Frontline (27 page)

I lost my virginity at the end of my senior year in high school in a hotel suite overlooking San Francisco Bay. It was prom night. It was also the first night I ever experienced getting drunk.

It’s not that I needed to be drunk to consider losing my virginity to my boyfriend of four months. He always treated me well
—as well as an eighteen-year-old guy could in his first romantic relationship. He was also one of the best-looking guys at school: tall and slim, eyes bright and emerald green, a thick mop of blond hair that I loved to bury my hands in and ruffle around.

He had some stellar moves on the basketball court. A lot of guys in our school looked up to him because of that. And when he pressed his lips against my ear while we slow danced to the final song of the night, and told me he loved me, he certainly had some stellar moves then, too. I re
member my head feeling so light that I squeezed his hand as we walked out of the gymnasium to the awaiting limousine for fear I’d float away. We kissed all the way to the hotel and in the elevator up to our floor. Unfortunately, his stellar moves ended there.

I think of this now as I remove the bandages from my feet, shed my robe, and turn on a hot shower in my en suite bathroom. If I ever needed to hit the reset button, it’s tonight.

Clouds of steam billow from the showerhead and float over the curtain. Tiny bubbles bead on the fine hairs on my arms. The musky scent of the river rises again as my skin moistens, but the shower rinses it down my legs and into the drain as soon as I step under the stream, flushed away like it was never there.

Except for the memory.

Except for the bullet and the scar it will leave on Trenton.

Seeing Trenton tonight, crumpled and broken on the floor, nursing a wound he took in my defense, swells my heart until it feels like it could burst through my chest. Here is a man who put me first last night and kept me safe, no matter what the cost to himself, just like he always promised.

Stellar moves.

But his attitude soon shadows such promise. The defiance he showed toward me trying to treat his wound made me feel like nothing more than a child playing dress-up with a toy stethoscope dangling from her neck. His stubborn refusal to tell me why we’re in danger
—even if it’s just a theory—is nothing but macho bullshit, as if I’m too young and immature to keep control in the midst of a perilous situation. I have a father who protected me all my life and did a wonderful job. I’m a woman now and deserve the right to look out for myself.

The fact is that I think too much. I have a bad habit of overanalyzing. I turn questions inside out and back again, looking at them from every conceivable angle. It’s part curiosity and part perfectionist, but sometimes I take so long that lists of new questions pile up while I’m not looking. So far, life in New York has taught me there are always more questions than answers, and getting to know Trenton has been a lesson in that all on its own.

I’ve taken chances since meeting Trenton that I never thought myself capable of. In my San Francisco life, I was the dependable, responsible, sensible girl who earned her parents’ respect and trust. This new Sara—or should I say New York Sara—seems to ignore all sense, especially in close contact with Trenton. He shone a light in that dark corner and what I found was a whole different me: no thinking, no responsibility, just letting myself go.

As for Trenton, it seems he’s set in his ways. His annoying characteristics I dictated to Randall are deeply ingrained and a big reason for his success in business. They’re also equally responsible for his perpetual bachelor status. His lack of commitment isn’t an issue, it’s more his lack of compromise; of granting someone he claims to care about a chance to speak their own mind and willingly listen to them.

Are these things he can change? Would he even want to? And what right do I have to enter a relationship with him with a list of things I already want to tweak tucked away in my handbag, ready to start on as soon as the honeymoon is over, as if he’s some home renovation?

The water bursting from the showerhead flickers, and for a moment, I think it will slow to a trickle, but the stream stays strong and the temperature scalding. I bow my head beneath it and feel my scalp relax with the heat, releasing the river’s last hold.

The sweet scent of pomegranate floats over everything as I open a small travel bottle of shampoo that stood on the shower’s soap holder. I squirt a purple blob into my hand and work it into my hair.

It wasn’t my ex-boyfriend’s less-than-stellar moves in the hotel room that night that ultimately caused our breakup. I was a virgin myself and didn’t have a catalogue of moves to reference either. Seeing each other every day at school developed a routine and a comfortable little place where we could exist. After graduation, the walls fell away and nothing immediately replaced them. Our friends scattered to every corner of the U.S., others to different countries altogether. I knew I’d remain in San Francisco for the foreseeable future and was terrified of being left at the starting gate. It was in the panic of trying to grasp for something new that we lost hold of each other. By the time I started nursing school that fall, the sight of him was nothing more than a brief moment of déjà vu, like recognizing someone
I knew from a previous life.

The connection I feel with Trenton is unlike anything I’ve felt toward anyone, unlike anything I thought possible. It’s the only time that my world slows and I feel suspended, feather light. When I wrap my arms around him, I tremble. When we kiss, we explore like it’s the first time we kissed anyone, our mouths full of the sweet tastes of each other.

If we ever had the chance to make love, it might be enough to disconnect me entirely, so for once in my life, I could stop thinking and just feel. I’ve gotten so close so many times. The way he pleasured me in the car yesterday was only a preview of what I know we can do. But I think it might be impossible now. My body would willingly go, but my mind, forever thinking, forever fearing, might stop me.

If only I could just stop thinking.

I can’t pick and choose which qualities of Trenton I’d keep and which ones I’d toss away. And if I could, he wouldn’t be Trenton Merrick anymore. He’d be a hapless, brainless drone, though a gorgeous one, following me around day after day, solely to fulfill my physical desires and never argue with a choice I made.

On second thought . . .

Trenton has the right to be who he is and so do I. We connect on a physical level, but true, lasting relationships are made of so much more. They have to be. I don’t think that beyond a few steaming hot months we would ever stand a chance against what awaits us outside the bedroom door. Dodging a hailstorm of bullets is child’s play compared to what reality has in store. When the walls that shelter you collapse, you need something solid to hold on to.

There’s no sign of body wash anywhere in the shower, so I squirt more pomegranate shampoo into my hand and lather it across my chest, under my arms, across my stomach, and down to my toes.

My hand slides over the same spot on my leg Trenton caressed a short time ago. But it doesn’t feel the same. I move my hands to my breasts. My nipples tingle, but they don’t ignite the way they do with Trenton’s touch. I slip my hand between my legs and feel a slight tickle the way I did when I was first touched there, in the hours after prom as my boyfriend and I stumbled over each other in a drunken fog, all fingers and elbows and knees, frantically searching for something we thought was supposed to flow naturally. In Trenton’s hands, I never tickle. I quake.

The water feels cooler, either because the hot water tank is empty, or my skin is seared to numbness, unable to feel either extreme. Silence replaces the drone of water hitting the floor of the tub as I twist the tap closed. I stand in the clouds of steam like it’s my own private sauna, breathe deeply, and think.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I will be allowed to leave this place and never look back.

Tomorrow, I might return to my own world. My predictable, tiny world.

Tomorrow, I might be free.

Drips from the showerhead plink into the puddle around the drain and echo in my ears as if they’re a mile away.

But what about tonight?

I push the shower curtain open. Steam wafts around the bathroom, thick and hazy, like a humid summer
day.

Tonight is not for thinking.

I pick a towel from the stack beneath the vanity, wrap my drenched hair, and pull my bathrobe on. The air from the bedroom that whooshes toward me as I pull open the door is only room temperature but collides with my wet, burning body like it’s rushing straight out of the mountains. The shock doesn’t stop my feet from moving forward.

Not thinking . . .

My pace doesn’t slow toward the bedroom mirror either, where I unwrap my hair, toss the towel onto the bed, and comb out the few tangles with my fingers.

Not thinking . . .

It doesn’t slow when I open my bedroom door, drift through black shadows in the hallway, and find the cold brass doorknob to Trenton’s room.

Not thinking . . .

The whiskey fumes have dissipated with the fresh night air drifting through the open window next to Trenton’s bed. Curtains flutter gently in the breeze. He lays in his briefs on top of the covers on the mattress, bathed in moonlight, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm. I move silently over the carpet until I’m next to the bed. His breathing sounds deeper and more relaxed—already a good sign. I feel myself start to slip into analytical nurse mode—

Not thinking.

I trace the long ends of the bathrobe belt and settle on the knot. Trenton’s breathing becomes shallower. His eyelids flicker and open. He stays frozen against the mattress and swallows hard.

“Sara?”

Not thinking . . .

The knot loosens and my bathrobe parts. Fresh night air flows through the opening and dances over my breasts and stomach. Tiny goose bumps rise in its wake. I pull the robe open and let the air envelope me. My body tingles and throbs. My mind stays clear.

Not thinking.

With a slight roll of my sho
ulders, the robe falls away.

Trenton’s eyes are lucid, focused, the surprise appearance of me standing at his bedside a sober awakening. He takes my hand and guides me onto the mattress. I crawl over him and settle my knees on either side of his body, straddling him.

His arousal strains under his briefs, pressing against my inner thigh. Butterflies erupt in my stomach. Trenton sits up and kisses me deep and slow, and my nervousness vanishes, driven from my body by that all-encompassing quake.

I grip his back, kneading his taut muscles, which hint at a primal strength that could overpower me. His lips make an unhurried journey down my throat and our hips begin a slow and sensual rocking. Then his mouth is on my breast and his tongue swirls over my hard nipple.

Our rocking intensifies to needy, zealous thrusts.

Trenton captures my nipple between his lips and sucks gently. My spine curves, hijacking his tender approach and pushing my breast into his hot mouth. I’m rewarded by stronger suction and more of that delicious grind of his hips.

“I thought I was dreaming when I saw you standing over me,” he says, as though in prayer. “But your softness, your warmth,” he raises his hips again, pushing his cock against me, “the way my body responds to you, Sara, could never be imagined, even by a desperate man.”

Trenton drapes his uninjured arm around my waist as he presses his mouth to the center of my chest and drags sideways to capture my other nipple between his teeth. With a tug from his lips, my control slips. I whimper and rock against him again, grabbing and squeezing.

He guides me onto my back, his hand cushioning my head as it meets the pillow. His eyes stay on mine, communicating a devotion that penetrates my erotic haze and makes me feel simultaneously beautiful and deplorable. The juxtaposition is so jarring that I question everything I felt certain of when reentering his room. The only constants that remain are this man, this moment, this night.

Trenton hooks his thumb on the waistband of his briefs, but I stop him from going any further by gripping his wrist. He lies down on the bed, allowing me to take over. I curl my fingers over the waistband, guide the briefs down his legs, and toss them over the side of the bed.

His arousal rests across his stomach; hard, long, and thick. My heart launches into a frantic beat, pumping blood that burns like lava to my cheeks, my breasts, and between my legs.

I take him in my hand, extracting a deep moan and shudder with the first stroke. Trenton’s hips buck off the mattress, his face contorting as he fists the sheets beside him. Sweat gleams on his chest; the tendons in his neck strain as he pushes his head back into the pillow.

I quicken my pace, reveling in the feel of him hot and heavy in my grasp. He closes his eyes and his jaw tenses. The sounds he makes plunge me into a deeper pool of arousal.

I lick my lips and bend over him, eager to take him in my mouth. Suddenly, I’m on my back with Trenton hovering over me, supporting his weight with his good arm. He examines my body from head to toe. Then he dips his head to place kisses to my collarbone, my breasts, my stomach, stirring something warm and tingly deep inside me.

With gentle brushes of his tongue, his teeth, and deep breaths that expel hotly against my skin, he travels lower and lower at a maddeningly slow pace, teasing and tickling me.

I writhe on the bed, anticipating his arrival. Trenton sweeps his hand down the inside of my leg, clasps the back of my knee, and separates me a little more. His soft lips drift along my inner thighs. Then he opens his mouth and licks me right where I need him most.

My hips launch off the mattress. “Oh . . . Trenton!”

I feel the hint of a smile on his lips as he returns for more.

I can’t comprehend all of the sensations that blast through me as he repeats the slow sweep of his tongue, dragging deeper and deeper. The sucking . . . the swirling . . . the flicking . . . it’s far too much and too perfect, all at once. I wind my hand in his hair, quaking and panting, my climax approaching—

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “I want to be inside you when you come.”

I gasp with another stroke of his tongue and wriggle against him.

“Do you want me inside you, Sara?”

I fist the sheets, my hips rising and falling.

“Yes . . .
please
.”

Trenton crawls up along my body, covering me with heat, erect and ready to claim me. As he moves between my legs, I haul my attention back to his face, worried that this position might be too painful for him.

“What about your shoulder?”

He brushes the hair back from my face, a fond glint softening his gaze. “You’re my only weakness, Sara.”

With a kiss to my forehead, he bends his arms and lowers himself onto me. I’m about to tell him to be gentle and go slow because it’s been a long time, but he knows—
of course
he knows—and without a word, he eases inside me.

I draw in a deep breath, incapacitated by the stretch, the fullness.

Trenton’s forehead drops to mine. “You okay?”

I peer up at him, wide-eyed, and nod.

The fissures in his brow disappear and he thrusts; a lead I tentatively follow. He reaches for my hands and intertwines our fingers, palm to palm, bringing them to rest on the pillow on either side of my head. A grimace tightens his features, but his hips never lose their rhythm.

I glance at the towel tied around his shoulder. “Trenton
—”

“I’ve been waiting for this moment since our first meeting, Sara.” He halts all movements, his eyes flaming. “No man, no bullet, is going to take it away from me. From
us
.”

With a low growl, he withdraws from me completely and hurls forward, filling me again. His mouth covers mine as I call out my pleasure, obsessed with the feel of his hands on me, the angle of his cock inside me, how he knows what I need, when I need it, and how to give it to me.

Each thrust of his hips declares what I already know—what I’ve known since our first encounter at the hospital:
mine.
But even with our more aggressive pace, this is not the fuck he promised in the Bugatti. This is equal parts tenderness and trust, give and take, impulse and destiny.

I clamp my thighs around his hips and meet his thrusts as he repeats the movement . . . pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling . . . our slick bodies gliding together, our wanton cries echoing throughout the darkened room.

“Feel me, Sara. Take me . . . all of me.” Trenton rocks into me, harder, faster, steering me toward my release. “Everything I have, everything I am, is yours.”

Tears sting my eyes. I blink them back as I raise my hips to meet his, driving him deeper inside me. My pleasure surges and the pressure builds, every pulse between my legs tightening my grip around him.

“Trenton, I’m going to—”

“Just let go.” He brushes his lips to my ear. “I’ve got you.”

One more grind of his hips and I gasp and arch against him. “Trenton!”

“That’s it, Sara. I’ve got you . . . I’ve got you . . .”

My orgasm blasts through me as though arriving on the tail of a lightning bolt. Jolts of pleasure erupt from where we’re joined and infuse every muscle in my body, culminating in a series of violent shudders. Trenton holds me close as he throws himself into me . . . once . . . twice . . . before he tenses and unravels, spilling into me in short, rhythmic pulses.

“Oh, Sara . . .” Shaking slightly, he slumps on top of me, his cheek resting over my thundering heart. I pull my fingers through his damp hair and close my eyes, taking a moment to memorize the contours of his body, his scent of dark spice and sweat, and how perfectly we fit together.

Much too soon, Trenton moves onto the mattress bedside me. The cool breeze from the open window wafts over the perspiration on my breasts and stomach. He lifts his good arm in invitation and I tuck myself underneath, laying my head on his chest and returning to my warm, safe place.

His lips find my hair. “Thank you for coming back to me.”

Tears spring to my eyes again. I place my palm to his chest. His fever has broken and his labored breaths and rapid pulse have calmed.

Following a gentle kiss to his pectoral, I slip from his embrace. My body shakes as my bare feet meet the floor. I pull on my robe, tighten the belt.

“Sara.” My name is spoken hoarsely, unaccompanied by shock or confusion.

My vision blurs as I step toward the door.

“Sara,” he says, more desperately this time.

I exhale an uneven breath and face him.

Trenton stands from the bed, moonlight and shadow embracing in a tumultuous tango across his skin as he drifts toward me. My body tingles and that familiar pull returns, as if every particle in the room has been summoned to close the gap between us.

He stops before me, watching, waiting.

I reach out and cradle his face in my hand.

“Trenton . . .” My expression conveys the rest.

With gut-wrenching swiftness, the man with the world at his feet falls to his knees at mine, naked and trembling. He peers up at me, eyes glistening with unshed tears—portals to a wounded and vulnerable soul.

“I love you, Sara.”

My lower lip quivers. “Trenton, don’t—”

“I love you, and I’m sorry
—you need to know that. I’m so sorry.” He bows his head, his shoulders hunched like a marionette without a master.

I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away from him, my hand reaching for the doorknob, something tangible to anchor myself to so I won’t sail back into his arms.

This time there are no gentle touches to my leg, no begging me to stay.

“I love you, Sara . . . I’m sorry . . . I love you . . .” Trenton repeats his mantra with agonizing resolve.

The door closes behind me with a click that echoes so loudly throughout the cabin it’s as if I slammed it shut.

I love you, Sara.

I’m sorry.

I love you . . .

It’s those words that haunt me as I return to my room alone, those words that bring me down to the floor next to the bed and bend my legs toward my chest; those words that wrap around my trembling body as I lower my head to my knees and weep for what we both desire but know can never be.

All thinking.

All feeling.

I love you, Trenton.

I’m sorry.

I love you.