Just Like a Man (36 page)

"Oh, God, Hannah," he said, grinding out the words as if they were painful to say. "I've wanted you this way, so much, for so long."

"I've wanted you, too," she confessed. "I've wondered what it would be like between us when it happened. If it happened," she hastily corrected herself.

He hesitated, then said, "If I tell you I have a condom in my wallet, will you think I've been taking for granted this would happen?"

She smiled a little weakly. "What if you have been?" she asked. "Don't guys always take it for granted they'll get laid?"

The hands he had been skimming over her body stilled. "This isn't getting laid," he told her, his voice steel-edged now.

She nodded. "I know," she said.

He brushed his fingers lightly over her torso, down over her thighs and hips, and back up to her breasts again. "So then you won't be mad that I was prepared for something like this? Not that I was, you know,
prepared
for something like this."

"Michael?" she said.

"What?"

"Are you going to go through your pants to find the condom, or should I?"

She heard him chuckle from behind her. "You already went through my pants once, and look what happened."

"So hurry up, and it can happen again."

He did, and it did. In no time, Michael was kneeling behind Hannah again, one hand covering her breast, the other delving between her legs. And a part of her wished that moment would never end, that they would remain this way forever, naked, passion-filled, needy, and
almost
coupled together.

But then they were coupled together, Michael entering her from behind, deeply, confidently, thoroughly. For one long moment, he stilled, letting her adjust to the feel of him, the size of him, the depth of him, and Hannah marveled at how she had never felt so complete. With one gesture, Michael had filled all the empty places inside her, had made warm all the places that had been cold for too long. His breath hammered her neck in ragged gasps, and his heart buffeted her back, and she knew he felt as overwhelmed by what was happening as she did.

He bent forward, his chest pressed firmly to her back, making Hannah bend forward, too. And as their bodies curved against each other, Michael withdrew himself from inside her, only to plunge in again, more deeply even than before. Bucking his hips against hers, he took her from behind, each thrust deeper and more arrant than the one before. Closer and closer to the edge she teetered, riding the crest of her orgasm. And just as she thought she would go over the edge, he withdrew from her completely, falling to his back on the sofa.

For one heartbreaking moment, Hannah thought he was through with her, was going to stop before either of them reached completion. But when she braved a glance over her shoulder, she saw him smiling at her, a dark, lascivious smile. Then he reached for her.

"Now you ride me," he said as he wove his fingers through hers. "You set the pace. But turn around first. I want to see your face when you come."

She nearly did then, simply hearing him say what he did. Never had sex been like this for her. Never had it been so primal, so potent, so raw. So fierce, so electrifying, so intense. In one swift, fluid move, she was atop him, sheathing him, sliding her body down over his until her legs pressed his torso and she pressed him. Acting purely on instinct, because sensation had long ago replaced cogent thought, Hannah moved atop him, rolling her body forward, then back, rising and falling until she felt the heat generating inside her again. Michael seemed to feel it, too, because he moved his hands from her hips to her breasts and back again, splaying his fingers wide as he caressed each in turn, bunching fistfuls of hair in his hands in between. Gradually, Hannah picked up the pace, moving her body faster, until she felt as if she were on the verge of total and complete eruption.

And then, suddenly, she was erupting, her entire body flaming and fracturing in a white-hot rush of fever. She cried out as the heat flared inside her, and she heard Michael's echoes coming from what seemed like a million miles away. For one long moment, they both seemed to hang suspended in time and space, and then, as one, he reached for her and she fell forward, both of them clinging to each other as if they feared what would happen once they let go.

It was a long time later, after they'd finally made it to Hannah's bed and the sun was dipping low in the sky, casting her bedroom into shadow, that either of them spoke. And only the growing darkness seemed to make that possible. And perhaps because of the growing darkness, too, when Hannah finally did speak, she felt compelled to speak the truth.

"It's never been like that for me," she said softly. "Not even close. Michael, that was…" Try as she might, though, she couldn't find a single word that would adequately describe what had happened.

But he seemed to understand, because she felt him nod, his head brushing softly against hers as he pulled her close. "It was never like that for me, either."

"So then I guess it's true what I've read," she said.

"What's that?" he asked.

"That imminent danger heightens the sex drive."

He chuckled at that and pulled her close, tucking her head beneath his chin.

"I didn't mean for it to be funny," she said soberly.

His chuckles stopped. "Then how did you mean it?"

"I meant…" She shook her head, not entirely sure what she meant, and gazed up at the ceiling. The truth, she reminded herself. She was going to tell him the truth. Very softly, she said, "I guess what I meant was that this shouldn't have happened. Not the way it did. That it wouldn't have happened if we hadn't gone over to Adrian's this afternoon. We got all worked up and turned on because of a dangerous situation, and sex was just a natural release for that." She swallowed hard and tried not to think about how he hadn't disagreed with anything she'd said so far. "So I guess what I'm saying is that this… that what happened here this afternoon… the way it happened…" She inhaled one final breath and said quickly, "It was a mistake."

For a moment, Michael said nothing, and she figured that was because he agreed with her, and she didn't want to think about why that bothered her—why it scared her—so much.

Then, as quietly as she had spoken, he said, "You think that's why we ended up making love today? Because of some weird sexual response we had to a dangerous situation?"

She nodded, but couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Of course that's why we ended up… having sex today," she corrected him. "Why else would we?"

Because what they'd done certainly hadn't been a response to a mature, adult emotion, she thought. If it had been, they would have turned to each other before now. Or later, once they understood their feelings better. They wouldn't have had the explosive physical reaction they had experienced today.

This time Michael's response was a sound of derision. "You know, for being the director of a tony private school, you sure do have a hell of a lot to learn about stuff."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she asked. She struggled to sit up in bed, wrapping the sheet around herself, because she suddenly felt very exposed. The springs of the antique bed squeaked beneath her, so fierce were her movements as she shoved herself up toward the headboard and turned to face him.

Michael, too, pushed himself up to a sitting position, but he didn't bother with the sheet, letting it pool negligently around his hips. In spite of her antagonism, Hannah had to concede in that moment that she had never seen a more beautiful sight than his naked body bathed in the pale evening light. It was almost enough to make her take back what she'd said. Almost. But she needed to make clear to him that what had happened to them today wouldn't happen again. Not until—not
unless
—both of them could make sense of whatever was going on between the two of them. If they could even ever make sense of that. And not until she could feel confident they had a chance of building a future together.

The next time she and Michael had sex, they would make love, she promised herself. And it wouldn't be because of some chemical reaction in their bodies brought on by the fear and the thrill of being in jeopardy. The next time it would be because the two of them felt a deep emotional bond that transcended a simple physical response. And it would be because they'd both come to terms with everything that was happening. She just hoped that somehow she could come to terms with that.

"It means," he said, "that if you think this happened because danger is an aphrodisiac, then, sweetheart, you don't know jack."

She gaped at that. "Oh, you're so smart, then why do you think it happened?"

"I can't believe you even have to ask me that," he said.

And she couldn't believe he was playing games. "Oh, come on, Michael," she said, "today was totally unreal."

"You can say that again."

"No, I mean it wasn't like anything that ever happens in real life. It was like some old movie. Like we were Ingrid Bergman and Cary Grant, and Adrian was Claude Raines and—"

"Oh, sure," he sneered before she had a chance to finish. "And of course you'd know, since you've rented
Notorious
at Blockbuster more than a dozen times this year. You ought to just buy it, Hannah. It would save you a bundle."

She went absolutely still at his words. "How do you know what I've rented at Blockbuster this year?" she asked softly.

Even in the nebulous light, she could tell he was turning red. He dropped his gaze to his lap and tugged on the sheet until it covered his chest, as if he were trying to hide something from her. Himself, say. Or his thoughts, maybe. Or maybe something even worse.

"Michael?" she asked. But it was pointless to keep asking him, since she was pretty much figuring it out all by herself. She was, after all, an educated woman. Maybe not smart, but educated. "It isn't just Adrian you've been spying on all this time, is it?" she said, her stomach pitching with the realization. "You've been spying on me, too, haven't you?"

He neither confirmed nor denied her charge. But it was that last that made her want to curl up into a ball and disappear.

"Oh, God," she said, drawing her knees up before her. She looped her arms around her shins and hugged herself hard. "Just how much do you know about me?"

"Hannah…" he began. But he didn't get any further than her name. Probably, she thought, because he was having some trouble coming up with a reasonable explanation for how he knew about her video rental habits, when in fact there wasn't a reasonable explanation at all.

Except for him having investigated her video rental habits. And if he'd investigated those, then he must know about a whole lot more.

"You've really been doing it," she said. "You've been spying on me.
Really
spying."

"Hannah—" he tried again.

But this time he didn't get any further because she cut him off. "Not just listening in on my life at home and at work," she went on, "but you've done some digging, too, haven't you? Into my personal life. All this time that you've been seeing me," she said, "what you've really been doing is investigating me. Spying on me."

She had never felt sicker in her life than she did in the moment she understood what had been going on. What had been going on for nearly a month. Michael had been spying on her. Really, truly, honestly spying on her. The way spies did. The way they spied on terrorists or assassins or any miserable excuse for humanity. Her entire life had probably been thrown open to him.

"What else do you know about me?" she asked again.

"Hannah…" he said for a third time. But he only shook his head, and, again, said nothing more.

"No, I want to know, Michael," she insisted. "If you know what I rent at Blockbuster, you must know all kinds of things about me. So what else do you know?"

He held his jaw clenched tight and didn't reply.

"Do you know where I was born?" Then she chuckled nervously. "What am I saying? Of course, you know where I was born. You probably know where I went to college, where I've worked, whether I've ever had a traffic ticket, and how much I owe on my taxes."

He continued to remain silent, but she was sure he did indeed know all those things about her.

"Everything's on file somewhere these days, isn't it?" she asked. But really, she wasn't asking anyone in particular. Especially since she already knew the answer. "I mean, I've read where people can even find out what you buy at the grocery store. So have you done that, too, Michael? Checked my supermarket purchases? My favorite brand of coffee and cereal? That I prefer high pulp over no pulp? That I will occasionally binge on Mrs. Field's cookies? How about—"

She halted abruptly when she remembered the night he'd come by on her birthday. She met his gaze levelly. "How about birthday cakes?" she asked, her voice dropping so low, she almost couldn't hear it herself. "Do you know about those, too? That night you came by my house, I never heard a car leave. That's because you weren't in a car, were you? You were somewhere close by, eavesdropping on me. God, why didn't I realize that before? How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so trusting?"

Her voice broke on that last word. She closed her eyes in mortification, remembering how she'd sung 'Happy Birthday' to herself that night. When she opened them again, Michael's expression was hard, and she knew he had indeed been listening in. Oh, God. How
could
she have been so stupid?

"You must have thought I was pretty pitiful that night, huh?" she said. "Of course, I suppose I
am
pretty pitiful, buying myself a birthday cake. Singing the birthday song to myself. You must have laughed yourself silly over that."

"Hannah, stop," he finally said. "Stop this. It wasn't like that. It hasn't been what you think. It hasn't been like that at all."

She nodded slowly. "You're right," she said. "I haven't been pitiful. I've been victimized."

This time he was the one to close his eyes, but he kept them shut, as if she'd flung a knife into his back and the pain was too much to bear.
Good,
she thought. She wanted him to feel the same way she did.