Wild Ride: A Changing Gears Novel (19 page)

But it was raining hard, and he wasn’t a nimble boy in his teens anymore.

“What are you doing?” she called to him.

“Mmmphingmmumnegguuu,” he mumbled through the flowers.

Her heart stopped and then tumbled back in time and she was every towered princess from every fairy tale being rescued by her prince.

Except that this prince wasn’t doing so well.

The old, gnarled vine was slick with rain, moss, and who knew what. It was also frail with age.

And Tom was a solid man. He climbed with rugged determination, but she could see he was having trouble hanging on. His boots kept slipping.

“Come around to the door,” she cried. “I’ll let you in.”

He shook his head, the flowers flapping side to side.

“You’re crazy. You’ll get yourself killed.”

“Mmmingelluuummmorrry,” he said.

Knowing conversation was not only fruitless but probably taking his concentration from his task, she shut up and watched, a ball of fear forming in her throat.

He managed a couple more feet. He had maybe four more to go and then he could hook his hands to her windowsill and haul himself in.

He planted a foot on a gnarly “V” of vine branches, put his weight on it, and raised the other foot.

A dreadful snap made her clamp down on a shriek. Oh, God, oh, God. He was going to fall and cripple himself, maybe worse, and it would be all her fault.

He hung there by his hands, and she could see the vine gleaming wetly, dark brown and gray. His hands curled tight and she prayed as she’d never prayed before that the vine would hold.

She heard his feet scrabble around and then a grunt and she felt rather than saw that he’d found another foothold.

Her heart was pounding, her hands clasped together, cold and shaking. Please, please let him hang on.

“Only a couple more feet,” she said.

He was making a hell of a racket and she had a feeling the wisteria would never recover, but she couldn’t stop the emotion stinging her eyes as she watched a stolid, respectable, community law officer attempting to break and enter.

She’d never been so happy in her life.

Suddenly, a search beam seemed to hit her in the face. Tom slipped and scrambled not to fall.

“What in the Lord’s name is going on over there?” Mr. Taft from next door called out, a flashlight the size of a satellite dish pointed at them.

“It’s me, Mr. Taft.”

“Gillian? Is that a burglar? You want I should call the police?” The neighbors’ little white dog, not wanting to be left out of things, started barking.

A bubble of borderline hysterical laughter formed in her chest and she fought it down. “This is the police.”

“What are you talking about, girl?”

“This is Sergeant Perkins.”

“Tom Perkins? Is that you, son?”

“Mmmummmpphm,” said Tom.

For another excruciating minute the searchlight held them in blinding brilliance and she fought the urge to quote:
Romeo, oh, Romeo,
thinking it was a good thing Shakespeare set Romeo and Juliet in warm, sunny Italy and not in the rainy Pacific Northwest, where the lovers would have been more likely to expire of bronchitis than blighted love.

“What’s that you got in your mouth?”

“Flowers,” Gillian answered for him. And the flowers were as drippingly wet as everything else.

“Something wrong with your door?” Mr. Taft wanted to know.

“No. This is more romantic,” she explained, feeling her heart melt as she saw the expression on Tom’s face. He was making a complete and total fool of himself in front of one of the biggest old busybodies in Oregon state, and he was doing it for her.

“Irving? What’s going on?” Daisy Taft’s voice joined the night chorus. Tom sent Gill a desperate glance, but what could she do? He seemed incapable of moving, impaled by the beam of that powerful flashlight.

“Um, Mr. Taft? Do you think you could turn off the flashlight? We’re fine.”
After another moment, the light went out and it was blessedly black.

“Irving? What’s all the noise next door?”

“Hell if I know,” said her long-suffering spouse. “I expect it’s one of those crazy sex games like you see on TV.”

The thought of Irving and Daisy watching crazy sex things on TV—and worse, imagining Tom acting one out, was more than her already hysterical emotions could bear. She was laughing and crying at the same time, so hard she was having trouble breathing.

With a lot more speed than finesse, Tom made it the rest of the way. She held out a hand to help him but he shook his head and motioned her to move aside. So she did, snapping on her bedside lamp to help light his way as she watched him grab the sill, his fingers white as he gripped and hauled a leg over.

He planted one boot, then ducked and swiveled the rest of his body inside. Then he rose to stand before her, dripping, cold, covered with broken twigs, bits of dirt, and the stringy gray remains of a spiderweb decorating one cheek.

He took the wet, bedraggled flowers out of his mouth and presented them. “I’m twelve years late,” he said, “but I finally made it.”

And if she hadn’t been in love with him before, Gillian fell headlong at that moment.

Gillian reached for the flowers and then threw herself into Tom’s arms. He tried to hold her off, but she wouldn’t be deflected. She plastered herself against every soaking, cold, shivery inch of him she could reach.

She felt as though ice cubes were being rubbed on her breasts and belly and the sensations of pulsing heat and shocking cold pushed some long-forgotten wild button inside her. She lifted her face, pulled his head down, and kissed him for all she was worth.

“Gillian,” he said, pulling back, “I’m sorry.”

Well, duh. Actions speak louder than words and he’d groveled all the way up that vine. “Apology accepted.”

Her lips sought his again.

“I want to explain,” he panted when he’d freed his mouth once more. “We should talk about this.”

Gillian was as much into
we should talk
as any woman who’d come of age in the Oprah era, but there was a time for talk and there was a time for action. Right now, she wanted action.

She gagged him with the simple expedient of slipping her tongue into his mouth.

Once she’d shut him up, she made the most of her position. She licked deep into his mouth, tasting him, his heat and his need, feeling her own needs rise as he sucked greedily at her tongue, grabbed her hips and pulled her tight against his erection.

She gasped and jumped, feeling as though a sponge full of ice water had been squeezed over her most sensitive spot.

“Let’s get you out of these wet things,” she said, stepping back. As she did so, his gaze darkened and traveled her body. She glanced down at herself and saw that the sheer cotton was now plastered wetly against her breasts, the nipples hard and dark beneath the white gauze.

The sides of the gown were dry and still hung loose at her sides but where she’d touched him the cotton was like opaque shrink wrap. Her breasts, belly, and the dark curls at the junction of her thighs were on vivid display, while the glowing cotton around her gave her an ethereal appearance.

“You look like a sex goddess,” Tom told her.

She decided she liked the image and at this moment she felt exactly like she looked—all her focus and energy in her erogenous zones, everything else fading softly into the background.

He began to shuck his clothes, his eyes never wavering. It wasn’t easy; the damp cloth clung and seemed reluctant to leave him. She didn’t blame it. But he persevered until there was a soggy pile of boots and clothes on the floor by the window and he wore nothing but dark green plaid flannel boxers. They were so darling and old-fashioned on his young, virile body that she smiled.

He saw the smile and crossed to her. “Oh, great. One look at me naked and you’ll be laughing your head off.”

She ran her fingers lightly along the hard ridge that rose in his boxers. “I can guarantee that is not going to happen,” she promised. “You’ve filled out a lot in twelve years.”

“I hope I’ve learned a thing or two as well. I hope I know how to please you.”

He was half teasing but there was a hint of seriousness behind the words that made her gaze into his earnest green eyes and ask, “Is that why you never came when I invited you?”

In a dozen years she’d never thought that might be the reason, but she saw it was when he nodded solemnly. “Honey, I was a virgin. I didn’t have the first clue what to do with a woman.”

“You would have learned,” she said softly. “I would have helped you.”

“I would have made a fool of myself. You weren’t some girl as clueless as I was that I could fumble around with and try to fit the right parts together. You were so experienced and—”

She turned abruptly. “A slut, you mean. That’s why you didn’t come to me.
You thought I was—”

“No!”

He swung her around, holding her against all the hot length of his body by splaying his hands across her back so she couldn’t avoid him. Not his touch, not his expression, not his eyes, which shone with the truth.

“I thought you were amazing. Incredible. Sexy. And I figured you must think I was in your league. But I wasn’t. I wanted to climb that stupid vine so badly I hung around almost every night that week. Once I even made it into your yard. But I chickened out every time.”

She felt like weeping for the girl she’d been then. So cocky, so goddamn sure of herself. When sex had been the easiest thing in the world.

She touched Tom’s cheek with her palm. “I’m not that girl anymore.” She’d tried to explain to him before, but she wasn’t sure her message had been received. “Some things have happened to me since that time.”

How could she explain to this honest, uncomplicated man? He wouldn’t understand the million subtle cruelties, and some not so subtle. The way Eric had done his best to humiliate and control her. In the early days, she could get high and go to a place where it didn’t matter, but when she stopped escaping her reality, it became uglier. And, she now realized, Eric had punished her for cleaning up her act.

At first, she’d thought it was fun the way he’d make her beg before letting her come. Then it stopped being fun. And then, after a while, she stopped being able to orgasm at all. And he’d taunted her with that. Called her stupid, ugly names.

Now she faced having sex again—she didn’t know what she was capable of, what she even wanted, apart from simply being held by someone good and solid. Someone she trusted.

And if this turned out to be a disaster, she wasn’t sure she had the courage to try again.

“I want you to do something for me.” She realized she was still gripping the flowers. “I should put these in a vase,” she said.

Tom gripped her shoulders. “They were in the rain all night. They’ll be okay. What is it you want?”

This was so hard. She was such a coward. She didn’t want to explain, didn’t want to admit she was scared and messed up and unsure of herself. She flicked a brief glance at Tom and realized that if he hadn’t let fear stop him all those years ago, things might have been so different.

She didn’t want to be the coward this time. It was sex. A natural, normal human behavior and she’d get through this. Tom might not be exciting, but he’d be kind and the boy who’d rescued stray animals would never hurt her deliberately.

“I’ve got some bad stuff I want to put behind me.” She trailed off, but he didn’t push. He watched her steadily. He knew about violence against women. When he’d stopped her on the highway and seen her black eye, he’d known. Of course he’d known.

Why had she stayed with a man for eight years if he’d been so bad for her? That was a question she didn’t have an answer for.

Tom’s hands gentled on her back. She felt his erection, as stiff as before against her belly, but the rest of his demeanor gave no clue to his arousal. It was hard not to respect that kind of restraint in a man.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes. Someday. But not today.”

He nodded and ran his fingertips over the faded bruise on her face. “We will talk about this. I can’t do anything until we do.”

“But not tonight,” she begged.

“No. Tonight there are only the two of us in this room. Agreed?”

She nodded, hoping she could manage it, hoping the demons from her past didn’t insist on crashing the party.

He took a look around the room, which had never been redecorated since she’d lived there, as though her grandparents had somehow always known she’d be back. The single bed looked virginal with its white iron frame and faded chintz comforter.

“This is what your room would have looked like if I’d been brave enough to climb up here when you asked me,” Tom said, as he took her hand and led her to her bed.

She nodded. Absurd to be trembling. He must feel it through their joined hands, but she had a feeling her entire sexual destiny would be mapped out in that narrow bed over the next couple of hours.

She was so nervous she was hyperventilating. Soon she’d faint. Just what Tom needed in his life. A naked, passed-out former slut. She might as well give it up now and see if there was a convent in the world who’d accept a woman like her.

While these thoughts cascaded through her mind, Tom led her forward until her knees bumped the edge of the mattress. She swallowed, as though seeing it for the first time and associating it with something other than sleep. She turned to him and raised a trembling hand to his face. “Be careful with me.”

There was a serious light in his eyes when he said, “Always.

He kissed her, pulling her gently into his arms, and she thought, Maybe this is going to be okay. He didn’t grab or grope, maul or shove, simply kissed her, leaving his hands loose around her waist.

She’d forgotten how nice simple kissing could be. His lips were warming up nicely, his tongue subtle but masterful as he took possession of her mouth, then eased away, letting her take the lead.

She began, very slowly, to melt.

His skin was still damp in places, his hair in wet curls against his scalp, but he was warm. So warm. He eased her onto the bed, not even attempting to take off her night dress. Maybe it was the way they seemed to have gone back in time, but she felt like a girl again, as though she were starting out. Each touch felt new. Each caress surprised her.
“Would it be all right if I touched your breasts?” he asked softly, his lips kissing her ear after he whispered the words.

She was charmed. If anyone had ever asked her, she didn’t remember it. Romance, he’d promised her. It seemed she was getting it.

She appeared to consider his request, and saw that for all his careful wooing, he was half crazy for her. Which was good. She was gaining confidence and taking back control of her body. The years fell away along with her bad memories. Maybe some people thought rewriting history was cheating, but Gillian decided if it had been botched the first time around there should be rewrites allowed.

“Yes,” she said equally softly. Then shivered, her breasts pulsing and throbbing with the knowledge they were about to be caressed. And when it happened, when his hands touched her there, she discovered the anticipation had made her response that much richer.

“I’d like to kiss your nipples, if that would be okay?”

She moaned, as the heat scorched her.

“I’ll kiss you through your night dress. I promise,” he said. He was sweet and careful with her but he wasn’t a boy.

There was nothing fumbling, groping, or adolescent about his moves. She began to realize she was in the hands of a sexually confident and experienced lover.

“All right,” she said, her own voice shaking, with need now more than nerves.

As his mouth closed over her nipple, she felt the hot wetness of his tongue as well as the abrasion of wet Indian cotton on her sensitive skin. It was quite possibly the most erotic sensation she’d ever experienced.

She knew his tongue would feel smooth and luscious on her naked skin, but the barrier of wet cotton kept up a maddening scratching, scraping that wasn’t painful, merely different. He sucked a nipple into his mouth, cotton and all. As he lifted his head, the cotton quickly cooled, making her nipple ultra sensitive, so she felt it pucker along with the wet fabric. She didn’t want any barriers between them. She wanted his tongue on her nakedness.

All of it.

But Tom was in no hurry.

His hands might not be quite steady, but they were slow, smoothing the cotton against her sides as he stroked her. Kissing her breasts for so long, her lower body was in torment.

She tried to give him a hint that it was time to speed things up, gripping the waistband of his boxers and attempting to yank them off, but he stilled her hands.

“Please,” she gasped.

“Not yet,” he replied softly.

How could he not understand that she needed to get this first time out of the way? That she wanted to replace Eric with Tom as the last man who’d been inside her body. Then, she squeezed her eyes tight shut, realizing she’d let Eric into the room, after she’d promised both of them she wouldn’t.

Breathing deep, she concentrated on the feel of Tom’s body against hers, on the smell of his skin and rain-washed hair. She played with his hair, learning its texture, loving the way the damp, short curls brushed her fingers. Following his lead, she took the time to learn his body, his textures and his most responsive zones, while the urge to get on with things grew thicker and hotter within her.

Once she’d finished with his hair, she moved to his neck, his shoulders, his torso. Maybe he was only upholding the law in a podunk town in Oregon where nothing much ever happened, but he stayed in shape. If muscle was ever needed, Tom Perkins was your man. His shoulders were hard, his neck muscular, and his torso—well, that looked like something you’d see on an infomercial for some ab and chest strengthening device.

He seemed as interested in her torso as she was in his.

He toyed with the ribbon that held her bodice closed. His eyes were dark and his face achingly familiar as he asked, in his slow way, “Could I untie this? I want to see you.”

She gulped and a tremor shook her. She couldn’t speak over the ache in her throat, so she nodded slowly, wondering if she’d ever felt this special. She didn’t think so.

Suddenly, she wished she’d thought to switch off the lamp, but it was too late now.

Her heart was having trouble finding a rhythm as Tom’s big fingers made clumsy work of untying the pale blue silk ribbon. It was the first awkwardness he’d shown. He really was as anxious to see her naked breasts as she was suddenly shy about displaying them.

He parted the fabric slowly and she held her breath, feeling his gaze on her almost as real as the soft slide of cotton.

His breath caught as at last, at long, long, last, he bared both breasts.
Her flesh shivered. He didn’t go straight for her nipples, or palm her entire breast, but propped himself on one elbow and with the index finger of his other hand traced the outline of her breast.

The move was subtle, her reaction anything but.

She felt warm, pulsing waves of desire—and this was from his fingertip tracing her left breast. She couldn’t wait to find out what he would do to her when she was naked and he really put his mind to it.

Her breasts were generous in size. At eighteen they’d been high on her chest and perky as twin balloons. At thirty, some of the air had leaked out of the balloons. She reached a hand for the lamp and he stopped her.
“You are so beautiful,” he said.