by Mallory Rush
Cammie was breathing evenly, her eyes were shut. His gaze roved over her hungrily, lovingly. Unexpectedly, she raised her lids and stared straight at him.
For a moment, neither spoke, but both felt the sudden tug-of-war tension, a pull between them that filled up the room.
"I couldn't sleep," he whispered.
Cammie swallowed hard. She couldn't move. She couldn't keep her eyes from following the path of his bare chest down to the deep, open V of his unfastened jeans. She could see the dark wiry gathering of his pubic hair, and it stirred an answering sensuality in the depths of her femininity.
For days—that had seemed like years—she had been struggling with the gathering need to touch Grant, to feel his hands in her hair, gliding sure and unhindered over her body. He'd been so damnably careful in his affections, she had been fighting the urge to scream in frustration.
"Neither could I," she finally answered. Forcing her clenched hands from beneath the sheet, she lay one atop it. Her movements felt stiff, apprehensive—and compelled. She reached for his hand.
He hesitated a moment, then sat on the edge of the bed. It creaked with his weight. He laid her palm against his thigh, pressing down lightly. She couldn't control the quickening of her heart. The feel of him was so good, so wanted, it was all she could do not to pull him down beside her.
"Think maybe we're awake for the same reason?" he asked in a low, mesmerizing voice as he stroked the hair away from her face.
"That depends on the reason," she said, willing her own voice not to shake.
"I want you." His eyes darkened, his features tightened with restraint. "But I'm trying really hard to give you some time and to take it slow."
"I know." She smiled her appreciation for his efforts, when all she wanted to do was cry her frustration for his maddening discipline and her own inability to break the barriers that still held her captive. That prevented her from confessing them even now. "You've been the perfect gentleman," she said instead.
His jaw locked tight. "It's wearing thin, Cammie."
"Is it?" She wondered if he'd heard the edge of hope in her voice.
He looked at her hard, his eyes probing hers with all pretense of politeness stripped away.
"We've done a lot of talking, but not about the things that are keeping me from climbing between these sheets."
Could she tell him? Could she do it now? And could she do it knowing that the runaway emotions coursing between them would escalate and could never be pushed back?
Taking a deep breath, she rushed forward.
"I have a problem. And it's not just Mom and Dad."
She heard the deep exhalation of his breath just before he leaned down until his chest hovered over hers. His hands cupped her face, and she saw his relief, his understanding.
"I've been waiting for this. Tell me, Cammie. Tell me what keeps you from me."
"I don't understand it all myself, Grant."
"Then maybe we could understand it together."
With a sob, she reached for him, wrapping her arms tightly around his shoulders. "Hold me, Grant. Please, hold me. I've always needed you, everything you are to me. But I've never needed you so much as I do now."
"Cammie," he groaned. "Oh, Lord, Cammie. I'm here. I'll always be here. I love you too much to ever let go."
He swiped the sheet to the foot of the bed, then rolled with her onto their sides, cradling her head against his chest and clasping his arms tight around her. Their legs intertwined, and she burrowed into the haven of his strength.
"You always loved me more than anyone," she whispered around the knot of tears. "More than any of the men who gave me a ring, who I thought I could marry. But I couldn't, Grant. I could never go through with a commitment. I could never get past this thing that's inside me that won't go away."
"It will," he promised. "I'll help you make it go away. And you'll never know how thankful I am that none of the others could do that. Whatever this thing is, no matter how terrible, I'm glad it was there if it kept them from having you."
She nodded, her cheek sliding wetly against the wonderful abrasion of his chest hair, the warmth of his skin beneath. She sent heavenward a silent prayer of thanks for this man who loved her, even her weaknesses and flaws, knowing she was safe in telling him anything, everything.
"They said something was wrong with me," she whispered. "And I thought... I thought they were right. I even went for therapy trying to understand."
"You saw a shrink?" he asked. "You mean there was something that wrong, and you didn't tell me about it?"
"What was I going to do, Grant? Tell you I couldn't go through with a marriage because I couldn't bring myself to totally let go? That even if I was attached to someone and I said I loved them, I couldn't find it inside me to let go of the emotional distance that kept me safe? That's what the therapist said. My fiancé's felt that aloofness, and they wanted some honest depth from a wife. I know you all thought I broke the engagements, but twice it was them, not me."
Cammie could feel the return of shame, She'd lied about the breakups to her family, embarrassed to have been the one spurned, and unwilling to confess the reasons.
"Maybe you didn't really love them," Grant said quietly, without reproach. "Did you think of that? Maybe it was because you were waiting for the right person and you didn't realize he was waiting for you all along."
"Maybe. But that wasn't all." As he comfortingly stroked her back, she gathered herself, seeking the courage for the most horrible revelation of all.
"I was... frigid. I—I'm afraid I still am. And Grant, it terrifies me. I kept trying to act like a normal woman, and all I could do was freeze up. Here were these men, decent, good men who loved me but somehow I couldn't love back, and every time I tried to go through with—with a consummation, it was... it was—Grant, it was horrible. Painful. Humiliating."
"What?" Grant strained to look at her, disbelief etched across his face.
The old humiliation surfaced anew. The cut of failure was still too incisive, and facing it when she'd worked so hard to ignore it was almost more than she could bear. Seeing his shocked expression made her want to shrink from it again, to do what she had learned to do so well—hide, pretend that what plagued her life and kept her unwhole didn't matter, when it really mattered so god-awful much.
She covered her face with her hands. Grant gripped her wrists and tried to wrest them away.
"Look at me, Cammie," he demanded. "I hate what you're doing to yourself. Look at me, now."
"No, no," she whimpered. "I don't want you to look at me. I'm so screwed up."
"Quit hiding your face from me, dammit. You're not screwed up. The only thing that's screwed up is the way you're beating yourself for something you can't help."
She let him draw her hands away then, and even when he held her chin so she had to look at him, she found the courage inside herself to meet his caring, strong, and deeply moving gaze.
"Don't ever hide from me again, Cammie," he whispered sternly. "I won't let you do it. Not to me, and not to yourself. There's nothing we can't overcome together. Do you believe me?"
Looking into his eyes—compassionate, loving, too deep for words—she could believe anything was possible. Even the impossible.
"I believe you," she said in a choked voice.
He kissed away her tears. He kissed each eyelid, then pressed his lips against her forehead.
"Now I'm going to ask you some questions and I want you to be totally honest with me. Even if the answers are hard for you to say."
"All right, Grant. For myself, for you, I will." She sniffled, determined to see this through and put it behind her at long last.
"Were you ever molested?"
"No."
"When you did have sex, did you have a bad experience? Did someone hurt you or—"
"Grant, I never did. I tried... several times. Only the pain, I was too... dry. I couldn't—they couldn't—"
"Shhh, it's okay." He stroked his
hand through her hair and murmured a sound of encouragement. "Did you see a doctor to find out if there was something physically wrong that could be corrected?"
"I saw a doctor. Physically I was fine. It was mental. Emotional. Like a wall I couldn't scale inside."
"Did you talk to your therapist about it?"
Cammie nodded. "She thought it was tied up with my inability to make a commitment... that I had a mental block against intimacy. Because—because I had to protect myself from loss."
"Loss? Of what?"
"Of the people I love—if I let myself love them completely."
"How could you lose the people you love, Cammie?"
"I did."
Without warning, the door she had peeked into gaped wide open. Before she could shrink back, she stared, as if some unseen force had shoved her face inside her very own personalized house of horrors.
The scratch she had heard from inside the tomb was really the agonized scream of her mother; it came from the blood-splattered face of her father.
And her brother. Oh, God, no. Not her brother. Not Justin. Lying beside her, his body distorted, crushed, next to hers, his eyes wide open and staring sightlessly into hers while an exclamation of surprise froze upon his lips. But a minute ago they had been fighting over him crossing their invisible line to grab her diary and her father had turned around to make them straighten up and just then a big truck blew his horn and Daddy was over the line but it wasn't an invisible line.
And it was dark, so dark she couldn't see, she could only hear. And what she heard was a sound so awful she thought she must have died because nothing could be this bad except a nightmare.
Only it wasn't a nightmare. She was wide awake and she was staring at the severed hand of her mother, the wedding band she had loved so much smeared in her blood. And the siren... it was so loud it drowned out her own agonized screams. Then someone was dragging her away.
"Mama!" Cammie suddenly shrieked. "Mama, don't leave me. Don't go away. Daddy! Daddy! Where are you? Don't let them take you away from me. I'm so sorry, Justin. You can cross the line, I don't care if you read my diary. I didn't mean to yell at you. I didn't mean to make you die. I love you, I love you, I—Oh, God, take me instead. It was my fault. I didn't mean to make you die—"
"Cammie!"
She struggled against the hands holding her flailing arms, gripping her against an iron wall that swayed back and forth instead of letting her follow her family into the darkness, across to the other side.
"I want to go too," she cried. "Take me too."
She was racked with choked, heaving sobs that rushed up from the pit of hysteria. The darkness gradually receded and from a distance she heard a beloved, familiar voice crooning, "It's all right, I've got you. You're safe. Just hold tight to me."
"I killed them. It was my fault. All my fault." She wept, but she wept dryly, no tears left.
"No, baby. It wasn't your fault. It was an accident. You're safe now. You'll be all right."
"Grant?" She looked at him as though he were her salvation, trying to focus on a face she hadn't expected to see.
"I'm here," he whispered, rocking her back and forth.
"I saw it," she gasped in horror. "I kept trying not to see it, but I saw. I yelled at Justin, my father turned around, and... and—"
"And it wasn't... your... fault."
"If I hadn't been fighting, if I hadn't—"
"No." He shook her twice. His face came into better focus. "Kids fight, Cammie. Adults are responsible for controlling the car. No one blames you but yourself. Look again. Look past the nightmare. Tell me what you see."
"I—I'm alone. I'm... alive. But they're not."
"No, they're not. But you can't bury yourself with them. You are alive. You have to live. Nothing can bring them back."
Suddenly he ground his mouth against hers, and she could taste his flesh, her tears. He kissed her so deep and hard, it hurt. She welcomed the pain, the validation that she could feel.
"This," he whispered sharply, "Cammie, this is life."
He clasped her hand and pressed it firmly against his heavily pounding heart and repeated, "This is life."
Greedily she absorbed it—the thud of humanity, the wellspring of love and home.
Chapter 10
Cammie stared out the kitchen window. The calico curtains framed the small panes of glass—and the image of Grant chopping wood in the clearing about twenty feet away.
She watched as he embedded the ax into a broken limb, then shucked off his plaid flannel shirt. A healthy sheen of sweat glistened over his back and the honed muscles of his shoulders and arms as he hoisted the ax once more. It arched in the air, his biceps bunched as he struck with perfect precision.
A warm, familiar glow ignited and spread in a lazy, satisfied trickle through her veins as she watched. And remembered...
She remembered the miracle of their bonding, of her healing. The way he held her through the emotional aftermath, and she held him in return. For two nights now they had shared the same bed, had slept peacefully and innocently in each other's arms. They had shared deep, soulful kisses, and caresses that were salve to the old but rapidly mending wounds.
Watching him now, the same sensation she had experienced the first time she'd seen him naked resurfaced. It left her needful, with a damp, aching want that was so strong, it was almost unbearable. It was torment. It was delight and reassurance that she could embrace the fullness of womanhood. A glance, a thought, a casual brush of his hand... No more was needed to tap into the dam of her sensuality that Grant had yet to partake of—except in careful, gentle, small measures.
His patience, his insight, was a tonic, nourishing her. He had given, she had taken, until she was strong enough to nourish herself. To feed her soul and fill her body with him, and to give equally in return.
The circle was complete—almost. Her fragmented life was whole—almost.
Tonight. Yes, tonight they would make love and the almosts would be no more.
The decision left her light-headed, dizzy with excitement. A little scared, but proud. Because even if she failed, she knew it would be a victory for them both.
Elated with the decision, her adrenaline pumping in anticipation, Cammie pushed away from the sink. Grabbing a can of beer on the way out, she left the cabin with a light step that didn't seem to quite touch the ground.
"Thought you might be thirsty."
Grant stopped in mid-arc as she pressed the ice-cold can between his shoulder blades. The October breeze wisped across his skin, bringing the tangy scent of sweat mingled with a fading hint of soap to her nostrils.
He looked, he smelled, he was the epitome of man.
Grant turned. His slow smile reached inside her heart and spread all the way down to her toes.
The excitement of his nearness, the victorious decision finally made, swirled into the vivid red and yellow leaves, raining like nature's confetti over their heads and about their feet.
Jubilant, Cammie hoisted the can up. With a mischievous smile she taunted, "You want it? You'll have to catch me first."
She took off at a fast sprint, stealing the advantage while Grant dropped the ax against the growing stack of logs. Laughing all the way, she dodged his grip and ran to the other side of the woodpile.
Grant could feel his heart accelerate, and it had nothing to do with the game of chasing Cammie. Her laughter washed over him, the spontaneity he'd missed of late a welcome assurance, a sign the time was drawing near.
"Come here, you little—" With a lunge, he grabbed for her around the side and just missed.
She moved the beer can back and forth and stuck her tongue out, the juvenile gesture unpardonably risqué for his starved sensibilities.
"Okay, folks, it's a tie and the clock is running out," she announced in a good imitation of a sportscaster. "She's got the beer, but can he block the touchdown—"
"Tackle!"
Cammie screeched in laughter as Grant knocked her t
o the ground, cushioning her fall with his own body. He wrestled with her while she held the can high above her head.
Pinning her down in a sea of autumn leaves, he feathered her ribs with his fingers, exactly where he knew she was the most ticklish.
"I give up! I give up! Take the beer, it's yours," she squealed in surrender.
Grant took the can and popped open the top. Conjuring up his most menacing expression, he tipped it forward a fraction.
"You're gonna pay for this, Cammie Walker. Get ready to take your medicine."
"No. You wouldn't. Oh no, you—Ah! That's cold!"
The pale yellow liquid pooled exactly where he wanted it—in the small hollow of her throat. Lowering his head, he lapped at the ale until there was none, then pressed his tongue against her pounding pulse, feeling the fading vibration of her laughter.
And then there was only the sound of their rapid breathing, the call of migrating birds, the crunch of leaves as he settled himself firmly within the cradle of her thighs.
As quickly as the game had begun, it ceased. Raising up on his elbows, Grant looked down into her face, flushed from exertion, flushed with desire. There were leaves in her hair, and he stroked his fingers through the strands, plucking away each one.
She reached up and locked her hands around his neck, tracing the corded muscles there. He shivered, responding quickly to her light but evocative caress. When she pulled his head down to hers, he resisted only long enough to search her eyes.
Yes. The answer he craved was there.
Their mouths melded together. They rejoiced at the silent vow.
"Now?" he whispered, gliding his hand up her side, then cupping her breast. "Here? We don't have any—"
Shyly, she shook her head. "Tonight. I..." She looked away and whispered, "This sounds silly, but I wanted to wear my nightgown. It's always been a reminder and it seems only—"
"Perfect." He smiled, before his expression gave way to one of sensual need. "But in the meantime... I want to give you something to remember. Just to ensure you don't have a change of heart."
"I won't change my—"
