Afterlife (37 page)

dogwalkers and joggers,

people emerging from other buildings

in the apartment

complex to get in their cars. People

who might know her by

sight as she knew them, going about

their normal business.

But today she felt as if a spotlight

was on her, because

nothing felt usual at al . As always,

Jon seemed to read her

mind.

“I’m not sure they’d recognize you.

You’re always so tidily

put together, and this morning you’re

like a gypsy woman.

Your long hair flowing about your

shoulders, your body

moving like a woman who’s been

thoroughly taken, al night

long. Those beautiful breasts of

yours, quivering under that

thin fabric, your nipples drawing

every man’s eyes. The way

you’re walking, your hips swaying as

if you’re dancing.

Trying to tease me, get me hard.”

She flushed, digging her nails into his

palm a little, since

he was firmly holding her hand. “I am

not.”

“Yes, you are, because you’re

aroused and you want me

to notice. You’re a good girl, my

sweet submissive, and you

won’t force the issue, but with every

movement, you’re

begging for attention. And it’s nothing

that should mortify

you. It’s a signal that rivets men.

Some of the women too.”

She remembered how she’d imagined

herself naked but

col ared, so men would look but not

touch, not without Jon’s

permission. Her palm was moist with

a pleasurable anxiety,

but she was noticing things as wel . A

lot of women were

looking at Jon, before their

speculative gazes shifted to her.

She could almost hear the scream of

their thoughts.
How

the hell did someone like him end up

with something like

her?

From the frown that creased his

brow, she was afraid her

face had revealed the thought.

Fortunately, they’d arrived at

the coffee house. It had an outdoor

seating arrangement

among a maze of potted flowers, and

he chose one of the

bistro tables, pul ing out her chair

and guiding her into it. He

helped her scoot inward, but then he

flicked his gaze down.

When she recognized what he was

communicating, the

spike of reaction went straight

through her pussy, made

even stronger when she parted her

thighs, aligning her

knees with the front legs of the chair.

The skirt fel past her

knees even seated, so she wasn’t

revealing anything, but

she was acutely aware she was now

open to him, and the

position pushed her pussy down

against the rough texture

of the warm iron mesh seat,

increasing the stimulation.

He nodded in approval, stroked back

a strand of her hair.

“What do you want? Stay here in the

sun and relax while I

go get our order.”

She offered to do it, but he shook his

head, leaned in and

spoke against her ear, taking a moist

nip there that

shivered down her spine. “You wil

serve me when I demand

it, sweet slave, but right now I want

the pleasure of caring

for the woman who belongs me.”

She managed to stammer out a

preference, then met his

mouth in another teasing kiss. Pul ing

away at last, he

squeezed her hand before he moved

to the door of the

coffee house. When he reached it, he

held it open for a

woman and her daughter. The mother

smiled at something

he said, blushing a little as any

woman would, faced with

the ful blast of Jon’s charm and

handsome face, that

mouthwatering body.

“Go,
cougar
.”

When Jon had pul ed out her chair,

she’d noted a nearby

female foursome sharing their

morning latte. Twenty-

somethings with perfect bodies and

smooth complexions

with no lines. The muted comment

had come from them, as

did the titters that fol owed.

Of course, she should have expected

it. The first thing a

group of women did after noting an

exceptional y

handsome man was to measure his

companion with critical

eyes, assess her worthiness of such a

prize. But why

should she care what they thought?

She didn’t. The

problem was what
she
thought gave

their mockery power,

making her shoulders stiffen, her

body hunch defensively.

Their reaction only amplified her

own insecurities. She

wished they’d had breakfast in the

apartment. This worked

better there, when it was just the two

of them.

The girls left as Jon was coming back

out. They moved

past her, not making much of an

attempt to avoid hitting her

with their oversized designer

handbags and laptop cases.

As they offered saccharine apologies,

their gazes were

straight ahead, on Jon. They brushed

by him, giving him

flirtatious feline smirks, though he

courteously stepped

back, offering them more room to

pass than they took.

Rachel tried to shrug off the feeling it

left her, but of course

when he reached her, put their

purchases on the table, he

reached for her hand. “What is it,

Rachel?”

She shook her head, folded her hands

in her lap instead.

“I wish you’d let this just be a

fantasy. It’s not going to

survive reality.”

“Real y? And what’s reality? A

group of catty girls who

don’t know shit about life yet?”

She flinched. “You don’t even know

how old I real y am,

do you?”

“You’re forty-three,” he said.

“Great. You can tel I’m forty-three.”

She gave a miserable

half-laugh. “Guess I’m glad I at least

look my age, and not

older.”

Jon slid his chair closer, his knee

flanking hers, and

touched her chin, bringing her eyes

up to his face. “I know

how old you are because Dana told

me,” he said, a touch of

impatience in his voice. “I don’t

know what a forty-three-

year-old is supposed to look like, but

to me you look like a

deeply sexy, sensual, kissable,

fuckable forty-three-year-old

woman. A woman with a heart so

deep and generous it’s

an honor to know her. A woman

who’s everything I want, the

submissive I’ve been waiting a

lifetime to meet. I want you,

Rachel.”

She wanted the words to penetrate

the armor that

seemed to be coating her soul. When

a man like Jon said

something like that, he meant it. But

she couldn’t believe it.

He didn’t know, couldn’t see…no

matter his intuition, it just

wasn’t possible. When he dropped

his hand to her arm,

making it clear he was going to fol

ow it down to her

forearm and make her take his hand,

bring them up to the

table together, she went rigid.

“Please don’t.”

“You’re getting into some serious

trouble.” His fingers

tightened on her upper arm. “I want

the woman who teaches

yoga classes to eighty-year-olds as

wel as eight-year-olds,

who helps people struggle through

difficult physical therapy

regimens. The woman who’s lost a

son and tried her best

to honor her marriage oath. That

woman would tel those

girls to go to hel . She knows that

love doesn’t apply a

measuring tape between ages before

it measures between

two hearts. You’re better than this.”

Capturing her wrist, he won the

physical contest between

them, bringing her hand back to the

table with that

distracting sense of restraint. Now

his jaw was set, his eyes

cool. “This has nothing to do with the

difference in our ages,

because you know that doesn’t mean

a damn. This has to

do with your fear of loving and

trusting someone. You think

you’re too fragile, and if you get hurt,

you won’t survive

again.”

Of course he understood what the

problem was. But right

now that intuition she admired merely

made her feel

resentful and angry, as wel as more

frightened. She

couldn’t handle feeling frightened

anymore. She wanted to

go home.

“Yes.” She yanked her hand away,

hitting the tray with her

elbow so the cups vibrated from the

impact. The old,

festering poison boiled up inside her,

scaring her even

more. It would shove him away,

make him go, and she

needed him more than anything. But

the poison didn’t care,

and she couldn’t let the poison touch

him. “I won’t. I can’t

deal with it. I can’t love someone

with my entire soul again

and have them throw it back in my

face like it’s worthless

garbage. Like I’m worthless

garbage…”

If someone like Cole, an average guy

with a nine-to-five

job and a thinning spot on the back of

his head, had thought

her worthless, what about someone

like Jon? It was only a

matter of time.

“Excuse me…I have to…I’l be right

back.” She shoved

back from the table, the chair

scraping, and the bistro

tables were so close together it

formed a momentary

barricade between her and Jon.

Fortunately, there was a

back way out of the seating area. An

open gate took her

down a side al ey toward the

restrooms. As she hurried

through that gate and around the

corner, she discovered a

shade garden there, statuary and a

smal bench. The

sanctity of the women’s room was

where she was headed,

but she only made it to the bench. Her

anxiety and her long

night made her knees buckle. She fel

to one hip onto the

bench, bracing her hand on the rough

wooden edge, trying

to breathe, to get hold of herself.

This was the dark underside of last

night, the side she

kept trying to ignore. Along with

feeling more alive than

she’d felt in a long time, she was

stripped bare, having to

stare at parts of herself that had been

kept careful y and

tightly bandaged for a long time.

When the rustle of paper alerted her

to another presence,

she saw his hand as he placed the bag

in that open spot

between her braced arm and body.

Then he stepped past

her folded legs. Straddling the bench

behind her, he slid

both arms around her, one across her

chest above her

breasts, the other at her waist. He

didn’t say anything as he

eased her back into the shelter of his

body, holding her.

She hadn’t expected him to fol ow

her. No man had ever

chased after her when she was in

pain, when she ran from

it. No man had ever sent her the

message that Jon was

sending now, that he wasn’t going to

let her be alone with it.

Her jaw set against the surge of

emotions that thought

brought. She clutched his forearm as

she pressed her

forehead to his shoulder. It helped

even more when his

other hand curved against her temple,

holding her there.

Only what mattered should be said.

And what she felt

now was determined to come out,

even in such humiliating

and inappropriate circumstances.

“I’ve been alone for a long time, Jon.

Even when I was

married, I was alone.” Her voice

broke, but when he held

her closer, she found the ability to

continue. “For years and

years, it seemed. I deal better with

the pain of that, the

sheer agony of it, when I can keep

people at arms’ length.

And someone like you…”

She gave a near-hysterical snort of

laughter. “I cut

coupons. I have a budget. I scrub my

toilets on weekends. I

worry about age lines and middle-

age stomach fat. You’re

offering me what every girl dreams

about. You’re right, it’s

not exactly the age difference, but I’m

not a girl anymore, no

matter what you say. You’re like the

prince, coming for

Cinderel a when she’s already…”

“Too old to dream? To believe in

happily-ever-afters?”

“I’m not bitter,” she said. She stroked

his arm in nervous

movements, wondering at how strong

it felt, so capable of

bearing anything. “I don’t want you to

think that. And I’m not

one of those women artificial y

closed off, stil secretly