Bedroom Therapy

by Rebecca York

  Hot damn! He was back in business.

  ###

  Amanda had hoped the feeling of closeness would last when they got home. But as soon as they were back in the house, she sensed that Zach was on edge.

  He helped her put away the groceries, then stood looking at her uncertainly.

  “I’ll go put the bedroom back the way it was,” he finally said, and she knew that he had only brought up the subject out of necessity.

  “I kind of like it the way it is,” she managed to say.

  “Okay.”

  “I promised to make breakfast if we went shopping,” she offered.

  “You don’t have to bother. I can just grab something. I have to write up a report on what’s been happening with the case.”

  A report, she thought. Probably it wasn’t going to include last night’s activities.

  “There’s no need for you to eat in your room. I was thinking about making an omelet. Eggs. Ham. Green pepper. Onion. Cheese. Tomatoes. Are you sure I can’t persuade you to wait on your report?”

  She watched him weighing his options. A dry report versus a mouthwatering breakfast.

  “That sounds delicious,” he finally answered. “A lot better than a fast-food breakfast.”

  “How are you at chopping onions?”

  “Is that why you wanted me to stick around!”

  She laughed. “Partly.”

  As they fixed what was now brunch, she worked to keep the easy mood going between them. She enjoyed his company. She didn’t want him scuttling back to his work.

  He watched her cooking the onions, peppers and ham in a large skillet. Then when she poured in all the eggs, he stared into the pan.

  “Wait a minute. Who gets that big omelet,” he asked.

  “Both of us. I read in a book that you can make one big one and divide it in portions. You just have to finish cooking it with a lid on the pan.

  “Okay. I’m make a note of that.”

  “You cook?”

  “After my wife left, it was either develop kitchen skills or live on fast food. But right now, I’ll bow to your expertise.”

  What about my expertise as Esther Knight, she’d like to ask, but she kept that question to herself.

  She wanted to talk about last night. She wanted to know what was going on with Zach. But she understood she was going to have to find the right time and the right place.

  She kept the easy camaraderie going during the meal, accepted his help cleaning up the kitchen and let him go off to work up his notes—if that was what he was really doing.

  Although she’d been using the desk in the bedroom, she knew the new arrangement would be distracting. Finding her computer and the letters that Zach had set on the closet floor, she carried them to the living room.

  The good thing about a laptop was that you could work anywhere, she mused as she settled down on the sofa, with the computer on her lap and the letters in a pile beside her.

  Today she was determined to get enough material for the column. So, although she hated herself for doing it, she started looking for questions that were easy to answer.

  Dear Esther, I’m sixteen years old and I haven’t gotten my period yet. Is there something wrong with me?

  Worried in Atlanta.

  That was easy enough to deal with. “Dear Worried,” she began. “You might want to make an appointment for a physical exam. But there’s probably nothing wrong with you. Different women get their periods at different ages. And you are probably just a late bloomer.”

  She looked at her answer, then realized that there might be a problem. She hadn’t read any letters in Esther’s previous columns from anyone in her mid-teens. Was there some age limit on who could get answers from the column?

  She could simply skip the letter, she knew. But it suddenly made her remember that Beth had called the day before, and she hadn’t answered. When she went to get her phone from the kitchen, she realized she’d forgotten to charge it. Again.

  She plugged it in, then called from the landline. The receptionist put her right through.

  “Amanda, thank God,” her friend said as soon as she got on the line. “I was worried about you. I tried ringing you again this morning, and the phone at your place is disconnected. And I just get voicemail on your cell phone. What’s going on?”

  She sighed. “I’ve moved.”

  “Moved? You just got there.”

  “Long story. Two nights ago, someone broke into my house.”

  “Good grief! Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I called Zach, and he chased the guy off. But he’s worried that the incident could be connected with Esther’s death.”

  She heard Beth suck in a sharp breath. “That’s kind of scary.”

  “Well, he got the real estate company to let me move. That’s why you couldn’t get me on the landline.”

  “Very resourceful. Is he there with you?” Beth asked.

  “Yes. He wanted to stay around and make sure nothing else happens.”

  “Good. He seemed like he knew his job. I’m not worried if you’re with him.”

  “Yes,” Amanda answered, wondering what else to say.

  “How is it going with the two of you?”

  Amanda hesitated, not sure of what to say.

  “He’s there, and you can’t say much?” Beth guessed.

  “In the house, yes.”

  “Then just answer yes or no. Do you like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he obviously likes you, or he wouldn’t still be there.”

  “Well. . .”

  “Is he a good lover?” Beth asked suddenly.

  “Yes,” Amanda answered. Everything she’d done with him had been good, even if they hadn’t had intercourse.

  “I called to ask you about the column,” she said, making a quick change of subject. “Am I allowed to answer questions from teenagers?”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “There’s one from a sixteen-year-old who’s worried that she hasn’t gotten her period yet.”

  “That’s a little young for our audience.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

  “How’s the column going?”

  “With everything that’s been happening, I haven’t had much chance to work on it. But I’m back on track now.”

  “Good. Why don’t you e-mail me what you’ve got in the next few days?”

  Amanda swallowed. “Sure.”

  “Hang on to Zach. He’s a keeper.”

  “Beth!”

  “Okay, you’re the one writing the advice column.”

  “Yes, and I’d better get back to work,” Amanda said quickly. After giving Beth the number at the new house, she hung up. Then, feeling like she should get the phone situation under control, she hooked up the phone with voicemail and called the landline from her cell phone to test it.

  When she was finished, she looked toward the hall to see if Zach was going to come investigate the noise she’d been making. When he didn’t emerge, she looked down at the letter she’d answered, folded it up again and erased her response.

  She’d been trying for something easy, and all she’d done was waste a bunch of time.

  Well, she’d better find something more suitable and write out a reply—in the next hour.

  Chapter Twelve

  Her lips set in a grim line, Amanda opened another letter. It was from a woman whose new husband was going out with the boys every night.

  She could answer that one, but it sounded more like a question for Dear Abby.

  The next letter was more promising.

  Dear Esther, my husband and I have been married for a year, and I think we have a very good sexual relationship, except for one complaint that I hear from time to time.

  He’s always the one who asks for sex. He’s the one who decides what we’re going to do. We always have a good time together in the bedroom. But he says he’d like for me to initiate some of the things we do. Maybe I’m
shy. Maybe I’m old-fashioned. Maybe I’m afraid that he won’t like my ideas. But I’m more comfortable letting him make the first move. Can you give me any suggestions for how to change this situation?

  Old-fashioned wife.

  Amanda read the letter again. Well, she’d finally found a problem that was easy to address. And it was probably something that troubled a lot of women.

  “Dear Old-fashioned,” she began. “Don’t be shy about telling your husband what you want. He’s obviously anxious for you to show him how much you want him by making the first move. And don’t be afraid that he’ll think less of you for initiating a sexual encounter. More likely, he’ll be thrilled if you come to him and tell him what you’d like to do together.”

  Amanda sat back and read through her answer. It was good enough, she supposed. But she had the feeling there was more she could say.

  While she was in the middle of trying to augment the answer, her hands stopped moving on the computer keys.

  She was trying to make this woman feel comfortable with initiating sexual encounters. Maybe she should be taking her own advice.

  Zach had wondered aloud whether she had enough sexual experience to write an advice column. She’d assured him that she did, although privately she’d admitted that there were a lot of things she hadn’t done. Of course, that list was a bit shorter since she’d met him. She’d gained some memorable experience, but everything they had done together had been his idea.

  His wanting to do those things with her was arousing, she admitted, since she was trying to be totally honest with herself. She couldn’t think about any of their encounters without getting turned on.

  And last night he’d gone to considerable effort to set up a scene that obviously fulfilled one of his very erotic fantasies.

  She’d gone along with him, because she wanted to connect with him on an intimate level. More than that, although she’d been hesitant at first, she’d had the courage to admit that she found the idea he’d described exciting.

  Still, none of the things they’d done together had come from her own imagination. Maybe because she was too down-to-earth to have more than the most basic fantasies. She’d never thought about setting up a room like a love cave. Or thinking about what she was going to wear in that very erotic setting.

  Perhaps it was time for her to be a little bolder in their relationship.

  Of course, there was danger in going that route. What if her fantasies totally turned him off?

  Well, better to find out now than later.

  She knew a look of determination was plastered on her face as she shoved the letters back into the canvas sack where they’d come from, then saved her file and turned off her computer.

  “Lighten up,” she murmured to herself. “This is supposed to be fun.”

  Right. Fun. Still, her mouth turned dry as she walked down the hall and glanced at the closed door to Zach’s room. She might have paused there, but she knew he was probably listening to her footsteps. Sailing on past, she entered her own room, where she quietly closed the door behind her and switched on the overhead light.

  Ignoring her own jumping nerves, she looked around the room, then crossed to the bed. First she folded up the sheet and blanket that he’d covered them with the night before. Then she shook out his beautiful comforter and straightened it on the bed.

  Next she tackled the mound of pillows, fluffing some up and moving others to the side and out of the way. The bed was still opulent looking but better designed for more conventional lovemaking. Which was what she had in mind this time around.

  She didn’t allow herself to think about what it would mean if Zach refused to have intercourse with her. She simply went about trying to make it happen.

  Her throat tightened. Was she setting herself up for disappointment? She was betting that wasn’t going to be true.

  She liked the room Zach had created, and she left most of his romantic touches intact. Like the lamp with the scarf over it.

  First she crossed to the windows and closed the blinds. Then she turned on the lamp and switched off the overhead light, pleased with the romantic effect it created.

  But not yet. When she got Zach in here, she didn’t want him to know she was setting anything up. Switching on the overhead light again, she finished her preparations.

  With a rising sense of excitement, she thought about what she was going to wear. The robe he’d bought her was one possibility. But because she wanted to put her own stamp on the encounter, she thought about what clothing she’d brought with her. Not a lot to work with, unfortunately. But she did have a few things that might work.

  Shucking off her dress, she began opening drawers, looking for the white camisole top she’d bought in one of the shops along Main Street.

  It was thin cotton, with ribbons running through the straps and lace at the top and bottom edges, and she’d planned to wear it under a sweater.

  Now she pulled off her shirt and bra and tried it on alone.

  By itself, it looked both demure and very provocative. She could see her nipples clearly through the dainty fabric, and also see that they were already tight with excitement. Just getting ready to seduce Zach was turning her on.

  And she imagined he’d felt the same way last night as he’d transformed her bedroom from beach house to bordello.

  Okay, now she had half of a very scanty outfit. But she needed something to wear on the lower part of her body. Of course, that could simply be her scantiest bikini panties. But she had something she thought would be much better.

  As a kind of gag present when she’d started the Dear Esther column, Beth had sent her a white garter belt and white silk stockings. At the time, she’d laughed and stuffed them into a drawer. Now she pulled them out and held them up.

  Feeling very decadent, she pulled off her panties and threw them on top of the knit top and bra she’d discarded. Then she fastened the garter belt around her middle, rolled the stockings up her legs and attached them to the hanging garters. It seemed indecent to wear the garter belt and stockings with nothing else on the lower part of her body. But it gave her a wicked sense of pleasure to do it anyway.

  Not simply her own pleasure. She was anticipating the look on Zach’s face when he saw her.

  Something was missing, she decided, then realized she needed shoes. Strappy little white high heels seemed the perfect choice.

  She was already wearing the makeup she’d put on that morning. She toned it down a little, fluffed up her hair, put her discarded clothing into the closet, and lighted some of the candles that still sat on the dresser.

  With her preparations completed, she inspected herself in the mirror, smiling as she decided that she looked like she’d stepped out of an old-time New Orleans cathouse. The notion made her feel very naughty and very aroused.

  Showtime!

  Clearing her throat, she walked to the door and opened it a few inches.

  “Zach, can you come here for a minute?” she called out.

  “What is it?” his muffled voice came from within his room.

  “I need you to help me with something. In the bedroom.”

  “Just a minute.”

  She waited with her heart pounding. It felt like centuries before she heard his door open and footsteps cross the hall.

  She was standing behind the door when he stepped into the room.

  “Amanda?”

  “Right here,” she answered, pushing the door closed with the flat of one hand.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I guess we’ll both find out.”

  He turned to look at her, his eyes widening as he realized she was wearing only a lacy camisole, garter belt and stockings.

  Stepping to the side, she turned off the overhead light, darkening the room, except for the muted lamp in the corner and the candles.

  “What are you doing?” he asked again, this time in a strangled voice.

  “Hoping that turnabout is fair play. Last night you showed me
one of your fantasies. I’d like to return the favor.”

  With more boldness than she felt, she crossed the few steps that separated them, then twined her arms around his neck and brought her face close to his, swallowing his strangled exclamation with a small kiss.

  She felt his shock and his resistance. And she wanted to pull back and say, “What’s wrong? Can’t you make love unless it was your idea?”

  She knew those words sprang to her mind in self-defense. They came from the rawness of her own nerves.

  At this moment in time, in this bedroom, he could hurt her. Not physically. She knew he would never do that. But he could deliver a crushing blow to her self-esteem. She had handed him that power.

  There was a charged moment when she waited for him to pull back, open the door and walk away. But he didn’t move. And she heard his breathing accelerate.

  Because he was turned on?

  Without giving herself time to consider the wisdom of her actions, she brushed her lips against his again. It was only the smallest part of what she wanted with him, but she felt her body heat—felt the heat coming off of him as well.

  Slowly, as though they had never kissed before, she experimented with the sensations the mouth to mouth contact created. Stroking him with her tongue, nibbling on his lower lip, pressing her mouth to his as she slowly increased the pressure of her flesh against his.

  “Zach?” she asked, drawing back only enough to ask the question.

  He didn’t answer with words, only with a sound that seemed to well up from deep in his throat as his mouth took command of her and his arms gathered her to him.

  The kiss flared from hot to white hot in the space of heartbeats. With a low growl, he angled his head, his mouth rapacious and demanding so that she needed to anchor her hands against his shoulders, press her body to his to keep from swaying on her feet.

  It was like being caught in a whirlwind that spun her up and around to dizzying heights. And with her last shreds of coherence, she thought that the only hope of survival lay in clinging to Zachary Grant.

  Somewhere in her disordered mind she knew that everything that had come before was only preparation for this sharp, rich moment in time. This moment and all the ones that would come after.