Asking for More (5 page)

“You always do,” I murmur. Desire kindles within me, a small, warm flame inside. But this conversation is more important.

“When we started falling for each other, it all seemed perfect.” Jonah turns to look at me, open and vulnerable in a way I've rarely seen before. “But after finding out about Anthony—I felt like I was hurting someone who'd already been hurt too much. That I wasn't good for you at all, just dragging you down with me.”

“But, Jonah—”

“It helps you. I know that now. You relive your nightmare and defeat it, every time, by turning it into your fantasy. Your choice. And I love being able to give you that. But when you fell the other day—you know, for that first moment, I thought you were going down that flight of steps. You could've broken an arm, received a concussion. You could even have been killed.”

I never thought about how it must have looked to Jonah: my body falling away from him, toward a long, dark, forbidding stairwell. I hardly even had time to realize what was going on before I'd whacked my head; after that, I mostly felt stupid and hated my shoes. For Jonah, that was a moment when he saw himself losing me.

“Yeah, it was an accident,” he says in a low voice. “But it was partly my fault for choosing such a damned ridiculous place. And I can't stop thinking about what might have happened. I was trying to give you something, to be with you body and soul, but it all went bad anyway. And I might've lost the best thing in my life.”

I roll over to kiss him, my mouth atop his. Jonah's broad hands find my waist and my thigh as he pulls me atop him, straddling him on the air mattress. Our kisses deepen and intensify, the pace quickening as I begin to move against him. Through the cotton of my panties and his boxers, I feel his cock getting hard.

But Jonah breaks the kiss to gasp, “Vivienne, we can't. Not here.”

“Wouldn't want to abuse Rebecca's hospitality,” I murmur. “Follow me.”

With that, I rise from the bed and go out onto the deck again. Within moments, I hear Jonah's footsteps just behind me.

Clouds have swept in during the night, dimming the moon. This side of Rebecca's home faces pure wilderness, so Jonah and I are completely alone in the steamy dark. He puts one hand on my shoulder. “I'm still not ready to play.”

“We're not going to play. We're going to make love.” As much as I relish the role-playing Jonah and I do together, I no longer require it. I'm free to enjoy everything Jonah and I can do together. “Assuming you want to—”

He silences me with a kiss.

As I undulate against him, pressing his cock between us, Jonah reaches for the hem of my T-shirt. He pulls it over my head and lets it drop to the deck. Now I stand before him, topless and aroused, my hair falling in front of my face. The sheer lust in his gray eyes as he takes me in makes my knees feel weak.

Jonah caresses my breasts, palms them, and brushes his thumbs across my nipples. I reach into his boxers and wrap my hand around his erection, which pulses hot in my hand. The first drops of pre-come slick my fingers, and I circle the ridge, the tip. He groans, a low, desperate sound—until he suddenly goes silent.

Of course. He's scared of waking Rebecca. We'll have to be completely, totally quiet.

I grin as he brings my face to his again. I've always loved a challenge.

Jonah's fingers slip into my panties, and he brushes against my clit. I muffle myself against his shoulder; I'm so sensitive there that direct touch sometimes gets me off too quickly.

But he knows this. He knows my body better than I do by now. He simply tugs my panties down and helps them to fall to the deck beside my shirt.

Completely naked, I let him walk me back a couple of steps, until my shoulders brush the wooden door. Then Jonah kneels before me, pulls one of my thighs over his shoulder, and starts going down on me.

As his tongue sweeps over my clit, I bite my lower lip. I want to moan, to tell him yes, but stifling that sound somehow makes the sensation even hotter. All I can do is brace my hands against the doorjamb as he starts going faster, licking me up and down, and finally pressing his mouth firmly against me as he starts to suck.

Pure pleasure ripples through me, almost blinding in its intensity. Jonah goes slow, knowing this will turn me on but not get me off. He wants to bring me to the brink and hold me there forever. If anyone can do it, he can.

I want him between my legs for hours. But I also want to get off now. I reach down to cup the back of his head with my hand, keeping him right there. Jonah responds by sucking faster—and then, when I gasp, speeding up still more.

How dare he do this to me when we have to be quiet,
I think in a haze of need.
If we were alone this would be making me scream.
Every pulse sends heat rippling up through me, and I start rocking my hips forward with each one, increasing the pressure just a little more.

I look down to see my thigh across his muscled shoulder, one of his hands gripping me firmly. His face is buried between my legs, but I can see the slight turn and bob of his head as he keeps at me. Already our bodies are covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

Usually, my orgasms build quickly, but tonight it takes its time, dawning slowly inside me. Slowly, so slowly, I slide to the brink, poised at the moment of inevitability, until finally I come—a long, luscious, perfect wave of ecstasy that courses through me, cunt to heart to brain and back again, over and over. Jonah's fingers tighten against my thigh, proof he knows what he's doing to me, and he keeps going, rhythm absolutely the same, so that I can enjoy every long second of it.

When finally my orgasm fades, I slump against the door. Jonah pulls back, places a wet, sticky kiss on the lowest part of my belly, then gets to his feet. He's already pulling down his boxers, and his rock-hard cock is ready for his turn.

I sling one leg around him, angling my body to make it easy for Jonah to slip inside. He's made me so open, so wet, that even his enormous cock sinks in easily. Jonah breathes out sharply, fighting his own need to make noise. If what he's feeling is half as good as what he did to me, it's all he can do not to scream.

He begins fucking me in slow, long strokes. Instead of taking me hard and savagely while I'm standing up, he uses this as a way of being gentle. His cock slides almost all the way out of me each time, and then he thrusts back in until our bellies touch. With one hand he leans on the door; with the other he fondles my breast.

I'm not going to come again—that last climax was so good, so overwhelming, it might as well have turned me inside out. It's enough to feel the soft aftershocks of pleasure as Jonah carefully, tenderly, moves his body against and into mine. So I hang on, moving with him, glorying in the one sound I have won from him: his breaths coming shallower and faster within his chest.

Let go, Jonah
, I think.
You're safe with me. I'm safe with you. Let go.

Only at the very end does he speed up at all, and then only for a few strokes before he pumps into me hard, shudders, and goes still. I feel him pulse inside me as he spends himself, as if I can hear the raw cry of passion he has to hold back.

After one long moment, he lifts his face to mine. We smile at each other, half-drunk on pleasure, his cock still inside me.

“See?” I whisper. “You always take care of me.”

Jonah kisses me again. The shadows of the past have gone far, far away. There's nothing but this, us, now.

***

Even knowing what his sister needs, Jonah still found it difficult to leave Rebecca. When we hugged her good-bye at the airport, he hung on to her for a long time, and she clung to him just as tightly. I stood a few paces away, duffel bag in hand, remembering what Jonah told me about her the first time he ever opened up about his family: that he and Elise kept Rebecca and Maddox from witnessing the horrible sexual abuse in their household.

Sometimes I think that's the only truly good thing I've ever done, protecting them,
he said.
So they get to be the normal ones.

He needs Rebecca to be safe, sane and whole. She and Maddox prove, to Jonah, that in one small way he beat Carter Hale. Jonah saved her, even when he couldn't save himself.

I think of that in the final half hour of our flight while the pilot tells us wind conditions in Austin. (Airplane pilots always seem to think other people will be as interested in this information as they are.) Looking over at Jonah, I see him staring out the window, expression thoughtful.

“You're still worried about her,” I say, taking his hand.

He nods. “She can take care of herself. I know that. I trust her. But I'd feel better if she'd come home for a while.”

“How long has she been overseas?”

I expect Jonah to talk about a two-year fellowship, maybe. Instead he says, “Since high school, mostly. Rebecca applied to . . . I don't know how many foreign universities. Wound up at Trinity College in Dublin. From then to now, she's spent exactly one year in the U.S., and she talks like she'll never come back.”

“Well—her work does take her to the tropics—”

“That's not it.” Jonah sighs and squeezes my hand. “Rebecca's running away from the past. But it has a way of keeping up with you.”

“Tell me about it.”

When I say that, Jonah leans over, resting his head against my shoulder. He doesn't do that often—seek comfort so openly, so simply. But as we grow closer, he continues to surprise me.

Maybe one of the reasons Jonah and I work so well together is that we both understand that you never outrun the past. You just keep running, and never look back.

On our way home from the airport, Jonah and I stop at the supermarket. This is a necessity, because after this long, most of the food in our fridges will have gone to the dark side. Jonah and I haven't done simple, domestic stuff like this much . . . at least, not until now. There's something sweet about standing here, discovering the likes and dislikes we have in common, and planning meals we'll share.

You're getting gooey because this guy eats the same brand of peanut butter you do,
I tell myself at one point.
You've got it bad, girl.

As I steer our cart into the beverages aisle, however, I'm jerked out of those pleasant thoughts by the sight of Arturo, Shay, and baby Nicolas only a few paces ahead. Arturo's placing a twelve-pack of ginger ale in their cart; Shay has the baby in a tie-dyed sling. They both look happy and healthy. Like they're just fine.

So what the hell?

My first instinct is to head to another aisle. When I glance up at Jonah, though, he gives me a look that's practically a dare. Am I going to run from another confrontation, or am I going to deal with it?

“Hey, guys!” I call. They turn toward me, faces so guilty I might as well have caught them lifting bars of gold from Fort Knox. Yeah, something's going on.

But Shay comes forward with a smile on her face. “Vivienne! Jonah! You're back from Belize, then?” Even though she's blushing, I can tell she's genuinely glad to see me. She's dyed a few purple streaks into her hair, and is wearing a pale cotton bell-sleeved dress that looks like it's from the 1970s—no doubt another of her thrift-store finds.

“Just off the plane,” I say. “Jet-lagged but good.”

“And your sister's all right, Jonah?” Shay looks up at him, and I remember all over again that they know each other through her work in the earth sciences department; it's not like they're close—not even near it—but their relationship doesn't totally revolve around me.

“Shaken up, but okay.” Jonah looks down at Nicolas, who is fast asleep, his tiny fists balled under his chin. He holds out his hand as if to touch the baby, but doesn't quite. He has so much tenderness inside him, just waiting.

I'm touched by this, but distracted, too, because Arturo is still standing by the freakin' 7 Up, mouth shut, not even looking directly at me. The thought that he might be angry with me winds me up so much inside that I almost feel sick.

Even though I don't want to talk about this, letting it fester in silence would be even worse. So I say, more quietly, “Hey, Arturo.”

“Hey.” He's staring down at the soda like it's super-fascinating all of a sudden. Shay's obviously trying to think of something else to say to distract me from Arturo's standoffishness.

Just do it
. I take a deep breath. “Have I done something wrong?”

That does it. Arturo turns to me, but the expression on his face isn't hurt or resentment. It's bewilderment. “What?”

“You guys have been dodging me for more than a month now. After years of being inseparable—kind of hard to miss the change.” Jonah's broad hand rests on the small of my back. This is a battle I have to fight on my own, but his touch reminds me that he's here for me when it's over. I continue, “I don't know what I did. Seriously, no clue. But if you'll just tell me, we can talk through—”

“Wait.” Arturo takes one step toward me. “You think
we're
mad at
you
?”

“You're the ones who never want to get together.” I look from him to Shay, uncomprehending. “What's going on?”

“Oh, Vivienne, no!” Shay puts her hands on my shoulders. “We never wanted you to think that, not for a minute—”

“It's my fault.” Arturo says heavily. “If it hadn't been for me, Mack would never have met any of you.”

This is about
Mack
?

Arturo braces his hand against one of the shelves, slumping as if he's exhausted. “He got assigned to me as a roommate at random, but I kept the guy around, you know? Thought he was—not a friend, maybe, but a pal. We weren't close, but I invited him over. Had him come to parties at my place or at Carmen's. He targeted some of the women that way, including you—Jesus, Vivienne, that guy could've killed you, and it would've been my fault.”

“Whoa. Stop right there.” I step past Shay, though she remains close to me. “It wouldn't have been your fault. No matter what. The only person responsible for what Mack did as the Austin Stalker is Mack himself.”

“But I never saw it. I never guessed.” Arturo shakes his head at his own obliviousness. “How could I hang out with that guy for years and never know what kind of scum he really was?”

“You never saw it because he didn't show you that side of himself. It's not like you can just look at someone and go, that's guy's a rapist. That guy isn't. Nobody ever knows what's really inside another person—not until they show you.” Is Arturo hearing me? I can't believe that he's been avoiding me all this time out of guilt, though now that I look at it, everything makes sense.

Shay hugs me from behind. “We've missed you.”

“I've missed you too.” I wrap my arms around my stomach, over hers. But Arturo still hangs back, awkward and unsure. He's not the type to have a huge emotional moment in the beverages aisle while a woman about twenty feet away compares prices on different brands of root beer.

Jonah says, “You know, after we dropped off the groceries at Vivienne's place, we were going to grab something to eat. Elizabeth's maybe. You guys want to come along? My treat, in honor of the occasion.”

Our reconciliation, he means. But Arturo is still hanging back, his guilt widening the gulf between us. . . .

Until Arturo breathes out and smiles. “You know, Elizabeth's sounds great.”

***

Jonah and I didn't play again for a long while after that—nearly three months. I told him I'd let him make the first move, once he was ready again.

Instead, we went back to discovering what else we liked in bed together, and to sharing our lives more and more. I went from inking my etchings in the studio straight to Jonah's apartment, or he'd leave the seismology lab to come to my little house. We cooked side by side, traded book recommendations, and went to movies at the Drafthouse. Mostly it didn't matter what was on the screen, so long as we could talk about it afterward.

(The big exception to this was
San Andreas
, a movie so completely wrong about earthquakes that it might as well have been designed to drive a seismologist to despair. We hung out at a bar for two hours afterward while Jonah tore the thing to shreds. Honestly, I think he enjoyed that more than any of the movies.)

Basically, this summer has been the best of my life, and this may be the single most romantic day of all.

I sit in a white wooden folding chair, hands folded in my lap, watching as Jonah stands in his tuxedo at the head of the aisle. Next to him stand Rosalind and Candace, hands clasped, as a purple-robed minister goes through the vows. Everything about this scene is beautiful—the soft canopy over the bridal party, the bubbly happiness within the crowd, Rosalind in her white lace suit, Candace in her crisp black strapless dress, and yes, Jonah too. That man's body could've been sculpted to make a tuxedo look good, but even that isn't as attractive to me as the smile on his face as he holds out the ring to his best friend to present to her bride.

After the ceremony, we head to one of the city's oldest houses, which now doubles as a reception hall. We eat lemon cake, toast the newly married with glass teacups full of pink punch, and dance together to the DJ's choice of tunes. During a break in the music, I see Rosalind and Candace stepping forward with their bouquets in hand.

Oh, no. Not the bouquet toss. I think every single woman dreads this.

Before I can duck out to the restroom, though, Rosalind takes the mic. “Hey, everyone. We're doing things a little differently this time.”

Candace adds, “Can all the couples take the floor? Everybody, get out there and dance with who brought you.” On that note, the DJ cues up the Beach Boys' “God Only Knows.”

Jonah and I start dancing along with everyone else. When he pulls me closer, I admit, “I love this song.”

“Before our time.”

“Yeah, but it's the one at the end of
Love, Actually
.”

Jonah shakes his head. “Never seen it.”

“You've never seen—okay, we're going to fix this. Before December!”

Rosalind then speaks through the mic again. “Okay, now we'd like the unmarried couples to leave the floor. Only the married ones, now.”

The rest of us begin to trail away, Jonah leading me toward a couple of empty chairs. About half the crowd remains.

Candace says, “Okay, now only the ones married more than five years.” A few more couples melt away.

They keep going through the song until they find the longest-married couple at the ceremony: two of Candace's grandparents, who have been together for fifty-three years. As they finish dancing the song on their own, everyone applauds, and at the end, they're presented with both the bridal bouquets as a tribute to their lasting love.

If you ask me, that's about a thousand times better than the traditional bouquet toss.

On the way back to my place, as Jonah steers his black sedan through the Austin traffic, I say, “What do you think keeps couples together that long?”

“Trust.” His answer is immediate, sure.

I agree with him, at least mostly. “Some other things, too. Friendship, communication, really great sex—”

Although I expect Jonah to run with that, he instead shakes his head. “You don't get any of those without trust.”

“I guess you don't.”

Before Jonah, I would never have said I
distrusted
any of the guys I'd ever dated. From Derek in high school through to Geordie a couple years ago, the men I've been in relationships with have been good people who treated me well. Part of that has been luck; part of it has been because, after Anthony, I never let myself get too close to anyone who hadn't proved himself.

But only now, with Jonah, do I see that the absence of distrust isn't the same as actual trust. I never feared Derek would hurt me, but I never trusted him enough to tell him why I wanted him to play rough during sex, or why I would never make out on my family's living room sofa. Only with Geordie did I come anywhere near true intimacy, but we're fundamentally too different for that closeness to turn into enduring romantic love.

Jonah is the one person I've bared my entire body and soul to. The one person from whom I hold nothing back. He's finally begun sharing everything with me too.

To think our relationship began with a promise to remain strangers.

As I smile ruefully at my past foolishness, Jonah says, “Listen. At the house—”

“Yeah?”

“—how would you feel if you came into your bedroom after your shower and found a stranger waiting for you?”

I've hardly missed our games these past few months, but the minute Jonah says that, desire kindles inside me, burning hotter every second. “Would this stranger be wearing a tuxedo?”

“He would have taken it off, because he rented the thing and doesn't want to have to explain any weird stains when he returns it.”

I laugh out loud. Jonah's never been openly playful about one of our games before. I like the change. “So there's a naked stranger in my bedroom. I'd be . . . terrified. Probably too scared even to run.”

“You wouldn't get away, then. You'd be thrown on the bed by this stranger who wants to do bad things to you.”

“Sounds like it.”

Jonah steps down harder on the accelerator, bearing us faster toward home.

We say nothing as we go into my little white house, already getting “into character.” I undress first, carefully hanging up my dress, as Jonah begins the much more elaborate process of removing his tuxedo. When I unhook my bra, I look over at him to see his gray eyes gone steel dark with lust, as though this were the first time he'd seen my breasts, my body.

The games give us that, too—the sense that every single time can be like new.

I wrap my short satin robe around me as I go to the bathroom. In the shower, I take my time, rubbing myself all over with the creamy shower gel, daydreaming about all the ways Jonah's going to touch me.

Yet he will wait. He will listen for the safe word. We both have the absolute knowledge that we know where to set our limits. After what happened with Mack, Jonah finally understands that I'm strong enough to protect myself.

And as I stand there, hot water running down my back, I realize for the first time what our games truly give to Jonah.

Rebecca made me see that, for them, the past isn't the past. Jonah can't put it all behind him; it is a part of him, every day he lives. He finally opened up enough to tell me how he fears poisoning every relationship, that he has trouble believing he can be good for someone.

But when we play our games, Jonah proves to himself that he can hold back. That he can obey my limits. That he can stop the minute he hears, or says, our safe word. He takes himself to the very brink of brutality and holds himself there through sheer force of will—and every single time he does that, he conquers his past. Maybe only for that day, or that hour, but every victory takes him farther from the monster Carter is, closer to the man Jonah can truly be.

And when I come for him, then cling to him afterward as he cares for me tenderly, Jonah knows he
can
be good for me. He can make me happy, satisfy my darkest desires, help me erase the scars Anthony left, and keep me safe.

Jonah can love me as no one else ever has, or ever will.

Choked up, I force myself to breathe in and out, inhaling the shower's warm mist. If I walk into the bedroom crying, he won't make his move.