Come Lie With Me (16 page)

“I've dreamed of this,” he whispered harshly. “I saw you, that morning…. You were so perfect, so damned
female
, that you took my breath away.” Gently he cupped a breast in his palm, curving his fingers over its ripe curve as if he were measuring the heft of it.

Dione began to tremble, wild little tingles of sensation shooting through her body. She didn't know what to do, how to handle him. She had no experience with men other than her husband, and that had been a horror from start to finish, nothing that compared to the sweet pain of Blake's touch. Sweet, yes…and not really pain. Incredible. Unknown. A primitive exultation raced along her veins, heating her blood, making her feel stupidly, happily weak. She wanted to sink down beside him on the bed, but she couldn't do that. Despite the joy her body was feeling, her mind was still locked away from even the possibility of it.

Now both of his hands were on her, holding her breasts together. His head bent, and she sucked in a convulsive breath, staring down at his dark hair with terrified fascination. His tongue darted out and washed a cherry nipple, then he blew his warm breath across it,
watching with delight as it tightened and thrust out at him. “That's beautiful,” he breathed, and tasted the other one.

At last she could move, and her fingers threaded through his hair. She thought dimly that she'd pull his head away, but instead her palms pressed against his warm skull and held him to her, held his mouth to the tender flesh he was suckling as fiercely as any starving infant.

He released her nipple from his mouth and lay back, his hands sliding to her ribs and drawing her with him, pulling her down until she lay half-across him. He began kissing her with short, hard kisses that stung her lips. “I need you,” he panted. “Please. I want you so much. Let me make love to you.”

Dione moaned, a high, keening sound that reflected both the tumult he'd stirred in her and her fear of going any further. “I can't,” she cried, tears suddenly stinging her eyes. “You don't know what you're asking of me.”

“Yes, I do,” he whispered, moving his mouth down to the line of her jaw, nipping at her with his teeth. “I'm asking you to let me love you. I want you so much that I'm aching all over. I can't sleep for dreaming about you. Let me be a man with you; let me bury myself in you and forget about the past two years. Make me whole again,” he pleaded.

She'd spent too long nurturing this man, agonized over him too much, felt his pain, celebrated his triumphs, loved him. How could she refuse him now? She'd be leaving soon, and she'd never know the heady taste of him again. But she was shaking, almost convulsed with the fear of what he'd do to her. For him, she'd bear it, this one last time. The scars that Scott had left on her mind had ruined her forever, kept her from
feeling the total pleasure of a man, and when Blake rolled, deftly placing himself above her, the nauseating panic that beat its wings in her stomach threatened to overtake her.

He saw the fixed expression in her enormous golden eyes and began to speak softly to her, making her realize his identity. With silent desperation she stared at him, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“It's all right,” he murmured soothingly. “You know I won't hurt you; I'd never hurt you. Let's get you out of this,” he said as he began thrusting the bunched cloth at her waist down over her hips, then stroking it away from her thighs. He leaned on his elbow and looked at her, drinking in and savoring all the details that he'd only dreamed about before. He steadied his shaking hand by flattening his palm on her stomach and sliding it over her satiny skin. One finger dipped into the tight little hollow of her navel, and she gasped again, but though her nails were digging so deeply into his shoulders that she'd broken the skin, the blind fear had left her face. Her eyes were locked on him, letting him know that for him, she would do this. Though she was afraid, she trusted him, and she would give him this one last gift, the pleasure of her body.

His hand slid lower, insinuating itself between her thighs and exploring, as he'd tried to do so many times before. She clenched her teeth in shock and tried to control her body's instinctive movement, but her thighs tightened as she tried to dislodge the alien touch.

“Honey, don't!” he cried. “I won't hurt you, I swear.”

Dione swallowed and slowly regained control of herself, forcing her legs to relax. He was shaking all over, his body dewed with sweat, the color in his face as
florid as if he burned with fever; she felt the heat of his skin beneath her hands and wondered vaguely if he weren't really fevered after all. His blue eyes were glittering wildly, and his lips were red, swollen. She removed one trembling hand from his shoulder and touched his face, placing her fingertips on his lips. “It's all right,” she whispered thinly. “I'm ready.”

“Oh, God, no, you're not,” he groaned, kissing her fingers. “I wanted to wait, but I don't think I can.”

“It's all right,” she repeated, and with a muffled cry he moved to lie fully over her.

All of the love she felt for him welled up and made her body pliable for his touch; with her eyes wide open and locked on his face, she knew that this was Blake, and that she would do anything for him. Though her heart was slamming against her ribs with almost shattering force, though her entire body shook, she clutched his shoulders and drew him tightly to her.

He tried to be gentle, but the years of celibacy had destroyed a great deal of his normal self-control. When he parted her legs and felt the silkiness of her thighs cradle his hips, he moaned deep in his chest and took her with a single strong movement.

Hot tears burned her lids, then slid down her cheeks. This wasn't the agony she'd expected, but her body had been untouched for twelve years, and the pain and shock of his entry were all too real. To her astonishment, her flesh didn't flinch from him; she still lay soft and willing beneath him. She began to weep in earnest, not from the pain, which was already fading, but because suddenly she realized that Blake had given her as much as he was taking. He'd given her back her womanhood. The years had wrought their healing miracle,
after all; it had taken Blake to make her realize it, Blake to make her love enough to overcome the past.

He lifted his head from her throat and saw the tears, and he paled. “No,” he croaked. “Dee, what have I done? I'll stop—”

Inexplicably the tears mingled with laughter, and she caught him tightly, preventing the removal of his body. “Don't stop!” she said joyously, the words clogging in her throat. “I didn't know…I had no idea! No, don't ever stop—”

He caught the babbling words in his mouth, kissing her wildly and deeply, relief making him drunk. “I'm going to have to stop,” he panted, beginning to move rhythmically on her. “It's been over two years, darling. I don't think I can wait—”

“Then don't wait,” she said softly, her eyes shining. “This is for you.”

He kissed her again, even harder than before. “The next one's for you,” he promised hoarsely, just before he slid over the edge of control. Dione hugged him to her, accepting his body and his desperate, almost violent movements, cradling him, soothing him, and in a moment the storm had passed and he sagged against her.

She could feel the heavy pounding of his heart as he lay on her in the silent aftermath, feel the heat of his breath on her shoulder, the trickle of sweat that ran from his side and slipped down her ribs. She smoothed his tousled dark hair, adjusted his head more comfortably on her shoulder. He murmured something and his hand came up to cover her breast. She waited, lying there pressed into the bed by his weight, as his body relaxed and he drifted slowly, easily into sleep.

She stared up at the light that still blazed brightly; turning out the light hadn't occurred to either of them.

Exhaustion made her body heavy, but she couldn't sleep. The night had been a major turning point in her life, but she didn't know what direction to take. Or was it such a major turning point? Blake had taught her that she no longer needed to fear the touch of a man, but what difference did it make? If the man weren't Blake, then she didn't want him. It was the love that she felt for him that had enabled her to tear down her prison of fear, and without that love she simply wasn't interested.

Nor, she realized suddenly, could it ever happen again. She couldn't afford to let it happen. She was a therapist, and Blake was her patient. She'd violated her own professional code, totally forgotten the rules and standards that she'd set for herself. This was the worst mistake she'd ever made and she felt sick with remorse.

Whatever happened, she had to remember that soon she'd be leaving, that she was only a temporary part of Blake's life. She'd have to be stupid to jeopardize her career for something that she knew was only a moment out of time. I should have seen it coming, she thought tiredly. Of course Blake had been attracted to her; she was the only woman available to him. But she'd been so engrossed in her own misery and attraction that she hadn't realized that his actions hadn't been meant merely to tease.

Gently she shifted him to one side, and he was sleeping so deeply that he didn't flicker an eyelash. With slow, careful movements she sat up and reached for her discarded nightgown, pulling it over her head before she got to her feet. As she stood she winced at the unfamiliar soreness of her body, but forced herself to walk silently to the door and leave, turning out the light as she passed the switch.

In her own room she stared at her bed, but realized
that it would be a waste of time to return to it. She'd never be able to sleep. Too many sensations, too many memories, were warring in her mind and body. Her bedside clock told her that it was a little after three; she might as well stay up the rest of the night.

She felt oddly empty, her regret candeling out the bittersweet pleasure she'd found in his embrace and leaving her with nothing. For a short while, in his arms, she'd felt wildly alive, as if all her fetters had fallen away. Reality was something less than that. Reality was knowing that the night meant nothing to him beyond the immediate satisfaction of his sex-starved body. She'd seen it coming from a mile away and still hadn't had the sense to duck; no, she'd taken the punch full on the jaw.

But mistakes were something to learn from, better textbooks than anything that ever got put into print. She'd picked herself up before and gone on, and she'd do it again. The trick was to remember that there was an end to everything, and the end of her time with Blake was coming at her with the speed of a jet.

She cringed inwardly at the thought, and in agitation walked out to the gallery. The desert air was cold, and she shivered when it touched her heated skin, but she welcomed the shock of it. The night had been an emotional roller coaster, a ride that had left her stunned, bewildered. She'd gone from fear to acceptance, then to joy, followed by regret and a rerun of acceptance, and now she was afraid again, afraid that she wouldn't be able to pick up the pieces, afraid that life after Blake would be so hollow that it would be useless. Afraid, even, of the possibility that the fear he'd destroyed had been her strongest defense.

T
he sudden lancing of light across the dark gallery made her heart leap into her throat, and she turned her head to the left to wearily eye the sliding doors to Blake's room, where the light was coming from. What had awakened him? When the glass doors remained closed, she turned back to stare out again into the blackness of the garden. She hoped he wouldn't come looking for her; she didn't think she could face him right then. Perhaps in the morning, when she was dressed in her familiar “therapist uniform” of shorts and a T-shirt and they were involved in the routine of exercise. Perhaps then she'd have herself under control and could act as if nothing unusual had happened. But now she felt raw and bleeding, every nerve exposed. Wearily she leaned her head against the railing, not even feeling how cold she'd become.

A whirr came to her ears and she lifted her head, frowning. It was coming from her room…then it stopped just behind her, and she knew. Blake had used the wheelchair, because he could get around faster in it than he could using the walker. Her entire body tensed as she listened to him getting out of the chair, struggling for balance, but she didn't dare look around. She kept her forehead pressed against the cold metal of the railing, hoping without belief that he'd realize she didn't want to be disturbed and leave her alone.

First she felt his hands, gripping her shoulders, then the hard, warm press of his body against her back and the stirring of his breath in her hair. “Dee, you're freezing,” he murmured. “Come inside. We'll talk there, and I'll get you warm.”

She swallowed. “There's nothing to talk about.”

“There's everything to talk about,” he said, a hardness that she'd never heard before in his voice making her shudder in reaction. He felt the ripple of her muscles under his fingers and pulled her closer to him. “Your skin is icy, and you're coming in with me now. You're in shock, honey, and you need to be taken care of. I thought I understood, but you threw me for a loop tonight. I don't know what it is you're hiding, what you're afraid of, but I'm damned well going to find out before this night is over.”

“The night
is
over,” she told him thinly. “It's morning now.”

“Don't argue with me. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have a stitch of clothing on and I'm freezing, but I'm staying right here with you. If you don't come inside I'll probably catch pneumonia and undo all the progress you've worked for. Come on,” he said, his tone changing into one of cajolery. “You don't have to be afraid. We'll just talk.”

She shook her head, her long hair flying wildly and striking him in the face. “You don't understand. I'm not afraid of you; I never have been.”

“Well, that's something,” he muttered, dropping his arm to her waist and urging her to turn. She gave up and dully let him guide her inside, with his using her for balance. His pace was slow but remarkably steady, and he didn't really put any of his weight on her. He
stopped to close the sliding doors, then guided her to the bed.

“Here, get under the covers,” he ordered as he bent down to switch on the lamp. “How long have you been out there? Even the room is cold.”

She shrugged; it didn't really matter how long it had been, did it? She did as he said and crawled into the bed, pulling the thick comforter up to her neck. Blake studied her pale, set expression for a moment, and his lips pressed grimly together. He lifted the cover and slid into the bed next to her, and she stared at him in shock.

“I'm cold, too,” he said, and it was only half a lie. He slid his arm under her neck and curved his other hand around her waist, pulling her into the cocoon of his body heat. At first she was rigid; then the warmth began to penetrate her chilled skin and she started to shiver. His hand exerted just the slightest pressure and she moved with it, unconsciously pressing more closely to him in search of extra heat. When he had her settled, her head cradled on his shoulder and her legs tangled with his, he stroked the heavy black hair away from her face and she felt the pressure of his mouth on her forehead.

“Are you comfortable?” he murmured.

Comfortable wasn't the word for it; she was so tired that her limbs lay heavily, without strength. But she nodded, as he seemed to want an answer. What did it matter? She was just so tired….

After a moment he said with misleading mildness, “I thought you said you'd been married.”

Surprise made her lift her head and stare at him. “I was.” What did he mean?

Gently he threaded his fingers through her hair and forced her head back to his shoulder. “Then why was
it so…painful for you?” he asked, his voice a rumble under her ear. “I damned near fainted, thinking that you'd been a virgin.”

For a moment her mind was blank, struggling to understand what he was saying; then realization came abruptly and a hot flush warmed her cold cheeks. “I wasn't a virgin,” she assured him huskily. “It's just that I haven't…it's been a long time.”

“How long?”

With rising alarm she heard the determination in his voice, barely masked by the quietness of his tone. He meant to know everything, to uncover all her secrets. Twice before he'd torn away the protection of her forgetfulness, forcing her to remember the pains and failures that she'd tried so hard never to think of again. Did he like causing her pain?

“How long?” he repeated inexorably. “Talk to me, honey, because you're not leaving this bed until I know.”

Dione closed her eyes in despair, swallowing in an effort to relieve the dryness of her mouth. She might as well tell him and get it over with. “Twelve years,” she finally admitted, the words muffled against his skin because as she said them, she turned her face into his throat.

“I see.” Did he? Did he really see? Could any man really understand what goes through a woman's mind when her body is violated? A wild bitterness sprang out of the well of pain that she usually kept covered. He didn't care if he explored the clock's workings until it could no longer tick, as long as he discovered what had made it tick in the beginning. Her hands stiffened against him and she pushed, but now he was much stronger than she was, and held her welded tightly to
him, his body hard and unyielding against hers. After a moment she gave up the futile effort and lay beside him in rigid rejection.

He curved his long fingers over her smooth shoulder and tucked her even closer to him, as if to shield her. “Twelve years is a long time,” he began easily. “You had to be just a kid. How old are you now?”

“Thirty.” She heard the ragged edge of panic in her voice, felt the way her heart began to skitter, the increased rhythm of air rushing in and out of her lungs. She'd already told him too much; he could put the pieces of the puzzle together now and read the whole ugly story.

“Then you had to be just eighteen…. You told me that you got married when you were eighteen. Haven't you been in love since then? I know men have been attracted to you. You've got a face and body that turn my insides into melted butter. Why haven't you let someone love you?”

“That's my business,” she cried sharply, trying again to roll away from him. He held her without hurting her, gently subduing her with his arms and legs. Goaded, maddened by the bonds that held her, she shrieked, “Men don't
love
women! They hurt them, humiliate them, then say, ‘Whatsamatter? You frigid?'
Let me go!
”

“I can't,” he said, his voice catching oddly. She was in no state to pay any attention to how her words had affected him; she began to fight in earnest, kicking at his legs, trying to scratch his face, her body arching wildly in an effort to throw herself off the bed. He snatched her hands away from his cheeks before she could do any damage, then wrestled her around until she was beneath him, his weight holding her captive.

“Dione, stop it!” he yelled. “Damn it, talk to me!
Were you raped?
”

“Yes!” she screamed, a sob tearing out of her throat. “Yes, yes, yes! Damn you! I didn't want to remember! Can't you understand that? It kills me to remember!” Another tearing, aching sob wrenched its way out of her chest, but she wasn't crying. Her eyes were dry, burning, yet still her chest heaved convulsively and the awful sounds, like someone choking on a pain too large to be swallowed, continued.

Blake's head fell back and he ground his teeth in a primal snarl, his neck corded with the rage that surged through him. His muscles trembled with the need to vent his fury physically, but a despairing whimper from the woman in his arms made him realize the need to control himself, to calm her. He held her and stroked her, sliding his palms down her body and feeling the marvelous tone of her sleek muscles even through the fabric of her gown. His lips nuzzled into her hair, moved on to discover the softness of her eyelids, the satin stretch of skin over her exotic cheekbones, the intoxicating bloom of her soft, generous mouth. He whispered to her, crooned endearments, reassured her with broken phrases that told her how lovely she was, how much he wanted her. He promised her with his words and his body that he wouldn't hurt her, reminding her over and over of the hour not long past when she'd trusted him enough to let him make love to her. The memory of that joining burned over his skin, but his need for her could wait.
Her
needs came first, the needs of a woman who had known too much pain.

Gradually she calmed; gradually she reached out to him, by slow degrees curling her arms around his muscular back. She was tired, so worn out from the emo
tional strain of the night that she was limp against him, but he had to know, so he said again, “Tell me about it.”

“Blake, no,” she moaned, turning her head weakly away from him. “I can't….”

“You can; you have to. Was that why you got divorced? Couldn't your husband handle what had happened to you?” His questions fell on her like rocks, bruising her, and she flinched in his arms. He caught her chin and turned it back to him so he could read the nuances of her expression. “What kind of bastard was he, to turn his back on you when you needed him most? Did he think it was your fault?”

A high, strained peal of laughter escaped her, and she shut it off abruptly by clapping her hand over her mouth, afraid of the rising hysteria in her. “He…oh, this is funny! He didn't have any trouble handling what happened to me!
He
did it. My husband was the one who raped me!”

Blake went rigid, stunned both by her words and the way she began to laugh, gasping shrieks of laughter that again she shut off, visibly clenching herself in an effort to regain control. She attained it, but she used all of the inner strength she possessed, and as she lay in his arms she could feel the emotion draining away from her, leaving her heavy, spent…

“Tell me,” he insisted, his voice so hoarse that she didn't recognize it.

Her heartbeat had changed from a frantic sledgehammer pounding to a ponderous rhythm; dimly she wondered at it, but what did it really matter? What did anything really matter? She'd had all she could bear tonight….

“Dione,” he prodded.

“I don't know why I married him,” she said dully. “I don't think I ever loved him. But he was handsome and he had money, something I'd never had. He dazzled me with it. He bought me things, took me places, told me how much he loved me. I think that was it; he told me that he loved me. No one had ever told me that before, you see. But I was still standoffish with him, and Scott couldn't stand that. I don't think anyone had ever said no to him before. So he married me.”

Blake waited a moment for her to resume, and when she didn't he jostled her lightly. “Go on.”

Her eyelids lifted slowly. She stared at him with half-veiled eyes, the glimmering, mysterious golden pools darkened to amber by the shadow of her lashes. “On our wedding night, he hurt me,” she said simply. “He was so rough…I started fighting him. I was strong even then, and I knocked him off of me. He went wild…. He forced me to have sex with him, and he wasn't gentle. It was my first time, and I thought I was dying.

“I knew then that the marriage was an awful mistake, that I wanted out, but he wouldn't let me go. Every night I'd fight him again, and he'd force me again. “He was going to teach me how to be a woman if he had to break every bone in my body,” he said. I couldn't stop fighting him,” she muttered to herself. “I never could just lie there and let him get it over with. I
had
to fight back, or I felt like something in me would die. So I fought, and the more I fought, the rougher he got. He started…hitting me.”

Blake cursed violently and she jumped, throwing her arm up to cover her face. She was so deep inside her bitter memories that she was reacting as she had then, defending herself. His curse changed into a groan and he cuddled her, coaxing her to lower her arm. “I'm
sorry, darling, I didn't mean to startle you,” he panted. “When he started hitting you, why didn't you turn him into the police?”

“I didn't know that he couldn't do that,” she said tiredly. “I was so dumb; I read a lot of things about it afterward, but at the time I thought he had a legal right to do what he wanted with me, short of murder. He got worse and worse; he almost stopped wanting sex. He'd just start right in hitting me. Sometimes he'd go ahead and rape me, as roughly as he could, but most of the time he didn't.”