by Ward, Susan
“Thinking about having those long, lovely legs wrapped around me was torture. Whenever you would lie beside me, I’d watch how you would stretch them out, those delicate toes pointed and...” he had to stop to breathe, “...all I would want to do is...”
His last words were muffled against her lips.
“Do you want to tell me about it, Devon,” she whispered throatily into his mouth, “or wouldn’t it be better just to show me?”
Krystal woke as soft streams of moonlight whispered like ghosts through the blinds, and an odd tap, tap, tapping echoed in her eardrums. Rolling over in bed without opening her eyes, she reached for Devon, but her hand found only his pillow.
Drowsily, she pressed her face into the linen where his natural male scent still lingered, and her lazy brain cells identified that insistent sound. She smiled.
The clock on the bed table read two a.m. She lay groggily back and listened as Devon worked.
How he had managed to find the energy to do this now escaped her. The man was surely a medical marvel. She could barely rally her muscles to move.
Laughing softly and blushing, she took turns contemplating force-feeding him that darn computer, which took him from her, or slinking out of bed to go in there to see if it were worth the energy to entice and woo him away from his work. The second possibility definitely had allure.
She pulled back the sheets, tried to stretch her arms high, and felt herself drifting back against the pillows. Unfortunately, her body wasn’t half as willing to cooperate as her mind.
Letting out a slow, content sigh, she decided to do neither. Her body was possessed by the most wonderful, languid, free-floating sensation.
She listened for an hour, drifting in and out of sleep, and familiarized herself with the sounds of Devon at work. Slow tapping: Devon carefully considering his words. Pause in tapping: Devon searching for words. Quick tapping: Devon pleased with his thoughts and rapidly committing them to the file.
There was almost a repeated rhythm to it, like a drum beat. Pause was followed by quick. Slow was followed by pause. When pause was long, it was followed by slow. When pause was short, it was followed by quick. Over and over again, the same pattern, until finally she heard herself listening to too long of pause, so she sat up in bed. She had to stop herself from running in there to see if perhaps her medical marvel was no longer breathing.
She heard the sound of something—a coffee cup?—landing on the desk. More tapping. Two hours into his work, and the new sound was Devon taking long break to raid the kitchen.
Pulling a pillow over her head so he wouldn’t hear anymore, while she fought a sudden urge to laugh uproariously, she wondered why it was that everything about him fascinated her so much that she would stay up half the night to analyze it.
She didn’t see Devon come back to bed because the pillow was still clutched over her face. It wasn’t until the bed dipped with his weight, and he lifted the pillow to see her face, that she realized he had finished.
His eyes smiled above her in apology, as he folded her against his chest. “I’m sorry. Did I keep you awake?”
Oh, she tried. She really did try. She couldn’t help herself. Sitting up in bed, she laughed so hard that she had to hug her knees not to roll with the force of it. When it seemed that her laughter wouldn’t recede, Devon turned on the light and searched her face, which made her only laugh harder. He was surprised when she kissed him with a hard smack and, still laughing, pushed him back into the sheets.
The laughter had a purpose, after all. Her body was suddenly re-charged as well.
Saturday had passed in a sweet blur of laughter and Devon. Sunday morning came too quickly. Tonight, Fritz and Maggie would return from Portland with Katie and the blissful isolation of the past two days would be over.
Tomorrow, she’d wake in her house, with Katie and return to the quiet demands of her life as Christine Dillon. How would she ever explain to Fritz that she hadn’t opened the store all weekend? He had left it trustingly in her hands and she felt a little ashamed for having failed him so completely.
Now, lolling in bed, she nibbled on the delicious food on the breakfast tray Devon had prepared for her with such care. The unexpected rightness of being here, like this, with this wonderful man taunted her; she felt those old worries push in.
The interview was over. How much longer would he stay in Coos Bay? Could she even let him stay with her if he chose to? How could she survive now, letting him go?
Staring at his high-boned face, she couldn’t suppress the smile that came at the sight of him reclined against the pillows, glasses—she hadn’t even known he wore reading glasses—resting on the bridge of his nose. He read from an enormous stack of Sunday papers which he had carried up with her breakfast.
She wondered at what price she had bought these blissful hours of ecstasy. Two days ago, she wouldn’t have believed it possible to love any man as deeply as she loved Devon. He had altered her more in those intense moments of physical contact than anything else in her life had ever done. He was her gift, the end of her healing process after Nick, a final revelation and confirmation of the woman she had become in Coos Bay.
She felt as though he were inside her still, even though they were doing nothing but sitting quietly together, so sweetly close, sipping coffee and reading the morning press. He was in every part of her, every pore. She had never experienced this kind of sensual fulfillment, this feeling of true connection with a man.
Her eyes suddenly burned with tears. What the devil was the matter with her? She mustn’t let love blind her into believing they could make something more out of this than they could.
There was only now, no tomorrow for her and Devon. Too soon it would be over, a dream remembered, cherished.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You seem sad.”
Her emotions were a jumble of doubts and morning-after reality. Hiding her fear behind a smile, she lifted her eyes to see Devon watching her over his open newspaper.
“Not sad. Wistful,” she corrected lightly, dropping a kiss on his nose. “Being alone with you this weekend has been too perfect. I’m not ready to give that up. And I don’t know how I’ll explain to Fritz that I didn’t open the shop for two days!”
Putting aside the paper, he pulled her into his arms. “Why not tell him the truth?” he whispered seductively, turning her until she laid full length atop him. “Tell him you spent two days in bed with a man who loves and adores you.”
Laughing, she swatted him playfully and said, “Be serious. I feel terrible. I don’t like the thought that I’ve disappointed Fritz. I owe him so much! I don’t know where Katie and I would have ended up without him!”
His smile was sympathetic, amused. “I don’t think you could ever do anything to disappoint Fritz. He and Maggie love you. You’re like family to them.”
Devon was right. Whatever reason she gave him for her lapse, Fritz would accept, whether he believed it or not, because her happiness was everything to them.
She lifted her face, settling her chin in her palms, her elbows resting on Devon’s chest.
“So what do you want to do with our last eight hours of glorious isolation?” she asked playfully. “Time together won’t be so simple once Katie returns. I’m an old fashioned kind of mom.”
“Katie does go to school.”
A smile tugged at Krystal’s lips. “Yes, she does.”
The look he gave her made her burn.
“If we’re going to be consigned to the daylight, kiddo, perhaps we should start practicing now.”
His kiss was a dizzying seduction.
His hands worked gently at her waist and then glided lower to her thigh, gently kneading the slim line of her muscles, and she felt herself being scooped lightly upward against his hard length. “If you have a different idea than this, you had better tell me quickly.” His voice tickled her ear and stirred the soft tendrils at her hairline. “Or you’ll have no say in the matter at all.”
/> “I want—” she bit her lip, fighting the heady pleasure of his hands. “I thought we might...don’t stop, Devon.”
Lying back into the bed, his mouth came to her full breasts, her flesh aching as she absorbed the subtle motions of his tongue.
“Sweetheart, how do you always manage to taste so good?” he murmured huskily, as his lips wandered over her burning flesh. “Each time we’re together only makes me want you more.”
Love and desire swelled upward within her, and his slow entrance into her body happened so naturally, without effort. Her voice was thick with ecstasy as she said in soft breaths, “It’s no different for me. I’ve never wanted a man the way I want you. I love being with you.”
His hands drove into her silky strands, gripped her, and pulled her toward his mouth. Their lips met in a long, deep, driving kiss. Tiny gasps spilled from her lips when his mouth moved from hers, and in a deep whisper, he breathed, “I love you. Say that you love me, Krystal.”
“I love you,” she whimpered, her trembling arms wound around his shoulders, holding him hard. “I love you, Devon.”
His returned kisses were vibrant, full and deep. The depths of her feelings shook her soul, and the joy of being consumed by Devon swept away all her thoughts. They were one being, one body, one soul.
“Devon, I love you,” she murmured weakly, as his hands roamed over her flesh. She breathed the words over and over again, until that final, delicious surge where they hung together, suspended, like a ray of sunshine.
Much later, when she lay in the curve of Devon’s body, her head against his heartbeat, his hands idling over her flesh, he asked, “Krys, what was bothering you earlier?”
After a pause, “Bothering?” she mumbled, as though confused.
“Before we made love.” He stroked her chin with a lazy finger. “Then later, during.”
She made one of her comical faces. “After our lovemaking you expect me to remember what I was thinking an hour ago?”
That she chose to joke now made his chest tighten. Tracing a finger down her cheek, he said gently, “Talk to me, Krystal. It will be all right; you can tell me. Whatever it is, there’s no reason to hide it from me.”
She sat up then, dropped the sheet and made another face. “I’ve spent the last thirty-five hours naked in your bed. What’s left of me to hide? As far as in-depth interviewing goes, kiddo, I think you’ve given the term a whole new definition.”
He recognized her humor for what it was. He knew that those brutal years with Nick Stafford had required her to build walls to protect her secret, inner person. Her defenses were part of her armor that she would never completely abandon. But that she felt she needed them now, after the closeness they shared when they made love, stung him.
It was when she pulled her heart safely into that deep vault inside that he wondered if what he sensed was Morgan. Her natural, unresolved tangle of feelings for him. Devon dreaded that Morgan was still, and might always be, a ghost between them.
It was the only part of Krystal she didn’t share openly with Devon. The only part of her he was hesitant to explore.
Whatever feelings about Morgan remained deep inside of Krystal, he would learn in time, as the future unfolded, whether he wanted it or not.
Still, it was damn hard to love her as he did and to know that Morgan was a shadowy figure in her mind and perhaps in her heart, as well.
It wasn’t what he wanted to say, but Devon said it anyway. “So what do you want to do with the rest of our day, kiddo?”
Laughing, she slipped her arms around his neck. “I want to make love to you...then go to the movies.”
Staring at her, amused, he said, “The movies?”
She nodded, biting her lower lip. “I’ve never necked in a movie theater. I want my first time to be with you. Then we come back and you get to think of a first time something we can do! I want all the rest of my first times to be with you.”
“When are Fritz and Maggie returning with Katie?”
“Four.”
Dragging her into his arms to kiss her, he whispered against her mouth, “It won’t be enough time to share the rest of my first times with you. What are you doing the next fifty years...?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was a lazy afternoon. The day was warm for May in Coos Bay, over eighty, so they were out in her backyard, Krystal in her hammock, Devon at her patio table, focused on the laptop in front of him.
Devon was completely engrossed in whatever it was he was writing. She watched as he paused, the thoughts dancing across his face, before he would again begin committing his thoughts to words.
Krystal smiled. Beside her sat the newspaper, folded open to Devon’s column, and it seemed to smile up at her, even though she had finished reading it long ago. His writing voice was beautiful. The world through Devon’s eyes was beautiful. Seeing herself through Devon’s eyes was beautiful. The pleasure of seeing them both would never lessen.
She wondered when he would show her his articles about her. Surely, he must be done with them. Why hadn’t he shared them with her? Why were they still not in print?
She didn’t know the answers to any of that. Didn’t know because Devon hadn’t told her. He hadn’t told her about that morning when he had stood ready to e-mail them off to his editor, and had stopped, sweat, fear, desperation holding him at bay.
Frantically, his mind had searched the details about his being here, trying to assure himself that he had done nothing that would betray to the authorities where she was. He had wanted to send them off, not because of the exclusive story they represented, but because Morgan still hadn’t worked the deal with the federal authorities for her return, and a nudge, especially a nudge as powerful as this, could have helped her.
It was bitter irony that he had been careful in his journey to find her, when she had meant nothing more to him than a story, but he had been reckless since his arrival, when she had come to mean everything.
He had stayed too long in Coos Bay, and having stayed made it impossible to print the story after getting it. Too many people now knew him by name and his involvement with Christine.
How many people could he expect to read those stories and not put the pieces together in their minds? More than one was a danger he couldn’t risk.
So the stories stayed safe in his computer, without regret, because they had brought this remarkable woman into his life. He cranked out his next column, hoping he would be able to craft a reasonable explanation as to why the sensational story he had promised he was onto would never come.
Krystal was rocking in the hammock, watching him with bright eyes. It made it damn difficult for Devon to concentrate.
She picked up the newspaper, deciding to reread his column, since he was still hard at work. She had first read about the subject of Devon’s column a week ago in a two-paragraph brief in the Coos Bay Gazette.
A seventh grade boy, in Indiana, had been denied promotion to the next grade for refusing to submit a second book report, when his first book report had been rejected by his teacher because he had read Catcher In The Rye. It was currently on a list of banned books in his school district.
His parents were in the midst of suing the school board when a book burning ceremony had gotten out of hand and burned down the school.
She had read that story, shook her head, and set the paper aside, never giving any thought to it. Devon’s writing forced her to consider it more deeply. His wonderful mastery of words, wit, humor and insight demanded it. The irony of it all had been lost to her in the first story she had read, but Devon captured it and ran a hundred yards with it.
The boy had been disciplined for reading a book which had in no way endangered the course of learning; wayward embers from that very same book had left two hundred children without a place to learn.
People could fight the free expression of ideas, in a free society, but they couldn’t contain the power of them. The boy had been promoted to the next level in the end, not b
ecause of the lawsuit, but because the only school left for him to attend was in another school district, where the process of learning was not censored.
The smile was still on her face when Devon snapped shut his laptop, and she asked, “Have you always been the voice of the civil disobedience crowd?”
“I may be their voice, kiddo, but you are their icon du jour,” he pointed out, amused, dropping a light kiss on her nose. “Do you think you can learn to put up with an unabashed anarchist in your life?”
He settled in the hammock beside her.
“Maybe,” she said playfully, rubbing her cheek against the soft material of his shirt. “Especially since it’s helped me to figure out why I keep you so stimulated.”
“Ah, I’ve been found out. You won’t tell anyone that I’m a pushover for women who are fugitives from the law.” He turned her until she was atop him. “What passions of yours do I feed?”
Her eyes above him were lush with desire and mischief. “Not a one. I just...” There was a halt in the working of her vocal cords when his lips touched her neck. “...took you to bed because I thought it was the only way to keep you silent. But now that I know the truth, I can’t think of a single reason...” His hands were on her breasts. “...to do so again.”
She made as if to flee and he pulled her down, more firmly against him, his arms a gentle, steel-like band, holding her in place. “What about the prospects of sharing unparalleled delights in a hammock?”
“Unparalleled, huh?” She wiggled slightly atop him, arching a brow as the hammock swayed beneath them. “I think a more appropriate adjective would be dangerous! For a writer you’re terrible with your adjectives, Devon!”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” He pulled her toward him, his hands gently moving her hips between his thighs in the same line that the hammock was strung. “It’s all in the motion, see?”
The soft note in his voice had left her a little breathless, and the sweet swirl of his hands sliding beneath her dress brought a throbbing pulse to her throat. She relaxed into his chest, savoring their closeness.
