One Good Turn (25 page)

“If we do this, you will,” she warned, her words muffled as she buried her face against his chest. “It won’t work. I can’t do it. If I try, I’ll fail and it’ll be a disaster, and I’ll hate you for it.”

“It won’t be a disaster,” Luke assured her, praying that he was right, praying that their love was strong enough to overcome even this. Praying that, just as Jenny had worked a miracle for him seven years ago, he could work a miracle for her now. “Trust me, Jenny,” he whispered. “Please trust me.”

Leaning back, she stared up at him. Her eyes held an accusation. “You planned this, didn’t you. You had the house to yourself for the weekend, and you planned to have me spend the night.”

“Yes.” He couldn’t lie, not when winning her trust meant so much.

She continued to stare at him, less reproachful than reflective. “You understand what this means. You’re ready to risk our friendship. Because it’s going to be ruined if you do this. It’s going to be destroyed.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he swore, silencing his own private doubts. He was no Romeo, no acrobat. He had no secret talents or sure-fire moves when it came to sex. All he had was his love for Jenny. God only knew if that would be enough.

She gave him a final assessment, then sighed and slid out of his arms. “All right,” she yielded. “Let’s go and get it over with.”

Not a good attitude. He felt countless misgivings nattering inside his skull. Willfully he fended them off. He couldn’t afford to fail. Too much was at stake.

He ushered Jenny into the house and upstairs to the guest bedroom that had been his home for the past month. The drapes were open to let in the moonlight, and an ocean breeze wafted through the broad screened windows. Jenny surveyed her surroundings, taking note of the neat piles of books and magazines, the small stack of unanswered mail on the dresser, the bathrobe draped over a hook on the closet door. She drifted to the window and stared out, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and each of her hands gripping the opposite shoulder.

He came up behind her, bowed and kissed her fingertips. He heard her sharp intake of breath and tried not to be discouraged by her nervousness. He kissed her hand again, then lifted it from her shoulder and rotated her until she was facing him. “Relax,” he whispered as he slid her jacket down her arms.

“That’s easy for you to say,” she joked lamely. Her eyes were glassy with tears.

He arranged the jacket over the back of a chair, then nibbled a path across her shoulder, grazing over the narrow strap of her shirt until he reached her throat. She stood rigidly before him, her arms at her sides and her eyes wide open.

The last time he’d kissed her she had been aroused—at first, before she’d freaked out and run away. Clinging to that memory, he skimmed the warm hollow of her neck with his lips, working his way upward to her chin, to her lips. He cupped his hands to her cheeks and tilted her head. “Kiss me,” he whispered, touching his mouth to hers again and again. “
You
kiss
me
.”

Tentatively, she moved her lips against his. He positioned himself so his body wouldn’t accidentally brush against hers. He couldn’t rush her. He had to let her take charge, direct each step, comprehend that she was in control.

She covered his lips briefly with hers, then pulled back and sighed. “That’s nice,” he murmured, his words filling her mouth. He angled his head and slid his tongue over her lower lip. She sighed again, a tremulous whisper of sound.

“Let’s lie down,” he suggested, sliding his arm around her shoulders and leading her across the room.

She sat on the edge of the bed, removed her sandals, and eyed him uncertainly. She looked so small, so vulnerable, a slight, fragile figure perched precariously on the edge of the mattress. “Luke,” she said, her voice trapped in her throat. “I’m really scared.”

Oh, God, so am I,
he almost blurted out. “Don’t be,” he said aloud. “I love you.” He sat beside her, combed his hand through her hair and pulled her mouth to his. His kiss this time was less polite, less restrained. He let his tongue slide along the seal of her lips until she relented and allowed him entry. At the moment their tongues met he groaned.

So did she.

His fear vanished. He captured her hand and drew it to his face, inviting her to stroke his smoothly shaved cheek, his jaw, his hair, his neck. At some point her hand began to move on its own, tracing the broad ridge of his shoulders and then roaming forward to his chest. He tore open the buttons of his shirt and pulled back the fabric. Timidly, she slipped her hand inside.

The sensation of her fingers on his warm, sun-bronzed skin sent a dazzling charge through his nervous system. The muscles beneath her questing hand tensed with excitement. She ventured further beneath his shirt, running her fingernails experimentally across his ribs and down to the flat surface of his abdomen. Bumping against the waistband of his slacks, she flinched and broke the kiss. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Oh, Jenny, Jenny...” His voice emerged hoarse and uneven. “Touch me anywhere you want. It feels so good.” To emphasize the point, he tugged his shirt completely off and tossed it to the floor.

Her eyes grew round, reflecting a combination of wonder and apprehension. After a brief hesitation she let him guide her hand back to his chest. She watched herself stroke him, watched her hand as it roamed across the smooth expanse of skin, bashfully skirting his nipple en route to his shoulder. He watched, too. He’d never realized what a turn-on it could be to watch a woman’s hand moving on his body.

“I should stop this,” she muttered, even as her hand continued its meandering journey about his torso.

“Why?”

She let her hand fall to her lap. “If I get you too—too aroused, you might—” Unable to complete the thought, she closed her eyes.

“Lose control?” he finished for her.

She gave a tiny, anguished nod.

“Trust me,” he whispered, bringing both of her hands to his lips and kissing each palm. Then, carefully, he gripped the edge of her shirt and lifted it over her head. He felt nearly palpable waves of tension emanating from her. She stiffened perceptibly when he unclasped her brassiere and dispensed with it. Her eyes glinted with sheer panic. “Trust me,” he repeated, his voice a soothing purr as he explored the soft, creamy skin of her naked shoulders, lingered for a moment on her delicate collarbones, then drifted down to caress her breast.

As his hand curved around her sensitive flesh he felt her shiver, felt her fight against her own reaction—and lose. Her nipple budded, her breath grew short, and suddenly, without premeditation, he found himself drawing her down onto the bed, lying beside her, pressing his mouth to the sleek underside of her jaw and feeling her throat vibrate against his lips as she moaned.

She arched her back, pressing into his hand. Her hips twisted, and she dug her fingers into Luke’s back, clinging to him as his mouth blazed a path to her breast. He sucked, gently until she moaned again and then harder, feeling her writhe, feeling her defenses dissolve, feeling her awaken to her capacity for pleasure. “Luke,” she gasped. “Luke...”

He raised his head. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” It was a capitulation, a celebration. A confession of her own rebirth.

He rose and kissed her lips, then sat up and reached for the button of her skirt. Thinking better of it, he instead directed his attention to what remained of his own clothing. During her assault, she’d been naked while her attacker had remained dressed. Luke didn’t want that to happen now. He didn’t want anything to resemble that terrifying incident.

As soon as he was fully undressed he glanced at her. She stared at the straining fullness of his erection, her expression inscrutable.

He took her hand once more and curled it around his hard flesh. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I love you, Jenny.” As soon as he released her hand she pulled back from him.

She needed time. No matter how imperatively he wanted her, he mustn’t rush her.

Still unable to read her expression, he took a deep breath and unfastened her skirt. She lifted her eyes to his face, as if she couldn’t bear to watch him undressing her. He slid the skirt off, and then her panties.

She was so beautiful, so very beautiful. He skimmed his hand down her body, pausing at each breast, at her midriff, at her belly, at the sharp point of her hipbone. Her breath emerged in short, frantic gasps; her eyes never left his.

He moved his hand lower, prepared for her to halt him. She didn’t.

She felt moist, slippery, melting with readiness. A hot spasm of desire whipped through him, stringing every sinew in his body taut. He slid his finger deeper and she cried out—not in protest but in rapture. “Now,” she breathed, clutching at his shoulders and urging him onto her. “Now.”

It was too soon. He wanted to be sure, wanted her so primed there was no chance of her not being satisfied. He wanted her on top, so she could be in control.

Yet she
was
in control. If she wanted him now, he would obey. If she wanted him on top he would oblige. If he wanted her to trust him, he had to trust her.

He braced himself above her and she grabbed his hips, pulling him down. He tried to hold back but she was so soft, so buttery, and her embrace was so demanding. He yielded to her wishes and his own aching need.

The instant he penetrated her he experienced a clash of emotions—pleasure warring with fear. She was much tighter than he’d expected. “Jenny,” he murmured, lifting his head to view her.

She stared back at him, her eyes dry and her mouth pinched with fear. He bent to kiss her and she turned away.

“Jenny.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered, clenching her hands against his hips, refusing to let him withdraw.

“You’re so tense...”

“No. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He didn’t want her to be okay. He wanted her to feel what he was feeling, the fierce splendor of it, the seething, pulsing magnificence of it. He wanted her on fire. He wanted her to climax around him the way she had seven years ago, the way she had when there was nothing between them but love.

The understanding that it wasn’t going to happen sliced through him like a shaft of ice. He felt himself going slack.

She shifted her hips, reviving him. When she turned her face back to him he detected acceptance in her eyes. “It’s all right,” she whispered, sliding one hand up his spine to the nape of his neck. “I love you, Luke. It’s all right.”

Her distant look implied that she had given up on the possibility of coming. “I want you with me,” he implored, touching his lips to hers. Her hips rose to his, again and again, and he couldn’t resist the sensual rhythm of her movements.

“I’m here.”

“Not the way I want you to be.”

“I’m here,” she repeated, then turned her face from his once more and pulled his head down to her shoulder. He attempted to wedge his hand between them, to stimulate her with his fingers, but she pushed his arm away. Anxiety twined with desire inside him, each feeding the other until his soul begged for deliverance. The release came in a final, shuddering surge, leaving in its wake an overwhelming feeling of dismay.

“Jenny?”

He propped himself up and she let her arms fall from him. As soon as he was off her she rolled away, drawing her knees to her chest and presenting him with her back. She said nothing.

He touched her shoulder. “Jenny?”

She was weeping. Silent sobs racked her body, and she shrugged off his hand and twisted into an even more self-protective posture, shutting him out.

SHE DESPISED HERSELF
for behaving this way.

Luke had done nothing wrong. As a matter of fact, he’d done everything as right as possible. Even now he was still doing things right: gliding his hands up and down her back in a tender massage, kneading her shoulders, murmuring quiet, soothing words more important for their tranquilizing sound than their literal meaning.

But she couldn’t stop crying. She’d come so close with him, she’d been so aroused, so receptive. She’d never felt more sure of herself than she’d felt tonight with Luke.

It didn’t matter, though. As close as she’d been, she had ultimately failed.

She’d realized the truth the instant he’d thrust inside her. Was this supposed to feel good? Had she once upon a time derived enjoyment from this invasive, aggressive act? How? What had she done then that she could no longer do now? What had she thought? Why didn’t it feel good anymore, not even with Luke?

At least she didn’t hate him. He’d done his best, and it was a sign of how much she cared for him that she hadn’t felt sick during the act. He had been sensitive to her, patient, compassionate. Once she’d realized it wasn’t going to work for her, she’d done whatever she could to make it work for him.

She had obviously failed as miserably at satisfying him as she had at achieving her own satisfaction. What a mistake this had been. What a pathetic, stupid mistake.

“We’ll try again,” he was whispering, and she groaned in anguish. “We got this far. I’m sure that if we keep trying—”

“I don’t want to keep trying,” she lashed out, sniffling away her tears as her despair gave way to bitterness. “I want it to happen automatically, the way it did the last time we made love. We didn’t have to try then. It just happened.”

“That was then, Jenny. I’m sure it will be better next time. I’ll go slower—”

“No—it’s not your fault. You were wonderful. It was me. I warned you, I can’t do this.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

He inched his fingertips along the delicate bones of her spine, rubbing out the tension. “Was it awful from beginning to end?”

She sighed. “No.”

“Then we’ll try again, after we’ve both rested a little—”

“
No
.”

He pressed gently on her shoulder, and she let him ease her onto her back so he could view her face. He brushed her hair back from her tear-stained cheeks. “I’m not giving up on you. For God’s sake, don’t give up on yourself.”

“You arrived on the scene kind of late,” she retorted, wishing he weren’t so damned considerate. “I didn’t just give up on myself. I’ve been living this life for seven years.”