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His feet seemed to have decided what to do, or maybe it was that other part of him. He nodded at Rosemary and climbed down the ladder, suddenly aware of his less-than-fresh condition, having rolled out of bed at the last possible second into his clothes and a cup of coffee to stand in the sun all day.
Ripe, to say the least.
Still led by his feet or maybe the part that stuck out the farthest and felt the most eager, he found her back door unlocked, found the oak staircase and climbed toward heaven.
At the doorway to her room, he stopped. A double room, a master bedroom suite in addition to the other two bedrooms he’d glimpsed. Unusual for these old houses, which usually fit only two bedrooms upstairs. Beautiful room, hardwood floors, decorative molding and thick solid doors. She’d decorated in a way that suited his taste—dark wood furniture, classic prints on the walls, colorful rugs, subdued rose-beige walls—nothing too modern or too girlie.
That analysis took him all of five seconds, which was all he was willing to dedicate to the decor. The woman interested him far more.
He walked through the outer room and paused at the arched entrance to her bedroom. She lay on the king-size bed, modestly covered by a sheet, expression slightly apprehensive, which put him at ease. If she was nervous then she wasn’t a habitual man-eater.
“Hi.” He grinned. He couldn’t help it, but at least he didn’t giggle. “You, uh, caught my eye in here.”
She laughed, which he liked. Not nervously, but as if she understood and enjoyed his understatement. “Noticed me, did you?”
“I don’t think I’ve noticed anything quite that much in a long time.”
“Mmm, really?”
“Mmm, really.” He moved forward until his thighs in their shorts rested against the bottoms of her feet. Now she even looked familiar. Had he seen her before? But there’d been no moment of recognition when he’d first set eyes on her three days earlier. “I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“If there was something you needed my help doing.”
Her eyes stayed on his, her hand pushed up into her hair as she adjusted her head on the pillow. “There is, yes.”
“What’s that?” He reached down, rested his hands lightly on her ankles.
“I want to come.”
Sexual adrenaline surged. He made himself look calm. “And you don’t want to do that alone?”
“Not this time, no.”
“Hmm.” He pretended to consider. “You know, I think I can help you.”
The touch of shyness in her smile pierced him. “I thought maybe you could.”
“But…I could use a shower first.”
“Oh.” She bunched her lips as if trying to tolerate pain. “I’m not sure I can wait that long.”
He gave her foot an affectionate squeeze. “Trust me, you’ll be happier if I’m clean.”
“Yes. Okay.” She let out a long sigh of near despair.
“Bathroom’s to the right and straight ahead. Clean towels in the closet next to it. And, Garrett?”
“Garrett?”
“My name for you. It means ‘with a mighty spear.’”
He laughed—nervously. Though mighty was open to interpretation. “Yes, Rosemary.”
“Rosemary?”
“Mine for you.” He realized she was waiting expectantly. “It means Rose…Mary.”
Her brief laughter turned into the smile that was way too fast becoming familiar and dear to him. “Good enough. Now go. And don’t forget to come back. This is my first-ever seduction and I want to make sure it happens.”
He nodded and left the room before his latest ridiculous surge of emotion became visible. He was her first. God, he needed to get a grip.
Showering at the speed of light wasn’t humanly possible, but his didn’t happen much slower. He didn’t bother putting his sweaty paint-smelling clothes back on but wrapped the thick, generous towel around his waist. A glance in the mirror, wondering what the hell she saw in what he’d always considered average looks and build. Maybe she considered him a sure thing for her first attempt at seduction, given how much virtual drooling he’d done over her?
He’d rather think there was something powerful and exciting between them. Which would most likely get more powerful and more exciting in the very near future.
The hardwood creaked under his feet in that comforting way of old houses, to remind those inside not to forget their surroundings.
“Hi.” Rosemary sounded shy again.
“I’m clean.”
“So you are.” One dark brow arched briefly. “While I am still feeling pretty dirty.”
He knelt on the edge of the bed then stretched out beside her, no longer nervous, thank God, though he usually was the first time with someone, certainly had been a wreck with Annie. “I promised to help you with that. And I will.”
“Very grateful.” She lay on her side, facing him, both hands under her cheek. “I was serious when I said I’ve never done this before.”
“Had sex with a stranger?”
“I did that once. In college. But I was drunk and he was, too, and I bet neither of us remembers much about it. Probably just as well.” She considered him thoughtfully. “It’s funny, you don’t seem like a stranger. But I’m sure I don’t know you.”
“I’m sure I’d remember you.”
“Thank you.” She blushed and lowered her eyes, which made an unbearably appealing contrast to her boldness. “I meant, I’ve never taken the initiative like this with someone I didn’t know.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “So far, so good. You haven’t killed me.”
“Trust me, that’s the furthest thing from my mind.” He touched her hair, stroked it off her face, down the back of her head, over her shoulders and onto the bare skin of her back under the cool cotton sheet, stroked there, up and down, easing any tension with his fingers. “But if anything feels wrong at any point, tell me. You don’t have to do this.”
“Mmm, I definitely do. I like the way you touch me.” She arched into his fingers, stretched her long, beautiful spine.
“This is only the beginning of how I want to touch you.” His voice came out lower and more earnestly than he meant it to. He reached farther, to the curve of her lower back, then dared a slow glide over her firm shapely rear, which not only brought a sexy “Mmm” out of her, but also made her squirm closer and start her soft graceful hands on an exploration of their own. Of him.
Taking this as slowly as he wanted to might result in his death.
He tugged the sheet off her and pulled her flush against him, pressing his erection rhythmically against her, making sure he was stimulating her where it did the most good, tormenting himself in the sweetest possible way. Then he gathered her thick hair between his fingers, traced his thumbs along her jaw and did what he’d wanted to do since seeing her the first time. He kissed her full, tempting mouth.
The connection was immediate and electric, traveling through their lips, down his body, taking him over. He kissed her again and again, rolled her impatiently onto her back and followed to cover her, still tasting and fitting their lips together at every possible angle until the waves of eroticism and some other nameless feeling were so strong he had to stop.
He drew back slightly, breathing hard, feeling awed, met the awe in her eyes and became aware of the heaving rhythm of her breath, too. Both. They both felt it.
“Whoa.” She clasped her hands behind his neck and laughed uncertainly. “I guess I picked you for a reason.”
“Fate.” He didn’t believe in fate or any of the woo-woo crap that dominated his sister’s world, but the second he said the word he felt it was true.
Her eyes became cautious and he made himself grin to show he was kidding. Ha, ha. Fate. Ha, ha.
What the hell was the matter with him? He was a very practical down-to-earth guy who viewed the world in practical and often purely scientific terms.
“Oh, um, here.” She rummaged under the pillow and came up with a row of condoms, each in its black foil package. Speaking of practical. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be prepared so I made sure I was.”
“You planned well.” He lifted off her and took the strip.
“Only since yesterday.” She watched him open a packet. “I was lying on the lawn and fantasizing about you, and then I thought why not?”
“Why not?” He rolled on the condom then dragged his finger in a slow zigzag down from her neck, spiraling up each breast, meandering over her stomach and gently parting the lips of her sex. Her eyes closed and he watched her face, his fingers traveling by instinct, by touch, manipulating her softness, dipping into the tight entrance for moisture, spreading it outward again and again until her clit was slippery and firm.
Her head lifted from the pillow then sank, lashes dark on her cheek, a frown of concentration forming a furrow between her brows. It hit him that he would still want to know her when time had made the furrow permanent, would still want to be here touching her, watching the flush bloom on her face and her lips part. He’d tried to picture himself and Annie old together even up until the day he asked her to marry him, but it hadn’t seemed possible they’d ever be anything but young.
He moved over Rosemary, spread her legs gently. Her eyes opened and he sank not only into her body but almost as blissfully into her gaze before he began a slow rhythm. She joined it and he was quite sure he had known her a long time and would know her a lot longer, that they’d make love like this many, many times and it would always be this exciting, hot and sweet.
His cheek found hers; he listened to her breath speed and slow, felt her body eventually starting to strain toward her climax. Sliding his hands under her, he tilted her pelvis up, raised himself slightly, increased his pace and heard her low moan with satisfaction. Pleasing her was all he cared about right now, giving her what she’d asked from him. Then he wanted to give her a lot more than that.
Her eyes closed; her hands scrabbled across the sheets. She gripped them and her hips pushed up hard. He bit his lip, willing himself to wait…wait…wait…
And then her eyes shot wide; her head lifted, mouth opened in a silent “Oh,” and he felt her build, hold and go over. He fought against his own orgasm as long as he could stand it, savoring their connection, wanting this time to last forever. She gave a beautiful satisfied moan, whispered something he only barely caught about how perfectly he filled her and how much she loved feeling him inside her, and his control was gone. His climax burst out like a horse from a starting gate, a deep, shuddering release that went on and on and on. In the middle of such perfect ecstasy as he strained against her, trying to keep her closer than was physically possible, it occurred to him that he loved her and would always love her and somehow had always loved her.
She let her hands fall to the side, smile on her lips, flush on her cheeks, and stretched beneath him. Her breathing slowed gradually. Her smile stayed in place. She opened her eyes and he was stunned by their warmth and glow. His love. His one and only love.
Then she blinked.
“Hot damn. That orgasm nearly took my head off.” She grinned at him, apparently completely in control of herself and her emotions. “Was that not fabulous?”
“It was.” His voice was husky; he felt dazed and stupid.
“Fabulous.”
“Whew. I definitely picked the right guy.” She moved as if she wanted him off her, so he rolled to one side, spent and confused. “Want a glass of water? I’m parched.”
“Sure. Yeah.” He sat up, nodding his thanks when she tossed him a box of tissues.
“Man.” She took a couple of bowlegged steps and laughed.
“I can barely walk. You are incredible.”
Right. Incredible. Totally. Stud of the month, in fact. He yanked out a couple of tissues, went to the bathroom to get rid of the condom and clean himself up, then got dressed in the paint-and-perspiration-smelling clothes he’d shed with such anticipation.
So he’d given her what she wanted—an orgasm that nearly took her head off. While he’d gotten something he didn’t want at all. A heart about as vulnerable as it had ever been, in a ridiculously short time frame. In all the years of dating Annie he didn’t think he’d ever felt this raw and open. At least not until she dumped him.
As soon as he was dressed, had his glass of water and said goodbye, he was out of there, taking his suddenly foolish and sentimental heart with him.
Because he really wasn’t into having it stomped on again.
3
DARCY POSITIVELY FLOATED through her house. She kept laughing for no reason, drifting into one room, looking around hardly seeing a thing, frowning, hands on her hips, then laughing again and tilting into another room, whirling in a circle as if she’d gone completely over the edge.
Maybe she had. No, she’d done something much better. Last night she’d achieved a state of total—okay, near total—confidence and had walked into the master bedroom, knowing “Garrett” was working at her window, able to see everything. And in spite of the fact that her hands were shaking a little and once in a while she could barely draw a breath, she’d shown him…everything.
Could the evening have been any more perfect? No, and no, and no again.
He’d been a wonderful lover. Not that she had so many to compare him to, but she couldn’t usually come the first time with someone and…wow. Well. She had. Almost twice, but the second one had surprised her so much she’d ruined it by paying too much attention. Like when you were about to sneeze, if you thought too hard about it, the urge stopped.
Not only a wonderful lover, he’d been sweet. Gentle. And when he looked deeply into her eyes and kissed her…
Well, never mind. This wasn’t about falling in love or wildly inappropriate degrees of emotionalism, considering she knew nothing about him except he was a painter. And very considerate. And handsome in a non-obvious way and sexy as hell and sort of familiar in that way strangers were sometimes.
After, in case he thought she was the kind of idiot who fell for every guy she slept with, she’d made sure not to act as clingy and vulnerable as she felt. Thank God, because he’d left the microsecond he could, as if he had rockets in his shoes. Obviously he didn’t consider last night the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Which was fine. What she wanted, actually. After the paint job was over she’d never see him again. The whole thing would be just as neat and tidy as she’d planned it.
She tried to dance into the dining room but her body didn’t feel much like dancing all of a sudden. Maybe she was feeling wistful over him because he was her virgin seduction and she’d always have a soft spot for the experience. And for him. Understandable, really, and not based on anything but him being her first fantasy-come-true. She’d been so sensible through her relationship with Greg and this had been so wild and—
No, not really that wild. Carnal, sure, but sweetly carnal if such a thing were possible. Tender almost. Lovely. He’d wanted to shower instead of hop on immediately and ride his way to oblivion. Consideration for her; she’d liked that a lot. Not to mention the smell of her favorite vanilla soap on his skin had been quite the aphrodisiac. But it was the look in his eyes and that odd déjà vu feeling that had really touched her in a deep place she—
Anyway, enough of that. She wanted to call Molly and find some way to trumpet her success without any told-you-so triumph since Garrett hadn’t turned out to be a diseased-stalker-serial-killer, but it was way too early, just after 6 a.m. Darcy was usually a late sleeper but adrenaline had woken her with the dawn this morning after a fitful sleep. She’d call Molly later, after Molly had gotten her kids to preschool and Bruce to work.
Right now Darcy had better remember she was still on planet earth and get busy. There were plenty of her family’s possessions to go through and get rid of before the house sold. Some had already been doled out to Dad’s relatives. The things Darcy wanted were moved into long-term storage, ready for her own place, wherever and whenever she chose to settle down.
An hour later she’d gone through her dad’s study, occasionally weepy, mostly stoic, and made piles—give away, sell, toss. She’d paused over a painting of a ship on Lake Michigan for quite a while. Derek Houston had painted it for Dad probably a quarter century ago. For decades Derek was their backyard neighbor over on 64th Street. He’d died some years ago, but his widow, Marjory, still lived there, or had last spring, last time Darcy had been around. Confidentially, Darcy hated the bright surreal colors and crooked lines, but she hated to give the painting away even more, since her dad had loved it so much. Derek’s widow should have it back.
She glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. Marjory would be up by now. When Darcy was a girl out of bed for school at six-thirty every morning, bleary-eyed and annoyed at the hour, she’d seen her neighbor drinking coffee in her yard, watching birds at her feeder even on the coldest mornings. Darcy could take the painting to her right now. One less thing to do later.
With the canvas carefully swaddled in enough bubble wrap to protect an empty robin’s egg, Darcy took the shortcut, pushing through the arbor vitae that Dad had planted ten years earlier at the back of the yard for privacy, now a thick tall row of sentry trees. The painting she lifted over the back fence then dropped gently to the ground, and followed with a quick climb over. A jump and she was in the Houstons’ yard, then on their driveway, remembering other climbs here to retrieve over enthusiastically tossed balls or Frisbees.
Marjory Houston had been wonderful when Dad was in bad shape before Darcy moved him to the hospice. She’d baked cookies to tempt his appetite when he started losing so much weight, offered to stay with him now and then so Darcy could get some relief. Darcy felt guilty that during the past year spent in Madison to be closer to Greg, she hadn’t visited or called to see if Marjory needed anything.
The last twelve months had been a strange combination of selfless and selfish. Selfless because she’d stayed to help Greg through the long painful struggle back to his old self, physically and mentally, even though she’d wanted out of the relationship. And selfish because she’d spent too much time in self-pity and resentment, and stopped nurturing friends and therefore herself.
She stepped up the brick steps of Marjory’s walkway, grinning at the stone lions pompously posed atop waist-high brick columns on either side, as if Marjory lived in Versailles and not a typical Midwestern bungalow. It would be good to see her. A slice of Darcy’s childhood, precious for still being around.
The doorbell echoed through the house. Was she home?
She was. Footsteps, then the door swung open and—
So did Darcy’s mouth.
