Four Weddings and a Break Up (20 page)

“Me neither. I don’t know what will happen or where this will lead.”

“You’re not making any promises.”

Even though it wasn’t a question, he answered her. “I never make promises I don’t intend to keep. Saying that we want to date each other for real is a big step. And we have the rest of the summer to figure out the rest. Isn’t that enough for now?”

“I don’t know.” She clasped her hands together. “It’s not like I expect anything serious. But there are no assurances, and I’m not exactly . . . Wes, let me be honest with you. Ever since I was shot, I’m not the same person I was. I’ve changed. I don’t trust as easily. I don’t believe everyone deserves a happily ever after. And I don’t take risks when it looks like I’m going to come out a loser.”

“Ginny.”

“Despite all of this, I want to be with you.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I want to regain some of the confidence I used to have. And I want to trust you. To do that, I have to trust myself.”

He felt his heart come to a stuttering stop. His whole world froze as he waited for her to continue. There was only so much he could say and do to tell her that he wanted this, too.

She licked her lips. “For the first time in a long time, I’m trusting my heart on this. Can you sit on the bed? I want to tell you about that day. And it’s going to be hard for me to do that. For me to show you everything if you’re not sitting on the bed. And you have to promise me that you won’t touch me.”

He sat on the bed. “I promise I won’t move, or do anything until you give me permission to.”

She nodded. “I believe you. Okay. I’m nervous. So nervous. I don’t like talking about that day. I’ve avoided it. And it still haunts me. I’m thinking . . . I’m thinking I want to go and talk to someone about this. To sort out everything that happened, so I can move on better than I have so far. But it’s so difficult. I blame myself. I feel so guilty. Like I should have done something more. I’m rambling.”

She paced back and forth, then came to a stop in the middle of the room and faced him. “It was a few days into January of last year. It was a bad winter that year; we’d gotten a horrible snowstorm that morning. School should have been cancelled, but it wasn’t. It was slow going on the roads, but surprisingly, all the students were there. The day was passing along normally. I was starting a new unit with my seniors. I was teaching
Hamlet
.

“It was my seventh period class, which was around one o’clock, and the kids were a little distracted. They were complaining about having school, about how short the holiday was, and Kyle had left to go to the bathroom. Kyle was a scrawny kid—quiet for the most part. He had grown quieter in the last few months. I should have realized something was wrong.

“He came back into class, slamming the door behind him. And he reached into his pocket and took out the gun. Kids screamed and scrambled away, ducking under desks and trying to hide. Even though there was no place to go. One of the girls had frozen in her seat. Terrified.

“I shouted his name. I was standing by the chalkboard, and the girl was in the first row by my desk. The phone was on the other side of the classroom. He told me not to call anyone. If I did, he’d start shooting. So I didn’t go to the phone. I slowly made my way toward him, trying to put myself in between him and the student. He was ranting. Yelling. Cursing. Saying it was all my fault and how I deserved this. I tried to reason with him. I pleaded with him to put the gun down, to walk away, and if he did that, it would be okay. And he said nothing was going to be okay ever again. He raised the gun and aimed it at Erica.”

She swallowed hard. “I ran forward, knocked Erica from her desk as the gun went off. But it had still hit her, on the side, and she was bleeding so much. I pressed my hands against the wound, trying to staunch the flow, even as I turned to face him. I got up to my feet. I wasn’t going to let any other student get hurt or possibly die. He had aimed the gun at me, but it was like something took hold of me.

“I was scared, but I was terrified he was going to hurt more people. I ran toward him. I was going to try to knock him down. I know it seems stupid. I was hoping I could do something to bide time . . . to hopefully allow the students to escape.”

She took another deep breath, her eyes watering, tears falling down her face. “I knocked into him, and I reached for his arm, the one that was holding the gun, and tried to force it down and away. I screamed for the kids to leave out the other door. To get away as fast as they could. I told him to stop. To stop. To stop. But he didn’t.

“I’ll never forget the look on his face when he shot me. It was pure hatred. I don’t know what I ever did to him. What I did to cause him to do that. I don’t know. I pressed a hand to my side”—she pressed to it then—“and it was slick with blood. There was just so much of it. And I was falling to the floor, crying. I didn’t know if the other students had escaped. If he was going to shoot anyone else. If Erica was going to die . . . if I was going to die . . .

“I was desperately afraid that was the end. Then he put the gun to his head, and I told him not to do it, to stop, and that he could get help. But then he shot himself, and I couldn’t do anything, and then there were shouts. The door was kicked open by the cop that’s on the premises of Cape Hope High, followed by more cops. Some of my students had sent text messages out and the police station was just around the corner.

“And then when I woke up next, I was in the hospital. It caused so much stress in my family that my dad suffered a massive heart attack a month later. So I decided never to talk about it again. To never cause my mom or sister any worry. That if I continued to hold back no one would suffer anymore.”

He wanted to reach out and brush the tears away from her face, to hold her close, and tell her again and again that she was safe and sound and healthy, and that nothing bad was ever going to happen to her again.

“So now for the really hard part.” She wiped her face, even as more tears fell. She turned around so her back was to him, slid down the zipper at the side, and lowered the dress slowly down her body until it was a golden heap on the floor.

She reached out to the dresser in front of her, held onto it, as she took a deep, calming breath. Closed her eyes and mouthed one . . . two . . . three . . . until she reached ten. And then she straightened. Her eyes opened, free of any tears, even though her mouth still trembled. Her body shook as she turned and faced him.

He kept his eyes on hers, and when she nodded her head, he let himself wander down her body until he came upon the scar on her upper right side.

Angry, red, and harsh . . . it marked her, permanently, as a survivor. As someone who had looked into the eyes of death and turned her back on him. She thought of it as an ugly reminder, as a failure. He only saw of it as a testament to her fortitude of character, of how beautiful, strong, and loved she was.

He wanted to go to her, to kneel before her, and kiss any shadows away. He would spend a lifetime, if that’s how long it took, kissing that angry red mark until it was transformed in her eyes into a medal of honor, of bravery, until it was just one more spot on her body that blushed from so much praise.

Didn’t she realize how beautiful she was? How strong? How much he admired and respected her? Or how much he wanted to take away the pain she had suffered through, the blame she cast unfairly upon herself, and to wash away the guilt about the shooting and her father’s death?

“It’s not your fault,” he said hoarsely. “None of this is. You, Ginger Belle Michaels, are the most beautiful woman I know.”

She laughed in a disbelieving manner.

“You are. Can I get up? Can I approach you?”

Her voice was soft, a whisper. But he heard it as if she’d held a bullhorn to her mouth. “Yes.”

He rose up and gently moved toward her. And then he did what he had imagined himself doing. He knelt at her feet, placing his lips upon her scar.

“You’re beautiful.”

She trembled so he put his hands on her hips to steady her. And he kissed her scar again. “You’re strong. You’re a survivor.”

He raised his gaze to hers. “And most importantly, you deserve more. You deserve love and happiness, and, Ginny, you should get everything you need in life and then some.”

She was shaking, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t need that much.”

He shook his head and got to his feet, his hand caressing that raised scar. “You need more.”

“Wes.” Her hands cupped his face, and a tear fell down her face.

He brushed it away. “I want to ease all the hurt from you. To wipe away the sadness. To banish the monsters haunting you. I want to be there for you.”

“All I need right now is you.” She reached up on her toes and kissed him, soft and sweet. “All I need is you.”

He swallowed thickly. “What about the ducks?”

“I don’t think we need ducks anymore.”

H
e swept
her into his arms, carrying her over to the bed, laying her down gently. The silk sheets were cool against her skin. She kneeled as he joined her on the mattress.

Her mouth met his, welcoming him back, never wanting to say good-bye again. He was her last temptation, her final seduction, and he was everything she never knew she’d wanted or needed until she had met him. He was loving and generous, and his lips made love to hers, slowly and surely.

She moaned into him, and tugged at the buttons of his shirt. She wanted to see
all
of him, too. There were no more barriers between them. She had shared her darkest, deepest secret with him. And instead of being scared and frightened, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. He had listened and he hadn’t been repulsed or disgusted. He had looked at her with such wonder, such amazement, such adoration and tenderness in his gaze that her heart had grown full, near to bursting.

She was falling so fast, so hard, so deeply in love with him. But instead of being afraid, she embraced it.

His teeth nipped her bottom lip, then suckled her into his mouth.

She finally got all of his buttons undone, spread the shirt wide and tugged it down his arms. Then her hands were on his chest—that chest she’d seen all wet and glistening that day on the beach. She did what she had wanted to do then. She scraped her fingernails over his washboard stomach, his abs rippling in response. She ran her hands over his chest, through the thin covering of hair, and down to his nipples. She flicked them, and he groaned.

Then his hands were on her bra, unclasping it. They broke free long enough to throw the clothes across the room. His smoky eyes fastened on her breasts. They grew heavy in response, her nipples tightening and darkening in arousal. He cupped her soft mounds, his fingers brushing over the nipples.

Her head fell back as she arched. A whisper of air against those hardened buds and then his hot, seductive mouth captured one, suckling deep. Her hands flew up to his head, her fingers entangling in those dark strands. He was pulling her so deep, and his fingers were playing with her other nipple, teasing her . . . She raked her nails across his shoulders, marking him, and he glanced up, desire in his gaze.

He kissed a path from one nipple to the other. But this time he took the tip between his teeth and nipped lightly. The small pain quickly turned into pleasure as he flicked the offended bud with his tongue. Jolts of pleasure shot to her core, wetting her even more, her clit throbbing for attention.

He lowered her to the bed, and her head rested against a pillow. Wes placed kisses on her scar down to her stomach, as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties. He raised himself up to slide the panties down her legs, then tossed them to the floor. She was naked, and she wanted him naked, too.

Almost as if he heard her thoughts, he stood and quickly discarded his pants and boxer briefs. His cock was long, thick, and hard, and Ginny swallowed at the size of it. Had it already not fit into her, she would have played a card from one of those old romance novels and asked him if it would fit.

But she suddenly felt shy, being so naked before him, with her breasts thrust up and that part of her on display. She started to cover herself, but Wes shook his head. “No, Ginny. No more hiding.”

She bit her lip and slowly let her arms fall to her sides. He walked to the end of the bed and crawled up on it toward her feet. He held one foot in his hands, placing a kiss at her toes.

A shiver of arousal shook her.

He kissed her arch, and she leaned up on her elbows, her heart fluttering in her chest. A soft press of lips on her ankle, lingering upon a faded scar from childhood. His hands were on her knees as he kissed her calf. She knew what he wanted her to do.

Her legs widened, making room for him, opening her further. He kissed her thigh in reward, then moved upward, lightly biting the tender flesh of her leg.

Her breath suspended. He moved to her center, parting her lips with his fingers.

“Look how wet you are for me.” He traced a finger down, tracing up the cream. He brought it to his lips and sucked his finger dry. “Damn. You’re the finest thing I’ve ever tasted. Sweet. Tangy. And all mine for the taking.”

He lowered his head to her. His breath whispered against her exposed, tender flesh. She fell back, her eyes closing. “That’s right, sugar. You just enjoy this. I sure as hell am.”

He kissed her, then his tongue licked her, and she gasped his name, her hands fisting in the sheets. He lapped up her cream, delving his tongue inside, as he finger pressed against her clit.

She almost shot straight up from the bed from the immense pleasure of his touch. He rubbed tiny circles over her clit as his tongue thrust inside. He was pushing her past the edge of no return, and then he sampled her in one hot, upward stroke. He flicked his tongue against her, as if he were fine tuning an instrument, and her whole body sang out the melody. Her back arched, her body blushing from desire.

He made a low humming noise, and it vibrated against her. Her hips undulated as waves of nerves were reawakened and crashed to the surface. She felt the pull of the tide of release start to lure her away.