The Ring on Her Finger (20 page)

Tentatively at first, fearful he might have forgotten how, Max slipped that button through its hole, only to be treated to a puff of sweet-smelling ambrosia that made his senses run wild. Lucy moved her hand to his hair, tangling it in her fingers, cupping the crown of his head in her palm to urge him closer still. Max lowered his hand to the second button of her shirt, freeing it, too, then on to the third, fourth and fifth, releasing each in its stead. Then he was able to push the garment open completely and flatten his palm against her naked torso.

So warm. So soft. He remembered now how good a woman could feel, how different her body was from his own. But his memories were nothing compared to the reality beneath his hand. Leisurely, methodically, he strummed his fingers up over each delicate rib and back again, cupping his hand around the entirety of her rib cage before moving it back to the center of her torso again.

It had been so long... So long since he had touched a woman this way. He wanted to explore every last inch of Lucy, slowly, deliberately, completely, as if he were discovering a woman for the first time. In some ways, it was his first time. The first time he touched a woman because he just couldn’t resist her. The first time he touched one because he couldn’t stand not to. The first time since he’d realized how much a woman’s touch mattered in making him feel complete.

And not just any woman, either. There was only one woman who could do this to him, only one woman who could make him feel so intensely about what he wanted that he actually reached out to take it. Only one woman who would make him forget, if only for a little while, all the things he’d sworn he would remember forever. Until Lucy came into his life, he had remembered, too well, every single one of those things. Now...

Now he just wanted to forget everything. Everything except Lucy.

As he continued to kiss her—deeply, relentlessly—he trailed his middle finger down the center of her torso, dipping his fingertip into the tiny cleft of her navel and out again, then back up her rib cage on the opposite side. He knew he was denying himself the prize he wanted most, but he needed to deny himself that for as long as he could tolerate it. Over and over, he palmed her flat belly and tripped his fingertips over the ridges of her ribs, in front, then in back, until finally, finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore, and skimmed his hand up to the lower curve of her breast.

Even then, he couldn’t quite bring himself to claim it. Instead, he turned his hand first one way, then another, letting the heavy weight of her flesh glide over the heel of his palm and the back of his hand. She was so soft, so round, so heavy, so perfect. And larger than he had realized. Had it been so long that he couldn’t even accurately gauge a woman’s curves anymore? Or had he just been trying to deny how luscious she was?

He positioned his fingers to cradle the curve of her breast in the L created by his thumb and forefinger. So soft, he thought again. He didn’t deserve her. He couldn’t claim anything that was as beautiful as she was or that he wanted so much. He was about to pull his hand away when he felt her hand upon it, urging it higher, up over the soft mound of her breast, until her nipple lay beneath the center of his palm.

“Please,” she murmured against his ear. “Please, Max. Touch me. I need for you to touch me.”

Immediately, he closed his fingers over her, nearly shattering inside. Not just because he held so heavenly a prize, but because she had offered it to him so generously. She sighed as he touched her, her damp breath warm against his neck. For a moment, he only held her in his hand, glorying in a sensation so long denied him, remembering how much he missed this kind of closeness with another human being. Slowly, he palmed her, closing and opening his fingers over her, capturing the taut peak between thumb and middle finger, rolling it gently, reveling in every soft gasp she uttered. He watched his fingers as they toyed with her, then moved his attention to her wildly expressive face, loving the way she responded to each caress. He lowered his head and, still fingering her delicately, flicked the tip of his tongue over her nipple, once, twice, three times, tasting sweetness and promise and a forbidden sort of happiness he dared not imagine.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as he tasted her, and she uttered the most erotic sound he’d ever heard, a mixture of groan, sigh and incoherent whisper. When she pushed his head more insistently against her breast, he moved his fingers aside and grasped her tightly in his hand, then opened his mouth wide to draw as much of her in as he could. With one long suck, he consumed her, laving her nipple with the flat of his tongue, tantalizing it with the tip. He teased her with the pressure of both his mouth and his hand, pulling at her, gripping her more possessively, tasting her with a hunger whose depth he was only now beginning to realize.

At some point she had lay back flat on the sofa, pulling him atop her—or perhaps he had done that; he honestly didn’t know— and now she shoved up his T-shirt to bare his back. Her legs parted beneath him, one foot dropping to the floor, the other bracing itself against the back of the couch. His thigh pressed against the juncture of hers, and she lifted her hips higher, to push herself more intimately against him. She gasped at the contact, but instead of pulling away, she lowered her hips back to the couch and then bucked against him again.

Oh, sweet, heavenly God.

Acting purely on instinct, since thinking was out of the question, he shifted their bodies so they were lying side by side, with Lucy between him and the back of the couch. Helplessly, he gazed down to see her shirt gaping open, her breast damp and pink from where he had tried to consume her. He wanted to apologize for manhandling her, but she moved against him, grinding her pelvis into his, and it was all he could do not to come apart at the seams. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and waited for the waves of pleasure purling through him to ebb. Then he tucked his hand behind her and slipped it under the hem of her pajama shorts, curling his fingers over the curve of her bare ass. Soft. So soft. She was softer, warmer, sweeter... She was just more than he ever could have imagined.

She pressed her mouth to his neck to drag openmouthed kisses along his throat, then retraced the path with the tip of her tongue. He bit back a groan and gripped her ass tighter, dipping his fingers into the delicate cleft bisecting it. He skimmed his fingers along that elegant line, first up, then down. Then lower still, between her legs, until he felt the dampness of her response against his fingertips. She spread her legs wider at the contact, giving him better access, and Max took full advantage. He pushed a finger forward, into the hot, wet heart of her, and Lucy gasped before then nipping him gently on his neck.

He couldn’t do this. Not without going off like a bottle rocket. Hell, he was already ninety percent gone. One more touch, one more hint at how wet and ready she was to take him, and he was likely to empty himself before he even dropped his pants. He pulled his hand back, sliding his fingers one last time along the crease of her ass before removing them from her shorts. By now, his shaft had swelled hard and heavy against the fly of his jeans, ready to burst right through the zipper, he was so fully loaded.

Telling himself it was madness, but unable to help himself, he clasped Lucy’s hand and moved it between their bodies, over the denim that strained against his erection. Without bothering to unfasten the garment, he pushed her hand down the length of himself—hard—then back up again, then down once more. Together, they rubbed him, hard and slow and long, until he was damn near exploding.

Oh, God, he had forgotten how good this could be. He had forgotten what it was like to touch and be touched with such intimacy, to anticipate such a profound coupling of bodies and spirits and souls. He had forgotten how deeply he could just feel things. And he had forgotten just how much he enjoyed the—

Oh, no. Oh, hell. He was enjoying it. Christ, he was enjoying it more than he’d enjoyed anything in his life, even back when he’d allowed himself such pleasures. But he wasn’t allowed pleasures like this anymore. He wasn’t allowed any pleasures at all. He didn’t deserve them. Dammit, he had promised himself he would never do this again. He had taken a vow. He had sworn an oath.

“Stop,” he ground out, jerking himself away from Lucy much the way he would a mauling tiger. He leapt to his feet and unsteadily backed away, holding his hands in front of himself as if he could ward her off physically. She pulled herself gracelessly up from where he’d had her sprawled on the sofa, her shirt falling open over her naked breasts, her mouth full and ripe and red from where he had kissed her. Her hair was mussed from his fingers, and her eyes were wide with confusion and uncertainty and something that looked a lot like pain.

Ah, hell. He never should have touched her. She didn’t deserve the likes of him. And no way did he deserve her. He had to get out of here. He had to stay away from her. From now until it was time for her to leave Harborcourt. Otherwise...

Well. There was no otherwise, that was all there was to it. He had to leave her the hell alone. Because he had to live in his hell alone.

“Max?” she said softly, her tone puzzled and still very much aroused. “What’s wrong? Why did you stop?”

She raked a hand nervously through her hair, grimacing when it caught on a snarl he had put there with his own eager fingers. She seemed to recall she was only half-clothed, and she dropped her hands to her pajama shirt, hastily jerking it closed.

“What did I do wrong?” she asked. “Whatever it was, I’m sorry. And I promise not to do it again.”

He squeezed his eyes shut tight. How could she believe this was her fault? How could she think she had done something wrong? She was wonderful. She was perfect. She was everything he could ever want.

She was everything he could never have again.

“Nothing,” he hastened to assure her. “Lucy, you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re...” Oh, God, she was so much, so many things. Gentle. Decent. Kind. “It’s not you, it’s me. I can’t...” How was he supposed to explain it to her when he could hardly make sense of it himself? “It’s not you,” he said again. “It’s me.”

She studied him in silence for a moment, kneeling awkwardly on the couch, gripping her shirt closed, but not buttoning it. Slowly, she nodded. And in a very small voice, she said, “Right. It’s you. Not me. I understand.”

But she obviously didn’t understand. She still thought she’d done something wrong. “Lucy,” he began helplessly. He even took a halfhearted step forward before making himself stop. He didn’t want to be responsible for her pain. But he knew he was. And he knew there was nothing he could say or do to fix it.

But that was what he did best, wasn’t it? He brought untold pain into a woman’s life. Then he walked out of her life without doing or saying anything to fix it.

Lucy nodded disconsolately, and he could tell she didn’t believe a word he’d said. “I, um... Well. I guess if it’s you, not me, then you should probably go.”

Max made himself turn around, and somehow, he forced his feet to move forward. He even made it to the door and gripped the knob to turn it. But even after he opened the door, he couldn’t quite make himself go through it. Not until he tried one more time to make Lucy understand.

When he pivoted around, she had her back to him and was buttoning up her shirt. That was good. It would be easier if she wasn’t looking at him. It was always easier that way for chicken-hearted jerk like him.

“It wasn’t you, Lucy,” he said softly again.

She stopped buttoning herself up and turned her head slightly, so he knew she heard what he said. But she didn’t turn around to look at him.

“You felt how I responded to you just now,” he continued, still speaking in low tones. “You know how much I wanted you. You know it. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted any woman the way I want you tonight.” He paused, then made himself say the rest. “But I can’t have you, Lucy. It’s not allowed. And wanting you like that, and knowing I can’t have you...”

He expelled a restless sound, knowing he’d never be able to explain without telling her too many things he never wanted to tell anyone. “Just try to understand,” he said. “It’s not you. It’s me. I promise you, it’s me.”

Even though he hadn’t said everything he wanted—everything he needed—to say, Max made himself turn and walk forward again, out the door, out of the apartment, out of Lucy’s life.

He knew he couldn’t avoid her for the rest of the time she’d be working at Harborcourt. But he’d be damned if he would put himself in a position like this one again. After tonight... Having touched her softness and tasted her sweetness and held her perfection... Now Max knew a new kind of torture. Before, he’d only been denying himself the presence of a woman in his life. Now he was denying himself the presence of Lucy in his life.

And somehow, he wasn’t sure that was a torture that he would be able to survive.

“But, Rosemary, I don’t want to go.”

“Abby, you have to go.”

“You told me I didn’t have to go.”

“I was wrong. You have to go. Your mother and father insist.”

“Who cares what they say? I only care what you say.”

“Abby, don’t make this harder than it already is. You’ll be fine, sweetheart. I promise.”

As she made the promise, Rosemary sent a silent prayer heavenward that she wouldn’t be a liar for uttering it. Poor Abby. Even though Rosemary had tried to argue against forcing the child to be tested for her lack of reading skills if she didn’t want to be, deep down, she knew it was for the best. Abby did have a problem, and she would only find help for it when that problem was identified.

Even if Mrs. Cove’s reasons for wanting her daughter’s problem to be addressed differed from Rosemary’s—Mrs. Cove simply couldn’t abide imperfection of any kind in her life—both women wanted to find help for her. Rosemary just wished she could go with them today.

What had she been thinking to say yes to this outing with Nathaniel? What had he been thinking to ask her out in the first place? He’d been coming ’round to the Coves’ ever since Rosemary started working for them, but not once had he looked her way. Judging by the women he usually wore on his arm—overly made up, scantily dressed, very full-breasted—his interest in Rosemary was even more puzzling. She’d never been any of those things, and nothing in her had changed recently to suddenly warrant his notice. So why was he suddenly noticing?