Because of a Girl (17 page)

He had to know right away that she was thinking about her parents. Yanking his hands from his pockets, he reached for her. Once again, she stepped into his arms. Only this time he kissed her.

No preliminaries, he captured her mouth with a depth of hunger and even desperation that she couldn't resist. There might even have been anger in the mix, as if he was throwing all his emotions at her. None of that kept her body from flaming to life. Plastered against him, she threw her arms around his neck and held on. She had never been kissed like this, deeply, frantically, his lips and tongue and teeth wringing a response from her so primal, she couldn't think. She only felt—the rough scrape of his jaw, the softness of his lips, the heated thrust of his tongue. His taste, as rich and addictive as dark coffee. She heard, too—a low, humming moan coming from
her
throat.

He kneaded her butt, lifting her at the same time so he didn't have to bend too far to plunder her mouth. Beneath the bulk of their multiple layers of clothing, her breasts were flattened against his chest and the hard ridge of his erection pressed her belly.

Heaven help her, if he'd laid her down on the winter-dead grass and ripped off her jeans, Meg wouldn't have objected. She'd have been tearing at his clothes.

He was the one to raise his head, making a raw sound. His eyes blazed, but he lifted his hands to grip her upper arms, holding her a little away from him. “I want you,” he said hoarsely.

She blinked at him, wondering if her knees would hold her up if he let go.

“We can't do this here.”

She turned her head. Cold lake waters, populated only by a flock of Canada geese on the far side. Rocky shore in one direction, desiccated brown grass in the other. The hillside of vines bare of leaves rose to the south of the lake.

“No,” she croaked, knowing still that she wouldn't have stopped him.

“I'd better take you home.”

Her head bobbed.

Somehow she found herself walking back the way they'd come. His hand remained wrapped around her upper arm, either to support her or to hustle her along, she wasn't sure.

Did he assume they'd continue where they left off once they were in the warmth of one of their homes?

Do I want to?

Given how close she was to melting into a puddle, near-freezing weather or not, a better question might be,
If I make love with him, will I regret it?

Probably, but...she'd never so much wanted to take a chance.

* * *

J
ACK
STOLE
A
glance at the dashboard clock when he turned into Meg's driveway.
Damn it.
The high school would be letting out soon. He should have asked if she'd come home with him. Emily was a big girl; she didn't need a babysitter.

Too late.

He braked to a stop. “Home, sweet home.”

Meg released her seat belt and reached for the door handle, but then she went still. “Would you like to come in?” she asked, very fast. Her voice betrayed shyness and trepidation.

“Yeah,” he said roughly, “but I'm not sure I dare. Emily will be home in, what, half an hour?”

“She's staying after school today.”

He set the emergency brake, turned off the engine and had his own door open before he was hit with an unpleasant vision. “What if she changes her mind and catches the bus?”

Meg shook her head. “It's the first meeting of Drama Club this semester. She loves it. They'll decide today on a play. She would never miss that.”

God, he hoped Meg didn't envision them having a companionable chat over a cup of tea. That she, too, wanted to go straight to her bedroom and start shedding clothes.

“How will she get home?”

“She'll call. Since it will be dark by then, I'll pick her up.”

“We'll have a warning, then.”

“Yes.”

By the time they reached the front porch, Jack got an idea that Meg was having second thoughts. Her lips were compressed, her body language tight. There was no laughter, no touching him, no suggestive glances.

No glances at all. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time she'd looked at him.

He waited until they were inside and she'd locked up before he touched her arm. “Meg?”

Her eyes shimmered with anxiety and her teeth closed on her plump lower lip.

“You can say no.” He tried to keep the frustration from his voice. “If you've changed your mind, that's okay.”

“It's not that. Exactly.” She gripped her hands in front of herself. “I'm just...nervous. I haven't... It's been a long time. And I've never actually—” This time she broke off as if she hadn't meant to say the last bit at all.

So that's what he homed in on. “You've never actually what?”

Her gaze skittered away from his. “Well...enjoyed sex.”

Jack stared at her, stunned when he shouldn't have been. She'd been brutally rejected by her boyfriend, then struggled to survive on the streets. After what she'd implied...hell. It was a miracle she had responded to him the way she had, that she'd even
considered
inviting him into her bed.

“Not even with Emily's father?” What was his name? “Carson?”

“No. It wasn't traumatizing or anything like that, but we only did it a few times, and I think maybe my first time was his, too, so he didn't really know what he was doing.”

“So it was clumsy and too fast,” Jack said slowly.

She scrunched her nose. “Plus, I was freaked because I'd sneaked out of my house. We did it in the backseat of his car. I was terrified we'd be caught.”

He covered her tightly clasped hands with one of his. “This won't be like either of your experiences, Meg. I can promise you that much.”

Suddenly her eyes became searching. So clear, they felt bottomless, the color making him think of a deep trout pool at the bend of a river.

After a moment, she made a funny sound. “Guaranteed?”

Way to put the pressure on.
A sort of rueful amusement didn't lessen his hunger, but it helped him dial back the intensity.

He lifted his hand to her face and gently brushed his knuckles over her cheek. Her lashes fluttered in surprise, and he felt a puff of warm air. “If you're too scared, it might not work. But think about how you feel when we're kissing.”

For an instant, she kept staring. And then her eyes closed and she turned her head just a little, until her lips touched his hand. She opened her mouth over one of his knuckles, kissing him, applying just a little suction. The dampness sent an electrical jolt through him.

“Meg, if you're not sure...” It was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to say.

“I think...I'd regret it if I chickened out.” She stroked
his
face, her fingertips butterfly light.

The pleasure of that touch was better than any deep-tissue massage he'd ever had. It was both healing and erotic.

“Where's your bedroom?” he asked hoarsely.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I
KEEP
WORRYING
about Sabra,” Emily confided to Kimberly Dearing. She'd zeroed in on her because she always knew before anyone else when a couple broke up or a guy was in trouble with a coach, even who'd been cast for plays. Either she had an amazing network of informants or really sharp eyes.

And Emily would
not
give up.

Kimberly wasn't her first target of the day. She had been starting supercasual conversations ever since she got on the school bus that morning, asking questions without exactly asking. She might have gotten further if she could have come right out and said, “Have you ever seen her with a male teacher outside of class?” But she shuddered to think how
that
would go over. By the end of the day, rumors would be flying.
Oh, my God, did you know Sabra was getting it on with a
teacher
?
The way rumors grew, speculation about
which
teacher would mean that, in no time, everyone would be
sure
it was Mr. Fuentes or Mr. Bouchard. And that would suck for them, especially when Emily didn't
know
.

She was just guessing.

Maybe she was being too subtle, because so far, she'd learned zip. No one knew anything helpful at all. Kim was practically her last hope.

A sophomore who had somehow gotten a year ahead in science, Kim had physics final period only a couple of rooms down the hall from Emily's last class. Kim acted while Emily only did behind-the-scenes stuff, but neither of them ever missed a Drama Club meeting or rehearsal. Emily thought it would seem natural if they walked together to Mrs. Chastain's classroom, but she had had to race out of her last class to catch her.

Today they were supposed to choose the spring play, although everybody knew the discussion would end up with a unanimous vote in favor of whatever musical Mrs. Chastain had already decided on. It was
always
a musical. And, of course, she'd have one in mind with a leading female role perfect for her current pet.

So what?
Amy wasn't important.

Emily dragged herself back to the present.

Kim had shrugged. “Running away is stupid.”

“I don't think she did. I mean, why would she?”

“Everybody thought she was a slut, you know.”

Emily did know, but still, just to come out and say that to Sabra's best friend? “Like everyone else isn't sleeping around?” she retorted.

“Well, they are, but with them it isn't...” Pursing her lips, Kim hesitated.

“Outwardly visible?” The words just came, surprising Emily. She must have read them in a novel for English lit.

Kim nodded, her face clearing. “Like that.”

They turned a corner and started down another long hall, which was deserted except for some guys clustered around a locker at the far end.

“Sabra wouldn't have run away because of that. She didn't care what they thought about her.” Something Emily had admired, because she did. So she went on to the part she'd practiced last night. “I just keep thinking, I don't know...” She lowered her voice. “Sometimes, during her lunch or after school, she would just vanish. I have
no
idea where she went. Did you ever see her hanging out, I don't know, maybe in a classroom? She liked art, so maybe Ms. Guzman's?”

They were passing the open door to the chem lab. Teachers were probably still in some of the classrooms, Emily thought uneasily, and Kim had a voice that could shatter glass. She didn't really believe just asking questions could put her in danger the way Detective Moore had suggested, but—suddenly she
felt
someone listening.

And, oh no, they'd just passed Mr. Fuentes's room.

“You seem like you're in a hurry.” Kim sounded a little breathless. “I have to stop at my locker. If you want to go ahead...”

With an effort, Emily slowed down. “No, that's okay. Mrs. Chastain won't start until we're all there anyway.”

Speaking of slow...
Kim took forever to dial her combination and open her locker, while Emily fidgeted behind her, her head swiveling so she could be sure no one approached unseen. Although...there were classroom doors open on either side of the hall. Emily wasn't sure whose, but teachers wandered in and out of one another's rooms sometimes.

“I saw her go into Mr. Bouchard's room a couple of times,” Kim said suddenly. “Not after school. He doesn't have a class third period, does he? I thought she might just have a question or something, but it seemed a little weird. Plus, she let the door close behind her, and I thought that wasn't allowed.” She shoved books into her pack, then slammed the locker closed. Turning to face Emily, she added, “And Mr. Hurn's room, too. That was after school. Does she even
have
a class from him?”

Hurn taught only upper-level classes.
Sociology and economics and...psychology?
Emily thought. He was old, like at least forty, and was tall and sort of Ichabod Crane skinny. He might be divorced, but... Emily could not
imagine
. He even had a kid that went here, too. A junior. Emily couldn't remember her name.

Detective Moore wouldn't have had any reason to talk to him.

“That's weird,” she admitted. What if one of those nearby classrooms was
his
?

“I saw her talking to Mr. Fuentes once after school, too.” Kim made a face. “In
Spanish
.”

“He's in charge of the after-school tutoring program. Sabra's been doing that all year.”

Kim shrugged. “That's all I remember.”

Mr. Bouchard, that made sense. But Mr. Hurn?
Wow.

“Now we'd better hurry,” Kim said. “Otherwise, we won't get any say in what play we do. Although whatever it is—”

“Amy Harris will be cast in the main role?”

“It's
disgusting
, the way Mrs. Chastain fawns over her.”

Bad-mouthing Amy was what Mom called a “guilty pleasure.” It was fun, and it distracted Emily from thinking again,
Mr. Hurn?
Or worrying about what
he
would do, once he heard she was still asking questions.

* * *

M
EG
GAVE
FLEETING
thought to her daughter. If Emily came home, found her in her bedroom with a man...

But what was one more risk, when she was already taking such a huge one?

Still on the brink of a panic attack, she couldn't look away from Jack, from his perfectly shaped lips and heavy-lidded eyes and strong jaw. “My bedroom is upstairs,” she said.

Those lips curved. “We'll take it slow. You can say no at any time. I promise.”

Knowing he meant his promises brought a lump to her throat. She wanted to tell him she wasn't afraid of him, and it was true. Maybe she was more afraid of herself, that she wouldn't be able to let go, live in the moment. Discover what making love was really all about while she gave him what he needed from her.

She nodded instead of tangling herself in some kind of explanation. He took her hand and led her to the stairs. Halfway up, he paused. “I could replace these balusters for you.”

Meg looked at the hole where she'd removed two broken ones. “Really?”

“Yep.” He nuzzled her and nibbled on her earlobe. “Dad's a carpenter. Taught me everything he knows.”

“You're lucky.” At least that sounded coherent. Having him offer to do something like that melted a little more of her fear.

“Um.” He tugged her upward.

It was a wonder she could walk, never mind climb stairs. Her body was warm, tingling, and she was so aware of him, the way he moved, the breadth of his shoulders, the heat in his eyes, even the minute lifting of his chest when he breathed; she'd have stumbled into a wall if it had been left to her.

He led her past the bathroom and reached for the knob of her bedroom door. Meg almost opened her mouth to ask how he'd known which it was, until she remembered their search of Emily's room. The only other door up here was to the linen closet, and it was narrower.

Her room wasn't very romantic, with scuffed wood floors, a slightly threadbare upholstered rocking chair and the chenille-covered bed, but she reminded herself this wasn't about romance. Or maybe it was, but she couldn't let herself worry about anything beyond this moment.

And in this moment, he wasn't looking at her room. He'd stopped beside her bed, and a gaze she could only call tender was focused on
her
.

“Can I take your hair out of the braid?” he asked huskily. “You have no idea how much I want to see it loose.”

“Oh. Yes. I can—” She started to reach up, but he shook his head.

“Let me.” After removing the elastic, he unwound her hair, finally combing his fingers through it. His concentration was absolute.

Meg shivered at the sensation of his fingertips stroking her scalp and the expression of fascination that gradually changed into desire. When he finally met her eyes, his burned.

But instead of grabbing her, he cradled her face and kissed her. His mouth lingered, tasting and caressing, as if he meant to take all the time in the world. His tenderness had her melting, all her fears dissolving until she was the one trying to deepen the kiss. Her hands found their way beneath his sweater and shirt to flatten on his back. When she'd barely begun exploring the pads of muscles protecting the indentation of his spine, he pulled back to yank his sweater over his head, then unbutton the shirt he wore beneath it faster than she would have thought possible.

His bare chest was beautiful. Lightly dusted with hair, it was firm with muscles that flexed at her every touch.

Meg stared, and then she explored, hardly aware he stood absolutely still expect for breathing, watching her. Her fingertips found his ribs, his small, flat nipples, the ridge of collarbone and the hollow at the base of his throat. She couldn't resist rubbing her cheek against that hot, smooth skin, then licking him. Astonished by the salty male scent, she looked up in surprise.

The strain and sheer desperation on his face stunned her.

“Jack?”

“My turn,” he said hoarsely, and reached for the hem of her sweater.

It and her shirt vanished. Her bra dropped to the floor.

“God, you're beautiful.” He wrapped his hands around her waist and gently squeezed, then slid them upward until he was cupping her breasts, testing the weight. “I want to touch you all over,” he muttered, before taking her mouth in a long, drugging kiss that had her head swimming.

By the time she realized she was lying on the bed, she was past being nervous. He kissed her breasts, teased and sucked until her hips rose in time with the draw of his mouth. His jaw scraped deliciously on her belly as he strung kisses lower. When he reached her waistband, he grumbled and set about stripping her of jeans and panties, too. Which of course meant he had to take off her boots and socks first.

She'd never known anyone could see feet as sexy, but he apparently did, and when he sucked at her toes and rubbed that scratchy cheek against her sensitive instep, Meg felt sensation zinging up her legs to her belly.

Once her clothes were gone, his mouth and hands traveled upward, making her squirm and shudder. He found her knees as intriguing as her feet, and the rough pad of his fingers stroking the inside of her thighs had her whimpering.

He nuzzled her triangle of hair, groaned and pushed himself off the bed.

“I assume you're not on birth control.”

“No, I didn't have any reason—” Struck by horror, she knew her mouth had fallen open. They wouldn't have to stop now, would they?

She was reassured when he yanked his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a packet and let the wallet fall. Within seconds, he had stripped the rest of the way and sheathed himself.

Before, she had tried not to look at that part of a man, but this time she couldn't tear her gaze from him. She thought she might even want to touch, but...another time.

He crawled over her, and, without a second thought, she spread her legs to cradle him. But instead of taking her, he kissed her some more while his hands roved. Meg was ready to beg, to scream, by the time she felt pressure at her core. She was mindless, hungry. Her hips rose to meet him; her thighs tightened around his hips.

He seated himself deep, astonishing her with a pleasure she'd never felt, and then he began to move. The tension rose; she had to be digging her fingernails into his back as she tried to pull him harder, deeper, but he took his time.

Teeth gritted, he looked at her, his eyes absolutely intent on her face. “Don't close your eyes,” he murmured. “That's it, sweetheart.”

He rocked, and rocked, until all that tension drew unbearably tight and then sprang free, shocking her with the intensity of the pleasure that flooded her entire body. Her vision blurred. She might have even screamed, but at the same moment he made a guttural sound and went rigid above her.

When he sagged down on her, Meg wrapped her arms tight around him and closed her eyes to try to hold back the tears. All she could think was,
Now I know
.

* * *

C
UDDLED
UP
TO
Jack's side, her head on his shoulder and a hand on his chest, Meg savored the feeling of entire-body happiness. If night had fallen, she suspected she might have glowed in the dark.

Jack held her securely with one arm and allowed his other hand to wander. He explored the vertebrae in her neck, squeezed the ball of her shoulder, stroked her hair back from her face, traced the line of her jaw. The touches were all soft and undemanding. His way of savoring, she thought.

Only then he said, “Meg?” and there was something in his voice that had her tensing.