Making Sense (8 page)

A knock came at the door, and she stood, sighing. “Nate?”

“Are you all right in there? I’ve got a torch.”

“Oh, thank God. I can’t see a thing.”

“Hold on, I’m opening the door.”

“Wait—”
 

Too late—he’d turned the handle and flashed the torch in. She gasped, seeing the brief widening of his eyes before he turned his back to her. “Shit. Sorry Freya.” He waved the torch in her direction. “Please, take it. I’m really sorry—I thought you’d be dressed.”

She stood there, hands on hips, at the end of her tether. “For fuck’s sake. That’s about all I can take of this frickin’ day. I’m twenty-five, I’m not a blushing virgin, and I haven’t got anything you haven’t seen before. Turn around and point the bloody torch at me, Nate. I just want to put some clothes on.”

He gave a short laugh and turned, directing the torch’s beam at her, although she noticed he kept his gaze politely averted. She picked up the rugby shirt he’d given her and pulled it on, the sleeves coming to her elbows, the hem falling to her thighs. She collected her panties, but they were soaked through. Instead, she drew on the trackpants, but they were miles too big, even with the tie pulled in, and in the end she kicked them off in disgust and marched out the bathroom past him. “Sorry about my bare butt, but I need a drink.”

“I’m not complaining,” he said wryly, flashing the torch on her ass that the hem of the shirt only just covered, and she gave a tired laugh.

“I guess I’d better try Mia again.”

“Can’t, sorry. The main phone’s electric, and I get terrible reception here.”

She flipped her mobile open and, sure enough, it had no signal. “Well, obviously. After an evening like I’ve had, there’s no way it would work.”

“Power might be back on soon.” He picked up her glass and took it through to the kitchen, where he propped up the torch to shine on him as he proceeded to pour her another drink. “I’m sure you’ll be home soon enough, don’t worry.”

She sat on the edge of the sofa and studied him. His tone hadn’t been sharp, but she heard the undercurrent nevertheless. He thought she’d meant she was desperate to go.
 

She ran her gaze down him, enjoying the view. He wore a red T-shirt and khaki shorts that clung tightly to his ass. She’d admired his legs in the car—tanned, well-muscled, sprinkled with curling brown hairs. He was built solidly, his body lean but sturdy—he looked strong, capable, and yet he moved with a quiet grace. His hands were large, but not clumsy. His ruffled hair was long on top but short up the back, and she remembered how it had felt under her fingers. When he lost the wary, cautious look, he had a wicked twinkle in his eye and a beautiful, wry smile. Suddenly she wanted him so desperately she felt dizzy.

“How strong is that whisky?” she asked, puzzled, as he came back over with the glass.

“Standard.” He handed it to her. “Are you one of those women who can’t hold her drink?”

“Not usually.” She sipped it anyway. She was starting to feel more relaxed, slightly fuzzy. She wanted to wipe away the guilt and the frustration, eradicate the anger. She nodded at the bottle. “You going to pour yourself a drink?”

“I’d better not. I might have to drive later.”

“You can’t leave a girl to drink on her own.”

He tipped his head and smiled. “If you want to go home later, you can’t fly.”

“I don’t want to go home.” There, the words were out before she could stop them.

His eyes met hers, shining in the torchlight. “Huh,” he said.

“I mean, it’s getting late, and, well, if it’s okay with you, it might be easier if I stayed here until the morning.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Then you could have a drink,” she added. “Otherwise I’ll get drunk, and I’ll be all maudlin on my own. At least this way we can be maudlin together.”

He grinned then. “Alcohol doesn’t make me maudlin, it makes me sing.”

“In that case, I’m definitely pouring you a glass.” She got up and went over to the kitchen, pouring an inch into the tumbler. “Here. Knock it back, Taylor.”

He took a mouthful, studying her as he swallowed. “Okay, you talked me into it.”

“Good.”

“I’ll take the sofa—you can have my bed.”

“Yeah,” she said. They faced each other, and she took another swig from the glass.

To their left, lightning flashed out the back window, and they turned and walked over to it, watching as it happened again, tearing open the sky. Rain hammered on the glass, pooled on the ground below them.

“Electricity will probably be out for a while,” he said.

“Yeah. No TV then.”

“Good job you’d finished your shower before it turned cold.”

She laughed. “That would have made me get dressed super quick.” She turned to face him, thinking how dark his eyes were. “You gave me such a shock, walking into the bathroom.”

“I’m so sorry. When you answered me, I assumed you were dressed.”

“Did you get a good view?”

His studied her for a moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved. “Oh yeah.”

“Did you like what you saw?”

“Is the Pope Catholic?”

She laughed, looking out over the street as lightning flashed again. Her heart thumped as she thought of him looking at her naked. Briefly, it wiped away the heaviness that lay on her chest every time she thought of her parents, but as soon as she thought of the despair in her mother’s eyes, the red mark on her face, it returned. She shook her head, wishing she could dislodge the memory, the guilt. She wanted to wipe it away completely, just for a while. She wanted to forget.

Freya didn’t take risks. Her life depended on her being organised, sensible and structured. She worked hard, spending most of her free time either studying or alone, knowing that only discipline and determination were going to keep her from following the same path as her mother. Her two relationships had been safe and practical, men she’d got to know for several months before she slept with them. She’d enjoyed their time together, and they’d parted amicably, remaining friends. Her whole life was functional and reasonable.

And she was sick of it.

But how did she stop being functional and reasonable? Being impulsive took courage, and taking risks meant allowing for the possibility of failure. That word didn’t enter Freya’s vocabulary. She calculated the outcome of every venture, making sure she didn’t attempt it until she was certain to succeed. The thought of doing something that held the risk of turning into a catastrophe made her go cold.

And yet, there was also something immensely appealing about putting herself out there, instead of weighing and assessing the dangers until she was sure there weren’t any. The whisky had loosened her inhibitions, as a rugby player wearing an unfamiliar suit might loosen his tie, and she suddenly felt bold and daring.
 

She wasn’t particularly experienced in the bedroom. She knew where everything went—she thought she had a good enough idea of how to pleasure a man, how to turn him on. Nate fancied her—she could tell that from his half-smile as he watched her now, trying not to look at the way her nipples were showing through her shirt or the shine of her thighs as the lightning lit up the room briefly. She remembered the press of his hips against her when they kissed, and the way he’d pushed her up against the wall. He wanted her.
 

And she wanted him, badly. He embodied freedom and danger, the thrill of the unknown. Having sex with him would be like diving off a waterfall or standing up to speak like Ash did in front of an audience of a thousand people. She wanted that thrill, that excitement she’d experienced so little in her life. The truth was that Freya was worried she was dull. Boring. She liked her quiet, organised life, but she was extremely aware it might appear lacklustre and uninspiring to some. Deep down, she felt she was spontaneous and impulsive, but she never seemed to bring it to fruition. She was tired of being Jane Austen. She wanted to be
The Story of O
, or
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
. She longed for her exploits to make others gasp.

She finished off her drink and put her glass on a nearby table. Her hair had already partly dried in the warm and sultry room, and she ran her fingers through it, loosening the stiff strands before turning to him. “Nate?”

“Hmm?”

Here goes. Nothing ventured…
She laid her hands lightly on his chest. “How do you feel about some hot, fast, uncomplicated sex?”

His eyes widened, and he stared at her.

“Don’t say you didn’t see that coming,” she said, heart pounding. “I’m standing here without any underwear having drunk several glasses of whisky on an empty stomach.”

“Even more reason for me to get you something to eat.” He put down his own glass. “Come on.”

She braced herself against his chest as he went to walk past her. “Nate. I’m serious.”

He met her gaze, exasperated. “You don’t mean that.”

“Clearly, you don’t know me at all. I never say anything I don’t mean.”

“Freya…”

“Are you really going to turn me down?” She brushed her hands lightly across his chest, touching his nipples through the T-shirt. “Because I know you want me.”

He caught her hands in his, pulled them away. “You don’t want to have sex with me.”

“I really do.” She tried to pull her hands free, but his grip on hers was tight.

“Freya…”

“Nate?”

“I don’t have sex with nice girls.” His eyes were dark.

“I don’t want to be a nice girl.” She’d meant it to sound sassy and winced as it came out somewhat pathetic.

He turned her so her back was to the window and placed his hands either side of her on the glass. “Sweetheart, you really don’t want to get involved with me. I don’t bring flowers, I don’t take women to dinner, I don’t shower them with compliments, watch rainbows with them, write poems about them.” He tipped his head, and she shivered as the lightning lit his face briefly, showing it hard, intense.
 

“I don’t want any of that,” she said softly.

He ignored her and carried on, his voice rough. “I don’t date, I don’t go out with girls more than once, I’m not interested in a relationship and I don’t call back the morning after.” He obviously wanted to sound gruff and irritated, but as she looked deeply into his eyes, she could see the hurt shimmering in their depths, the reflection of his past he couldn’t quite shake off. He was trying to protect himself. This kind, gentle man had been terribly hurt in the past. She wasn’t the only one in need of comfort.

She licked her lips. “It sounds perfect.” She tucked her hands under her butt, which pushed up her breasts, the nipples standing out against the thin fabric of the rugby shirt. His gaze lowered to them, then returned to hers, half-amused, half-frustrated.

She cleared her throat. “Nate, I’ve never had sex.” He looked startled, and she laughed. “I’m not saying I’m a virgin.” She made her voice low, sultry. “I’ve made love, gently, affectionately, in a monogamous, caring relationship.” Her gaze rested on his lips, remembering how he’d kissed her, sliding his tongue into her mouth. “But I’ve never had a one-night stand because I couldn’t keep my hands off the other person. I’ve never had
sex
, hot, fast and sweaty, where it’s all about physical need.”

“I’ve had lots of that,” he said, amused. “Not so much of the other stuff.”

“I know. Show me, Nate. Show me what it’s like.” She moistened her lips again.

He frowned. “Don’t.” He seemed to be having trouble forming words.

“I want you,” she said, staring up into his eyes. “I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you, after Ash’s show. I’ve already told you, I don’t want a relationship. I want to go around the world, work abroad—I’ve got plans.” She glanced down briefly. “Even though my parents keep trying to derail them.” She looked back up. “But that’s nothing to do with you. I want a distraction, something to take my mind off my miserable, dull life, something just for me, that I can daydream about when life gets hard. You think men are the only ones who can separate sex from love?”

“No…” he said slowly.

“I won’t call you, or tell anyone what’s happened, or demand to see you again. I just want to lose myself for a while.” She looked deep into his eyes. “In you.”

He looked down, taking deep breaths, clearly struggling with his conscience. Her heart swelled. He was weakening. Clearing his throat, he said, “Honey…”

“Don’t you want me, Nate?” She gave him a desperate look as he glanced at her. “Don’t you want to fuck me so hard it makes my teeth rattle?”

He laughed at that, leaning forward until he rested his forehead against hers.

“Kiss me,” she whispered. “You know it makes sense. And then you can decide what you want to do.”

“Like I’m not already lost.” He lifted his head, and she met his gaze, heart thumping. He cupped her face with a hand. “Like I was ever going to be able to resist you.”

Oh, thank God.
 

He brushed her lips with his thumb, and she parted them, taking his thumb into her mouth, sucking it. He watched her for about ten seconds, closing his eyes briefly as she swirled around the pad with her tongue, and then he slid his thumb out. Slowly, he took both her hands in his, lifted her arms and pinned her hands above her head on the glass.