by Megan Hart
"No. It wasn't easy for me to do it. It was never easy."
She replied in a voice pitched deliberately low, wanting to make him work to hear her. "Fine. You want me to forgive you? Forget about it? Fine. I'm over it. I'm over you."
"I'm sorry!" His anguished cry made her look up from her study of the worn linoleum. "If I could take it all back, I would! I swear to God I would! I was just a stupid kid, Claire! I didn't know--"
"Then take it all back!" Now she advanced on him, her fists clenched at her sides. More chills ran over her. Her teeth snapped together, and she had to force the words through their clatter. "Make it all go away! Make it so you never kissed me that first time. Take back the first time we made love. Take back the way you told me you loved me! Take it all back!
"And while you're at it--" Now she spat the words that had lain in her heart for so long, festering, spat them like they tasted bad, because they did. They tasted like bile. "Take back the night you came here, to our place, and fucked that slut on the beach then lied to my face about it not even two hours later. When I could still smell her on you, you lying, cheating bastard."
She breathed deep, took in the scent of sea and sand, and of him. The smells washed over her. Relentless. Claire struggled for control of her tears...and lost. She closed her eyes and they still slipped out. "But you can't! Don't you know there's no such thing as a second chance? You can't take it back."
"I wish I could."
Her eyes flew open. "So do I."
The house rocked as though a giant fist had thumped it. Claire staggered. Malcolm's hands held her upright. Kept her safe.
"What the hell?" he cried, just as another thump came.
This one was louder and stronger. It rattled the windows and the glasses in the cupboard. A third rumble rocked the old house on its stilt foundation. The key holder fell off the wall and split apart on the floor.
Claire realized she was in Malcolm's arms after a moment of silence. "What was that?"
He bent and lifted the broken key holder. "Look."
Six of the eight pictures had scattered in the fall. Only two remained, face up, side by side, untouched. Claire and Malcolm.
Malcolm picked up their photos and put them on the table. His eyes, gray-green at the moment and open wide, met hers. He reached for her hands and she let him take them. "Not an earthquake."
Airth-quake. Her stomach tumbled the way it used to. "No."
"Something else."
She nodded then looked to the kitchen ceiling, where the overhead light still swung to and fro. "Something...odd."
He didn't seem as frightened by the strange occurrence as she might have guessed he would. But then, strangely enough, neither did she. The noise and the vibration had been fierce and unexpected. Definitely out of the ordinary.
A sensation, not quite pain, throbbed in her temple. Claire rubbed the spot. Something was different. Something had changed.
She looked again at the man who had broken her heart so long ago, and this time, the sight of him did not make her want to scream. She'd kept her anger and grief close to her for a long time, but now she felt it slipping away from her like a handful of dry sand.
He pulled her close. His breath fluttered on her cheeks. She turned her head, but could not find the desire to push him away.
Oh, it had been too long. Too many years without him. Why had she run away? Once, what had happened that day had seemed so important. It had seemed like the end, a tragedy from which there could be no return. And now, with his hands making her warm at last, Claire discovered she could barely remember that day at all.
"Maybe," Claire said slowly, "I do believe in second chances after all."
* * * *
She took him by the hand and led him up the narrow stairs to the room she'd always loved best. They didn't bother with words, which would have only ruined the moment. Instead, Claire let her actions speak for her.
Malcolm was only a few inches taller than her five feet, six inches, but he ducked instinctively as he followed her toward the double bed. Claire laughed, aware she felt unreasonably giddy, but not caring. She rubbed at her temple again, with the hand not holding tightly onto Malcolm's, but she didn't think too hard about what had changed between them. It seemed she couldn't, actually.
She was aware something had changed, but when she tried to focus on it, the thoughts skittered away from her like mice across a kitchen floor. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Claire wasn't angry anymore.
When they reached the bed, she turned and faced him. They stood nearly eye-to-eye until she kicked off her thick-soled sandals. Then her nose came neatly to his chin. Face to face, she met his gaze without hesitation. His eyes were blue now in the shaft of light streaming in through the stripes she'd made on the window's dusty glass. Liquid blue. She pushed up on her toes, just a little, and kissed him.
Salt, like the taste of the sea, filled her mouth and she closed her eyes as her lips parted. He opened beneath her. She waited for the inquisitive touch of his tongue, and when it didn't come soon enough, she gave him hers.
He gave a sigh that was nearly a moan and his arms went around her. Suddenly, she was warm. Her body stopped its mild but constant shivering. She sank into the warmth as she sank into the kiss, and it was like being enfolded in a placid, comforting sea.
She pulled him down with her onto the bed and expected to smell dust as their bodies hit the cover. Only the scent of salt and sand--Malcolm's scent--washed over her, and Claire breathed deeply as though she hadn't breathed in an eternity.
She had not forgotten the feeling of his weight on her. She parted her legs to allow him to settle between them. The bulge of his erection pressed against her clit, urging it to swell with arousal.
Malcolm pulled away to look into her eyes again. His hand came up to stroke away the tangled tendrils of her hair from her forehead. He looked as though he was about to speak, but Claire pressed a finger to his lips to keep him silent.
"Shh. It's better this way."
Always before, she'd been the one to talk. To tell him what she felt, or thought, or dreamed. She'd been the one to share her words of love while he avoided them. Malcolm had been the taciturn one, easy with his laughter, but not forthcoming with much else.
"Kiss me," she said, and he did.
He rolled to her side and left her mouth to kiss along her cheek, the curve of her jaw, and down the line of her neck to the hollow of her throat. There he paused, his lips soft on her skin. "It's been forever since I tasted you."
She laughed, low and throaty, a sexy, sensual sound that made her nipples and clit throb in time with her beating heart. "Then what are you waiting for?"
He replied by capturing her mouth again. Hard enough this time to make her gasp and press her hips upward. His tongue swept the inside of her mouth for a moment before he once again delved to her throat and nibbled her skin.
Claire pushed herself further up on the bed, until her head rested on the pillows. "Make love to me."
The smile she loved so well spread across his mouth and made her heart leap. Malcolm knelt beside her and reached for the buttons on her sweater and the shirt beneath. One by one, he slid them open and kissed the flesh he exposed. Her skin grew warmer under the path of his lips.
He sat up, his face surprised. "You still wear this?"
Her hand went to her chest, where a small charm nestled between her breasts. She tugged it and felt the chain from which it hung pull against her neck. The seashell pendant.
"You gave this to me." She sounded as surprised as he looked. "I thought I--"
She stopped, an image rising in her mind. Sand. The sea. Waves slapping the shore. A twinkle of gold in the air as she flung his gift into the ocean.
She'd been about to say, "I thought I threw it away," but amended her words. "I thought I lost it."
She didn't have time to think about it again because he'd bent to kiss her breasts through the lace of her bra. Claire's nippl
es thrust against the thin material, and Malcolm's mouth found the twin buds. He suckled first one, then the other, while his hands cupped her rounded flesh.
She arched her back. He unhooked the front of her bra and it fell open. She waited, breathless, eyes closed, for his lips on her bare skin. When she felt them, she moaned and tossed her head from side to side.
She had never had another lover after him, and now she was glad of it. She had been waiting for the right man to bring her again to ecstasy. To discover that man was Malcolm, her greatest love, felt right. Like slipping into a pair of soft slippers after a day spent in toe-pinching high heels. Perfect pleasure.
His mouth closed around one of her nipples and he tugged gently with his lips while his tongue flicked the sensitive flesh. Her clit pulsed. She moved her thighs and felt the slickness of her arousal.
Malcolm left her breasts and moved down her belly. His kisses tickled and aroused her, and she squirmed. His hands gripped her hips to keep her still.
His breath puffed on her belly button as he untied the drawstring of her loose linen trousers. The waistband loosened, he pushed the pants over her hips, down past her ankles, and off.
Without his heat to warm her, the air seemed cold again. Claire shivered, but in a moment, he was back between her legs. His mouth unerringly found her plump clit, even through the soft cotton of her panties. His tongue pressed on her firmly. She was already so wet for him. He kissed her clit, over and over, until her panties were soaked from his mouth and her juices.
Claire lifted her hips and urged him to take away the barrier between them. She was so ready, all it would take was another puff of breath and she'd go over the edge.
He didn't give in to her silent request. Malcolm pressed his finger to the swollen bump and circled it slowly. Gently. He found the rhythm she liked, the pattern of pressure and release that made her clit swell and throb and her thighs begin to tremble. He eased off, then put his mouth to her again. The time, he didn't move his lips or tongue against her. He only kept his lips pressed to her clit, tight, while he slipped a finger under the elastic of her panties and stroked her slick opening.
She was already open to him, but now Claire tilted her hips a fraction higher. The angle changed. Malcolm slid his finger inside her and pressed upward as his mouth continued to press without moving on her clitoris. For a second, he didn't move at all.
Claire heard the roaring of the ocean in her ears and realized she'd been holding her breath. She let out the air in her lungs and gasped. Her body moved, even if he didn't, and the first slow waves of orgasm rippled through her. Almost there...
Malcolm nibbled her clit through her panties while he slid his finger in and out of her slick tunnel. He twisted it inside her as his mouth kept up the relentless pressure. She was going to come.
She wound her fingers in his hair. He lifted his head and her clit thrummed from the new sensation. Before she knew it, Malcolm had pulled down her panties. The warmth of his breath caressed her bare flesh. His finger slid and twisted inside her. Claire waited as the roar of the ocean grew louder, and she forced herself to take another breath.
He touched his tongue to her and she splintered. He licked her and she broke. Waves of pleasure crashed over her. Claire's entire body tensed with the power of her climax. There was nothing but ecstasy. Nothing but the mindless pleasure of his tongue swirling on her throbbing clit.
She cried out once, and then again, when a second wave of contractions rippled through her. Her pussy bore down on his finger, and she wished desperately it were his penis filling her.
Malcolm pressed a gentle kiss to her still twitching bud, then rested his head on her belly. His hand cupped her love-swollen flesh.
Some things change.
And some things don't.
The spasms faded, and Claire no longer had to force herself to try and breathe.
* * * *
She must have slept because, when she opened her eyes, the room had faded into darkness. Claire stretched and scissored her legs beneath the blankets. He'd taken the time to cover her. Why then did she still feel so cold?
She reached up and turned on the small lamp clipped to the headboard. The circle of light woke her enough to get out of bed. She found her suitcase, set on top of the dresser, but not yet opened, and pulled out a flowing sundress. She'd packed for a week at the beach, not a ski-slope, but now she wished for the warmth of a roaring fire and a cup of cocoa.
She settled for her battered college sweatshirt instead. Once it had been the most expensive shirt she owned, and the thought that a forty-dollar sweatshirt had once stretched her wallet to breaking made her shake her head with a rueful laugh.
Some things change.
And some things don't.
The words echoed in her mind and stole the grin from her lips. Another chill skittered down her spine, despite the thick sweatshirt's protection. Claire shrugged off the feeling of unease with an effort and went downstairs.
"Hello?" She called, though it was plain the house was empty. It had that empty-house feeling. Her footsteps sounded too loud. The darkness was too black. The silence too all-encompassing.
Abandoned. That's how the house felt. Damn, she thought morosely. That's how she felt. Where could he have gone?
Thin and impotent anger burned her like a cord drawn too quickly across a palm. He'd left her. Taken her to bed, then left her again! And he expected forgiveness? The bastard!
Claire went to the kitchen, slammed open the door and went to the deck outside. She looked down to the sandy driveway, but saw only one dark hump. One car--hers. He'd really gone.
"Shite!" she cried, but shite was Malcolm's word. "Fuck!"
That was his word, too. She'd often teased him about the way he let the word Americans often viewed as the worst slip off his tongue without regard for the ears of those around him. Except in Malcolm's voice, the word was "fook." He even made swearing sound charming.
"Damn son of a bitch," she muttered, but got no satisfaction from the epithet.
She slammed open the door and stalked into the kitchen. She went to the cupboard and grabbed a glass, then went to the sink to draw some water. Not to quench her thirst, for she had none, but because she needed something to focus on to take away her anger.
"Claire?"
At the sound of her name, she jumped. The glass slipped from her fingers and hit the porcelain sink, where it shattered. Water splashed her shirt. She whirled, her heart pounding so fast and hard it made bright sparks bloom in front of her eyes.
He wore different clothes. Khaki pants and a tight-fitting white T-shirt. No shoes. His sand-colored hair was tousled and damp, like he'd just stepped out of the shower.
Claire slapped him. "You scared the life out of me!"
He reached for the hand that had left its imprint on his cheek and held it. "I'm sorry."
"Where were you?"
He shrugged and pointed over his shoulder. "In the bathroom."
"Your car is gone." She sounded accusing, though she wasn't quite sure what she was accusing him of.
"It's parked around the other side of the house, that's all."
They stared at each other until she felt foolish. Her emotions swam too close to the surface, like her skin was too thin. She hadn't always been that way.
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
