by Rebecca York
She was on her way back to New Jersey before rush-hour traffic could bog her down.
Pulling up at the curb, she stopped to admire Zach’s house. She’d been afraid he’d pick something new and modern, but he’d bought a thirties bungalow with a wide front porch and a roof held up by real stone columns. The neighborhood was old and settled, with large trees, quiet streets, and big backyards.
Inside, Zach had done a lot of work. He’d remodeled and enlarged the kitchen. And he’d refinished all the beautiful woodwork and hardwood floors.
It was a house where she’d love to live. A house where she’d love to raise children. But both of them had been careful not to talk about the future. She suspected that Zach wasn’t going to do that until he resolved the problem that had been hanging over him for a year.
And no amount of talking about it was going to make him feel okay. He had to see for himself that they could make love like any other couple.
Actually, she’d done a lot of research about his condition since he’d told her what was wrong. The chapters of books and articles she’d read recommended exercises to help a dysfunctional couple get in touch with each other physically. Starting with touching and kissing. Giving back rubs and massages. Physical closeness with no pressure to progress to intercourse.
The concept was sound, but she honestly didn’t think either one of them could go that route. Not right now. She wanted Zach too much, and he wanted her. And if they got into anything explicit, they’d end up in bed. And it might not work out because all the old cues would be ready to assault him.
He’d be worried about “failure.” And she was pretty sure he’d be upset if they tried intercourse and he didn’t have an orgasm. On the other hand, she was taking the long view, knowing it might require time for Zach to get back to what most people would consider normal.
Because of that, she was still holding off any sexual contact—although it was getting more difficult each day. Each hour. Each minute. She was starting to think of alternatives. What about manual stimulation? Could she bring him to climax with her hand—with her mouth? Perhaps they could start with that.
She was making herself hot just thinking about it. And she had to sit in the car for a while, getting her breathing back to normal before she entered the house.
When she walked into the kitchen, Zach was standing in front of the stove, stirring a large pot of soup.
He looked up, and she could tell immediately how glad he was to see her. She wanted to tell him she could come home to that look on his face for the next hundred years, but she didn’t want to make him feel any more pressure than he already did.
She settled for, “Hi. I’m glad to be back. I always forget how much I hate the city.”
“Hi yourself.”
“What’s that?” she asked, gesturing toward the soup.
“Oxtail soup.”
She peered into the pot. “You’re kidding. Isn’t that something from the Middle Ages?”
“Maybe that’s where it originated. But it’s a recipe my mom used to make. Soup was a good way to feed a large family on a limited budget.”
“Right.”
“She’s a soup expert. This one is really good. The oxtails give it a wonderful flavor and a nice thick texture. And there are all kinds of chunky vegetables.”
“Well, you’re a better cook than I am,” she answered.
“I’ve made a lot of stuff out of books.” Turning from the pot, he asked, “How did the meeting go?”
Unable to keep the excitement out of her voice, she answered, “Beth wants me to do some other articles for her. I mean stuff besides the column.”
“That’s great. I know you’ve got to be pleased.” Zach stepped away from the stove and reached to hug her. She went into his arms, then caught her breath as she catalogued the instant reaction of his body—and her own.
She felt her breathing accelerate, felt her heart pounding against the wall of her chest.
He dipped his head, brushing aside her hair with his nose and planting little kisses on her neck. Little kisses that fanned the flames. They were two people who cared about each other—very much. Yet they couldn’t be easy with each other. Not yet.
“Oh Lord, Amanda, I’m going crazy with wanting you,” he growled.
She stayed in his arms another few seconds, then pushed gently against his shoulders, and he let her go. “We’re both going crazy,” she said in a husky voice. “That’s the idea.”
“When is enough enough?” he asked.
“Let’s see if we can hold out for a week.”
He groaned.
Sitting down at the kitchen table, she searched around for a neutral topic. As soon as she spoke, she realized that nothing she could say was really neutral. “You were out of the house really late last night. What were you doing—going for a five-mile jog?”
“Actually, I was doing an insurance investigation. There’s a guy who claims to be disabled from a fall down the stairs. And he’s trying to collect big time on his disability insurance. I snapped some pictures of him lifting heavy garbage cans and taking them out to the curb.”
“Clever!”
“Yeah, that should screw up his case.”
“How did you know when to take the pictures?”
“I found out his trash day. Then I established that his garbage cans were always at the curb the night before.”
She laughed. “I guess you have to be creative to be a private detective.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice husky, and she knew that he was thinking about other times he’d been creative—like when he’d turned her bedroom into a love nest.
She shifted in her seat. He went back to tending the soup, but she saw that his hand was clenched around the handle of the big spoon.
After several minutes of silence, they started talking about his work again. She didn’t say much about hers. She couldn’t, because that would mean talking about sex—or talking about Tony Anderson. And both of those topics were off limits—for two different reasons.
She chatted with him for a few more minutes, then said she needed to take some notes on her conversation with Beth.
Upstairs, after taking off the skirt and jacket she’d worn into town, she changed into jeans and a tee shirt, then tried to get some work done. When she came back again, Zach, who was chopping vegetables for a salad, looked up as she came back into the kitchen.
“I was thinking that biscuits would taste good with that soup” she said.
“You bet.”
“Do you have the makings?”
“I think so. You can check the pantry and the refrigerator.”
She found flour, butter, milk, baking powder and salt. She’d made a lot of biscuits over the years. Mom had been a biscuit expert, and she’d made sure her daughters inherited that skill. Beth was able to guess at the proportions, then add a little more milk when the mix was a tad dry.
She tried to stay out of Zach’s way, but as she moved around the kitchen, she was very aware of exactly where he was and what he was doing. And from the way he quickly drew back when she approached the sink, she guessed he was also in a state of high alert. When she reached to turn on the oven, her breast brushed against his arm, and they both drew in a sharp breath.
He said nothing, only turned to give her a penetrating look.
“Are drop biscuits okay? Or should I roll them out?”
“Do it the easy way.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
She made quick work of getting small mounds of dough onto a baking sheet, then began setting the table.
As they sat across from each other, he buttered one of her biscuits and took a bite. “This is good.”
“Thanks.” She spooned up some soup. “I didn’t know if I’d like this, but it’s delicious.”
“Basically, it’s beef and vegetable with a fancy name.”
“Right.”
He shifted in his seat. “I like sharing meals with
you.”
“Yes. I like it too. And we work well together.”
The conversation ground to a halt again, and they each focused on their food.
Lord, if she couldn’t do any better than this, she was in trouble, she thought.
They used up the last of the milk in her after-dinner coffee. As she turned from throwing the empty container into the trash can, she found him staring at her.
“What?”
“You look totally kissable.”
Unconsciously, she flicked her tongue over her lower lip.
“Very kissable.”
“Zach . . .”
He was standing with his palms pressed against his hips, as if to keep from reaching for her. “Are you really going to keep up this torture for the rest of the week?” he asked, and she caught the undercurrent of frustration in his voice.
“We . . . should,” she answered, knowing that she didn’t sound entirely sure anymore.
He stood looking at her for several minutes. “Um, maybe I’d better get out of here and try to cool off. I’ll go to the grocery and buy some milk. Then I’ll stop at the library and look through the DVD collection. I’ll be gone for a couple of hours. Okay?”
“Yes. That’s a good idea,” she managed to say when she wanted to reach for him, to fold him close. He’d be hard. And she imagined pressing her middle against his erection. He was taller than she. But if he leaned back against the counter the way he’d leaned against the door that time, then he’d be right where she wanted him.
The vivid picture in her mind sent heat shooting through her.
“Go on,” she said.
As he turned and walked out of the kitchen, she was thinking that they could easily have watched something on Netflix. But instead he’d come up with a good excuse to stay away from the house.
Was Dr. O’Neal’s prescription too draconian? Was she driving them both insane? She felt on the edge of madness. She’d never been this sexually frustrated in her life. Yet she didn’t want to ruin things for Zach. If he tried to make love to her and couldn’t climax, he was going to feel worse than he had the last time. And waiting a few more days might make the difference for him.
Or would it?
Maybe they’d both had enough. Maybe it was time for something different.
Quickly she booted up her laptop and scanned a particular Web site. After getting the number she wanted, she made a call.
It took only a few minutes to make some strategic arrangements. Then she clicked to her e-mail and started writing a letter.
Chapter Seventeen
Zach had taken his time at the library, but he knew the moment he walked in the door that the house was empty.
Amanda usually called out to him when he came home. But she didn’t do that now. And he realized he hadn’t seen her car outside.
His stomach clenched. She’d gone. He guessed she’d had enough of the tension zapping back and forth between them, and she’d left him. Well, he couldn’t blame her.
On wooden legs, he carried the carton of milk to the kitchen—where he saw a piece of paper sitting in the middle of the table. His heart started pounding as he regarded it lying there, catching the light and reflecting it back to him.
Snatching it up, he read rapidly.
Dear Esther,
I don’t know what to do. My boyfriend and I are driving each other around the bend. Some crazy sex therapist told her that our sex life would be a whole lot better if we didn’t touch each other for a week. We followed the therapist’s advice. Now both of us are pretty hot, and it’s like sparks hitting dry tinder. What do you suggest we do about it?
Burning up in Paramus.
###
He couldn’t help grinning. Burning up in Paramus was a pretty good description of the way he felt.
But there was more on the paper. An answer, apparently.
If you’re burning up the house, treat him to a night out. Why not rent a fancy hotel room and see if you can make some changes in the way you’re dealing with each other?
Esther Scott
###
Below the letters was an address and room number. Of a very fancy, very pricey hotel. The Eden Palace.
He read the letter and the answer. Read them again. Then he walked back to the car and started driving to the Eden Palace.
The knock on the door made Amanda jump. She’d been sitting in the large room, waiting for Zach, hoping he’d come. At first she’d been busy getting ready. Turning down lights. Getting out candles. Making sure the champagne was chilled. Changing into the outfit she’d decided to wear. Then there had been nothing to do but wait.
“Who’s there?” she called in a quivery voice.
“Burning up in Paramus,” he answered.
“That was my line,” she said as she turned the knob and stepped aside. He hurried into the room and closed the door. But once they were alone, they stood in the middle of the large space, staring nervously at each other.
She saw him swallow as he looked around the opulent bedroom, taking in the Queen Anne furniture, the velvet drapes, the thick carpeting, the wide, four-poster bed with what looked like a silk coverlet. “What is this, the honeymoon suite?” he asked in a thick voice.
She lifted her chin and gave him a “make something of it” look. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
She watched his eyes sweep over her. “No silk nightgown to go with the theme?”
“Not tonight,” she murmured. Actually, she’d dressed carefully for the evening in a loose shift that covered her from her neck to mid-calf along with high-heeled sandals. She thought it looked like a rather demure outfit.
To change the subject she said, “How about some champagne?” Without waiting for an answer, she walked to the bucket sitting on a tray beside the bed.
When she fumbled to get the cork out, he came up behind her and took the bottle from her hand. Then he opened it and poured them both a glass. But she could see that his hands weren’t a lot steadier than hers.
She took a quick swallow and saw he had done the same. So much for iron nerves. Hers and his.
He didn’t speak, and she knew she was the one who would need to do the talking. Gulping in air, she said, “When I invited myself to stay in your house, I. . . I thought I was doing the right thing. . . for both of us. But maybe I was wrong.”
“And maybe you’re right,” he answered quickly. “Because God knows, I’ve wanted you with me.” He swallowed. “Even if I’ve been a little . . . uh . . .grumpy.”
“I’m glad—I mean glad that you wanted me there.”
The warm look on his face made her ache to cross the space that separated them and take him in her arms. But she stayed where she was because she knew that they needed to do things differently. If they fell back into the same old pattern, they could get into trouble again.
“Before you went out tonight, I was thinking about Dr. O’Neal’s prescription. I was thinking that maybe we could try a slightly different approach,” she said, then hurried on. “I mean we know that you haven’t been able to have an orgasm during intercourse. But what if we took an intermediate step?”
When he stared inquiringly at her, she went on, “Suppose I bring you to climax some other way?”
“Why do you think that will work?” he asked quietly.
She had come up with the answer when she’d first thought of renting this room. “For one thing, because I’ll be doing it for my own pleasure.”
He was listening intently, which gave her the resolve to continue. “You won’t have to worry about. . . about performing, because I’ll be the one in charge. I’ll be doing what I want to do.”
His doubtful look made her desperate to convince him that her new plan would work. After setting down her glass, she crossed the room and took his glass from his hand. Then she slid her arms around him.
“Oh Lord, Amanda,” you don’t know how much I’ve wanted to hug you tight. Just hug you and hang on,” he breathed.
; “I know. Believe me, I do.”
When he clasped her body to his, she let out a small sigh as she pressed her head to his shoulder.
His erection was like an exclamation point between them. “Amanda, I don’t want to disappoint you,” he said in a barely audible voice. “That’s why I’ve been playing by your rules. That’s the only reason I’ve been able to keep from dragging you to bed. Because I knew it could turn out just the way it always does for me. And I know you want . . . you want . . .”
“Oh, Zach. You won’t disappoint me,” she answered, kissing his shoulder through the fabric of this tee shirt. “Not this time. I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen. All you have to do is enjoy my fantasy.”
His hands slid up and down her back, then stopped abruptly. “Lord, you’re not wearing a bra under that dress!” he said.
She raised her head and gave him a sweet look. “Actually, I’m not wearing anything under this dress.”
He swore, then set her away from him. “I suppose you know what that piece of information is doing to me?”
She met his eyes with a steady gaze. “To me too. Only I’ve had the past hour and a half to turn myself on thinking about your meeting me here. But it’s not just the turn-on. It’s more than that. Our relationship is important to me, and I want it to work out.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Then let me have my wicked way with you.”
He arched an inquiring eyebrow.
Trying to sound bold, she raised her chin and said. “Let me set up another little game for us to play. Where I’m in total charge of your body.”
He tipped his head to one side, as he considered the implications. “As in . . . uh . . . bondage?”
“Well . . . honorary bondage.”
“What . . . uh . . . does that mean?”
She stiffened her posture and made her voice authoritative. “It means I want you naked on your back on that bed. With your arms spread-eagled. And I expect you to stay that way, until I say you can move.”
She finished by marching past him to the bed and yanking the silk coverlet and top sheet off the end, so that only the bottom sheet remained.
Whirling back to him, she ordered, “Now take off your clothes, and lie down.”
