Beautiful Stranger (12 page)

A jolt of purest, deepest lust burned through him, but he forced himself to be still, let her see him looking, seeing, liking. “Do you know how erotic your coloring is?” he said, and urgently skimmed out of his jeans, so they were both standing naked in the candlelight, revealed. She had touched his tattoos, and in return, he knelt and pressed his mouth against her full, soft lower belly, put his hands on the love handles that still lingered, that did not show when she was dressed. He spread open his palms and traveled over thighs that would never be slender, then stood up. “Come to bed, princess,” he said.

They tumbled together, tangling naked limbs that slid and explored along with hands and mouths and eyes. He closed his eyes to feel the press of her belly against his own, the plush, incredible softness of breasts against his ribs. “Oh,” he breathed, “that's good, that's good.” He curled his hands around her buttocks, traced the length of her spine.

And she, too, explored, careful not to hit him with her cast, learning the shape of his body, the taste of his skin. The low roar of desire in him grew higher, hotter, and he pushed her gently onto her back and started at her mouth, kissing her lips, her chin, her throat. She made a low sound, and moved restlessly as he moved lower. “I need—oh!” His hair fell in a rush, all at once, over her chest, and she reached up to touch the hair, her own flesh, and a bolt of something unbelievable went through him, a flash point of electricity. He touched his tongue to her lips, to her breasts, and her uncasted hand moved
to his organ, urgently but lightly touching him, guiding him, urging him.

And this time they went slowly. Rolling easily into a thick, deep rhythm that pulsed through his entire body, through hers, and he knew it was corny even as he thought it—that it was almost musical. Such a long, easy, slow movement, one that let them touch and kiss and more than he would have expected—look. Candlelight flickered over her face, across the vividness of those blue eyes, across her red lips that he couldn't resist dipping to taste, again and again.

He was lost and he knew it, lost in a sweetness and warmth he had not ever been able to hold on to and had learned to stop wanting. So much easier, so much safer to make do with what was than to want so much. Even as he supped at the wonder of her, he knew he shouldn't have come back, but as she reached for him, urgently, gasping his name as she kissed him, hard, and climaxed, he couldn't be sorry.

 

Marissa felt her body, every single part of her body—her toes and her mouth and her knees—sailing back from wherever it had gone. She grew conscious of the intimacy of their bellies and chests, sweaty and slick, pressed together, heard again the sound of his breath in her ear. How many ears had he breathed in this way?

A sense of shyness, strangeness, came over her, an almost panicked sense of realization—she was naked, with a man she really didn't know well, and what had she done? Why had she done it?

As if he felt her stiffening, his arms tightened on either side of her and he lifted his head. “Just us, remember,” he said. But Marissa closed her eyes, avoiding his gaze, mortification rising into her cheeks, tipping the
edges of her ears. The flesh pressed against him felt prickly all of a sudden, uncomfortable. She could not move, could barely breathe.

“Marissa,” he said, that raspy voice, too familiar in contexts that had nothing to do with this—

She squeezed her eyes tighter, acutely, painfully aware that they were naked—totally naked—that she could feel intimate parts of him still tight against her, could feel her naked breasts against his chest—

Oh, what had she done?

She could feel him looking at her, felt the faint drawing away, and wanted to both hold him tighter and shove him away at once. She wasn't sure if she was crushed or relieved when he rolled away, falling on his back beside her.

Marissa reached for the sheet and pulled it over her body, over his, still not looking at him. In the gulf of silence, she could hear a faint drip of water in the bathtub, the faint sizzle of a candle. She wanted to say something, but not a word rose to her aid, and still the quiet—unbreakable, a huge breach—lay between them, vast as a desert. She curled into the pillow, stared hard at the carved wooden post at the foot of the bed. The room smelled of vanilla.

Abruptly he moved. Sat up. “Well, I guess this was a big mistake.” With a jerk, he reached for his jeans. “I'll get out of your hair.”

And still the horror of so completely revealing herself was on her. Wild sex at the door, and he had now seen her completely naked, head to toe—

She risked a glance at him, at his rigid, long back, sienna-and smooth-skinned and tense. His hair hid most of a tattoo on his shoulder blade, but not all of the scars. A thin, almost invisible one, low on his ribs—a knife
wound. So close to his lung—she thought of that thin, brutal blade finding a target and his blood spilling out before he got here, to this night, with her.

Without realizing she meant to do it, Marissa put out a hand, pressed her palm to the edges of the howling coyote tattooed on his shoulder blade. “You didn't get this one in the streets.”

His body was rigid, flinching when she touched him. “No. Texas. In the army.”

In one fluid movement, she left behind the protection of the sheet and pressed her body against his back, her arms around his shoulders. “I'm sorry,” she whispered into his hair. “I panicked.”

A very slight softening went through him, but he didn't move. Marissa knew a moment of sharp regret. She moved her hands, touched his jaw, felt the strong, sharp angle of his cheekbones. She pressed her forehead against the back of his head, breathing in the scent of some faintly peachy shampoo, and realized he'd probably let Crystal pick it out.

He caught her hands, pulled them down like a scarf around his chest. A quiet sigh, then he lifted her hands and pressed them to his mouth. “I've gotta go. This is—ah. It's not what I thought.”

Hollow, Marissa pulled away, shamed and burning and wanting—what? For him to leave, now. For him to turn and kiss her again, make her forget, lose herself in that blazing lust that made it easy. She had no idea which she wanted more, and only fell back, pulling the heavy comfort of the quilt over herself, watching him in the candlelit room.

When he stood to dress, she saw the lean, long ropiness of his body. He kept his back to her, but moving, liquid shadows revealed more than they hid—the small
bones of his spine, a row of tiny mountains; the hollow of his hip joint against high flanks; male flesh, dark and soft, at the base of his flat belly. He moved quickly, and the flesh was covered by shorts, hidden by jeans.

In her body was a rhythm of silent protest and relief in alternating beats—a pulse between her legs, a pound in her chest, a swell in her breasts, a cringe in her mind. She could not look at him while he buttoned his shirt, pulling the sleeve down over the long scar that ran along his inner arm, and put the covers over her face. All was silent, still, where moments ago, it had been roaring, loud, the air feverish with passion and satisfaction and discovery.

She felt him sink onto the bed at her side, felt his hand on the top of her head. He pulled down the thick quilt. Marissa didn't move, just waited for him to say whatever kind, parting words he'd decided to utter.

But she waited and waited and he said nothing, only sat there next to her, clothed when she was not. And he proved more steadfast than she. In the end, she turned, almost in defiance, without worrying how much of her showed. “I thought you were leaving.”

“Me, too,” he said gruffly, and pulled the cover over the top half of her breasts, moved his hand over her shoulder, a gentle movement she nearly could not bear. “This was a big mistake, princess, but we can't let Crystal know anything.”

“I know that.” To forestall anything else, she sighed. “Robert, you already said it, okay? This was a mistake. Let's just leave it at that.”

He took his hand away and stood up. “When are you going to realize that life's going to be a lot easier for you when you just find yourself some senator's son and accept who you are?”

With a swift, furious gesture, she tore a pillow from beneath her and flung it at him. “When are you going to realize this is not about that?”

He caught the pillow easily, and tossed it gently back. “Isn't it?”

He left her.

 

Robert had forgotten to leave a light on when he left, and his house was dark when he returned to it. The porch lay in deep, flickering shadows cast by the streetlight shining on pine trees. No lamp burned in the living room window. No music made the walls breathe, no movie flickered blue against the curtains.

He sat in the truck for a long moment, dreading those empty rooms. He missed Crystal. He hadn't wanted her to stay at Louise's, didn't really know why she had insisted that was what she needed, but he also hadn't known how to protest. Didn't even know if it would have been the right thing to do. Maybe Louise was just better at taking care of her than he was. Maybe Crystal needed a mother figure.

And that was okay. He didn't need to be the only person in her life. He hadn't had much experience with kids, especially one as vulnerable as this.

His wish to have her here now was entirely selfish. The simple fact of her sleeping in another room would have eased this ache he felt now. He wouldn't have shared any of what happened, wouldn't have to tell her all the things he was feeling—that wasn't it. She was just…a comfort somehow. A bright light in his dull life.

With a little shock, he realized he loved her. It was simple and plain. He'd never had anything like a real family, had never even had the sense to long for it, until his desperate niece had shown up on his doorstep, fragile
and strong, sensible and terrified. She'd never had it either, but she knew exactly what it ought to look like, and given the smallest possible chance, she'd set about creating it for both of them.

And for the baby she was carrying. Of course she was keeping it. Marissa had asked and he'd told her he didn't know, but the evidence was right in front of him. No way, nohow was she making this home just for herself.

Ah, Crystal. It would make things so much harder for her. Harder for her to finish high school, to even think about college, to find a man who loved and cared for her properly. Like her grandmother, like her mother, she was going to be a mother way too young.

He bent his head in the cold dark and rested his forehead on the steering wheel, wishing he could get over the feeling that he'd let her down. Not by seeing Marissa, necessarily. In the stillness, he could see that Crystal was not a naive child and would not expect him to live womanless for the rest of his life. She was afraid of being replaced, and given her life, he could certainly understand that, but only time could show her that he'd never, ever do that.

No, he'd let her down somehow in the past couple of days by not seeing whatever it was she needed, whatever it was that Louise sensed. He would have to take time to figure it out, help her feel safe enough and strong enough to share her problems with him. Show her that he could be trusted with her bruised and delicate soul.

Words that also described Marissa, God help him. He squeezed his eyes closed, cursing himself for going back up to her door, knowing what would happen, knowing it was wrong.

Don't.

No point. He got out of the truck and walked up to
the dark door, let himself into the house and flipped on the lamp. A cat meowed at him, almost scolding, from the back of the couch—Crystal's battered tom. The cat stretched, yawning, and croaked out another meow. Maybe it was just hello. Smiling, he reached out to scrub the cat's tattered ears. He purred happily. As he stood there, the kitten pounced on his foot, smacked paws against his legs exuberantly and took off. Robert laughed and scooped him up, turning the little monster into the crook of his arm so he could waggle his fingers and be attacked some more.

Such a little thing, animals there waiting, but it made a difference. How had Crystal become so wise? But he thought he knew—she'd dreamed this life a million times, alone in her room watching movies while her mother partied. She had stretched across her bed and told herself the things she would have if she could—a tidy kitchen and sweet-smelling bathrooms and cats to sleep with her at night.

What a good mother she would be. And she did have him to help her, someone to lean on, help watch the baby while she finished school and saw the shape of the rest of her life. That was something good he could give the world. He wondered, with a soft sense of wonder, if she would have a girl or a boy.

A baby. Wow.

He fed and watered the cats, then wearily went to take a shower, aware again of the depth of silence. No Crystal in there breathing in the other room. He shook his head at his sentimentality. Odd that he, master of the foot-loose-and-fancy-free life-style, was so smitten with the family thing and hadn't even noticed.

He turned on the shower and started pulling off his clothes, fighting the sense of loss that came with remem
bering putting the shirt on in that awful quiet, remembering the last time he'd stripped it off, revealing himself, remembered—

The smell of her was on him, freed when he took off his clothes, drifting up from his skin like a quiet song, and the scent tore through his paper-thin guard against the memories of the evening. Her laughing eyes at the restaurant, the intense tenderness of the kiss in front of the window, the throaty sound of her voice when she asked him to come in.

Closing his eyes, he raised his hands to his face and inhaled, aroused again by a flash of that hot, hot, hot coupling against her front door. He'd expected it to be good between them, but he hadn't anticipated quite that intensity.

Grimly he stepped under the hot spray and picked up the soap, working up a lather on his hands first and rinsing them, over and over, so not even the smallest hint of her remained. But somehow the pain stayed with him, even when all he could smell was soap.