The Last Honest Woman (17 page)

"I'm not."

"I don't want you to be afraid of what's between us."

"I can't help it. Dylan, don't do this." She put her free hand on his arm. "I really couldn't stand making a mess of it. I think—I hope we're at the point of being friends."

"We're past that point." He brought her hand to his lips and watched the surprise come into her eyes. "Has anyone ever made love with you?"

Panic sprinted up her spine. "I—I have two children."

"That's not an answer." Curious, he turned her hand over and pressed his lips to the palm. Her fingers curled and tensed. "Was there anyone besides Chuck?"

"No, I—"

His look sharpened, and his fingers tightened. "No one?"

The shame came quickly, the price of failure. "No. I'm really not a physical person."

In how many ways had Rockwell managed to humiliate her? Dylan wondered. Rage came swiftly, and he banked it. Noninvolvement? He was far beyond that now. He wanted to prove to her it could be different. Maybe, for the first time, he wanted to believe it himself.

"Why don't you let me find out for myself?"

"Dylan—" The words clogged in her throat as he brushed his lips over her temple.

"Don't you want me, Abby?" Seduction. He'd never consciously seduced a woman before. Women had always come to him, knowing, experienced, expectant. None of them had ever trembled. He had a moment of panic himself. Did he have it in him to be careful enough, gentle enough, thorough enough?

"Yes." She tilted her head to look at him. "But I don't know what I can give you."

"Let me worry about it." With more confidence than he felt, he took her face in his hands. "For now, just take."

He kissed her slowly, dreamily. Her hands lifted to his wrists and held on. It was that, that hesitant, vulnerable movement, that touched him in a way he'd never expected to be touched. The lamplight fell across her face as he tilted his head and nibbled lightly at her lips. She felt the pulse in his wrists speed up and tightened her hold. He wanted her, really wanted her. And God, she was terrified she'd disappoint both of them. He urged her closer. She stiffened.

"Easy," he murmured, finding patience he hadn't been aware of possessing. "Relax, Abby." He stroked soothingly until he felt her muscles give. Her hands went around his waist, hesitant, tentative. He felt the sweetness of the gesture shoot through him. He'd never looked for sweetness before, never expected it. Now, finding it, he didn't want to lose it.

Slowly, easily, carefully, he made love to her with his mouth alone. Tasting, seducing, then relaxing, he drew her ever so gradually to him. He felt her hands clutch, then loosen at his back. When her mouth warmed and softened against his, he took her deeper. He felt her breath shudder, heard the low, quiet moan that came from wonder. For the first time in years, he felt the wonder himself.

He slipped his hands under her sweater. When she jumped, he stroked and whispered promises he hoped he could keep. Her skin was smooth, her back long and slender. Need whipped through him quickly, painfully. He fought back.

Inch by inch, he brought the sweater up until he could slip it off. It dropped at their feet.

The panic returned. She was vulnerable now. Her breath was coming quickly, somehow clouding her brain. Didn't she have to think? How could she protect herself, how could she give him what he expected if she couldn't think? But his hands felt so wonderful gliding over her skin. Strong, patient, touching her when she needed so badly to be touched. Perhaps when they became demanding she would freeze up, but for now she could only feel the heat building.

Then he led her toward the bed. Fear snapped back into place. "Dylan—"

"Lie down with me, Abby. Just lie down with me."

She held on to him as they lowered to the bed. She saw everything with perfect clarity, the pattern of roses repeated over and over on the walls, the dark spiral of the bedpost, the white square of ceiling. And his face. Nerves tangled and twisted until she was afraid she couldn't move. She struggled with them, trying to remind herself she wasn't a young, inexperienced girl, but a woman.

"The light."

"I want to see you." He kissed her again, eyes open and on hers. "I want you to see me. I'm going to make love to you, Abby. That's nothing that has to be done in the dark."

"Don't—don't expect too much."

He cupped the back of her neck and lifted her face toward his. "Don't expect too little." Then he silenced her.

The kiss sent her spinning. It was hard and pungent. Her body, already tingling with panicked excitement, went hot with passion. The moan ripped out of her and into him. She felt, as she'd once imagined, the scrape of his face against her cheek. Dozens of pulses began to beat in a rhythm that drummed over and over in her head.

She was driving him crazy. Couldn't she feel it? The way her body tensed and shuddered and relaxed, the way her hands reached and hesitated and caressed. He hadn't known he'd wanted her this badly. Not this badly. Now that she was here, warm and solid beneath him, he knew he had to think of her first and his own needs second.

So he showed her. Restlessly, ruthlessly, he stroked his hands over her, feeling her arch, hearing her tangled breaths. He inhaled the passion rising to her skin, that musky, heady, womanly scent a man could drown in. The light slanted over her face so that he could see surprise, pleasure and desire mix and mingle. Impatient, he pulled off his shirt so he could feel his skin against hers.

He was smooth. His torso was hard as iron, but the skin over it was soft. She could glide her fingers over it and feel his muscles tense. Strong. She'd always needed strength, but she'd found it only in herself. Patience. Once she'd nearly wept for patience, but then she'd stopped looking. Now she'd found it. Passion. She'd wanted it, craved it, then dismissed it as something she'd have to live without. Here it was, wrapped around her, burgeoning inside her. He moaned her name, and she was dizzy from the sound of it.

His lips were on her breast. The muscles in her stomach contracted as he encircled the tip with his mouth. Unconsciously she pressed a hand to the back of his bead and arched under him. With teeth and tongue and lips he brought her an exquisite torture. Mindlessly she let herself go with it.

He opened the snap of her jeans, but she didn't even notice. She felt the slow movement of his hands, the soft scrape of denim down her legs. She wanted to call out to him, but his name evaporated with a moan as his tongue skimmed over her thigh.

She was beautiful. Her body was slim and subtly muscled, the legs long, the hips narrow. He wondered as he looked at her how she'd ever carried children. Somehow he could only imagine her as untouched. Then he began to see just how high he could take her. And how fast.

The first peak rocked her with uncontrollable speed. Helpless, dazed, Abby gave a muffled cry. It seemed as though her body filled, then burned, then emptied. Struggling to right herself, she reached for him, only to have him send her miles higher.

She was gasping for breath, pulsing with sensations she'd never experienced before. Were there names for them? she wondered frantically. Had anyone ever found the right words to describe those feelings? Her skin was so sensitized that even the brush of his fingertip sent her spiraling. He'd wanted to see her like this, floundering in her own pleasure. When he slipped into her, her eyes flew open. He saw the astonished pleasure in them before she reached out to bring him closer.

Her hips moved like lightning, tearing down the control he'd laboriously built. Her fingers dug into his back, the short, rounded nails scraping his skin. She wasn't aware. And soon neither was he.

It had never been like that before. No one had ever made her feel so complete, so important, so alive. Doors had been opened, windows raised, and the air that blew in was wonderful.

She wanted to tell him but was afraid he'd think she was foolish. Instead, she contented herself with placing a hand over his heart. It was beating more steadily than hers, but it was beating very fast.

It had never been like that before. No one had ever made him feel so real, so strong, so open. She'd turned on a light inside his head, and it shone dear and bright. He wanted to tell her but was afraid she'd think he was feeding her a line. Instead, he contented himself with drawing her against him.

"Not very physical, huh?"

"What?"

"You told me you weren't very physical. I guess you didn't want to brag."

She turned her face into his shoulder. Her scent was there, she realized. It was an odd and wonderful sensation to find her own scent clinging to his skin. "I never have been very good at the… at the technical parts."

"Technical parts?" He didn't know whether to laugh or shout at her. "What does that mean?"

"Well, the…" Embarrassed, she let her words trail off. "Sex," she said firmly, reminding herself she was a grown woman.

"We didn't have sex," he said simply, rolling on top of her. "We made love."

"It's just a matter of semantics."

"Like hell it is. No, don't close up on me." He grasped her shoulders bard before she could. "I'm not Chuck. Look at me, really look."

She calmed herself and did what he asked. "I am. I know."

"What do you want, Abby, an evaluation?"

"No." Color flooded cheeks already flushed with passion. "No, of course not. I just—"

"Wonder how it was for me. If you did the right things at the right times." He sat up, pulling her with him, and kept his hands firmly on her shoulders even when she fumbled for the sheet. "Did it ever occur to you that Chuck Rockwell wasn't the devastating macho lover the gossip sheets touted him to be? Did you ever consider that what happened or didn't happen between the two of you in this bed was his fault?"

It hadn't. Of course it hadn't. "All those other women…" she began, then fell silent.

"Let me tell you something. It's easy to wrestle under the sheets with a different woman every night." He felt a little twinge, remembering all those times. "You don't have to think, you don't have to feel. You don't have to worry about making the other person see stars. All you do is satisfy yourself. It's very different when you've got a partner, someone you've made promises to, someone you're supposed to want to make happy. It takes care and time and waiting until it's right."

She stared at him, lips parted, eyes wide. With an oath be lifted a hand and ran it through her hair. "Listen, right now I don't much want to hear about Chuck Rockwell. I don't want you to think about him or anyone else. Just concentrate on me."

"I am." A little uncertain, she touched a hand to his cheek. "You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time." She saw his expression change, felt his hand tighten in her hair, and went on quickly. "You've made me face a lot of things I thought I should keep under lock and key. I'm grateful."

"I'm getting tired of telling you not to thank me." But his hand gentled in her hair and slipped down to the curve of her shoulder.

"This is absolutely the last time." Lifting her arms, she twined them around him and held tight. She felt safe there, as she'd known she would once before, when the sun had shone down on them. "Don't laugh."

He skimmed his lips over her collarbone. "I don't fed much like laughing."

"I feel as though I've just mastered a very complex and important skill."

He chuckled earning himself a whack on the back. "Like the backstroke?"

"I said not to laugh."

"Sorry." Then he tumbled her over until she lay beneath him. "You don't master anything unless you practice. A lot."

"I guess you're right." This playfulness was something she'd never tasted before. Abby clung to it. Her lips met his, already warm, open and accepting. "Dylan?"

"Hmm?"

"I did see stars."

He smiled. She felt it. When he drew back to look at her, she saw it. "Me, too."

He started to lower his head again, but then he heard the sobbing. "What the—"

"Chris." Abby was out of bed in an instant. She whipped a robe out of her closet, pulled it out and was out of the room before he'd picked up his jeans.

"Oh, baby." Abby hurried into Chris's room, where he was bundled under the covers, sobbing his heart out. "What's the matter?"

"They were green and ugly." He burrowed into the safety of his mother's breasts, smelling her familiar smell. "They looked like snakes and went
Ssss,
and they were chasing me. I fell down in a hole."

"What a nasty dream." She held and rocked and soothed him. "It's all over now, okay? I'm right here."

He sniffled but relaxed. "They were going to cut me up in little pieces."

"Bad dream?" Dylan hesitated in the doorway, not certain whether it was his place to come in.

"Ugly green snakes," Abby told him as she rocked Chris in her lap.

"Wow. Pretty scary, huh, tiger?"

Chris sniffled again, nodded and rubbed his eyes. Whether it was his place or not, Dylan couldn't resist. He came in and hunkered down in front of the boy. "Next time you should dream yourself a mongoose. Snakes don't have a chance against a mongoose."

"Mongoose." Chris tried out the word, giggling over it. "Did you make it up?"

"Nope. We'll find a picture of one tomorrow. They have them in India."

"Trace went to India," Chris remembered. "We got a postcard." Then he yawned and settled back against Abby. "Don't go yet."

"No, I won't. I'll stay until you're asleep again."

"Dylan, too?"

Dylan rubbed his knuckles over the boy's cheek. "Sure."

They sat there, Abby snuggling the boy and singing something that sounded to Dylan like an Irish lullaby. Dylan felt an amazing satisfaction, not like the one he'd found with Abby in the old bed, but one just as strong. It was a firm sense of belonging, as if he had finally reached a place he'd been moving toward all his life. It was foolish, and he told himself it would pass. But it stayed. The hall light slanted into the room and fell on a jumble of trucks next to an old, half-deflated ball.

She settled the boy smoothly, tucking Mary under the sheets with him. Abby kissed his cheek, then straightened, but Dylan stayed for a moment, idly brushing at the curls over Chris's forehead.