An Accidental Woman (35 page)

“Did you like it?”

“Loved it,” he said and met her gaze.

“I feel free in the water. My upper body compensates for what my lower body can't do.”

“I'm surprised you don't go south for the winter so that you can swim year-round.”

“Like the loons?” she asked.

“Like the loons. When'll they be back?”

“In April. Within hours of ice-out. It's uncanny, really. Ice-out itself is something to see. For days you watch the ice getting thinner and thinner, until it's black. Then it gets porous, and, within hours it seems, it just breaks up and goes away. The loons land—I'm telling you—within
hours
of that.”

“How do they know?”

“They scout. The males come first—leave the ocean and fly north as soon as some inner voice tells them the seasons are changing. They must come right up the coast, then turn inland and fly reconnaissance missions. They can't land unless there's open water, because they need open water to find fish
and
to take off again. If they were to land on ice, not only would they not have food, but they'd be stuck there until it melted. The first time you hear them in spring . . .” She felt a sudden yearning for that. “It's so nice.” She looked up at the sky. “So is this.”

The moon was behind one of those fingers of clouds, but that didn't take anything from the charm of the night. There were stars; with a slow scan of the sky, she took them in. Yes, it was cold, but she was sheltered against Griffin. Besides, the cold was half the fun.

“Another week,” she mused, “and the moon will be full. This time of year, it's the maple moon. Sugar moon, is what Native Americans called it. Do you know that they were the first sugarmakers?”

“Micah told me that,” Griffin said with a grin. “And about sugarmaking being done without slaves.”

“Did I tell you about sugar on snow?”

His grin didn't budge. “I don't believe you did.”

“If you take hot, new syrup and drizzle it on snow, it hardens into chewy strings. We make a party of it during sugaring. Chewy syrup, raised donuts, and a sour pickle. One taste works off the other to enhance
all three.” Smiling, she tucked her nose in the warm spot just below his ear.

“Cold?”

She shook her head. “Can't feel my toes, though,” she joked.

“Well, then.” He didn't miss a beat. “We'll have to do something about that.”

He started back across the lake. She left her nose where it was. He smelled of her aloe soap. She had always thought it had a light, female freshness. It was still light and fresh, but on him, it was masculine.

Climbing up over the rocks from lake to land, he began the short trek to the house. Poppy moved her nose up to the very edge of his earband, and pressed a kiss where her nose had been. Even outside, with the breeze stirring up a rustle of evergreen limbs, she heard the catch of his breath. She put her tongue to the very same spot, which was behind the shadow of his beard. The skin was surprisingly smooth.

He didn't say a word.
That
was a challenge, and Poppy knew about challenges. Meeting them had been her specialty before the accident. What she felt like doing, she did. What she wanted, she took. What tempted her, she chased.

With her chair still in the Blazer and Griffin heading for the steps, it was easy to forget the twelve years between then and now. It was like she was able to walk but chose not to—and whyever should she, with a gorgeous guy carrying her off in his arms?

He went in the door, kicked it shut behind him, and carried her down the hall to her bedroom. She was too absorbed nuzzling his jaw to protest, and when she had to stop, simply because in laying her on the bed their bodies came apart, she was equally absorbed by his eyes.

She hadn't seen a hunger like that in more than a dozen years. She hadn't expected to see it again at all, but there it was. If there were inklings of fear in the back of her mind, that hunger held them at bay. He pulled off her gloves, untied her scarf, and unzipped her jacket, and all the while his eyes held that hunger. His cheeks were ruddy, his breathing unsteady. Tossing his own gloves aside, he quickly followed with his earband and jacket. Then he crossed his arms, reached for the hem of his sweater, and whipped it off right along with the shirt underneath.

Poppy wasn't prepared for that. She felt a jolt and, quite helplessly, put a hand out. She had never
seen
his bare chest, much less felt it. It was warm and perfectly shaped, with a smattering of auburn hair in the shape of a T. Fingers spread, she slid her palm over lean muscle and ribs.

He drew in a sharp breath. She looked up quickly, half fearing that he was done, turned off, wanting out—because she was, after all, a paraplegic, and little touches notwithstanding, she didn't know how far she could go, didn't know how far
he
could go.

A little farther,
he seemed to say, because he took her mouth then with the same hunger she had seen in his eyes, and how could she not answer it? She definitely felt the hunger. She hadn't been sure that she would. Technically, her sexual organs functioned; she had known that. But sex wasn't just a physical thing. Thanks to her disability, it was wrapped up in a mess of emotional issues. Not wanting to deal with those, she had always before chosen to ignore the possibilities.

But those possibilities were suddenly heady. She felt a tingling, and could have sworn it was in her lower body as well. The brain was able to compensate that way, receiving a message from one place and assigning it to another. She hoped that this wasn't compensation alone. It certainly felt real.

His mouth stroked hers, again and again, deepening the kiss slowly, steadily, until it was very mutual, very open, very intimate—little more than the exchange of a breath or the touch of a tongue. It was unbelievably arousing. Poppy arched her back—so nice to be able to do that—and suddenly he had her sweater up.

“Lift, baby,” he whispered, and when the sweater went over her head and she wore only her bra, he took that off as well.

He looked. He touched. She had never felt overly endowed, certainly not compared to her sisters. When she had done this before the accident, breasts had always been incidental. She had never seen them as crucial to her identity, because femininity itself had never been a major issue. Sex was sex—she was a girl, the guy was a guy—girls and guys did it together—it was fun. It was also naughty, because it was not what her mother wanted her to do, and that increased the fun.

So this was new. Griffin's mouth made her breasts feel feminine indeed.
Not only did they swell and peak, but the ripples of heat that he caused traveled deep, so deep that she would have writhed had she had the mobility.

That thought was brief. She must have done something, though—taken a sudden breath, pulled back a tad,
something
—because Griffin raised his head.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

By way of answer, she took his face and brought it down. She initiated the kiss this time, and drove it deeper, because that was one way to stave off scary little thoughts. She loved the feel of his jaw, which was just the least bit stubbly now, several hours after a shave. She loved the thickness of his wavy hair, loved the strength of his neck, loved the way his muscles bunched—back, shoulders, chest—when she touched them.
Needing to feel his belly, she pushed her fingers down under the waist band of his jeans.

When he made a choked sound, she stopped short.

“Don't,” he said hoarsely.

Horrified, she pulled her hands up and away.

“Don't
stop,”
he pleaded, but the words seemed forced, or so her appalled mind heard.

She tucked her hands under the pillows—lots of pillows—more pillows than a normal person would have—pillows that a paraplegic needed to hold one position or another.

He slid to his side and drew her over to face him. He did it gently, pulling one of those pillows to support her back. His breathing was rough, but he seemed in full control.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I don't know.” But she did. Of course she did.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“But you stopped.”

“Because you did. You made a sound, like more was happening than you wanted.”

He took her chin. “That sound was because not
enough
was happening.”

Tears welled. “I know. I can't do more. I'm sorry. I can't help what I am.”

“That's not what I meant,” he scolded, moving his thumb to her mouth. “Not enough was happening, because we were just getting going, and I'm impatient. I wanted it faster, that's all, faster, but that's me being a man and has nothing to do with anything except your being a woman and turning me on.” He paused. “What
are
you?” His hand was at her nape now.

“A paraplegic.”

“Could've fooled me. I didn't feel anything disabled about what we were doing. It felt like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I was until something . . . reminded you.”

“You're the one who was reminded. What did it?”

You groaned. Or choked. Or whatever. You'd had enough.

“Tell me, Poppy. Did I do something wrong? Did something not feel good? Not feel right? Did something not feel—not
feel
—at all?”

“I felt,” she confessed, because she could be truthful in this. “I felt like a woman. I haven't felt that way in so long.”

He caught her mouth and kissed her once, slowly, then again. That fast, she began to feel the warmth of it.

He drew back again, this time resting his ear on the pillow. “Tell me what you're thinking.”

“You're a good kisser.”

“Not about that. About doing it. I want to do it, Poppy. Do you want to?”

She did. She didn't.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

She was terrified, but how could she say that? Sex had never terrified her before. Strong women weren't frightened of sex. Rebels certainly weren't.

His smile was exquisitely gentle. “I think you are. I think you're afraid you won't feel what you want to feel. You're afraid it won't work. You're afraid I'll be turned off by something and that I won't be able to get it up or keep it there. Is that it?”

He did understand after all. Her chin wobbled, but she nodded.

“I won't have that problem,” he said in a voice that had grown raspy again. “Trust me, I won't have that problem.” His eyes fell to her breasts. “You are just so beautiful.”

“Maybe there,” she cried, “but not—”

“Not where? Your legs?” He ran a hand down. “You can't feel that, Poppy, but I do, and they feel just right.” The backs of his fingers brushed their way up her body until they grazed her breasts.