Just in Time (29 page)

He should have talked to her the night before, no matter what, should have followed her into her bedroom and said…what?

Should have told her, that was what. Should have explained. Nobody better to do it, nobody who knew more about it.

“Yeh, right,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’ll talk to me like you always do? When you’re even
here?
Which is
never?
Well, I’m not coming! I’m
not!
And you can tell Faith that I’m never, ever taking her anywhere again! Not if everybody’s just going to spy on me!”

She’d whirled, and she was running, hurdling the log and heading up the path. He almost ran after her, then hesitated. And do what? He could run after her, of course he could. He could run her down, grab her, haul her home by force. Except that he couldn’t. It was illegal, for one thing. And anyway, if he caught her, if he shouted, if he held her there to listen to him, all he’d be was a bully. It was all wrong, and it wouldn’t work anyway.

He looked around at the downturned faces, the uniform shoes scuffling in the stones. And Chaz, standing there with an expression on his face that Will longed to wipe out in the old way, the best way.

He almost did it, except that he couldn’t. The frustration was twisting inside him, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

“When she comes back,” he told the kids, not looking at Chaz, “tell her that I’ll see her at home, and we’ll be talking.” It wasn’t nearly good enough, but it was all he had. And then he took off.

I closed my eyes and let the water wash over my hair, down my back. I turned languidly, welcoming the gentle cascade on my breasts, the stream of water a warm caress as soothing as a lover’s hand, as gentle as a kiss, trickling down my belly and pooling between my thighs.

I reached for the soap, slid it slowly over my shoulders, my arms, and then, delaying the moment, because I wanted to savor this, down my breasts. Over one rosy nipple, which pebbled at the contact, aching for more. Just that easily, just that quickly, because every inch of my body was sensitized these days, like I was nothing but throbbing need, nothing but anticipation, waiting and yearning for Hemi’s touch.

So I obliged myself. I slid my hand up, down, around, played with the other nipple, and it felt so good, I got a little bolder. My soapy hand crept downward, slicked across my firm, smooth skin as I thought about Hemi, about the way he’d looked the week before. When he’d been holding me over him, driving himself into me, then pulling me down, rolling so he was on top of me. Murmuring in my ear, telling her that this was an easy night, but next time...next time, he had other plans.

I shivered at the memory, and the soap was slick between my fingers, and my fingers were slick, too, because next time was here.

The clear shower curtain was yanked back with a rasp of rings, and my eyes flew open.

“Aw, sweetheart,” I heard. “You got started without me. But go on. Show me some more. I’d love to watch, and you need to warm me up, too. Because tonight…you’re going to find out what happens to naughty girls who touch themselves in the shower.”

She got that far, and stopped. What
did
happen to naughty girls? She always seemed to balk at this point, her internal filter slamming down between her brain and her fingers, the little critic coming to perch on her shoulder, telling her not to go there, no matter how much she wanted to.

She made a few false starts, hit the backspace button and wiped them out, then sat back and sighed. Time to take a break. A shower of her own, maybe, because there was nothing like research. Research, and some thinking about—all right, about Will.

Fifteen minutes later, she was a whole lot more inspired. The faucet was the key. Hemi had some silk ropes in his well-equipped closet, she knew. Once he got Hope’s wrists tied to that faucet and had the bar of soap in his hand—well, she’d just say that Hope was going to be one exceptionally clean girl. The rope and Hemi’s strong arms might be the only things holding her up, though, because her knees were going to be shaking hard by the time he was done.

It was all there, and she needed to write it. She put the soap back into its dish, rinsed off as fast as she could, and shoved the faucet closed. It was a shame that its starring role was going to be limited to the page, but then, you couldn’t have everything. She groped for a towel, added
heated towel rack
to the mental prop list, and took a couple swipes at herself. No time to dress, because she had to write it while it was in her head.

She flung the door open and headed into the bedroom to do it. And ran smack into Will, coming into the bedroom, moving fast.

She bounced off his chest, his hands came out automatically to grab her arms, and for one frozen second, she was staring at him, and he was staring back. Looking not one bit like her funny, relaxed Will, because he was sweating, and breathing hard.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in alarm.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even seem to hear her. Because, she realized with horror, she was naked. She stepped back and started to pull the towel around her, but his hand had shot out and grabbed hers just that fast, and the towel fell to the floor at her feet. Then one hand was behind her head, the other had slid down her back, and he was on her.

There was nothing soft, nothing sweet, nothing slow. Nothing but his lips claiming hers, his tongue deep inside her mouth, one hand fisting in her wet hair while the other slid down over the curve of a cheek and hauled her up onto her toes, pulled her more tightly against him.

She was making some sounds into his mouth now, smothered whimpers that she couldn’t help one bit, and her hands were on his shoulders, trying to pull him even closer.

He stuck one hand out behind him and shoved the bedroom door closed, then seemed to catch himself. He looked at her, the question written in all its taut urgency on his face. She couldn’t answer. She looked at him, and she shuddered.

It was enough. he’d taken hold of her again, his mouth was devouring hers, and he was backing her into the bathroom, all the way into the shower stall. She landed against the tiled wall, the shock of the cold a nearly unbearable contrast to the warmth of his mouth, his hard body. His hands were on her breasts, supporting their weight, his thumbs were moving over her aching, sensitized nipples, sending an urgent signal straight to her center, and she was burning for him.

“Please,” she moaned, her back arching, everything in her body wanting to pull him into her. She needed him inside her. She needed him now.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled her out of the shower again, leaned inside and twisted the faucet, and tested the water impatiently with a palm.

She didn’t wait for it. She’d gotten hold of his T-shirt, was pulling him out of the shower, tugging the shirt over his head and tossing it, then running her hands greedily over his chest.

“Not waxed anymore,” she managed to say. “I love it.”

“But you are. And I love it, too.”

She swallowed, feeling the warmth rising in her cheeks along with the steam that was filling the little room. “I’m so…I’m so…”

“I know you are. So am I. That’s why we’re going to do it.” He yanked his shorts and underwear down his legs and kicked them loose. “Get in the shower,” he told her, and then didn’t wait for her to do it. Instead, he pulled her in with him and shoved her under the spray. She gasped at the warm water hitting her skin, and he was grabbing the soap and beginning to use it on her, and it was her fantasy, but it was so much better. Because it was Will.

He could have had some finesse. He could have gone slowly, could have said all the things she probably wanted to hear. He could have made it last, drawn it out, done something special. But he didn’t. He was behind her, pulling her into him, his soapy hands sliding over warm, soft flesh, and there was no time for finesse. His hands were on her breasts again, teasing and pulling and pinching at the deliciously erect nipples, so pretty and pink, so wonderfully responsive to his touch, and she was stretched out, her head back against his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his neck. She was moaning already, and there was even less time now.

His hand dove, and found her, and if the rest of her was wet…this was more. And it was his.

The water cascaded down, he had her hauled back against him with a hand on one white thigh, and his other hand was probing, circling, hard and slick and sure.

“Ah…Hah…” She wasn’t managing words for once, just a succession of keening moans, because he’d found the way she needed it. The perfect spot, the most wonderful pressure point, and it was like pushing a button. Like turning on a spigot and having the liquid flow, exactly the way the warm water was beating onto her breasts, down her belly. Her back was arching, she was rising onto her toes, and she was almost there, her cries growing louder.

“I’m going to fuck you hard.” His mouth was next to her ear. “I’m going to make you scream. I’m going to do it now.”

She hovered, trembling, at the brink, her entire body stiffening, and then she was convulsing, and he was driving her higher and higher, taking her over the top, her body jerking against him, the powerful orgasm taking her in its teeth and shaking her hard.

He kept his hand going until she’d finished, until the convulsions had turned to shudders, then yanked the tap closed, pulled her out of the shower again, grabbed a towel from the rack, and started rubbing her down as fast as he could.

“No,” she said, and his heart very nearly stopped. “I don’t care about being dry. Please. Will. Come on. Do what you said. Do it now.”

She was the one tugging at him this time, taking him into the bedroom. She started to pull the duvet back, but he couldn’t wait for that.

“Lie down,” he said. “Now.”

She shuddered, and she did it, and he made it to the bedside table in two strides, thanking every blessed providence that he still had some condoms in there, because stopping wasn’t an option. He was ripping the packet open, and she was on the bed, shivering a little, her wet hair soaking the pillow.

He might have been cold, too, except that he wasn’t. He was over her, kissing her again, devouring her mouth, his hand cupping one of those gorgeous breasts, until he finally lowered himself and took a luscious pink nipple into his mouth, bit down a little, sucked hard, and felt her respond as if it were wired straight to her core. Her hips were bucking under him, and she was crying out, telling him exactly what she wanted. Which was exactly what he wanted to give her.

He wanted to stay there and do it some more, but he couldn’t. Not this time. That wasn’t where he needed to be.

At last, he was getting what he’d craved since the first day he’d met her. He was sliding inside her, easing his way, because she was so deliciously tight, and his eyes were closing with the heat, the indescribable silk of it. He wasn’t rushing now, because he wanted to feel all of this, and to watch it. To watch her eyes closing, her mouth opening, her hands flung out wide, fists curling around the sheets, grabbing, holding on. She was starting to pant now, and he was on his elbows, his hands in her hair, watching her beneath him, watching himself taking her, and seeing her wanting it. Needing it as badly as he needed to do it to her.