I Brake For Bad Boys (29 page)

She nodded, unable to speak. Her knees were weak, her legs still tangled in her ruined tights, her voice tangled in her throat.

He pushed back her hair, his eyes worried. “Sure?”

She didn't know how to express how she felt. She didn't even recognize the feelings roaring through her. Needs that could not be denied, emotions that blazed up like fires rushed through her like a flash floods, changing the landscape of her inner self in an instant, carving out canyons, mudslides, unexpected chasms.

She flung back her head. Drops of rain shed by the trees fell onto her face, pale sunlight pressed against her closed eyelids. She breathed in the heat, the light, the wild freedom of this new, changing self.

When she finally dared to open her eyes, he was staring at her face, fascinated. He didn't think she was crazy or hysterical or overwrought. His face was alight with triumph.

He knew exactly what was happening to her, and he liked it.

He pulled her close and sank his teeth gently into her throat with a fierce growl of approval. “You're fine,” he whispered. “More than fine.”

“I'm flying,” she whispered back.

 

 

She abandoned the sodden dress and put on one of Jonah's T-shirts when they got back to the house.

When she came downstairs, he was building a fire. “Want me to make you some lunch?” he asked.

“How about a massage?” she suggested.

His eyes lit up. “Hell, yes. But only if you feel like it.”

She gave him a misty smile, still euphoric from the forest. “I feel like it. I like pleasing you. But lie down on the rug this time, not the table. Otherwise it'll be too much like work, and I'll get confused.”

He stripped and lay down with a sigh of blissful anticipation. She laid her oiled hands against him, and the strength of the charge between them ran all the way up her arms, made her shiver. She didn't have to soothe or calm him this time. His barriers were already flung wide. Her hot, tingling hands moved over him of their own volition. She had never felt so powerful. She would have floated right up into the air but for the immense gravitational force of his beautiful body.

She had no idea how long she touched him. It could have been hours. She would never have stopped if he hadn't rolled over with a sigh of pure delight and reached for her. “Please,” he said simply.

He pulled the loose shirt over her head, flung it away, and pulled her into his arms, pressing his face against her hair. He squirted some of her oil onto his hands began to explore her body with the same reverent attention to detail that she had just given his. His hands slid slowly over her skin, as if he wanted to memorize every inch of her. He kneaded her shoulders and arms, hands, fingertips. He traced every vertebra in her back, brushed his fingertips across her ribs in soft, feathery circular strokes. He explored the hollows of her collarbone, the muscles and tendons in her neck. Her touched her face, tracing every feature, following his caresses with kisses like a hot, soft rain.

She huddled against him, lost in ever-widening ripples of pleasure. She sighed as his hands moved lovingly over her breasts, but he was just as fascinated with her belly button, her throat. His touch soothed her into a state of perfect trust, amazed by the luminous tenderness between them. His generosity made her want to offer him the best of herself. Everything that was good and kind and true.

They were melted into one shining being when they groped for the condom. Four trembling hands fumbled together, gleaming with scented oil and clumsy with eagerness as they smoothed it over him. A sweet confusion of arranging limbs, kisses and sighs, and finally he settled her into place, straddling him, her legs around his waist. The whole length of their torsos were in hot, kissing contact. Her nipples brushed against his chest. She wiggled carefully, reaching below herself to grasp him, seeking the angle that would permit him to nudge inside her soft opening. She let gravity do the rest, sinking down and enveloping him.

Joy swelled inside her, almost painful, but she welcomed the pain. He was so beautiful, it hurt to look at him. She hugged him close, leaning her forehead against his as they rocked together—sometimes almost motionless, locked together in a circle of shimmering perfection where neither dared to breathe, then melting seamlessly into pulsing, surging movement once again. She didn't want it to ever end.

The fire died down to embers, untended and forgotten. Light faded, but they stayed clasped together, afraid to break the spell.

But the room grew cold. Rain slanted down, gusting against the windows. She began to shiver, both inside and out, as she realized what she had done. She had flung herself wide open, held out body, heart, and soul in front of her like a sacrificial offering, and he had swooped down like a hungry bird of prey and taken them all.

If it had only been her body, that would have been perilous enough. But he had laid claim to all of it. He had devoured her, pleasured her beyond any fantasy with his sweet, ravishing tenderness.

He stirred against her neck. “No sunset tonight,” he said with soft regret. “I should've grabbed my chance last night.”

“Chance for what?”

“To look at you in the sunset. But that's OK. You're beautiful in any kind of light. Hey, you're getting cold. Wrap this around yourself.”

She accepted the blanket without protest, but he sensed every shift in her mood, even in the darkness. He turned her face to what little light still glowed from the windows. “What?” he demanded.

She forced out a laugh. “Nothing,” she said. “Hungry, I guess.”

The tiny frown between his brows did not fade. “I'll make dinner.”

“I'll help.” She held up her hand, forestalling his protests. “Just let me chop veggies, set the table. I promise I won't get in your way.”

Doing something mundane and practical might help this dull, scared ache taking hold inside her. At least she hoped it would.

They worked together silently. She washed salad greens, he prepared the steaks, put the potatoes on to boil, and stuck the stuffed mushrooms in the toaster oven. He opened a bottle of wine and poured her a glass.

“Tell me about yourself,” he blurted out.

She was thrown off balance by the demand. “Tell you what?”

He shrugged. “Anything, everything. Hopes, dreams, plans. I've been so focused on getting you into my bed that I've gone about this whole thing backward. If you'd gone out to dinner with me when I wanted, I would've had all these facts straight by now. But no. You had to blow me off, string me along. Make me wait.”

She relaxed a little and sipped her wine. “OK. I come from San Francisco, and I just moved to Portland three years ago and enrolled in massage school. I got my license last year.”

“Last year?” He looked incredulous. “But you're amazing. I would have thought you'd been doing it for years.”

She sighed. “I should've been, but I was too busy trying to make my parents approve of me. A losing battle if ever there was one, which culminated in my dropping out of my last term in business school. They still haven't recovered from that.”

“Business school? You?”

She laughed at his expression. “Yeah, it's a concept, isn't it?”

He turned the steaks that sizzled on the grill. “So, to be a massage therapist, that's what you've always wanted, then?”

“I've always liked it. I was always good at giving massages, and it's something I never get tired of. The more I learn about the body, the more I like it. I'm opening my own studio, as soon as I can scrape the money together. I want to create a perfect environment for therapeutic massage. Maybe eventually expanding into a sort of mini spa.”

He nodded his approval, and turned to the sink to drain the potatoes. “And?” he said expectantly.

She lifted her eyebrows. “And what?”

“I was hoping you would tell me about the playboy who trampled all over you,” he said.

Her stomach knotted up. “Let's not and say we did, shall we?”

The potatoes sizzled as he tossed them into the hot pot with melted butter and fresh herbs. “Please, Tess,” he said quietly. “Just the bare bones.”

She sighed. “Larry,” she said finally. “My ex-fiancé. The CEO of my dad's investment banking firm, which I was being groomed to join. And he wasn't really a playboy, to be honest. He worked very hard, and he's good at what he does. It's just that he has really high standards.”

Jonah paused in the task of transferring the steaks onto plates, his face baffled. “Meaning?” he asked. “You're a goddess. Beautiful, smart, fascinating, sexy. What was his problem?”

She laughed at his gallant flattery, blinking away a rush of tears. “You are so sweet.”

He frowned. “I am not sweet. High standards for what?”

“Larry felt that he deserved the best in everything,” she explained wearily. “He wanted top quality, especially in his wife. He picked me out mainly because I possessed the sterling attribute of being the boss's daughter, but to do him credit, he truly did think that he could train me into being good enough. He told me once I was great raw material.”

Jonah drizzled olive oil on the salad, waiting patiently for more. “And?” he prompted.

She shrugged. The memory of Larry's disapproval made her queasy and depressed. “I wasn't trainable,” she said flatly. “In fact, I was a hopeless case. I was the wrong shape, I dressed wrong, I didn't laugh at the right places in the conversation, I wasn't witty enough, I couldn't—”

The wooden spoon froze in the act of tossing salad. “He didn't like your
shape?
” Jonah looked horrified.

“What planet was he from?”

Trust Jonah to fixate on that. She was touched by his dismay.

“He wanted me to be more, uh, contained,” she explained. “Larry was into control. Finally I just couldn't take anymore. I ran away. Like a coward, I guess.”

“Like hell!”

She flinched back, startled by his tone.

“He didn't appreciate you because he was a brain-dead asshole! And you ran away because you're brave, and smart, and no matter what he said, you know your own worth deep inside.”

She blinked at him, utterly taken aback. “Uh, well . . . thank you for defending me, Jonah. You are really—”

“Sweet, yeah. Right.” He thumped the wooden salad bowl down onto the counter with such force that greens flipped into the air. Chunks of radicchio and arugula flopped over the sides.

She crossed her arms over her chest and studied his rigid face. “You're angry,” she whispered.

“Sure I am. It pisses me off that people put you down. It pisses me off even more that you bought into their bullshit. And you still do.”

She closed her mouth with a snap and crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh. I see. How about if you tell me some intimate, painful details about your past now, so I can criticize you and judge you? Go on.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the cell phone on the counter rang, cutting him off. He checked the number on the display, and his face suddenly went blank of all expression. “I have to take this call,” he said. “Stir the potatoes, would you?”

He walked out onto the covered side porch. Tess craned her neck to watch him as she stirred the sizzling potatoes and herbs. It was none of her business, but she couldn't help peeking. His face was grim and tense, and he listened more than he talked. Bad news.

After a few minutes, he came back inside and dropped the phone back onto the counter. He met her questioning gaze. “Work,” he said.

She turned back to the potatoes without a word.

Jonah slipped his arms around her waist and took the spatula from her hand. He stirred the potatoes, turned off the flame, and kissed her shoulder where the neck of his T-shirt had slipped off, leaving it bare. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It was none of my business.”

“It's OK,” she whispered.

“No, it's not. We were in a really fine place together, and I wrecked it somehow. I don't know what I said or did, but I—”

“It's not you.” She spun around and hugged him hard, pressing her hand against his mouth when he tried to speak again.

His chest heaved in a heavy sigh. He kissed her fingers, and his arms tightened around her. She squeezed as hard as she could. Larry would have been horrified by her intensity, but Jonah seemed unfazed.

After a long while, he lifted his head. “Food's getting cold.”

They smiled at each other carefully. “So let's eat,” she said.

 

 

He'd broken the spell somehow. He could've kicked himself.

Good food was always a point in his favor, but it wasn't enough to bring back that perfect, shimmering intimacy of their magic afternoon. Now that he'd had a taste of it, he would forever be pining for more.

Half of his mind was reeling over the news Dr. Morrison had called to deliver. Triple bypass surgery for Granddad on Wednesday.

Ever ready to multitask, the rest of his brain churned right along, speculating on what the hell he might have said or done to pitch them into this awful downward spiral. They ate, chatting inanely. Both trying so hard to be neutral and nice that he wanted to scream. It was like a big, dark animal was sitting on the dining room table blocking their view of each other, and they were trying to pretend it didn't exist.

There had to be some way to dispel it.

He dished up the hot Dutch apple pie, scooped ice cream over it, and drizzled it with hot caramel sauce, and when he turned around she was cupping her stubborn pointed chin in her hands, looking stern.

“OK, Jonah. Your turn,” she announced.

“For what?” He was pathetically relieved to see the sparkle back in her eyes. He preferred a difficult spitfire to a timid, careful mouse.

“Now you tell me something about you.” She sat back in her chair, looking expectant.

He set her heaping dish of pie and ice cream before her. “OK,” he said obediently. “I'm thirty-five. I have my own consulting business, specializing in problem solving and brainstorming techniques.”

She rolled her eyes. “Blah, blah, blah. I read all that in your profile in
Northwest Business.
I was thinking a bit more personal, please.”

“Personal?” He eyed her suspiciously. “What do you want to know about, my ex-girlfriends?”

She took a bite of her pie. “I was thinking more along the lines of family,” she said loftily. “Basic historical detail. Are you a dog person or a cat person? Do you resemble your mother or your father?”

“No parents,” he said. “They were killed in a plane crash in Chile. My dad was an archaeologist. I was eleven.”

Tess's spoon froze in the air near her mouth. She slowly lowered it. “Oh, God, Jonah. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”

“It's OK,” he assured her. “It was a long time ago. And I got through it. I had Granddad. He was the one who raised me. He was great. Strict, but great.”

“He's still alive?” she asked cautiously.

“Yeah.”
God willing and the creek don't rise,
he thought, silently willing her to change the subject.

They ate their dessert silently for a minute or two, both of them afraid of making another wrong move.

Finally Tess lay down her spoon and took a deep, audible breath. She touched his hand. “Jonah. That phone call. Was it bad news?”

He stared down at her hand. His throat tightened. He didn't want to talk about it. His stomach was knotted enough as it was, thinking about Granddad's chances. And then there were John and Steve, trying like hell to keep him out of the loop. Worried about their cut in the fucking will, as if he gave a shit about Granddad's money. He'd made plenty of his own, but that didn't help matters. His very success showed up their own lack of ability and made them hate him all the more.

It was all so raw that even at the thought of her gentle sympathy, the questions she would ask, made him flinch. He would shove her away by reflex if she tried to comfort him, and that would cook his goose for sure. That was no way to get back to their magical union.

He took a deep breath and did what he had to do. He plastered on a bright, ain't-life-grand smile. “Work stuff. Nothing I can't handle.”

Disappointment flashed across her expressive face. He felt guilty and stupid for lying, but he didn't want to burden her with the embarrassing truth. He wasn't on top of the world. He was scared to death of Granddad dying and leaving him all alone again. He remembered that empty, falling away feeling all too well, from when he was a kid. The awful, aching finality of it.

And no good-byes this time, either, since Granddad wouldn't talk to him. The stubborn old geezer was still furious with his grandson for turning down the chance to head up Markham Savings & Loan.

Oh, fuck it. He was just about to open his mouth and lay it all out there for her when the shifting play of emotions in her luminous eyes abruptly receded, as if she had closed a door in his face.

It was replaced by a dazzling, utterly impenetrable smile.

“Well. That's good, then,” she said.

“Uh, yeah.” He blinked at her, puzzled. “It is?”

She stood up and very slowly pulled his T-shirt up over her astounding tits. She tossed it behind herself. “I'm so glad for you, Jonah. Not a care in the world. It must be awfully nice for you.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said hoarsely. “It's . . . great.”

There was a trap here, a bad one, and he was headed right for it, but with those perfect, puckered brown nipples right at eye level, his IQ was drooping in direct inverse proportion to the swelling in his cock. He would so,
so
much rather do this than talk about his deepest fears.

She stuck her finger into the soupy vanilla ice cream that was melted together with caramel sauce. She began to paint designs on her plump, full breasts with it. Deliberately glazing her nipples with creamy caramel goo. Loops and swirls, until she was wet and gleaming. She licked her fingers, one by one, and smiled. Not the shy, glowing smile, with all of her sweetness shining out of it. This smile taunted him, guarding its secrets. Provocative and bold.

Unreal, that after all the unbelievable sex he'd been having that he was ready to go at it again.

“You wanted me to articulate my desires,” she said.

He tried not to pant. “Uh, so I did.”

“Lick me clean, Jonah,” she commanded.

He didn't have time to marvel over the sharp edge of command in her voice before he leaped to obey her. He was gone, lost, all over her, devouring her. She was sexy and syrupy and delicious, and if this was a trap, all he wanted to do was to dive into it headfirst, and stay in it.

For as long as he possibly could.

 

 

She had no idea what she was doing, or even why she was doing it. A powerful impulse had risen up out of the churning chaos inside her, and she had grappled onto it blindly. She wanted to be a goddess with the power to bestow pleasure or agony at her whim—a dark, tangled impulse, mixed with hurt and anger and fierce, animal need.

She wanted to make him beg.

It was going to be tricky. She had a tiger by the tail. He had pulled her onto his lap, licking the caramel and ice cream off her breasts with passionate thoroughness. Her panties had already sailed off into limbo, and his hand was between her legs, pressing with delicate skill against her clitoris. He shifted her so that he could shove his jeans down, and his penis sprang out, heavy and hot and straining.