Until He Met Rachel

by Debra Salonen

  She squirmed with obvious pleasure, her grip on his shoulders tightening. He held her still with his hands splayed across her back as he buried his face between her breasts, rubbing back and forth to inhale her scent. She let out a tiny peep.

  He looked up. “Am I hurting you?”

  She laid her palm against his cheek. “I miss your beard. It was soft and tickled a little bit.”

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “But it’ll grow back.”

  “Promise?”

  He nodded.

  She ran her hands through his hair. “And this, too? I liked it longer.”

  “Women,” he joked. “Never satisfied.”

  She turned sideways and settled her bare derriere on his knee. Crossing one leg over the other, provocatively, she made a sexy moue. “Oh, I think you’ll be able to satisfy me.” She touched her breast, making the nipple harden. “In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  His throat was too dry to swallow, but he did manage to kiss her. Her tongue met his in a dance that made all his juices flow. “Undress me. Quick. Before I die of needing you.”

  The gleam in her eyes said she liked the sound of that. The needing, not the dying. She deftly unbuttoned his shirt. He did the cuffs then yanked it off. She helped him peel up his undershirt, pausing only to lean down and lick his nipples while he fought free of it overhead.

  His pants were tougher. She had to move. Which she did in the sexiest way possible, dropping to all fours and crawling, pantherlike, to the head of the bed, where she stretched out. Still wearing her puffy, glamour-girl heels.

  He fumbled with his belt buckle, his fingers as sensitive as sausages. The zipper got stuck because it was crowded out by his fully engorged penis. He sucked in his gut and tugged downward. Finally. He dropped his pants, bikini briefs, too.

  She’d been watching him, head resting on her upraised palm. “Not particularly graceful, but I’ll give you full marks for not pinching your package in the zipper.”

  “Thanks. But I’m pretty sure even a little pain wouldn’t have been able to dampen my ardor. I’ve missed you, Rachel Grey.”

  “Me, too,” she admitted. “This is a great bed, but it’s way too big and lonely without you. Come here, you.”

  He wanted to play more, tease her breathlessness, watch her come, but neither had the patience. He felt the urgency in her touch, in the way she took him in her hand. “I missed this part of you, especially. You’ve ruined me for other men, Rufus.”

  If he could have spoken, he would have told her the feeling was mutual, but all he could do was follow her lead. Still on her side, she looped one leg over him. Maybe her high heels changed the angle an incalculable fraction. Or maybe it was the long nights missing her. Whatever the reason, one thrust as he entered her brought a gasp of pleasure that set off quivers of excitement through both their bodies. He closed his eyes and strained for control but within seconds his need overtook him, too.

  Surprised and a little embarrassed, he lifted his head and looked at her. “I— That was— Sorry.”

  “It was the shoes,” she said, laughing. “Don’t tell my mother.”

  She kicked off the silly shoes and maneuvered around until she was lying prone on top of him. His still partially erect penis was flexible and cooperative enough to fit back inside her. “That was one of the best, and by far the fastest orgasms I’ve ever experienced. Can we do that again?”

  He shifted his hips under her, feeling definite interest from the part most needed to participate. “Maybe.”

  She sat up, wiggling her hips provocatively. “Good. Because you know what they say? Every time a woman has an orgasm on Christmas, an angel gets her wings.”

  Her tone was serious, but the naughty glint of humor in her eyes made him laugh. He was home. He was in love. And this was the best Christmas of his life. He only hoped she would still be smiling when he told her about his plans. In the morning. First, he needed sex and sleep. In that order.

  “YOU BOUGHT THE BOYS presents, didn’t you?” Rachel asked the moment Rufus joined her in the kitchen. She’d gotten up half an hour earlier. Rufus hadn’t moved a muscle since about two o’clock when they both collapsed in satiated exhaustion after a record-setting triathlon of sex. She’d showered, dressed in her midnight blue velour lounging pants, matching snowflake top and wool-lined slippers.

  After tiptoeing downstairs, she’d let the dogs out and made coffee. She’d tried to avoid peeking in the bags he’d left on the counter, but she didn’t have the will-power. The gifts were amazingly astute and thoughtful.

  “I did. Good morning to you, too. And merry Christmas. Where are the dogs? I bought them presents, as well.”

  “They’re outside doing their morning ablutions. How’d you know what games to buy?”

  “There were a couple of kids in the store about the same ages as Tag and Jordie. I asked their advice.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, adding her favorite creamer. He stirred it absently then startled when he noticed her interest. “I’m hooked again. It’s your fault. Coffee reminds me of you.”

  She liked that.

  A familiar whine caught their attention. Rufus opened the kitchen door to three wet, snowy animals. She loved watching him interact with the dogs. It was how he’d be as a father, she realized. Patient, loving and consistent. She hadn’t wanted to even think about kids when she was married to Trevor. But she did now.

  She unconsciously rubbed her arm where the birth control implant was located. Maybe the time together without a child was something they needed as a couple. She’d made the mistake before of rushing too fast in a relationship. She wasn’t going to do that again.

  “What time do we have to be at your brother’s?”

  She looked at the clock above the sink. “Not for hours, yet. Kat wanted them to open gifts alone this morning. I think Mom was a little hurt, but Kat explained that neither of her parents was going to be there, either, then Mom felt better.”

  “Call her up. Have her come over for breakfast.”

  “Seriously?”

  Rufus took a drink of coffee then walked to where she was sitting at the counter. “I like your mother. She’s frank and honest. I need people like that in my life. When I was a celeb—” He held up his thumb and forefinger to show a tiny space. “I experienced a little bit of that obsequious reverence. It’s seductive. It makes you do stupid things that you know are bad for you.”

  “How’d you manage to give it up?”

  He shook his head and pointed to his ear. Hardly noticeable to her, but she could imagine how someone demanding perfection might be put off by it. “As Marianne said, it sometimes takes a wake-up call of major proportions to make you do the right thing.”

  “What else did your agent say?”

  He grinned. “I’m glad you asked. I was too busy—” he gave her an impressive leer that made her knees weak “—last night to get into it, but Marianne said she knew a man who could turn my Dreamhouses into the next Chia Pet. If I wanted to go that way.”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t know. It would commercialize the design. The originals would go up in value, I think. But I’d probably be asked to give up my rights. That would be tough. I like putting a little piece of myself in each Dreamhouse.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “But, like I said, the money could go to building places like Stephen’s House—honoring the memory of Stephan Appelman Milne—all around the country. Denver, for instance. We could name it after your father.”

  She was touched. Her mother would be, too. Still, he was right. Handing over his design would pretty much close down their operation. “What would you do if you sold it?”

  He shrugged. “Walk in the woods until I tripped over the next great inspiration?”

  She waited, sensing there was more.

  “Or, maybe I could surround myself with other creative people and see what happens.” He looked down. “This probably makes me sound like some kind of altruistic hippie, but I got the
idea from this flyer. It came in the mail the day I left for New York. Look.”

  He pulled a glossy, tri-fold promotional flyer heralding the impending grand opening of Stephen’s House from the only messy drawer in the house. His junk drawer. He fumbled to open it, his hurry making him clumsy. She took it from him and laid it flat between them.

  “There,” he said, pointing to one of the photographs. “This is the first guest room they were able to finish.”

  She studied the image. Neat, homey and probably a sight for sore eyes to someone whose life had been turned upside down by trauma. But the two beds, small table and lamp in the photo were nothing extraordinary.

  She looked up.

  He tapped again. “The quilt on the wall. That was Mom’s. She won prizes at the state fair and stuff. She made that quilt for Stephen a year or so before he died.”

  “Oh,” she said, wishing she could have known these people who meant so much to Rufus. “It’s really pretty. I’ve never seen anything like it. Now I know where you get your creative side.”

  She could tell he liked that. “I remember her working in the basement at night. And once a week, her quilting club would come over. I was too cool to spend much time around them, but they were amazing. And Mom said being in a group like that fired a person up. You fed off each other’s creative energy.”

  “You’re thinking about starting an artist’s co-op?”

  His grin was brighter than the morning sunlight streaming through the window. “My shop is a pretty good size. Maybe we could offer classes for people like me who don’t think they’re artists. Experiment with different mediums. We could teach each other.” The sparkle in his eyes told her he could see his idea unfolding in his mind.

  “I’ve always wanted to try throwing pots,” he added, as if the idea were slightly embarrassing. “Maybe we could build a kiln.”

  Rachel was as moved by his passion and enthusiasm as she was by the possibilities. “I bet some of Char’s artists would be happy to teach classes. Like Carl Tanninger, the guy who makes those fabulous Native American spears.”

  Rufus nodded enthusiastically. “But what we’d really need to make it a success is someone brilliant and dynamic who could then build us a Web site to sell our treasures.”

  “You think I’m brilliant?”

  “I know you are. With you handling the Web sales everyone in our artists’ workshop will be rich.”

  She doubted that, but she’d already proven with Rufus’s site that she could generate an interest in the work that wouldn’t happen if it was merely on display in a local gallery. “What makes you think there are other fledgling artists in the area who are looking for something like this?”

  “Gut feeling,” he said, tapping his hard, flat tummy. “Our mailman has been acting pretty curious about what we’re shipping to all parts of the country. The other day he mentioned winning some kind of prize for a photograph he took. And I thought I picked up some thwarted artist vibes from the town gossip, too. What’s her name?”

  Rachel half choked on her sip of coffee. “You mean the grouchy lady at the civic center? Seriously?”

  “Maybe. Put a paintbrush in the right person’s hand and who knows what will happen? I certainly didn’t think of myself as an artist when I moved here. And if not for a little talent and a little luck, I never would have met you.”

  “Speaking of you and me, do I still have to pay you to go to the wedding with me?”

  His laugh was rock solid and joyous. “How ’bout I take it out in trade?”

  She pretended to think a moment. “Well…okay. I think that can be arranged.”

  They shared a moment of contented silence, then Rachel thought of another request she needed to ask. “Are you sure you’re okay about going to Jack’s today? People will make assumptions about us. There will be questions you might not be ready to answer.” From her mother, for sure.

  He pretended to debate the question. But only for a moment. He was through hiding out, and that meant interacting with Rachel’s family—no matter how unhappy that might make her mother. “You bet I’m going. I plan to try my hand at a couple of these Wii games,” he teased. “And next year, we’ll host the festivities here.”

  “Next year.” Her rueful smile said, “We’ll see about that.”

  He walked to where she was standing and put his hands on her shoulders. “I know I came off as the kind of guy who didn’t welcome change, but, guess what? A lot of things have changed. For the better, I might add. Thank you, Rachel.”

  “For what?”

  “For rescuing me.”

  “Some people—my mom, for instance—might say I threw you under the wheels of an oncoming train called life.” She grinned. “But I did it for your own good,” she added. “And mine.”

  “I agree. That’s why I plan—when the moment’s right—to ask you to marry me. Last night would have seemed too impetuous. We’re better than that.”

  “We are?”

  He nodded. “That kind of thing requires forethought and planning. A romantic setting. When it’s just the two of us.” He nodded toward the dogs and grinned. “And, most importantly, after you’ve put your brother’s wedding behind you. Tell me you’re not a little bit wedding-ed out.”

  She blew out a long, deep breath. “I thought I could keep all these balls in the air at the same time, but, you’re right. No more wedding talk for…a few months, anyway.”

  He kissed her. “Good. Gives me time to plan the perfect surprise proposal.” He pretended to frown. “But whatever will we do in the meantime?”

  He put one finger in the air as if suddenly being struck by an idea. “We do have my Christmas present upstairs…waiting.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “That reminds me. Your real present is at the shop. Let’s head down there and I’ll call Mom. We’ll have breakfast then go to Jack’s together.”

  She laughed at his crestfallen pout. “Don’t worry,” she promised. “We’ll come home early and I’ll let you pick one toy to play with.”

  His grin told her he already knew which he planned to choose. “Boots!” he exclaimed. “Where are my boots?”

  Ten minutes later, they trekked through the half inch of new snow that had fallen overnight. There were dog tracks and deer tracks and little prints she couldn’t recognize. She’d picked up a strong enough cell signal from the second-floor bedroom to call her mother. Rosaline had sounded thrilled—touched, actually—to be invited for breakfast. She was already up and dressed, as Rachel had expected, so they didn’t have much time.

  Rufus opened the shop and held the door for her. It was almost as cold inside as out. Almost. Fortunately, the skylights made the interior bright and welcoming. Her gift to him was plainly visible on his workbench.

  He removed his gloves. “Should I build a fire, first?”

  She shook her head. “No. This won’t take long. It isn’t a big deal, Rufus. I didn’t know what to get you so, like you, I asked someone’s advice.”

  “Who?”

  “Open it up. You’ll figure it out.”

  He tore off the shiny red paper to reveal a zippered leather satchel about the size of a woman’s medium clutch purse. He examined it with interest then quickly unzipped it. The sound reminded her of undressing him the night before, but she swallowed sharply and focused on the gift.

  The front half parted, revealing a set of carving knives with an assortment of blades. They were high end and expensive, although she’d found a great last-minute bargain online.

  “I talked to Carl Tanninger a while ago when I sold one of his spears. I asked him what inspired him to do what he did. He said the wood talks to him. That sounded so much like your creative process I thought you might like to try talking back to the wood. Seeing what comes out of the conversation.”

  He didn’t speak right away but when he looked at her, she could tell he was touched. “This is an amazingly thoughtful gift, Rachel. My fingers are itching
to try these. I can feel their energy. You might know me better than I know myself.”

  She did know him because he let her past the facade—even when he kept the rest of the world at bay. She was too happy to speak, but she managed to squeak out a simple, “Good.”

  He rezipped the case and set it on the shelf above his workspace. “Soon, my friends,” he said, patting it as he did the dogs. “First, we have one more present to give.”

  Rachel shook her head. “You already gave me mine,” she said, touching her beautiful earrings.

  “This is something I made.” He crooked his finger for her to follow him deeper into his lair—a place he probably counted on her never stepping foot. In the far corner, covered with one of his large, polishing cloths stood a blockish, birdcage-shaped object. Bigger than any of the Dreamhouses he’d made to date.

  But when he pulled away the cloth, she saw that’s what it was. Or was it? With a click, the two halves opened to form a W. She let out a small gasp. “It’s a dollhouse,” she exclaimed.

  The two-story masterpiece was made entirely of carved wood, bark, twigs, pine needles—the flora and fauna of the Black Hills. “Rufus, it’s amazing. When did you have time?”

  “I made it a long time ago—before the Dreamhouses. It was a hobby. Killing time. Off and on. Mostly in the winter. But as I was working it, I started to see it as a gift I’d want a child to have. My child. And after a few years, the hope that I might meet someone and have a family became more of a dream than a possibility. Until you came into my life.”

  She hugged him, tears blurring her vision. “It’s a wonderful, wonderful gift, Rufus. Thank you.”

  He gave her a quick kiss, then turned her around to look at it again. “You missed something.”

  She squatted so she’d have a better view. The detail was impressive. A fireplace made of tiny stones. A wooden cradle in the baby’s room. A four-poster bed in the master bedroom. But in the middle of the bed was something that didn’t belong. She leaned in closer.