Love Lies Beneath (16 page)

“No. It's a probability, although I will need some help up the stairs.”

He nods. “I think I can arrange that. But first, I have to run down to my car. I packed a toothbrush, just in case.”

“Of course. The light switch is right there by the door. Please be sure to lock up behind you when you come back in.”

I watch him go and can't help but notice the slow, sultry creep between my legs. The idea strikes that what one-night stands are missing is the tarried bloom of desire, no need to hurry toward a pleasure-soaked moment or two, and then hurry faster away. Cavin and I have all the time in the world.

He returns with a leather overnight bag, and that makes me smile. “Must be a very big toothbrush.”

“Not so big, really. But you should see the tube of toothpaste. Let me take the bag upstairs, and then I'll come back for you. That is, if you're ready.”

I'm more than ready. I just hope we can accomplish the ultimate goal with a limited number of positions. It's pretty much the missionary. “Take your time. The master is at the far end of the hall.”

“What about the Cristal?”

“No need to let it go flat.”

“Copacetic.”

Copacetic. Excellent word.

He disappears through the bedroom stairs portal. I turn off the gas to the fireplace, ascertain that the sliding glass door is locked. I've never had an unwanted visitor come in this way, but it isn't impossible. And lately the neighbor's dog, who's usually so quiet, has been barking at night. I'm probably just feeding my suspicion, but why take a chance?

My knee throbs insistently, doubtless from this morning's workout, followed by a lot of time standing in the kitchen. I lift the hem of my plum knit skirt. The swelling has definitely increased. I've avoided the pharmaceuticals for several days, but this seems like the right time to ingest something heavier than ibuprofen. I pop one from a bottle stashed in a kitchen cupboard, chase it with Cristal. Bubbly and poppy, one crazy cocktail, and it's starting to kick in right around the time Cavin returns, dressed down in flannel pants and a snug T-shirt. His hair is wet and smells like my favorite shampoo, even from here. So much for eau d'osso bucco.

“I took a quick shower. Hope you don't mind. Between freeway driving and headmaster stress, I was smelling a bit too . . . masculine.”

“I thought you were going to say ‘Italian,' which is the only thing I noticed. But you are always welcome to my hot water and soap.”

“Ready to go upstairs?”

“As ready as this knee will permit.”

“Never fear, fair lady!” He crosses the room in three long strides, scoops me up into his arms. “Prepare to conquer the stairs.”

“You're not really considering carrying me, are you?”

“I think it's the most efficient use of our time. Hold on tight.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, lay my head against his shoulder, hope for the best. He doesn't falter as we ascend, and I'm reminded of a scene from a movie. “Just call me Scarlett O'Hara. You are a strong man, Rhett Butler.”

“ 'Twas nothing, my dear. And here we are.”

The room is dark, except for two lit candles, one on each of the end tables flanking the fainting couch. Cavin sits me gently there, beneath the big window. Outside, the winter moon finesses her light through the thin veneer of fog, casting an interesting sheen. It filters in through the plate glass, settles around me like a halo.

Cavin gives a low whistle. “Wow. I wish you could see how incredible you look right now. I'd take a picture, but I'd be afraid someone else might see it, and I want you all to myself.” He leans down, brings his mouth an inch away from mine, and looks into my eyes. “Champagne now, or after?”

“I'm not thirsty.”

“Good. Unbutton your blouse.”

His voice is husky, sexy as hell, and I like that he has taken charge. I comply with his request, one button at a time. He watches without moving until the deed is accomplished. Now he kneels in front of me, eyes even with my breasts, which he coaxes from the lacy confines of my bra. His fingers encircle my nipples, bring them taut against his lips and the tip of his tongue, just beyond.

He takes his time.

This is not what men do.

This is not what I do.

They hurry.

I hurry.

And then it's over.

I realize, as he pulls away, stands, and begins a slow striptease, that my usual impatience for orgasm has not always served me well. My imagination did not sculpt him nearly well enough. He is lean but strong, and even in this mellow light, I can see his muscles work as he takes off his shirt, lays it over the back of the couch.

Cavin lifts me, carries me to the bed, and the kiss we share is filled with need, but also something else. My head spins with the word—promise. He perches me on the edge of the mattress, helps me out of my blouse and bra, pushes me onto my back to take off my skirt. Suddenly, I feel anxious about my imperfect body.

“Try not to look at my knee.”

“I've seen worse. Anyway, looking at it isn't the issue. Not injuring it more critically is the challenge.” I hear his trousers unzip, wait as he puts them with his shirt. The floor creaks beneath his return, and now my panties slip down, drop to the floor. “Open your legs. I want to see what's in between them.”

Can he tell how wet I am?

Cavin slides a hand up my left thigh, and now he can have no doubt how wet I am. “Holy hell, woman.” One finger. Two. Three, inside me. He thrusts and pulls.

Slowly.

Gently.

Faster.

Harder.

A moan escapes as I start to tense. But he stops, makes me wait. “Oh, no. Not yet. I'm not letting you off that easy.”

“You mean, getting me off?”

“That, either.”

He leans up over me, kisses me hard, then his mouth travels the length of my body, stopping to kiss less usual places—along my collarbone and inside the bend of my elbows. His tongue circles my nipples, traces the curve of my breasts, draws a thin line down my torso and over my belly button. Now he lowers his face.

Licks my right leg, from knee to thigh.

Licks my left leg, from knee to thigh.

By the time he arrives at the sweet spot in between, I'm shaking.

He pauses. “Are you cold?”

“Not even close.”

His tongue begins a relaxed upward roll, exploring the landscape of my womanhood. The pace of this lovemaking is completely unfamiliar, and it's driving me toward total lust-fueled insanity. “Lie still,” he commands. “Don't you dare come yet.”

“I'll try.” It's a throaty whisper. “But I'm more than ready for the rest.”

“I know. I just don't want to hurt you.”

I think he's talking about my knee, especially when he slides a pillow beneath it. But now he strips off his Jockeys. On that one-to-ten scale, he's a definite nine, and fully erect. Length times girth equals what promises to be an unparalleled ride. It makes me want to be reckless.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

He looks down at himself, then back at me. “At this point, I don't see why not.”

“Are you STD-free?”

“I-I brought condoms.”

“That isn't what I asked. I've never had an STD, and I can't get pregnant. If you're clean, and I'll take your word for it, I'd rather you not use a condom.”

“I'm clean.”

“I thought so. Come here.”

It's a very good thing I'm this turned on. There's a brilliant little bolt of pain.

Cavin stretches me to the max as he pushes inside, driving all the way against my G-spot, filling me completely. This is something I've never experienced.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and waits for me to say yes. The rocking begins.

He takes his time.

This is not what men do.

This is not what I do.

Except tonight.

It's been a long time since I've shared my bed with a man overnight. I'm buzzed on pills and champagne, exhausted by two rounds of spectacular sex. But, unlike Cavin, who dozed off immediately, I can't get to sleep right away. I lie here, cooling semen trickling down my thigh, listening to the deep, even breathing beside me. How reckless was I?

A doctor could have an STD and lie about it. But it doesn't seem likely, at least not
this
doctor. I didn't lie about being clean. However, I'm not positive about the pregnancy thing. I quit taking the pill years ago, when marital sex became infrequent, and those rare occasions never resulted in a baby. I've relied on condoms for intermittent liaisons, and remained herpes- and fetus-free. Should I worry now? At my age, is what's left of my egg stash even viable?

Oh well, if things go wrong, there's always abortion.

I slip out of bed, tiptoe to the bathroom, and douche away whatever seminal fluid is left inside me. Then I run a hot bath, soak for a while to relieve stress and stiffness. Good thing I took the heavier meds. Despite Cavin's careful cushioning, my knee is definitely more swollen than it was before our marathon. By the time I dry off, I'm actually sleepy.

I go back to bed, finesse my way under the covers, naked skin still hot and scented vanilla-cedar. I turn on my side, face toward the window, and am slipping toward slumber when Cavin rolls over to spoon. I'm not sure if he's half-awake or totally dreaming when he whispers, “Mm. You smell good.” It's comforting.

I wake to sunlight throbbing in through the window. It disorients me. What time is it? Why does my head feel split open? Why am I naked and why . . . I reach behind me and my hand hits an empty pillow. “Cavin?”

But I'm alone.

I sit up, too quickly. The room wants to spin. I close my eyes, pull in long, shallow breaths. He wouldn't leave without saying good-bye, would he? When I open my eyes again, I turn to ascertain the fact that the far side of the bed is, indeed, unoccupied, and I find a note.
Let you sleep in. Give a shout when you're ready to come downstairs. By the way, you smell good.

Maybe, but I'm sure I look awful. I test my knee on the short hike to the bathroom. It's sore, but not as bad as expected. The first thing I do is swallow two ibuprofen, chasing them with a big bottle of smartwater. Then I take a chance on the mirror. Yeesh! It's never a good thing to go to bed with my hair wet. Better take a shower so I can shampoo this mess back into proper condition. Lots of lotion and antiwrinkle potions to fight fine lines, followed by barely there makeup, enough to keep Cavin interested.

The jackhammer has quieted in my head and my knee seems cooperative, so I take the stairs on my own and manage the downhill route relatively problem-free. Cavin is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, reading a book. He's wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt, and I think he's even better looking all dressed down.

“Morning.”

He looks up from his reading and smiles. “Afternoon, actually. But just a little after.”

“What are you reading?”

“Stephen King's new book.”

“You like horror?”

“It's a guilty pleasure, I'm afraid.” He puts the book on the coffee table, gets up, and comes over to kiss me good morning. It's a very nice hello. “Hey. You were supposed to give a yell. I would have arranged down-the-stairs transportation.”

“You keep rescuing damsels in distress in that fashion, you'll need back surgery.”

“Just one damsel, and she's no threat to my spine. You hungry? Hope you don't mind, but I threw together a quiche for brunch. There's coffee ready, too.”

Where did this guy come from? He “threw together” a quiche? “I'm starving. Let's see what you're made of, Wolfgang.”

He takes my hand, leads me into the kitchen, which is warm from the oven. A beautiful quiche sits cooling on the counter, whispering hints of garlic and rosemary. “Sit, and I'll get you some coffee. Unless . . . You do like coffee, don't you? I figured you did, because you buy beans in bulk, but I shouldn't assume. You have a great pantry, by the way.”

“I adore coffee, and thank you. I'm a bit of an eccentric when it comes to my larder.”

“Not at all. It's in exceptional order. Cream and sugar?”

“Black will do.”

Cavin delivers two slices of quiche and two steaming mugs of coffee to the table, sits on the far side, and waits for me to take a bite. The crust is flaky, the savory custard baked to perfection. I give him a thumbs-up, and he grins. “So, I was thinking. I've got five days in Carmel planned, with nothing to do but read. I'd very much like for you to come along. I know it's short notice, but . . .” He looks at me hopefully.

I swallow the bite, chase with a sip of strong coffee. “Would we have to spend the whole time reading?”

He brings those seafoam eyes level with mine. “You know better than that. Last night was incredible.”

“Just wait till I can fully participate, Doctor.”

“I'm patient by nature. Meanwhile, I want to spend time with you. Learn what makes you tick.”

His forthrightness is alternately refreshing and unnerving. No one knows what makes me tick. Maybe not even me.

So, my choices are: Sit around here alone, fussing over a fund-raiser I had in place a month ago, and working out to keep from going insane (not to mention flabby); or take a long ride down the California coastline to one of the most beautiful little towns in the world, indulge in seafood and excellent vintages, walk on the beach (if my knee will deal with sand), and enjoy brilliant sex a couple of times a day.

I'd say that's a no-brainer.

“Let me make a few calls.”

I go into my office to do exactly that. I call Melody to let her know where I'm going, just in case. I call Charlie to have him check on the place a couple of times while I'm gone. And I call Cassandra to rub it in. When I return to the living room, Cavin is on his own phone. I go ahead and eavesdrop.