by Susan Fox
As she spoke, he nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s true.”
“So my family will see that while your life experiences are different from ours, you’re a decent person.” She considered whether to go on, and then went for it. “They are concerned about the wounds from the past that you still carry.”
Julian’s entire body seemed to tense, so she hurried to finish. “On the other hand, they can relate. We carry the wound of the internment camp, even though it happened to our ancestors and not to us. We are also aware something similar could happen again. That affects us. It’s part of the reason we keep our heads down and try to be respectable, contributing citizens who don’t make waves.”
“Jesus. You don’t really think it could happen again?”
“Julian, I want to believe in the good in people, but I see a world where people are hated and attacked, even killed, for their religion, the color of the skin, or their sexual orientation. Even their gender. Yes, horrible things can happen when people get scared.”
“Horrible things can happen for all sorts of reasons,” he muttered.
She nodded. “It’s not a reason to live in fear, but perhaps a reason to live with caution. Which, I think, is a sad thing. I do feel blessed to live on Destiny, though. For the most part, our citizens are decent, kind human beings.”
He didn’t respond, and his body had locked up again. What had she said to trigger that response? Feeling his tension creep into her own body, she took deep, deliberate breaths. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant.”
The van was now bumping down the track to the commune. “If you’d been born in your father’s times,” she said, “and been a hippie like him, would you have worn those wide bell-bottom pants? Maybe orange ones, or printed all over with peace symbols?”
He rotated his shoulders for a few seconds, the tension relaxing. “Peace symbols, for sure. And hair down to my waist, with a leather thong around my forehead.”
“I’d have worn floaty long skirts and bells around my ankles.” Mischief sparked. “And gone braless, of course.”
He sucked in a breath. “I like the thought of you braless.”
Was this really her, flirting with a sexy man? Daringly, she said, “That’s easily achieved.” Her body longed for the touch of his hands. Imagining it made her nipples tighten and sent pulses of need throbbing between her thighs.
“Easily, eh?” He stopped at their usual spot and shut off the engine and lights.
Tonight it wasn’t raining, but without even parking lights on, it was quite dark. She could barely see Julian, but when he slid toward her on the bench seat, she went unerringly into his arms. “This feels so good,” she said.
“It’s been a long evening, not being able to touch you.” He smoothed her hair back from her face, kissed her temple, and then his lips were on hers.
Julian’s kisses were like a box of excellent chocolates, each one delicious and slightly different, so she never knew quite what to expect—only that she’d savor the luscious treat. With him, she’d learned to experiment. Her tongue became wanton, seeking to give and receive pleasure. Her teeth learned that tiny nips could make Julian groan with need.
She loved how much he aroused her. She also loved that he got so turned on, yet respected their initial decision to take things slow. But now, rather than simply repeat the previous verses of their song, she was ready for them to compose a new one.
The bench seat, while better than bucket seats, inhibited their movements. When they broke for air, their warm breath panting against each other’s cheeks, she whispered, “How uncomfortable is the back of this van?” Everything behind the front seat had been torn out to allow for the transportation of musical equipment.
“There are some padded blankets, like movers use. It’s not exactly romantic, though.”
Just being with Julian was plenty romantic. “We have so few opportunities to be alone someplace private. Let’s take advantage of this one.”
“Where did shy Iris go?” he teased.
Embarrassed, she said, “Am I being too forward? It’s good for the woman to make the first move sometimes, isn’t it?”
He laughed softly and she caught the gleam of his teeth in the dim light. “Of course it is. And you could never be too forward.” The slight emphasis told her he thought the word was another quaint term she’d picked up from a book. “I love how you’ve relaxed with me, Iris. Seems to me you’re being yourself. Don’t start second-guessing yourself now. Please?”
“I’ll try not to. And now? I recall making a suggestion. . .”
“Yeah, let’s move into the back. Music?” he asked.
“Yes, please.” She turned the player back on and there was Bob Dylan again, telling her not to think twice.
She and Julian had to get out in order to climb into the back, and the night air was cold. Once inside again, he spread a couple of the padded blankets on the floor and, feeling awkward, she lay down. The song rang out clearly, such a simple one, just Dylan’s unusual voice, some beautiful guitar-picking, and that twangy harmonica. A song about a man leaving a woman who hadn’t given him what he needed. It made Iris wonder what Julian really wanted from her, and whether she was capable of giving it. She sat up again and peeled off her jacket and then her cardigan. The van’s heater had been running and the air remained comfortably warm.
Julian tossed his jacket aside, too, and lay down beside her. On their sides, they gazed at each other in the barely there light. Her hair, which she’d worn loose tonight, slipped forward across her cheek. He slid it back over her shoulder, and then stroked her shoulder, down her bare arm. “I seem to remember,” he said, “some promise of bralessness.”
Though a ghost of the reserved Iris whispered through her body, she liked the woman she was becoming with Julian. “I could use your help. This blouse zips at the back.” She’d worn one of her aunt’s creations, most of which featured patterns on the front that would be spoiled by buttons. A zipper ran all the way from the top to the bottom of the slim-fitting blouse.
Julian reached under her hair, his warm fingers teasing her nape, and then the zipper slid down. He did it slowly, stopping along the way to caress the skin he’d bared. By the time he reached the bottom, her nipples were diamond-hard inside her bra.
The blouse fell open down the back. She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her breasts and hold it in place. Instead, she freed herself from it, one arm at a time. Holding the delicate garment, she gazed around to find a safe place to lay it, and hoped the folded blanket she chose was free of grease.
When she turned back, she wondered how he would react. Her size Bs were hardly impressive and her bra wasn’t one of those padded underwire “shaper” types, but a simple silvery-gray bralette in a silky fabric. There was no fancy lace or trim, because her skin was too sensitive.
Julian’s gaze was heated, and he whispered, “Every inch of you is stunning.”
She almost said there weren’t very many inches, but bit back the self-deprecating comment. “Thank you.” She couldn’t help but wonder how many inches he was hiding beneath the fly of those dress pants. Her hand ached to stroke him, and when she thought of pressing her tongue and lips against his hard shaft, saliva filled her mouth. Squeezing her thighs together against the delicious ache of arousal, she said, “But I did promise braless.”
“Not yet,” he breathed.
He didn’t want to see her naked breasts? But—oh!—he ran a callused fingertip along the top edge of her bra and each cell stood to attention. As did her nipples, which so badly wanted to feel that raspy caress. Then he did touch them, through the silky fabric, brushing across the beaded peaks. She caught her breath, her body straining toward him, wanting more. Gently, he pushed her back so she was lying down, and he bent over her. His tongue flicked the fabric, and then he sucked.
Her body arched involuntarily. “Oh, so good.” Heat spread through her, as rich and thick as warm honey. “But please, take off my bra. I want
your lips on my bare skin.”
He reached behind her, found the clasp, and pulled off her bra. The air was cool against her damp nipple, but only for a moment because his mouth returned to work its magic.
She wanted to lose herself in the amazing, unprecedented sensations, yet she also wanted to touch him. With fingers made clumsy by need, she fumbled to undo the buttons of his long-sleeved shirt, and then stroked his back. He was so hard, so taut, all lean muscle over bone. So totally different from her; so utterly male.
He made an impatient sound, paused in his caresses to yank off his shirt, and then returned to her breasts.
She ran her hand down the long line of his back, from shoulder to waist, feeling that tempting dip at the base of his spine. Hesitant to delve past the belted waist of his pants, she slipped her hand around to explore his rib cage and his chest, where she found a scattering of soft, curly hairs. When she brushed his nipple, it was as hard as hers. Gently, she pinched it between her thumb and index finger.
He groaned and shifted position, hooking one leg over her body. Against her thigh, she felt the rigid length of his erection. The achy pulse between her thighs urged her to twist her body, to match her pelvis to his, to grind against him. And so, because she could and because she doubted he’d protest, she did it.
Though she’d never had sex in any form, she’d read a lot of books, both nonfiction and fiction. She knew the inventive things two people could do to find pleasure. She’d thought she was familiar with her own anatomy and physiology, and she occasionally masturbated to climax, but never had she felt this kind of sensuality, this intensity of sensation. Now that her body had come alive, she wanted to experience everything.
His hips thrust, driving his erection against her thigh so forcefully that it hurt and she couldn’t help but wince.
“Damn.” He pulled away, dragging a hand through his long hair as he sat up. “I hurt you.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said on a long, shaky breath as she panted for air. Her bosom was actually heaving, like the cliché. “We got carried away and—” And it felt wonderful and she wanted more, she was about to say, but he spoke first.
“You can say that again.” His voice was sandpaper over raw wood. “We have to stop now or I’m going to embarrass myself.”
“Oh.” Or they could go on, all the way. Was she ready to do that? Her body said yes, but did she really want to lose her virginity to a man who would never make a romantic commitment to her? Yet she truly cared for Julian, and with him it would be special. Just as Eden and Miranda had said it should be.
“We need to go,” he said, turning away. He handed her blouse to her.
She could change his mind. But the heat of the moment had fled. Goose bumps pricked the sensitive flesh he’d abandoned. And she knew that she did need to think twice, in the cold, rational light of day.
Chapter Twelve
The next day, Saturday, Iris was off work, thanks to having worked a couple of double shifts over the past week or so. By the time she emerged from her bedroom, her aunt had left for the store. Though Iris was curious to hear what Lily would say about Julian, it could wait until later in the day. When her mom didn’t call, Iris guessed that Aunt Lily would deliver the family’s verdict when she returned home.
With some notion of good karma, Iris decided to prepare two of her aunt’s favorites for dinner: Greek roast chicken and chocolate hazelnut cake.
She had a relaxed day, catching up on email and Facebook, where she admired the latest photos of her friend Shelley’s baby boy and tried not to feel too envious. She Skyped her mom’s parents in Japan, where they were having breakfast, and spent a half hour catching up, though she didn’t mention Julian. She did, though, have a quick phone call with him, to wish him luck with the performance at the Nelsons’ anniversary party that night.
Iris had just finished setting the table and putting on some soothing flute music when her aunt came in. Rather than heading to her room to change and unwind, Lily slid onto a stool at the kitchen island. In French, she said, “I heard something interesting today.”
“About Julian?” Iris asked warily.
“What? No. About Walter Franklin.” She sniffed the air. “Greek chicken? That smells so good.”
Iris took a bottle of Destiny Cellars pinot gris from the fridge. “I read in the Gazette that Walter confirmed the rumor that he’ll resign at the end of his term with the Islands Trust.”
“He was in the store, Christmas shopping for relatives in Australia. Bart Jelinek came along to talk to him, and I happened to overhear Bart tell Walter that he plans to run.”
Iris sighed. That meant her dad definitely wouldn’t do it. “That’s not a big surprise.”
“Walter said it was a terrific job and he’d loved doing it. And”—Aunt Lily leaned forward—“he said he had planned to run again, but a rumor got started that he was stepping down, and it seemed people were ready for a change. He felt he should stand down.” She picked up her wineglass and took a sip.
“That’s too bad. I thought he did a great job.”
“As did I. Anyhow, Bart said he’d believed the rumor, otherwise he wouldn’t have let people persuade him to run. He said he could withdraw his name, but then he’d let down all those people. And Walter quickly said that no, of course Bart should run, and I heard some manly backslapping.”
Iris sipped her own wine. “I wonder who started the rumor?”
“It might have been Bart.”
“Wow. You really think he’d do that?”
Her aunt shrugged one slim shoulder. “He doesn’t let anything stand in his way when he wants something. And he does like being the big fish.”
“But that would be so sleazy.”
“One tiny hint can turn into a rumor, and rumors take on a life of their own.”
“True.”
Her aunt put her glass on the island and patted the second stool. “Sit down, Iris.”
Ah, here it came. Clutching the stem of her glass, she seated herself.
“The islanders know you’re dating Julian.”
“Seeing each other as friends,” she corrected.
“The gossips don’t recognize that distinction.”
“Then they’re wrong.” She wanted to say that people shouldn’t gossip, but that would be hypocritical given that she and Lily had just been doing exactly that.
“You dating anyone is news. As for being just friends, I would point out that you and your friend left your parents’ house shortly after nine and he didn’t bring you home until almost midnight.”
Iris had been as quiet as possible when she’d snuck into the condo, given Julian the books he wanted to borrow, and then gone to bed. “I’m sorry if I woke you. We were talking and time got away from us.”
“I don’t need to know what you were doing. What matters is that you care for Julian. I saw it in your eyes last night.”
So much for avoiding physical demonstrations of affection. Walking the familiar balance of being honest yet selective, Iris said, “I know there’d never be a future for us. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends and care for each other. He does care for me, Aunt.”
“I saw that, too. But it’s dangerous.”
Iris arched her brows. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure you’re qualified to give relationship advice.” If her tone was the slightest bit tart, well, her aunt deserved it.
Iris assumed that Lily would take the hint and drop the subject. Instead, after a long drink of wine, her aunt said, “I can give advice on how to fail at a relationship.”
“You’ve never been in love,” Iris said, puzzled. “So what do you mean?”
Those brown eyes, so like her own, gazed into a distance that only Lily could see. “I was. Once. A very long time ago. It was all wrong. He was married and—”
A gasp of shock escaped Iris. “What?” No, it wasn’t possible.
“We did nothing . . . sexual.” Lines grooved Lily’s usually smooth face. “B
ut in other ways we betrayed his wife.”
“Aunt Lily, I can’t imagine it. You, being the other woman.”
“It’s the last thing I expected of myself.”
Clearly, her aunt was still deeply troubled by her long-ago behavior. Perhaps Iris should leave this topic alone, but she was baffled, and her aunt had started the conversation. “Tell me how it happened.” Iris cast her gaze downward, hoping she didn’t seem too pushy. “Please?”
A deep sigh made her look up, to see her aunt’s shoulders slump. Given how perfect Lily’s posture always was, that tiny sag spoke volumes. “I was at university,” she said, fingering the stem of her glass. “You know I studied business administration, because that was the practical thing to do, with your father and me opening Dreamspinner. But I also took a few courses in subjects that nourished my soul. The man was my creative writing teacher.”
This aunt she’d thought she knew so well was full of surprises. “You were—are?—a writer?”
“I never wrote again, not after that year. I turned my creativity into art instead.”
“I’m sorry I interrupted. Tell me about your professor.”
“He asked me to come to his office to discuss my first assignments, and was complimentary. We talked about the power of words, the craft of writing. We connected in a way I’d never imagined experiencing. It was intellectual, yes, but much more than that.” She ducked her head, studying the straw-colored wine. “Despite my shyness, I bloomed in his company.”
Yes. It was exactly like that for Iris, with Julian.
“He was a brilliant man,” Lily said, “and an attractive one. A quiet man, an introvert like me. A scholar who admired great writing but said he lacked that talent himself.” She glanced up, grimacing. “I’m afraid it was the old ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ story, but I do believe that in their case it was true. They had married young, then their interests and personalities developed with adulthood and diverged dramatically.”