Almost Forever (44 page)

Andie slid the door open, not even bothering to turn and close it behind her. The storm attacked her, pelting her naked body, raising the goose bumps on every inch of her skin.

It was glorious. She lifted her hair and shook it so it fell
down her back. And then she tipped her face up, as Clay was doing, letting the rain wash over her, drenching her hair, running down her body in a thousand tiny streams.

When she lowered her face, he was looking at her. His face was naked, washed clean of all pretense. She saw in it the hunger that answered her own.

He said her name, a low, needful sound. And then he covered the distance between them in three long, urgent strides.

C
lay caught Andie's face in his cold wet hands. “You're insane.”

“Yes.”

“You'll catch pneumonia.”

“Or you.” She rose on tiptoe, offering her mouth. “Maybe I'll catch you.”

He muttered something she didn't really hear, though his meaning was plain. And then he gave her what she craved: his mouth on hers, his tongue delving, his hands everywhere.

Andie held nothing back. She surged up against him, her own hands clutching, grabbing, pushing at his sodden robe. Clay understood what she wanted and helped her, yanking at the soggy terry cloth, shrugging it off, fumbling with the tie of his pajamas and then shoving them down. And at last he was naked, too. No stitch of clothing kept their bodies apart.

The sky opened wider, the rain came down in sheets. Lightning blazed across the heavens and thunder claimed the hills with its roar.

Clay reached down, his wet hands sliding over her, his fingers closing around her thighs from behind. He lifted her, raising her high, sliding her soft, heavy breasts against his chest and then, slowly, he lowered her onto him.

Andie was ready, had been ready forever, it seemed. Clay slipped into her heat and wetness in one smooth, masterful stroke.

She tossed back her head so the water beat on her face. She felt the heavy, sodden coils of her own hair, like silky ropes as they trailed down her back.

“Wrap your legs around me.” Clay's voice was harsh, guttural with need.

Andie did as he commanded, encircling him with her thighs, hooking her feet together at the small of his back. Clay staggered away from the railing, clutching her as she clutched him.

And then he turned. Andie felt her back meet the smooth outer wall of the house. Clay used the wall, bracing her against it as he moved in and out of her in long, deep strokes.

Such a sweet, fierce agony, Andie thought in a shattered sort of way. Different than when she'd been pregnant. Now he could be less careful, now he could give the wildness free rein. He seemed to be reaching way up into her, to the very center of her. And she was taking him, all of him, so deep and so good.

Her back scraped the streaming wall. She didn't care. She pushed herself against him, moaning, giving herself up to him. It was a total surrender—one in which he also succumbed.

She stroked his dripping hair, his neck, his shoulders, which bunched and knotted with the strain of keeping her writhing body in place. Everywhere she touched him, the rain ran down in rivulets, making him slick and cold, so hard, so very male.

Lightning flashed again. Thunder clapped.

And then it started.

Her climax came reeling out from that deep place that he was filling so totally. Like a live thing, a flower of sensation, it opened, unfurling petals of wonder along every nerve.

Andie called Clay's name, clutching him even closer, though that didn't seem possible since she held him so tight already. He pressed up, even harder than before. And she felt him spilling as his body jerked and stiffened.

He buried his head against her shoulder. Then he threw it back and groaned his release at the black, roiling sky.

Andie held on, taking all that he gave her, aftertremors shaking her as he finished at last.

And then, the storm still raging around them, they clung to each other, resting against the wall. His head was tucked into the curve of her shoulder, his mouth open against her neck. He kissed her neck, a suckling kind of kiss, as if he could draw back from the pulsing artery there the strength he'd expended in the ecstasy they'd just shared.

Andie twined her fingers in his soaking hair and gave a tug. He groaned as his mouth lost its hold on her flesh. She nuzzled his chin, seeking and at last finding his lips.

The kiss was soft and wet, an endless, tender thing. A caress of aftermath, of fulfillment found, of mutual gratitude at the release that had finally come after these endless weeks of abstinence and denial.

Clay's thighs were quivering; his whole body shook. Andie shook with him. She started to loosen her grip, to slide to the deck floor and relieve him of her weight.

But he grunted a protest into her open mouth. And then he hoisted her, getting a better grip. She instinctively clutched him tighter with her legs. He carried her, reeling more than walking, through the open glass door and back into their bedroom.

He hovered there, by the door, his mouth still locked with hers. She understood what he wanted.

Awkwardly, almost toppling them, she managed to reach out and push the door shut. The keening wind and the beating of the rain receded. When thunder boomed out again, it was muffled, farther away.

Now their breathing and their sighs were the loudest things. The whole dark room was alive with the sounds of their loving. Andie gripped his big shoulders again, wrapped herself around him like ivy on a wall. He took her to the bed, turned and dropped to a sitting position, his feet on the floor.

Now she straddled his lap, facing him, her legs still encircling him. They remained joined, though he was softer inside her. If she lifted just a little, he would slip out.

But he didn't slip out. The kiss went on and on.

He only broke it to nuzzle his way down her cheek, over her jaw, back to her neck and the hot pulse there. His hands came between them. He touched her breasts.

They were hard and full. She knew her milk must be coming, at least a little. But they were both so wet, anyway, it hardly seemed to matter. She didn't even bother to look down and see if it was so.

Clay kissed her neck, licking and sucking, as he fondled her breasts, making them ache and yearn. Down inside her, where he was cuddled limp and safe, she felt herself readying again. And he responded; he grew and hardened, rising, eager for more.

And then he fell backward. He moved up onto the bed, so she could ride him.

And ride him she did. A long, slow time.

It seemed as if this pleasure, this glory, might never have an end. And Andie didn't want it to end. Because now, joined as they were, she could forget all the ways they were so far apart. Here, right now, Clay was open to her. He held nothing back. All the hurts and resentments fled away. No walls existed. They were truly one.

Fulfillment overtook her again, high and pure. Andie rode him harder as it claimed her. And again, as before, he answered with a culmination of his own.

When it was over that time, she fell across him. He stroked her back and coiled her wet hair around his hand.

“Andie, oh, Andie,” he breathed against her cheek. “What is it? What is it you do to me?” He sounded lost, almost, and drained and a little sad.

Andie pulled back enough to meet his eyes through the gloom. “I just love you, Clay. That's all. Since the first night you brought me to this house, that's all I've ever done.”

He sighed and rolled his head to the side, a gentle rejection of her heartfelt words.

She wouldn't have that. Couldn't bear that. Not after the shattering intimacy they had just shared.

She grabbed his chin in her hand. “Don't do that. Don't turn away from me.”

Clay gave in to the pressure of her grip and turned to face her again. But then his strong hand closed around her wrist. “Let go.”

Hurt welled in her, sharp and acrid, burning her throat like smoke. This was the ultimate proof of the unscalable wall between them. That he could climb to the heights of heaven with her one moment, and then turn away at the merest mention of the word
love.

Andie did as he demanded, letting go and sliding off his body at the same time.

“Look, Andie—”

“No.” She kept on moving, right off the side of the bed and onto her feet. “Don't say anything more. Please.”

“Damn it, Andie…”

She didn't stay to hear the rest. She whirled and made for the bathroom.

She didn't quite make it. Clay got there right behind her
and slid in front of the door so she couldn't slam it in his cold, hard face.

Thwarted, Andie glared at him for a moment. Then she drew in a breath, squared her shoulders and flicked on the light. Both of them flinched at the sudden, glaring brightness.

The moment her eyes adjusted, Andie marched to the bathtub, bent, engaged the drain lock and turned on the taps. She poured in some bath salts and watched them foam and bubble.

Clay remained in front of the door, leaning there insolently. Even though she was turned away from him, Andie could feel his exasperation with her. Resentment came off him in waves.

“This is ridiculous,” he said at last. “I knew you would do this. The minute I touch you again, you're on me. And when I don't respond the way you think I should, you stage a stupid, childish little tantrum.”

She whirled on him. “Fine, Clay. Call it that. Cut me to the heart and then, when I get mad about it, call it a tantrum. And call the love we have nothing more than sex. Do whatever you have to do to keep me on the other side of that wall you've put up.”

“You always exaggerate. I've hardly
cut you to the heart.
And if I'm wary of you, well, I'd say with all that's happened, I have a right to be wary.”

“Fine. So let's talk about it.”

“I told you—”

“I know, I know. No talk. None of that. Never again.” She spat the words at him, then turned to climb into the tub.

He grabbed her arm. “Damn you. What the hell do you want from me?”

She looked at his fingers, where they pressed into her tender skin. And then she looked right in his eyes. “I've told you all along what I want. Honesty. And love. It's kind of
funny, when you think about it. Since those are the two things you refuse to give me.”

He had loosened his grip on her arm a little, but now he squeezed tight again. “I've been truthful with you.”

“Have you?”

“You're damn right I have. And you've always known what I think about love. It's a word, and that's all. It's what people
do
that really counts.”

“If it's only what people
do
that matters, Clay, then why are you letting us be torn apart?”

“I'm not letting that happen. You're the one who won't—”

“Oh, stop it. Be honest, please, since you keep insisting that you are. Admit to me that all the time now, you're wondering if I'm still carrying a torch for your dead friend.”

That did it. He dropped her arm as if it were red-hot. “I'm not wondering anything of the kind.”

“Liar.” Now she was the one advancing on him. “You are. Admit it.”

“I mean it, Andie. Stop this now.”

“I won't. No. I won't stop.” She had him right up against the door and she spoke directly into his suddenly pale face. “Oh, I know you, Clay Barrett. And I know the lies you tell yourself. Like you don't care about love, love doesn't matter. You're too down-to-earth and realistic for love. And therefore, it shouldn't make any difference if I
think
I love your dead friend. As long as I do what I should do as your wife and Emily's mom. But it
does
make a difference to you, Clay. It's eating you up inside. And until you admit it matters and we can talk about it, we'll just go on being miserable and making each other miserable. And eventually, if you haven't already, you'll start thinking that maybe we'd be better off apart. And then we'll end up—”

“Enough!” The word was a raw, hard shout. He lifted a
hand and pushed her gently back from him. “That's not going to happen,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You're my wife, and you'll stay my wife.”

Andie shook her head. “Never say never, Clay.” All the sorrow of the world was in her voice. “I won't be miserable for the rest of my life. Not even for you.”

Right then, from the monitor on the counter, there came a long, angry wail.

Clay sighed. “I'll go.”

“No.” Andie turned and spun the taps again, this time to the Off position. “I'm sure this time it's food she wants. And anyway, it's my turn.” Bending, Andie scooped up the gown she'd left on the floor before she'd followed Clay out into the storm. She pulled it over her head and smoothed it down.

Clay said nothing more as she stepped around him and headed for Emily's room.

 

The next morning, after Clay left for the office, Andie went out on the deck and found his sodden robe and pajamas. She bent to pick them up and then just stayed there, in a crouch, crying in deep, wrenching sobs.

When the sobs finally tapered off to hiccups and sighs, Andie took the wet things and went inside to put them in the washer. She told herself that maybe she'd feel better now, after having indulged in a good, full-out crying jag.

But she didn't feel better. Especially not when she went to the office and Clay treated her as if he could hardly remember her name.

For the next two weeks, it went on like that. They were like strangers forced to share a life. Andie, not knowing how to reach him, began treating him just as he treated her: with extreme caution.

They were polite and considerate with each other, elabo
rately so. When they passed each other things at the table, they were scrupulously careful to observe the amenities, to say “please” and “thank you” and “if you wouldn't mind.”

Like children who had misbehaved and now wished to show how truly good they could be, they informed each other of their every move.

“I thought I'd go over to the supermarket now.”

“Yes, of course. Good idea. Go ahead.”

Or…

“Dad wants to play golf this afternoon. I was thinking I'd join him at the course.”

“Yes, that's fine. Why don't you, then?”

“I will. I'll do that.”

“Good. That's just fine.”

It was awful. Andie felt that she lived in some artificial world. A perfect world, where no true emotions were allowed to sully the plastic purity of it all.