by Thea Devine
She felt as if there were two of her—the self-protective Carrie who didn’t want to get entangled with men anymore who could break her heart; and the sexy lady who took everything she could get and still maintained her distance.
There was no distance between her and Truck, and his heat, his scent, his need.
And hers.
Where had that come from?
Where...? From those clever, clever hands purposefully touching her in the places her heart remembered.
Her awareness came slowly as he distracted her mouth and tongue with bone-melting kisses and slowly and lightly began stroking her all over with his fingers.
All the places he knew so well and hadn’t forgotten: the underside of her earlobe, the base of her neck, the crook of her arm, her midriff, and the most lethal place of all—the undercurve of her breast. Her insides turned liquid as she felt his fingers slide along the underside of her breast She wanted to push him away, she wanted him to forget, to never stop, to take her there and then, because the sensations were so powerful and overwhelming, she didn’t know what else to do with them.
And he knew it. This part of Carrie he had always known, and this part he could touch so easily through the light-as-air clothing she wore. But what part could he touch to make her wholly and completely his? Truck wanted to envelop her, to imprint her so that no one else would ever touch her again. Carrie was made for him, he’d known it fifteen years before, and the feeling was that much more magnified as she fought her need to melt into his arms.
A man had to have a battle plan. And a thorough, honed-in-the-crucible knowledge of his adversary.
“Come to me, Carrie,” he whispered as he nudged her onto her lap. “Come.” He pulled her gently so that she unwillingly straddled his legs.
“Just a kiss,” she murmered as she braced herself against his shoulders.
She was on top now, she thought fuzzily, she could just open the car door and go into the house. And maybe he had done that deliberately because he knew she wouldn’t want to go once she was at the mercy of his wicked magic hands.
And those kisses.
She couldn’t leave those kisses. Her control, her decision. Her body liquefied as she sought his mouth avidly and claimed him.
Just a kiss...
He slipped his hands under her skirt and up her bare thighs to the outer curve of her buttocks where she most liked to be caressed.
That too...oh, especially that—
He released the car seat into a reclining position so that she was fully stretched out against him, and he was nestled tightly between her legs.
Now Truck had full play of her lower body, which was clothed in a next-to-nothing wisp of bikini panty, and he intended to use every weapon in his arsenal to make her come—to him and for him.
Carrie felt his hands working on her buttocks in a delicious circular motion and she pulled abruptly out of the kiss.
“Don’t stop,” he murmured.
“You stop.”
“Don’t want to.”
“Because...?”
“You love this.”
“Maybe not,” she said fretfully, but her body betrayed her and she pressed closer, inviting him to explore further. Not a smart thing to do because the motion of his hands only intensified the roiling excitement in her.
She wanted to close her eyes and give in to it. Why not? They were not teenagers anymore, and yet there was an overlay of that emotion, that discovery on the edge of surrender.
But this time, she thought as she undulated against the expert manipulation of those magic fingers, this time she would know what she was getting into, she’d know how to handle it
This time, she could give in to the fantasy and not get hurt.
This time...
She wanted to. This time—
“Too many maybes, Carrie. How about something definitive? Yes, I love this will do.” He moved his hands and cupped her buttocks.
Her eyes closed; her body caved. His hands were so big, so knowing, so there. He knew her so intimately, and she knew him. And she was too aware of the compressed power of him lodged so tightly between her legs.
“Say yes,” he whispered.
All that thrust and motion just for her. All that explosive need focused solely in her. The thought turned her limbs to jelly.
The air grew thicker, closer. She felt him sliding his hands to forbidden places. Yes. She reacted tellingly, her body shuddering as she enticed him to probe still more. Yes.
She didn’t know if she said it out loud, yes, but he knew, he knew.
All she had to do was surrender to his kisses, to his hands, and let him submerge her in his power and his passion.
She was drowning already. And practically naked, with her silk and gauze outfit drifting across the seat beside her. He moved subtly so as not to break the kiss, baring his soul, enshrouding his desire, and then he surged against her, hot for her and seeking her in the most elemental way.
She just wanted to lie against the pure raw power of him, to feel his length, his heat, against her body. She wanted to touch him, play with him, fit herself around him.
All of those emotions and more swirled in her as she wedged her body against the ridge of his gorgeous erection. She remembered this—oh, how she remembered this. He was unforgettable, as long and hard in his maleness as he was in body and souL
She wanted Truck. He had been everything she’d wanted back then—and strong, decisive and good looking besides.
What she hadn’t known then was how she could have him and everything else too. So she had said no. No, she had said to his kisses and his coaxing. No, at that one shimmering moment when he’d been primed for possession and she’d been ready, needy, wanting. No, no, and no, she had said, and for five years afterward she had lived with the pain, the remorse, the sorrow, and worse, the regret of not knowing what it would have been like to have Truck make love to her.
This time, she wouldn’t say no.
This time...
This time it was he who shifted her body, guiding her surely and elegantly with those knowing hands, and giving himself into her control, her desire and her hands for the moment of penetration.
She grasped him firmly with a sure knowledge of what he still loved, what he still wanted, and what her touch would do to him. She held every last hard pulsating inch of him in her hands and inches away from heaven.
“Carrie...” His voice was strangled.
“I know.” She cradled him between her hands, sliding them up and down the shaft, feeling every nuance of him. “I know,” she whispered as she positioned him and as she took him inch by throbbing inch deep and hard into her body.
The connection was breathtaking and powerful She felt as if she were permanently joined to him as she braced herself against his thighs. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to speak.
“Carrie...”
She made a helpless little sound at the back of her throat.
He had to be strong for both of them. She was so tight and hot and ready for him, and all he could do was grasp her hands and pull her forward so he could kiss her. He tasted tears on her vulnerable mouth. He tasted regret, need and desire and everything he’d ever wanted to know about her.
“Come for me, Carrie,” he murmured against her lips. He surged against her, anchoring himself even more deeply in her. “Come...”
She didn’t want to move. She wanted him within her forever, and she was shaken to the core by these feelings. This wasn’t the simple coupling of a one-night stand. This was something deeper, much more serious, and she felt as if she couldn’t bear for it to end.
But he could only contain himself for so long. Even he, with his infinite patience and devastating control, had a breaking point, and he was almost there. But then she moved, just a ripple of her body, and it told him everything. She was ready now, and he undulated against her, finding her center and seeking her mouth in a kiss that exploded into heat and urgency.
&
nbsp; He gripped her hips then, initiating a rhythmic movement that he met with short hard pumping thrusts into her slick sleek body, aiming perfectly at her sensual soul.
And that pleasure point became her world, and the heat and wet of his kisses, and the scent of the leather, and the sultry evening air. All of that seeped into her pores, enfolding her in the universe of his body, his hunger, his sex.
She felt the very moment that they became one, when she lost the sensation of her body in the length and thrust of his, one body, one motion joined at the most exquisite point, and then gone, gone, gone almost before she knew it in a flare of shimmering light that blazed through her body and erupted like a depth charge.
It was volcanic, unexpected, utterly consuming him.
They lay very still for a very long time, Carrie enfolded in his arms, and his face buried in her tumbled hair.
Too fast, too far, he thought Not enough time. Not enough play. Not a great place. Too many “nots” for something so perfect.
And so perfect, there was room for nothing more.
IT WAS DONE. Her curiosity was satisfied, her body sated. She wasn’t in love, Carrie decided. She might be in lust, because Truck was too perfect, even in the awkward confines of a car, but she wasn’t going to spend her time thinking about that, or him. The end was anticlimactic. All the excitement, all the feelings eddied away in the getting dressed, saying good-night, cumbersome moments that seemed to diminish what they had shared.
It was fine, Carrie thought. She was still heart-whole. He didn’t have to call to reassure her, even though he said he would. She knew what the promise to call meant in the world of tenuous one-night stands.
They were adults, she said, brushing it off. She was fine.
But he did call the very next morning, to tell her he was off on a week-long emergency-service call to repair a ruptured pipeline all the way up to Searsport. He’d see her on the weekend.
He was letting her down easy, Carrie thought. It was almost as if the intensity of what they’d shared had scared him off. It was better that way.
Besides, she had work to do. There were more résumés to send, letters to write, and searching the Internet job banks.
And at the weekend, there was a treat—she and Jeannie were going shopping on Saturday. Jeannie wanted to do the whole sexy-lady shopping spree, and Carrie was happy to go along to Portland, then maybe up to Freeport. Jeannie was to come early Saturday so they could make a list
“I mean, I really liked how I felt in that outfit you put together,” Jeannie had said when she’d called in the afternoon to propose the trip. “All I wear to work is dark blue suits with skirts. There isn’t much leeway for sexy stuff there.”
“Except underwear,” Carrie had pointed out, “which can be a big turn-on for some men.”
“Well, we’re not working with some men here. And this man has grown too accustomed to me and my face. And I don’t think he’s really seen my body in years.”
“He saw it last night.”
“Right And I want to shake him up even more.”
“It’s your dollar,” Carrie had said.
“And yours. I don’t do it unless you do, remember.”
“Right,” Carrie had said. As if she had any kind of spare change to expend on becoming a sexy lady. She’d had about all she could handle last week anyway.
“Nine o’clock,” Jeannie had said.
“I’ll be here.”
In the meantime, Carrie went to the bank, bought groceries, read the Portland papers and worked on her portfolio while sitting on the porch relishing the beauty of the landscape.
The pond was quiet during the week. Sometimes, in the morning, she would awaken to the cackling of a loon, and ducks were everywhere thanks to everyone on the pond offering them food.
Friday night, when the weekend and summer residents were in town, the noise level ratcheted up as motorboats swooped over the water from house to house in an ongoing outdoor party, and voices carried across the water: the sound of greetings and goodbyes, loud laughter, louder conversation.
The blackflies were long gone by then, and nights sometimes were autumn-like. Her mother had always kept an electric blanket on hand for the coolish summer nights. Or a down comforter.
Small comfort now, Carrie thought. I need my mother.
A spasm of grief rocketed through her body, ambushing her out of nowhere. Again.
Why had she thought she was done grieving?
Of course you’ll go to college, dear. Of course you can go away. No use staying here if you don’t want to. It’s rather nice for me, actually, with all my friends and my volunteer work and the church. And the house is so cozy...
Carrie shivered and swiped at her tears.
We were so lucky to find a nice place to live after everything we’ve been through. Dry your tears, dear. Everything will work out fine. I trust you. You won’t make the same mistakes. It will kill me if all this was for nothing. You know...you know...you know...
Her mother’s voice echoing against all those futile years she had sacrificed so that Carrie could go forth, take risks and be a success.
And where had Carrie wound up? Right back at the beginning.
Paradise. For her mother, it had been exactly that, a haven to escape a brutal life after her father had died. There had been no money, no family, no sympathy, no friends. Just one ragged lonely unskilled woman driven to provide safety and security for one small child.
How had her mother done it? She had taken in sewing. She had cleaned the houses of the summer residents and people around the Pond.
It had been subsistance living, enough to pay a minimal rent on a broken-down house no one else had wanted. Enough so that she had been able to slowly and painstakingly make repairs. And enough to have sent a daughter through college with the help of a scholarship. Enough so her mother had ultimately been able to buy the place she had called home.
And Carrie had never known. Had never asked. Had just taken it for granted that was the way things were.
She wiped away her tears. This was ridiculous. She was getting emotional because...well, because.
Truck had nothing to do with it. He’d had his shot and he was gone, and it was nothing less than she expected. She’d dealt with guys like that for years, guys who loved the chase and thought that seeing someone for more than one night was tantamount to commitment.
At least Truck had actually called. It was definitely a point in his favor, but she was the one who would pay the dearest price, because memory and desire had already coalesced into the fierce need to see him again.
To be with him.
Which only proved she needed that whole sexy-lady shopping spree more than Jeannie, because she still hadn’t learned how to hold a man at arm’s length while taking everything he had to give.
She called Jeannie. “Forget Saturday morning. You’d better come over Friday night, because I want to devote hours to making up that shopping list.”
THEY STARTED OUT early Saturday morning for Portland with the intention of hitting every specialty shop and department store before heading up to Freeport and the discount designer shops. Not that Carrie had any money to spend, but she did have a list.
Jeannie, however, had a list, a credit card and more determination than Carrie could ever remember seeing in her.
“Did you discover the secret of sex or something?” Carrie asked curiously. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“No. It’s nothing more or less than I told you. New clothes for a newly minted sexy lady.”
“Maybe we’re carrying this a little too far,” Carrie said.
“Or maybe not far enough,” Jeannie said, zipping through the toll station and onto the turnpike. “Besides, it’ll be fun. You need a day out. You’re looking just a little tense.”
“Nothing much is happening.” Nothing. Period. And Truck didn’t count.
“Story of my life,” Jeannie muttered. “No. Forget that. I’m going to stop s
aying things like that.”
They found parking a half hour later on the streets of Old Port, and spent an hour wandering down the narrow streets, in and out of the shops, looking at crafts, books, jewelry and antiques.
Fabulous little shops, Carrie thought, that might need someone to do a little freelance ad work for them—maybe get ads in those tourist newspapers that were distributed in supermarkets all over New England. Maybe, if there was enough interest, the store owners could publish one of their own, or do a co-op insert in all the surrounding community papers. And the outlet malls. Maybe...
She caught herself. Maybe—she was thinking as if there were possibilities here. As if she intended to stay. But she wasn’t ready to admit that. She wasn’t ready for anything except breakfast, and certainly not cold calls down a road that would probably lead nowhere.
“This is not getting much of our list done,” she said over coffee when they finally stopped to eat. “Wait till Eddie sees those big bold pieces of jewelry you bought.”
“The sexy lady is bold, is she not? Tell the truth—you wrote the copy.”
“But she’s always a lady,” Carrie said.
“I think these pieces are very tasteful,” Jeannie said, holding up one necklace, a swoop of silver, to her neck. “This will look great with a suit and a silk blouse. Of course, I need a silk blouse. I’ve been wearing cotton. Oxford. Can you get any more boring than that?”
“Okay, but just don’t go overboard here, Jeannie,” Carrie cautioned. “This isn’t going to change anything but you.” And point of fact, she wondered if Jeannie was giving herself up at the expense of feeling better. But maybe she really needed a minimakeover. Maybe everyone who had been married as long as Jeannie had to rumble a little. Maybe she would have too, if she’d stayed in Paradise and gotten married.
Carrie shook off the thought. She had her own wardrobe of silk blouses, designer suits and gold jewelry and it had changed nothing. It was just the outer layer, the presentation. Every veneer cracked under pressure; no one was immune, even her. Witness her escapade with Truck.
Truck... She hadn’t changed one iota in fifteen years. She felt as if she was still waiting for his call. Stop it, she told herself.
