter had recognized him, which had forced Ren into signing autographs for the man’s relatives, but he’d been feeling too good to mind.

  The bathroom door swung open, and he nearly spilled his coffee. She stood framed in the doorway wearing only her black fringed shawl and the lacy red thong he’d bought on impulse yesterday.

  “Is this what you had in mind?”

  “Even better.”

  She smiled, flicked her shoulders, and let the shawl drop.

  By the time they got to the coffee, it was stone cold.

  “I love San Gimignano,” she said as they drove home through the rain. “I could have stayed there forever.”

  He hid his smile and turned the windshield wipers up a notch. “You’re going to give me money again, aren’t you?”

  “Dude, if anybody’s handing out money for sexual favors, it should be you, because I was pretty darned good. Admit it.”

  She looked so happy with herself he didn’t even think of disputing her. “You were world-class.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  He laughed and wanted to kiss her again, but she lectured when he took his hands off the wheel.

  She let one sandal swing from her toes
as she crossed her legs. “If you were to give me a number, what would it be?”

  “A number?”

  “A ranking.”

  “You want me to rank you?” Just when he thought she’d lost the ability to surprise him, she hit him in the head with her personal clapper board.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little demeaning?”

  “Not if I’m the one asking.”

  He was no fool, and he recognized a snake pit when he saw it. “Why do you want this ranking?”

  “Not because I’m being competitive—don’t flatter yourself. I just want an idea of my current level of competence from the viewpoint of a recognized authority. How far I’ve come. And—in the interest of self-improvement—how far I have to go.”

  “That ‘coming’ part . . .”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Okay.” He relaxed back into the seat. “I have to be honest. You weren’t number one. Are you all right with that?”

  “Go on.”

  He took a hairpin turn. “Number one was a highly accomplished French courtesan.”

  “Ah, well, a Frenchwoman.”

  “Number two spent her formative years in a Middle Eastern harem, and you can hardly expect to compete with that, right?”

  “I suppose not. Although I do think—”

  “As for number three, that’s iffy. Either a bisexual contortionist for the Cirque du Soleil or a pair of red-haired twins with an interesting fetish. Number four—”

  “Just cut to the chase.”

  “Fifty-eight.”

  “Go ahead. Have your fun.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  She gave him a cute smirk and wiggled deeper in her seat. “I wasn’t serious anyway. I have way too much confidence in myself to care how you rank me. I just wanted to make you squirm.”

  “I don’t seem to be the only one squirming. Maybe you’re feeling a little more insecure than you’re letting on.”

  “It’s the thong.” She tugged at it through her skirt. “Truly a garment for desperate women.”

  “I enjoyed it.”

  “I noticed. You understand, don’t you, that you have to move back to the villa now?”

  Just like that, she’d slammed him with the clapper board again. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m prepared to have an affair with you, but I’m not prepared for us to live together.”

  “We were living together yesterday.”

  “That was before last night.”

  “I’m not stumbling back to the villa at five o’clock in the morning.” He punched the accelerator harder than necessary. “And if you think we won’t be sleeping together again, then you must have a short memory.”

  “I didn’t say you couldn’t stay overnight occasionally. I just said you couldn’t keep living at the farmhouse.”

  “A fine distinction.”

  “An important one.” Isabel understood the difference, and she suspected he did, too. She touched her bangle. She couldn’t stay centered unless she had plenty of time alone to catch her breath. “Our affair is only about having sex.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot her his killer’s scowl, but she ignored it. “Living together complicates that.”

  “I don’t see what’s so complicated about it.”

  “When two people live together, they’re making an emotional commitment.”

  “Wait a min—”

  “Oh, stop looking so horrified. You’re only proving my point. We’re having a short-term physical relationship, with no emotional component. All you’re getting from me is my body. That should be good news.”

  His expression grew blacker, something she didn’t understand, since she’d just outlined a perfect relationship from his point of view. He must be balking because she was the one who was laying out the terms. Predictable gender-driven behavior. But she couldn’t take anything for granted when it came to this man, and she plunged on. “Just to make certain we’re clear about this . . . as long as we’re having sex, we’ll both be faithful.”

  “Will you stop talking about ‘having sex’? You make it sound like a flu strain. And I don’t need any lectures about fidelity.”

  “I’m not lecturing.”

  That made him laugh.

  “All right,” she conceded. “Maybe I was lecturing. Go ahead. It’s your turn.”

  “I get a turn?”

  “Of course. I’m certain you have some conditions.”

  “Damn right.”

  She watched him try to think of a few and resisted the urge to make suggestions.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll move my stuff out as soon as we get back. But if we’re ‘having sex,’ I’m not going home afterward.”

  “All right.”

  “And if we’re not ‘having sex,’ and I’m forced to spend the night at the villa with those hooligans you foisted on me, then don’t expect me to be in a good mood the next day. If I want to pick a fight, I get to.”

  “Fine.” She uncrossed her legs. “But you can’t say ‘shut up.’ ”

  “Shut up.”

  “One other thing . . .”

  “No other thing.”

  “Last night you crossed a boundary. And just because I was mistaken about establishing that particular boundary, that doesn’t mean I want you to keep doing it.”

  His eyes grew sly. “Tell me which boundary I crossed.”

  “You know which boundary.”

  “Talk dirty to me. Was it the one where you had your knees locked around—”

  “That would be it.”

  “Baby, when you’re wrong, you’re wrong.” He gave a diabolic chuckle. “Really wrong. And it has me wondering—”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.”

  “How do you even know what I’m going to ask?”

  “I’m extremely perceptive. You’re a man, and you’d like a little reciprocity.”

  “It’s not a deal breaker. I’m more than happy with the way things are.”

  “That’s nice to know.”

  “And I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

  “Thank you. I won’t.”

  “The only reason I’m even bringing this up is to reassure you. I just wanted you to know that if you ever decided to . . . get adventurous, I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

  “How could you be anything else?”

  “You understand me so well.”

  The rain kept all of them trapped inside the villa through the morning and into the early afternoon. Harry roamed from one room to another with his cell phone pressed to his ear, avoiding only those rooms Tracy happened to be in. Tracy played Barbies until she wanted to rip the little anorexic bitch’s head off. She tried to keep Jeremy entertained with card games he didn’t want to play. The kids fought, Connor was pulling on his ear, and her ankles had started to swell, which meant that she needed to lay off salt, and what was the point of life without salt? Just thinking about it made her want to lick her way through a bag of potato chips.

  She finally got Connor down for a nap, the rain stopped, and the other kids ran outside to play. She was ready to weep with gratitude, except that watching Harry place yet another call on his cell made her upset all over again. She thought about what Isabel had said—the question she was supposed to ask—what three things could she do that would make him happy? What about the things he could do to make her happy? At that moment she hated Isabel Favor nearly as much as she hated Harry.

  He made the mistake of walking past her just as she tripped over the case to his laptop that Connor had been dragging around. She picked it up and threw it at him. He didn’t yell, but then Harry never yelled. She was the yeller in the family. He simply ended his call and gave her his disapproving look, the same one he turned on the children when they misbehaved. “I’m sure you had a reason for that.”

  “I’m only sorry it wasn’t a chair. It’s been raining like hell all morning, and you hav
en’t once helped with the kids.”

  “I had an emergency conference call. I told you that. I’ve canceled all my meetings and rescheduled two presentations, but I needed to take care of this.”

  She knew he was at a critical point in the project, and he’d already stayed around longer than she’d ever dreamed he would. He’d also spent more hours with the kids since he’d arrived than she had, but she hurt too much to care about being fair. She only cared about being right. “I wish I had the luxury of deciding I could pick up the phone anytime I wanted.” When had she turned into such a shrew?

  When her husband had stopped loving her.

  “Just calm down, will you? For once in your life could you at least pretend to be reasonable?”

  Distancing her . . . always distancing her. Pretending her feelings didn’t count just so he wouldn’t have to deal with them. “What’s the point, Harry? Why pretend anything? I’m pregnant again, you can’t stand being around me, you don’t even like me. God, I’m sick of you.”

  “Stop being so melodramatic. I’ll get used to having another kid. You blow things out of proportion just because you get bored and want to entertain yourself.”

  All he did was belittle her. She couldn’t tolerate another minute of his cool detachment, another second of knowing how little their love meant to him.

  “This overreacting is because of your pregnancy,” he said. “Your hormones have made you completely irrational.”

  “I wasn’t pregnant a year ago. Was I irrational when we took that trip to Newport and you spent all your time on the phone?”

  “That was an emergency.”

  “There’s always an emergency!”

  “What do you want me to do? Tell me, Tracy. What can I do to make you happy?”

  “Just show up!”

  His expression was cold and flat. “Try to get control of yourself, will you?”

  “So I can turn into a robot like you? No thanks.”

  He shook his head. “This is all a waste of time. My staying here. I’m just wasting my time.”

  “So leave! It’s what you want to do anyway. Drive away so you don’t have to deal with your fat, hysterical wife.”