Perfect Family (33 page)

His tongue lingered over the shortened version of her name. She was glad no one had ever called her that before. She wanted it only on his lips. She nodded.

Still, he hesitated, and a thousand thoughts ran through her mind. The accusation of rape against him, her own confession.

She reached out and unbuttoned, then unzipped, his jeans. It was shocking to her that she did so, that her fingers did such a bold thing. It was also exhilarating. For the first time, she felt free of the shadows that had kept her from intimacy, from trusting, from giving.

She trusted now, and it was as if some giant anvil had been lifted from her shoulders. She leaned her head against his hard stomach as her hands shoved down the trousers. She heard a small groan come from deep inside his chest, and then he lay naked next to her.

His hands caressed her, his lips touching hers again as if she were the most fragile piece of crystal. But now she didn't feel fragile. She didn't want to be crystal. She was all feelings, sensations, want.

She felt his hands at her slacks, undoing the clasps as she had undone his. Then she was naked, her body next to his, the friction of their skin setting new fires, and the pressure inside building to an inferno.

His mouth went to one of her breasts again, as his hand slid down to the triangle of hair, his fingers sparking new waves of sensation. She strained against him, her fears only a faint memory, her reservations trickling away like sand in a hourglass.

He guided her down, one hand still at the sensitive opening between her legs. His fingers teased, aroused until she was nearly mad with need for him. He moved slightly, positioning himself above her, his swollen manhood probing but not invading. He was waiting again, asking. In reply, her body instinctively reached for him, arching upward until she felt the marvelous warmth of him. Her arms went around him, urging him down, wondering at the strength and restraint of his body, the feel of him as he entered ever so slowly. She'd never known anything could feel this good, this … exquisitely painful friction that made every nerve come alive.

Her arms tightened as she needed more, had to have more, had to quench the aching, insatiable need spiraling in the core of her body.

Ross moved then, ever so slowly, igniting ripples of warm, expectant sensations. His slow, languorous movements stroked, then provoked, and she felt herself moving with him as his rhythm increased. Her body moved to his, danced with his in a primitive orgy. Streaks of exquisite pleasure rushed through her, and she felt her body quiver as the tempo increased and finally exploded in a burst of splendor.

He rested on his elbows, keeping them linked without having his weight on her. He rained kisses on her face, even as she felt the sumptuous aftershocks as tides of gratification continued to run through her.

She heard her own breath, felt his on her skin. “Oh my,” she said, though it was more a wondrous sigh than words.

He chuckled. She felt it in the flat belly that was melded to hers. It sounded fine in her ears.

“I think it was more a
wow
,” he said as his mouth reached down and nuzzled her neck.

“Definitely more,” she agreed. Her fingers played with the dark, springy hair on his chest, then traveled lightly over his muscles, feeling the hardness of them. He rolled over, taking her with him until she was on top of him. She put an elbow on his chest, propped her head on her hand, and regarded him.

His eyes had a lazy, satisfied look, and his lips were curved in a slight smile. His hands ran up and down her body possessively. “You're so beautiful,” he said.

“So are you,” she whispered.

He chuckled again. “Men aren't beautiful.”

“Yes, they are. You are.” She couldn't keep her hands off him.

“Then I like it,” he murmured. He was more relaxed than she had ever seen him.

She felt satisfied, fulfilled. Sensations still echoed inside her. For a moment, she felt nothing but bliss. Then gratitude that her fear of intimacy had dissolved, ecstasy at discovering she could respond to the right person.

She played with his hair. Thick and unruly and sexy. In fact, everything about him was sexy. And he made her feel sexy. She leaned down and started nibbling on his ear, amazed at herself, astounded at the ease she felt with him.

Her fears had faded in his tenderness. Since she'd become an adult, she'd told herself she didn't need protection; she could take care of herself. She still could. But she liked the warm protectiveness she felt in him. It felt good and right. A part of belonging.

He groaned as she continued her exploration. “You don't know what you're starting,” he complained, in a voice that seemed tinged with hope rather than censure.

“Now I do,” she said. She leaned down and touched his lips with hers. She was the aggressor now, and it delighted her. She was pushing away the last of her fears, the last shadow of a decade-old event that had haunted her ever since. She still didn't know why she had trusted him. But she had. And she'd been right.

He moved slightly, dislodging himself with obvious reluctance.

She watched him rise with the graceful ease she associated with him. She had an idea where he was going, and she appreciated it, even though she was reluctant to lose his warmth even for a moment. She stretched out. Her body felt different. It felt loved.

When he returned and sat down, a rush of fur joined him on the bed, jumping into his naked lap.

He yelped.

Surprised, Ben barked from his new perch on Ross's lap. Timber put a paw on the bed, obviously concerned that one dog was on the bed, and it wasn't him, but he was too mannered to make the leap. Still, he wasn't above sneaking another leg up onto the bed in hopeful exploration.

Ross disentangled himself and laughed. He leaned back and howled, and at that very moment Jessie knew she loved him.

“Foiled by a dog, and not even my own,” he finally managed. Timber was still trying to find his way up on the bed without anyone noticing. Like an elephant dancing on a bar table.

“Timber,” he said. The dog immediately put down both paws and stood at attention. Ben, however, was lolling all over the bed, trying to lick Jessie's face, then Ross's.

She giggled. She never giggled. She'd never lain naked in a man's bed. She'd never even kissed one back. Not really. Not with shameless abandon.

“My dignity's been destroyed,” Ross protested, but amusement danced in his eyes. She'd been intrigued by him, fascinated, attracted, but now she discovered how much she liked him. “As well as the moment,” he added.

She gave Ben a hug, then pushed him off. “Down,” she said and, oddly enough, he obeyed. Then she turned back to Ross and held out her hand to him. Her fingers touched his cheek. “I don't think so,” she said.

“What? My dignity or the moment?”

“Depends—which is more important?”

“I'll have to think about that.”

She batted at him, still amazed at her lightheartedness, her absolute lack of self-consciousness at her lack of clothes. He turned and caught her in his arms, and the amused curl of his lips zoomed straight into her heart.

Ben whined. Timber joined him.

Ross shook his head.

“Perhaps you had better put them outside.”

“Excellent suggestion.”

In seconds, the dogs had been reluctantly ejected. He was back on the bed, on sheets thoroughly mussed, and for a moment they stared at each other in a kind of wonderment. Then he bent his head, and she was whirled back into a world of sensation and wonder.

Ross watched her dress. He had watched other women dress, some obviously doing it slowly for his benefit. She was not. She was obviously uncertain. Hesitant.

He didn't want her to go. He wanted to go to sleep with her in his arms. He wanted to wake up next to her.

He'd never wanted that before. It stunned him.

He rose from the bed and helped her with buttons. Her own fingers were fumbling, her eyes not quite meeting his. The one thing he did know was that she wasn't used to doing this. He had felt, sensed, watched her bloom under his touch, realized that her first tentative responses were both shy and uncertain. He was sure he'd been the first since the rape.

The trust humbled him. It also filled him with guilt.

Still, he couldn't help but run his fingers across her cheek and meet her hazel eyes with their specks of gold. So solemn. So unsure.

She needed promises, and he had none to give her. Not until she knew who and what she was, not until she'd had time to understand the currents in the family. Even then, he wasn't sure he could offer her anything. Part of his heart had closed down years ago. He wasn't sure it could ever be whole again, and certainly not as long as he played around the edges of the Clementses.

Sarah had tied him to them as surely as if he'd been a bond servant two hundred years ago. She'd claimed what was left of a soul and placed upon it a burden and debt that could never be erased.

He leaned down and kissed Jessie. It was a tender gesture, but he knew it didn't answer the questions in her eyes.

“I had better get back,” she said, and he knew she was disappointed when he didn't demur.

He walked her to the bedroom door. Two dogs were just outside, waiting. Ben jumped on her with pure joy at her appearance. His own dog regarded his master solemnly; it obviously didn't cross his mind to make such an undignified show of canine affection.

The little vignette said something about the two of them, of how different they were. He had perfected discipline and kept his emotions in tight little boxes. Hers were more open, spontaneous. She was obviously more willing to take chances.

He wasn't sure whether he was capable of that. It was not fair, not to any woman. Especially to someone like Jessie.

He walked her to the door, her Ben at her heels. He wanted to take her in his arms, but he resisted. He had done enough damage tonight.

Instead, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. He knew instantly it was the most wrong, most clumsy thing he could do.

She turned, the glint of tears in her eyes, and skipped down the steps, the bundle of fur on her heels.

Jessie knew she had no reason to expect more than he'd given. He'd made no promises, uttered no expressions of love. Or even affection.

Despite the sudden realization that making love hadn't meant to him what it did to her, she was not sorry. She'd learned tonight that making love could be tender and wondrous and even magical. She knew she
could
respond. For that, she would always be grateful. And she was also grateful he had not made promises he had no intentions of keeping.

She made her way back to the house. It was late, probably well after midnight. There was a light on in the living area. Jessie hoped no one would be there; she felt as if she wore a scarlet letter. Her clothes were mussed, as probably was her hair. She was sure new knowledge shone from her eyes.

Her body continued to feel the effects of his lovemaking. Heat rose in her when she thought of his arms around her.

Damn and hallelujah
.

No one was inside the great room. She went to her room, refilled Ben's water dish, then looked to the clock. Two
A
.
M
. She wondered whether anyone noticed she'd been missing, but then dismissed the worry. She was an adult; it was her business. Still, she was new to this, and she knew her face flushed when she thought about it.

She also knew she couldn't sleep now; too many thoughts were like hammer blows on an anvil. She tried to get her mind off Ross and onto something else.
The book
.

Jessie knew where the stairs to the attic were—on the other side of the hall, near the room Marc and Samantha occupied when they were in residence. Perhaps she would go exploring.

Trespassing?
No. She was legally a member of the family now. She would soon become part owner of the Sunset, whether or not she wanted it.

She gave Ben one last hug, then opened the door. She listened for a moment. Silence.

Jessie went back, put on a pair of tennis shoes that wouldn't make any noise, then closed Ben inside the room. She went to the stairs and listened again. Light filtered up from the room below. She hadn't turned it off, not knowing whether it had been kept lit for her or for someone else.

Still nothing. She walked down the hall, hearing the floor creak as she moved. Wishing she didn't feel so darn guilty, Jessie reached the narrow stairs that wound upward to a door. She took the steps and wondered whether the door was locked. Her heart bounced into her throat as she put her fingers on the knob and tried it.

It gave under her hand. Hinges squeaked as she opened it and looked inside. The attic was dark, lit only by the faint light that filtered in through the door. She looked for a light switch.

She couldn't find one. She looked at the half-opened door. If only she knew where a flashlight was. Perhaps she could buy one tomorrow and return tomorrow night.

Yet she was strangely reluctant to leave. She looked around. Boxes everywhere. They were piled up to the ceiling in some places. Old furniture. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. There was a window, one she'd seen from the outside. The part moon seemed to hang in the middle of it.

She moved carefully. The further she went, the mustier the air. She wondered what was in the boxes, who'd sat on the discarded furniture. The first Clementses? Her father? Had he rummaged around up here?

The floor creaked again. She estimated that she was right above Marc's room and, for a moment, she remained absolutely still. She felt like a thief in the night. Why hadn't she waited until daylight and told Sarah she wanted to explore the room?

Because Sarah seemed to have secrets of her own.

If she could find the letter Marc and Alex had discussed, perhaps she would know whether
her
book was involved. Perhaps she would learn what she should look for, if anything.