He snorted.
“It’s hot,” she said, pumping him once, hard and fast, making him suck in a breath.
“What is?”
“Thinking about you jacking off.”
“You have your vibrator, I have my fist.”
She stroked again, slowly, staring at his dick, her mouth slack, which might be the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen.
“Shower or bed?” she asked.
“Yes. You?”
She smiled. “I like the bathtub. But once in a while on a long drive alone in the car.”
He almost lost it in her hand. “You make yourself come when you’re driving?”
Her eyes widened. “I know, right? What crime won’t I commit?”
He wanted to laugh, but she punctuated the question with another squeeze, while she cupped his balls with her other hand. Fiery sparks flashed up his body and a few gallons of blood rushed to put out the flames. He grew bigger in her hand, dying to get inside her but unwilling to stop this…this intimacy.
“What do you think about, Zoe?” His voice was barely a whisper, since talking took way too much of the energy he needed not to shoot right into her hand.
“I think…” She leaned up again, easing him closer to her mouth. “About that time…” She flicked her tongue over the wet tip. “We did it on the stairs up to your apartment.”
He grunted when she put her mouth on him, the memory of driving into her on the hardwood steps at three in the morning still one of the sexiest five minutes of crazy in his whole life.
“Me, too,” he admitted.
She lifted her head, looking up at him. “We were good together, Oliver.”
“We are good together,” he said, reaching for the foil packet she’d set on the bed. “Let me show you.”
She didn’t argue, thank God, but pulled out the condom and placed it on his head, then slid it so maddeningly slowly he thought he might cry. Lying back, she spread her legs and gave him a silent look of invitation.
He braced himself, feasting on every move and muscle of her body as she let him in, her soft, soft sigh of contentment as he filled her up. Their eyes met as he started to move faster, and hers shuttered closed as the sensations took over.
Everything was new to him. The angle of her face when she turned her head, the shape of her breasts as they moved with her body, and the intense, tight, squeeze of her body around him. All new, all brand new.
She stopped moving suddenly, reaching up to touch his face. “I just lied to you.”
He slowed a little, causing a small insurrection in his balls. “What?”
“I don’t think about the time on the steps.”
Forcing himself to focus and stop moving, he looked at her. “What do you think about?”
“I don’t. If I think about you too much, I start to cry.” A single tear escaped from the side of her eyes. “So I don’t think. I…escape. I go away in my mind.”
He lowered himself, wrapping her narrow frame in his arms. “Don’t go away now, Zoe. Stay here, right here. With me. Don’t go anywhere.”
She nodded, biting her lip, as he started pumping into her again. He plunged deeper and faster, finally letting go of his last shred of control to hold her as close and tight as he could and spill everything into her.
A second later she shook with her own loss of control, murmuring his name, biting her lip, and then giving into an orgasm that pulsed around him. Immediately, she pulled him closer, wrapped her arms around his neck, and clung to him as if she would never let go.
They stayed that way until he slipped out of her and the sheen of sweat on their skin cooled under the air-conditioning. For what seemed like the most perfect ten minutes of his life, Zoe didn’t voluntarily move a single muscle. She breathed quietly, and her heart slowed to a steady, normal beat. But everything else was…still.
Until the high-pitched beep from the oven reminded them of dinner.
Only then, when he’d slowly eased himself to the side, did she move, and that was to trap him with her leg.
“Let it burn,” she said. “I can’t get up.”
“This is the longest time you’ve ever been still,” he whispered.
He could feel her cheek smile against his. “A magic orgasm.”
“Better than anything at sixty on the highway?”
“Eighty.”
“Please tell me you’re lying about that.”
She laughed softly and he inched away, dealing with the condom and then pulling up the light blanket from the foot of the bed to cover her. “Stay here. We deliver.”
“No kidding.” She rolled around like a contented cat while he stopped in the bathroom, washed up, and grabbed boxers. In the kitchen, he assembled a tray of pizza and beer. When he came back, he half expected an empty bed, but she hadn’t moved, except to take off the T-shirt and toss it on the floor.
He put the tray on the bed, gave her a fresh bottle of beer, and sat cross-legged as she pulled herself up. The blanket fell away, revealing the sweet slope of her breasts as she lifted her bottle for a toast. “To masturbation.”
He choked softly. “The end of it, you mean.”
“For now.”
With a soft grunt, he lowered his bottle. “Already looking for an exit strategy, Zoe?”
“Just covering my bases.”
“Well, cover your headlights instead so I can stop staring and start eating.”
She grinned and, of course, did exactly the opposite, squaring her shoulders to jut out her breasts, still pink from handling and so round and sweet and soft.
“Think of them as visual aids for when you’re alone again.”
He dragged his gaze to her face. “Why should I be alone again?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she took a slice of pizza and held it poised to her lips. “Do you have to turn our post-sex pizza party into a commitment conversation?”
Hell, yes, he did. “What do you have against commitments?”
She took a bite, chewed, and shrugged. “What do you have against masturbation?”
“It’s lonely, depressing, and leaves you worse off than before.”
“Then you’re doing it wrong.”
“Zoe.” He slammed his beer onto the nightstand. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why are you?” she asked, far more calmly than he had. When he didn’t answer, she plucked a piece of cheese from the topping, stretched it, then opened her mouth like a bird to feed it to herself.
“Because we just made—”
She held out her hand, a strand of cheese on her lip and fire in her eyes. “No, we didn’t.”
“Then what the fuck do you call it?”
“I call it…that.” She raised an eyebrow. “Fucking.”
He let both hands fall with a disgusted sigh. “Why do you have to do this?”
“Oliv—”
“Why do you have to get all tough and funny and hard-ass and put that goddamn brick wall around you?” He ground out the words, fighting the fury that rose.
She looked at him, almost imperceptibly nodding.
“What?” he demanded.
“She’s right.”
“Who is?”
“Pasha. She’s right about you and all that anger you carry around. Who are you mad at? Me? I just spread my legs for you and gave you my all, Oliver Bradbury. You took down the wall and got inside me.” She kneeled a little, narrowing her eyes. “That’s all I wanted. Take it or leave it.”
Each word pushed him farther away. Each word reminded him that whenever he trusted a woman, she proved not to be worthy of that trust. Zoe was no exception.
“Just tell me why,” he demanded.
“I don’t know any other way.” Her tone was flippant and pissed him off more than what she’d said.
“What? When we were together we were just ‘fucking’? Is that right, Zoe? You don’t call that a commitment.”
She angled her head. “Now we’re fighting.”
�
�Can you see this from my point of view?”
“Can you just be a normal guy who wants sex without being tied down?”
He pushed his paper plate away and practically leaped off the bed. “I can’t do it,” he said roughly. “I can’t just…do it. And I don’t know why or how you can.” He froze and stared at her. “Do you not trust me? Is that it?”
“I trust you,” she said softly, looking down at the food as if she couldn’t handle the intensity of his gaze. “It’s me I don’t trust.”
Air came out of him in a whoosh. Well, that made two of them who didn’t trust her.
“I’m not hungry anymore.” He went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the shower.
Maybe she’d come in and they’d wash away all this…mess. Hey, an idiot could hope, right?
He stayed in the shower until he depleted the supply of hot water in the tank and the spray turned ice cold. And, of course, she didn’t come in.
Still he let the water sting against his back, then his face. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Zoe…Zoe on the stairs of his apartment.
But when he imagined those stairs, they became another set of wooden stairs. Up higher and higher, the house quiet and empty…but for the sounds of a child’s footfall on each step.
All the way to the third-floor attic.
With a push that nearly broke the shower door, he knocked the glass open, stepping out without bothering to turn off the spray. He had to tell her. She had to know.
“Zoe!” He threw open the door and blinked into the light. She’d left the room immaculate. The bed made. The pizza and beer gone.
All that remained were his scrub pants, fallen on the floor with the legs curved in the shape of a heart.
Had she done that on purpose?
He stood and listened for a moment for any sound, but, of course, she was gone.
He’d lost the battle…and her.
Chapter Eighteen
Pasha reached for Matthew, but just as her fingers closed over his narrow shoulder, he disappeared into the ground. Then he reappeared, but he was different this time. Instead of Matthew, it was Evan.
Behind him, a moonbow flickered in the sky.
True love will return.
The true love of a mother for her son?
“Miss Pasha, time to wake up, dear.”
She startled at the voice, then stayed very still on the bed, the room dim but for a small green light on something electronic in the distance. A machine hummed somewhere, a soft, lulling sound.
“I know it’s early and you’re probably foggy from the sedatives.”
The nurse’s voice pulled Pasha out of her reverie, but Wanda was so sweet and soft-spoken that she didn’t mind. Her strong hand landed on Pasha’s shoulder, comforting and sure.
“We need to do a bone scan now, love.”
“Mmm.” Pasha drifted away. What time was it? Morning? Evening? She had no idea anymore. It was all sleep and dreams. Dreams about Matthew.
And Evan. That sweet little boy who made her want to live again.
“The drugs make you groggy, don’t they?”
“Not really. I’m just…” What was this feeling? So unusual and unfamiliar. She was… “Happy.”
That was it. She was happy. How strange was that? She still didn’t open her eyes, for fear that the happiness would float away like a soap bubble.
“Drugs can do that, too,” Wanda said with a chuckle, making Pasha picture the nurse’s beautiful chocolate-colored face breaking into a glorious smile. She had lovely teeth and such a warm, natural smile. It made Pasha feel good. Everything made Pasha feel good.
“Very happy.” That had to be Evan’s influence. There was no other explanation.
“Well, that’s nice, Miss Pasha. Not too many people in this situation are happy.”
“Not too many get what I got.” A second chance…with Evan.
“The T-cell gene therapy? You can say that again. There are hundreds of patients trying to see Dr. Bradbury and Dr. Mahesh. Getting on the list for this procedure is like being handed a miracle.”
No, Evan was like being handed a miracle. An eight-year-old miracle and another opportunity to love a little boy.
She barely opened her eyes as she was taken down the hall to another room and put on a new table. Still that didn’t change how happy she felt.
“Don’t move, Pasha,” the nurse said, ever so slightly tightening her grip. “I need to have you right in the perfect place before I start the scan.”
Pasha tried to keep every muscle in her body completely motionless, but one of them refused to cooperate. “Is it okay if I smile, Wanda?”
Another soft chuckle. “I can’t say anyone’s ever asked me that going in for a scan. I think it’s fine if you smile.”
So she did.
“You know, Miss Pasha, you are such an inspiration to me.”
“I am?”
“Absolutely. A positive attitude is the most powerful thing you can bring to this party.” The nurse situated Pasha on the bed and patted her arm. “Is it all the gypsy hoo-hah stuff you were telling me about before? When you looked at the ice in your water and said those two cubes meant two people who were supposed to be together had found each other?”
Pasha nodded. “That’s right, Wanda. You have a good memory.”
“Not like I’d forget something like that. So that’s why you’re smiling? Here—I’m going to lift your head ever so slightly, dear.”
As Wanda’s strong hands slid under Pasha’s neck, a warm, trusting feeling rolled over her. She liked Wanda. She liked everyone right now; she really hadn’t been this happy in years.
And not because she was finally going to die and free her darling Zoe. But because—
“You’ll be having a full blood transfusion in the next few days and I hope you’ll be smiling through that, too.”
“Oh, you never know. I might be smiling.” Heck, she might be laughing by then. Laughing and loving and so happy to be alive. “I’m not afraid of anything anymore.”
The nurse tilted her head, and said, “Let me guess. You love Jesus?”
“Well…” She’d never been particularly religious, so no. Of course, she could lie. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time in her life. “He’s okay.”
“Because the people who are thinking about God are usually the ones who are calm during this part of the whole thing.”
“It’s not Jesus who’s making me happy,” Pasha replied.
“Family?”
“Not exactly. I mean my family, most of it, is gone.”
Wanda nodded knowingly. “So, you think the worst that could happen is Dr. Bradbury fails and you get to see someone you love again, don’t you, dear? Who’s up there? Your husband?”
She looked right into Wanda’s trusting eyes, the trance still carrying her on a cloud, the blood in her veins not boiling in fear for the first time in so, so long. Instead, she felt at peace and certain of everything. So calm and detached and, yet, so happy.
“My son,” she rasped. “My son, Matthew Hobarth, is up there.”
Wanda closed her eyes and sighed. “Oh, my dear. Your son. The hardest thing in the world to lose a child, I say. God knows, I’ve seen some mighty miserable parents in here.”
“It hurts,” she agreed.
“I’m going to slide your shoulder a little to the left now. How old was your son when you lost him, Miss Pasha?”
“Seven and a half.”
Wanda gasped softly. “Oh, Lord. So young. I’m very, very sorry to hear that.” She patted Pasha’s shoulder gently. “Was it cancer?”
Pasha took a slow, deep breath, not answering.
“I hope you have lovely memories of him,” Wanda said quietly.
“I do. I think of him laughing, climbing a tree on our last day together, getting a chocolate-milk mustache as a reward, cheering a card game win, finishing a puzzle. No, no that’s not Matthew.” She felt her brows draw into a frown, but
, honestly, that effort was more than she had in her right now. “That was Evan,” she finished.
“Evan? You mean Dr. Bradbury’s little boy? He’s something, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. He’s wonderful. He reminds me of Matthew.”
“That’s nice. Evan’s smart like his daddy and…” Wanda laughed softly. “Not really anything like his mother. Which is a good thing.”
Pasha might be in a little bit of a fog, but not so much that she couldn’t recognize an opportunity when it was presented to her. “So why did he marry her?”
Wanda looked surprised by the question. “I surely don’t know Dr. Bradbury’s business,” she said. “But his former wife’s father is a bigwig in the medical community. Now you didn’t hear that from me, Miss Pasha.”
Pasha smiled. “And you didn’t hear about my son from me,” she whispered. “I have secrets, you know.”
“I bet you do,” she replied with a soft laugh. “Now, I need you to hold very still, sweetheart, because this long metal arm is going to pass over your whole body and scan your bones. If you move, we have to do it all again.”
“Okay.”
“Anything you want to get out before we start?” Wanda asked. “You know, another smile, a quick prayer, more secrets?”
“One more secret,” she said, even groggier than when she’d first awakened. “One more,” she mumbled.
“Go right ahead. Your secret is safe with me, darling.”
The trance was starting again, the lulled-to-sleep feeling where there was no pain, no worry, no trouble, no secrets. No secrets. “My name’s not really Pasha,” she whispered.
“Oh?” Wanda had a little smile in her voice, as if she liked this secret. “What is it?”
“Patricia.”
That strong hand patted her again. “Pasha suits you much better. It’s a great nickname.”
“Not a nickname,” she said. Then something sort of broke off in her head, like a branch snapping from a dead tree, needing to be pruned. “And my little boy didn’t die of cancer.”
On her shoulder, Wanda’s hand stilled. “Oh, really.” She sounded like she might be searching for the right thing to say. But what can anyone say? “What happened to him?”
Barefoot in the Sun Page 21
