The One Worth Waiting For (16 page)

She whimpered low in her throat and felt his thick words of encouragement against her neck. Her hands gripped his forearms, drawing upon his strength. She splayed her fingers across his chest, reveling in the hard contours and rippling muscles. Experimentally, she drew her hands down and felt him suck in breath. For a long moment, her hands lingered at the edge of his jeans, wanting and suddenly afraid of the need.

“Please,” he whispered hoarsely, his lips suddenly stilled against her cheek. “Suzanne…”

Her fingers slid over the stiffness of new denim and pressed around his rigid length. He arched against her touch, and she felt the first rush of sensuous power.

But then his fingers drifted up the inside of her thighs, drawing heated little circles as he went. Breathless, she stiffened, suddenly unsure. His forefinger reached her damp panties and rubbed hard.

Her back bowed unconsciously, her hips arching to meet his touch. Her breath caught in her throat, and she could no longer breathe. The intensity was overwhelming, the need washing over her like a thunderous wave.

And all of a sudden, she was frightened. She could feel the burning outline of him against her hand, powerful and large. And his fingers moved against her, experienced and knowing, like a musician playing an intimately familiar tune. But she didn’t know the music and she didn’t know the chords.

He was the one who traveled with three condoms in his wallet, and he was the one who obviously knew more about the female body than she herself had even guessed. For him, the knowledge was a tiny part of the universe he roamed. For her, it was everything.

And she just couldn’t bear to give him so much. Not when, for him, the need would end with the moment, while for her it would go on for all the lonely nights and endless years to come. And this time, he wouldn’t even be whispering “Someday” under the soft cover of rain.

She pushed at his chest with one powerful surge, catching him off guard.

“I can’t,” she gasped out. “I just can’t.”

He reached for her, but she was already scrambling down from the table, half-tripping as she tugged at her skirt and blouse.

“Suzanne…” he tried to say, but the words were too thick in his throat. She caught his eyes, black and glittering with raw need, while the sweat and sawdust streaked down his cheeks.

He made another attempt to hold her but she simply couldn’t bear the pain. She grabbed the door and thrust it open upon the sultry July dusk.

She fled toward the house and never looked back at the wordless hunger in his eyes.

Upstairs, she stripped off yet another ruined skirt and blouse, figuring if her emotional wreckage wasn’t enough, she should at least consider Garret’s impact on her dry-cleaning bill. But the watery smile the thought brought to her lips still wasn’t enough for comfort.

She took a long shower, scouring her skin as if that would remove all traces of his touch. But the pounding spray only tortured her swollen breasts and overwrought nerves. In the end, she shut off the old faucets with more force than necessary, cursing Garret Guiness under her breath.

She should have just left him on her porch half-dead a week ago. All he’d ever brought her were fragile hopes that died bitter deaths, and she was too old to need him to beat up Tank Nemeth anymore. These days, she fought her own battles.

But as she drifted through her closet, trying to find something new to wear, she wondered how many of the wars she’d actually won.

She still lived in the same house she’d grown up in. Still fell asleep in the same room, with the same hand-sewn comforter, looking at the same white cotton curtains. She could follow the years of her life in the tiny notches she and Rachel had made in her old dresser until they’d finally outgrown it completely.

Rachel’s room still remained untouched and waiting for a homecoming that would never happen. Down the hall, her mother’s room was also the same, except empty gin bottles no longer neatly lined the closet.

She’d grown up trying to save her mother and, in the end, could only hold her hand and listen to her soft groans as she lay dying. Now she stockpiled money on the off chance her sister might actually leave the lout who was her husband. And she taught other people’s children, counseled other married people and assisted with other people’s lives.

And for what?

She found no answers in her closet, just a long line of dresses. Well, at least her taste in clothing had improved. Her lips twisted wryly as she pulled on a simple cotton dress, the yellow-and-green flowered fabric flowing gently over her rounded form. She walked back into the bathroom to blowdry her hair, but found herself staring at the woman in the mirror instead.

She was thirty-two years old now. There were lines crinkling the corners of her eyes, and fifteen pounds around her hips that she’d always meant to lose but never quite had the incentive. She was growing old, she thought suddenly, and she was growing lonely.

She lived by herself in a seven-bedroom house she would one day leave to the church because her sister would never come back to Maddensfield, and there were no other Montgomerys left.

She collected dolls for a daughter she would never have and slept alone in a bed that had never seen company.

What had ever happened to all those dreams she’d had so long ago? When had all the days suddenly rolled into months, and the months into years? She’d thought that after her mother died, she would work on her personal life. But then, money was so tight she’d had to work three jobs to survive the medical bankruptcy. And somehow, time had just slipped away, each year turning into another year. Until she was no longer young and fresh and spirited. She became a serious, practical, efficient woman. And the town spinster.

She rested heavily against the sink, feeling her heart thunder suddenly in her chest. And she knew what she was going to do.

She wanted her moment. She wanted one moment of selfishness, one moment to know all the things other people whispered of. She wanted the intensity; she wanted the passion. She wanted Garret’s lips on her own, his fingers running down her body and making her feel all the things she’d never felt before. She knew he wanted her, and after all these years, she knew she still wanted him. Who better to give her her moment than a man who traveled with three condoms in his wallet?

Her hands clenched and unclenched the folds of her skirt while she let the thought take hold.

Garret still wouldn’t stay. She needed to remember that. But she wasn’t sixteen anymore, and she didn’t whisper silly words in the rain. What she wanted from him was his experience. It would be an even transaction, a sharing of mutual desire and satisfaction.

Once more, practical. She felt a wry smile twist her lips and wondered at the sudden burning in her throat.

There were so many things about herself she would never tell him. So many nights so long ago when she’d needed him and he hadn’t been there. So many dreams he’d started, never to come back to fulfill. So many times she’d lain dryeyed in her bed and wondered if the loneliness ever got any easier to bear.

So many moments when she’d looked at him and known that she loved him.

She took a deep breath and willed the tightness away. She wasn’t a silly girl anymore; now she looked at the world with a woman’s eyes. She didn’t need a hero. She just wanted a couple of warm days and passionate nights. Time taught compromise.

She reached for the dusty compact of forgotten eye shadow and felt her hand begin to tremble.

* * *

When she walked down the stairs thirty minutes later, she thought her intentions must show in her face. She’d spent far too long on her hair, trying valiantly to style it to reflect some sort of glamour. In the end, she’d settled for a loose French braid, and she could already feel the fine strands slipping free. But after a few false starts, she’d managed to highlight her eyes nicely with the soft brown eye shadow. An additional touch of green emphasized the golden flecks in her hazel eyes.

Now, she simply held in her stomach, wondered if she’d dabbed on too much perfume and tried to keep a smile on her face.

She stopped in front of his bedroom door and took a last, deep breath. She raised her hand and rapped gently. The door flew open, and her smile froze.

“What?” he growled. His hair was damp from his own shower, and she could smell the fresh, tantalizing fragrance of soap and shampoo. Once again, his shirt hung unbuttoned, revealing the crispy black mat of his chest hair.

“Hungry?” she ventured softly.

His black eyes raked up and down her figure, lingering for a moment on her new hairstyle. “What are you offering?” he asked, his voice low.

Coffee, tea or me, her mind singsonged. “S-steak,” she stammered out instead. Her hands crushed her skirt.

He nodded curtly, but his eyes remained considerately on her face. “All right. Anything I can do to help?”

She shook her head. If she had to move around with him in the kitchen, she’d lose her nerve completely. She was beginning to wish she could serve wine with dinner to loosen herself up, except she didn’t buy alcohol. Ever.

“Forty-five minutes?” she suggested, her gaze falling down onto his chest until she caught herself at the last minute and forced it up.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

She stood there a minute longer, her nerves wound tighter than she’d ever anticipated. Kindergarten teachers didn’t receive training in slow seduction. She took another deep breath.

“I’ll go fix dinner now,” she announced. He looked at her strangely and nodded. “Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” he replied.

She turned and marched back down the hall to the safety of her kitchen. More of her hair slid free to wrap around her cheek.

She put on the potatoes, prepared the steaks for broiling and readied a tossed salad while they cooked. At the last moment, she realized she didn’t have anything for dessert, then remembered the raspberries they’d picked. She also recalled the way he’d plucked the raspberry from her fingers with his teeth. And the way his mouth had felt on her breast.

She whipped up some fresh cream, layering it with the raspberries in a simple parfait, hoping the berries might bring back memories for Garret, as well. Her stomach began to tighten with anticipation, and her hands shook as she set the old, warped dining room table.

At the last moment, she lit two slender vanilla candles, lending the room a soft, mysterious glow and adding a final, delicate fragrance. She took another deep breath and pressed her hand against her stomach as she looked at her old dining room suddenly transformed into an intimate scene for two.

She could do this.

She would do this.

The timer went off in the kitchen, and she retrieved the steaks. She was just pulling them out of the oven when Garret walked into the kitchen.

“Are we ready?”

Probably not. “Yes.”

“Is there something I can do?”

Toss me over your shoulder, carry me upstairs and make me forget my own name. “Salad’s ready for the table.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

Kiss me. Please. “No, that’s all.”

He disappeared into the dining room, and she dragged in a deep lungful of air and resolutely squared her shoulders. She put the steaks and mashed potatoes on serving plates and marched into the dining room.

They sat down and, after a short, awkward silence, began passing the food between themselves. Garret didn’t say much as he forked the larger steak and placed it on his plate. He simply watched her intensely, while her nerves bunched tighter and tighter.

She didn’t eat during dinner. She moved the food around on her plate and watched him. The way he moved, the way he ate. The way his foot tapped restlessly throughout the whole meal. The way his partially unbuttoned shirt revealed the sprinkling of dark black hair waiting to be touched.

She’d run her fingers through that hair, flatten her palms against that chest. She’d press her lips against his throat and taste his salty, tangy skin.

He sat back at last, taking a long, finishing sip of iced tea. His gaze went to the candles and then to her plate of carefully cut and completely rearranged food. But still he didn’t say anything.

“I made dessert,” she whispered. His dark eyes rested on her flushed cheeks, and he nodded.

The plates trembled in her hands when she picked them up, but she managed not to drop anything. At the last minute, he stopped her with a hand on her arm. He looked her straight in the eye. “It’s okay,” he said quietly. “There’s no need to be so nervous.”

She nodded, but her hands shook harder at his words. In the kitchen, she dropped all the dishes in the sink and braced herself against the counter. She closed her eyes and took one last deep breath. This was what she wanted. With Garret. Garret, who filled her with fire.

She reached into the refrigerator and took out a single parfait. Then she walked back to the dining room. She froze in the archway, looking at the candlelight flicker over the high ceiling, her doll cabinet, her old, warped table.

She moved into the room, and each footstep seeming like a mile, walked over to where he sat. Her hands trembled on the parfait and her face was pale. But his dark gaze held her own and that gave her strength. Slowly, she swung one leg over his chair and sat down intimately on his lap.

For the first time, she allowed a small smile to tremble around the corners of her mouth. She held up the parfait, her hazel eyes shiny and beguiling by candlelight. “I brought you dessert,” she said quietly.

His eyes never left her face. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. Carefully, his hands closed around her waist and shifted her just enough to let her know her effect on him. She gasped softly, and color flushed her cheeks. But she didn’t move away.

Instead, she dipped one finger into the parfait and scooped up a swirl of fresh cream and ripe raspberries. Then, delicately, she offered it to him. “Raspberries?” she asked.

He chuckled with delight. “My favorite,” he assured her, and closed his lips around her finger. He sucked slow and deep, his tongue swirling around her finger. She shivered, and his eyes glowed his encouragement.