by Teresa Hill
He loosened his hold long enough to grab a blanket from the end of the bed and cover them both, then pulled her to him once again.
He wasn't letting go.
So she lay there, facing the window now. Looking at the edges of the curtains, she was glad to see not even the faintest traces of dawn. She wasn't ready to face the morning light. She just wanted to hide here in the darkness with him and what they'd done. It was almost like she could still hear the sounds they'd made echoing around the room, like the sensations that still echoed through her body.
She turned her face into his shoulder, hiding in him.
"Go to sleep," he said.
And once again, as she'd done the entire night, she did what he said.
* * *
Waking up in an unfamiliar bed in the deepest part of the night with her—it was something like a dream, he decided. Images of the day before started running through his brain. The trial, the verdict, how crazy he'd been afterward. Buying the bottle, taking a drink, throwing the glass against the wall and scaring Julie.
God, Julie...
He peered through the darkness to the shadowy shape of her lying on her stomach, the smooth expanse of skin at her back bare for him to see. Her hair was everywhere, long and luxurious and completely covering her face.
But it was Julie.
He'd reached for her, been inside her.
More than once.
There on the floor and again in this bed.
He could feel his body stirring even now as he reached out to run his hands through her hair and down her back, into that little indention at the base of her spine and up over the soft, perfect curve of her hips.
She made a gentle sound of pleasure. He had to stroke her back again and let the palm of his hand linger at the swell of her bottom, remembered being pressed up tight against it, in so deep he thought he might get lost inside her. That would be such a nice place to be, lost inside her.
How the night had gotten so bad and how he'd done this was something he would probably never understand. A part of him was as rational as could be, and as careful. That part was shocked through and through. But the other part just didn't want morning to come.
"Julie," he said, and she turned to him.
She was warm and sleepy and practically boneless in his arms. He was supposed to protect her, always had, not hurt her, and never, ever use her.
Still, without a word, she pressed her mouth to his. Her arms came around him, and it was the easiest thing in the world to roll over onto his back and pull her to him. He knew he didn't deserve it, but she hadn't denied him anything so far that night.
He loved the way she felt on top of him. She leaned over him, and her hair fell around them like a shield. He could almost think that the things they did here were hidden away from the rest of the world and somehow just didn't count in the light of day. Although he knew they would, come morning.
But he didn't want the morning. He'd stay in this night with her, willingly, and leave every problem he had behind.
Live in the moment, Zach.
People got in trouble doing this, he thought. Not thinking. Just reacting. Feeling. Taking what they wanted. It was a whole new concept for him.
Julie's arms came around his neck, and her breasts rubbed against his chest as she shifted against him. His hands went to her bottom—God, he loved her bottom—which curved just right to fit into his hands, the skin soft and smooth.
It seemed he wasn't done taking from this woman. With the slightest pressure from his hands on her thighs, he had her knees on either side of his hips, the hot center of her body rubbing against his cock. He was almost hard again, hard enough to get back inside her, as open and welcoming as she was.
She whimpered, and her breath came out in a rush, and he worried that he'd hurt her, if not now, then one of the times before. When he'd taken and taken, going at her hard and deep over and over again, especially on the floor.
But her body started pulsing around him, gripping, releasing, like a hot, wet glove. His mouth latched on to hers, and he eased her into as slow and steady a rhythm as he could stand.
Take it, he thought. All of me and every damned thing. Take it all away.
And it was slipping away from him. Not just everything that was wrong, but any sense of control he had. It felt like he was coming apart already, and he didn't think she was far from it.
He held her tighter, his grip once again maybe too tight, his desperation coming through. Fuck. He was going to leave bruises on her if he wasn't careful. He purposely relaxed his hands on her, but urged her to be still. Then he started rocking his body ever so softly against hers, and damned if that didn't feel even better.
She lifted her head, opened her eyes. He could barely see her face through the darkness, but he took it into his hands, holding her so that her mouth was just a fraction of an inch away from his, trying so hard to figure this out, to understand.
Christ, what was he doing?
"Shh," she said softly, taking his face in her hands, too, her thumb brushing across his lips. "It's all right."
It wasn't.
But he could forget that, with her kissing him ever so softly, her body moving in what should have been a thoroughly frustrating rhythm against his. Soft and slow, rocking gently, maddeningly. The pressure was exquisite.
He felt himself swell impossibly inside her, the climax shuddering through him as he grabbed her and ground his body up into hers.
She was right behind him, those inner muscles of hers squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. He felt the sensation work its way through her entire body. He held on tight, not letting her go anywhere when it was done, thinking they could just stay there. Stay in the night, in the darkness together, where he could lose himself in her, and nothing seemed as bad as it had the day before.
* * *
She'd slept like the dead, not the merest sliver of consciousness piercing the deepest kind of sleep, the ultimate in relaxation.
Waking was as harsh as the beam of light pouring through the slight gap in the heavy curtains and hitting her squarely between the eyes. She winced and covered them, went to roll out of the way and encountered a broad, decidedly male chest that was pressed against her back. She wasn't going anywhere, not with the arm locked around her waist.
The fact that she wasn't wearing a stitch hit next. Then, that neither was he. Next, that it was Zach.
God, she was in bed with Zach McRae.
She almost laughed, because it struck her as absolutely ludicrous.
He didn't even like her.
Oh, he could be kind, but he was kind to everyone. He'd looked out for her because that's just what he did, and maybe he felt sorry for her, but he didn't respect her. He knew exactly what she was. A liar. A woman who ran away from her troubles rather than ever facing up to them. Someone who was about to marry a man who didn't really know her.
And then she thought about Steve.
Julie groaned and buried her face in the sheet covering the pillow beneath her head. Which was a mistake. It smelled like Zach. Like whatever kind of cologne he wore.
It made her think of the way his skin smelled pressed so intimately to hers. It made her think of the fact that she was lying naked in bed with him, and of what it had felt like when he'd been impossibly deep inside her, of the way her body had come alive under the brush of his lips and the touch of his hands.
Never in a million years would she have believed she'd end up in bed with Zach. Never, ever, ever.
She took stock of her predicament. She was lying against his side, while he was on his back, still sleeping. Their legs were tangled together, but she thought she could get hers free without disturbing him. The only real problem was the arm hooked around her waist.
She took a chance and rolled away from him and onto her belly. His grip eased. She held her breath, thinking he might follow her, but she rolled again, off his arm, off him completely. He remained sprawled on his back, the sheet bunched precar
iously low on his abdomen, a veritable wealth of beautiful male skin revealed in the morning light.
She didn't give herself more than a moment to admire him. The clean lines, the broad muscles, the rush of hair along his chest arcing into a single thin line down the center of that narrow waist, disappearing beneath the sheet. And yes, he was obviously hard again, impressively so, judging from the bulge beneath the sheet.
She remembered more clearly and in more detail than she should about that altogether impressive body of his and the skill of his hands. She was afraid she'd remember this for a long, long time.
Julie slid to the edge of the bed and stood, naked and cold, feeling thoroughly exposed. Where were her clothes?
He'd carried her in here. She remembered that. And he'd stripped her bare before they even made it to the bed.
She tiptoed into the living room, her cheeks burning at the disarray of the room and the memories it brought back. The table he'd turned over before she'd gotten there, and all the papers she knew he must have worked so hard over, in a tangled mess on the floor. The smell of liquor in the room and the shattered glass in the corner. The coffee table he'd shoved out of the way as he'd lowered her to the floor by the sofa.
There were her clothes.
Skirt, panties, stockings, at least one shoe. Bra. Blouse. She picked up the blouse, minus three buttons that tumbled back to the floor. She was going to look great making her early-morning escape.
Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
She couldn't quite believe she'd done this.
She put the blouse aside on the sofa, scrambled into her panties and pulled up her skirt, not worrying with the zipper at the moment. Her trembling hands couldn't have managed it. Next she grabbed the bra, fitting the cups to her breasts. She was reaching for the blouse when she sensed more than heard someone else in the room.
Oh, please. Just let her get out of here without having to face him.
When she turned around, there he was, bare feet, weary, bloodshot eyes, razor stubble all over that stubborn chin, hair all mussed, a towel knotted hastily around his waist. Regrets like none she'd ever seen stamped across his face.
"I was... I'm going to go," she said. That was the answer. Go. Without another word. What was there to say anyway?
He nodded toward her skirt barely hanging over her hips, the bra barely covering her breasts, the ruined blouse in her hand. "Like that?"
"No" she admitted as he came closer.
Without another word, he went to her back and carefully, competently raised the zipper and slipped the little button at the top of her skirt through the buttonhole. She tried to stay perfectly still, to not so much as breathe at the slight touch of his fingers against her bare skin, to not feel anything. If only she could manage that.
The bra posed no challenge at all. It seemed he dressed women as easily as he undressed them.
He took the blouse from her trembling hand, frowning at the state it was in. Running a hand through his hair, he looked down at that spot on the floor where they'd been and said softly, gravely, "Did I hurt you?"
"No," she whispered.
He came to stand in front of her, took her chin in his hand, making her look at him. "Are you sure? Because I was rough with you. I know I was."
She held his gaze just long enough to say, "I'm sure. You didn't hurt me." Then she went back to staring at the same spot on the floor that seemed to fascinate him as well.
Her skin tingled in places she didn't care to admit. Her back, from being pinned hard beneath him on the carpet. The skin around her mouth, her nipples, even between her legs, abraded by the rough stubble on his face. She felt a slight soreness between her legs deep inside as well, and maybe in the muscles of her thighs. He'd held her, probably tightly enough in moments that she had a little bruise here and there, but it had been sheer desperation driving him, and she understood that. He'd done nothing that needed forgiveness.
He took the blouse from her hand and held it out for her. She slipped her arms through the sleeves, unable to keep from thinking how kind and considerate he was this morning, in contrast with the way he'd taken her last night. Not a typical night in the sack with Zach McRae. She'd have put money on that. He'd even shocked himself with what he'd done.
With the kind of dexterity she couldn't help but admire, he began buttoning the tiny buttons on her blouse, frowning as he got to the gaping hole in the middle where the buttons were gone and her lavender bra showed through.
"Not gonna do much good, is it?"
She clutched the ends together. "I'll be fine. I just have to get home."
"Not like that." He bent over and grabbed his own shirt, which was lying in a pool of stark white on the sofa. He held it out so she could slip her arms inside that, too. Then she quickly stepped back before he could go to work dressing her again.
It seemed he never stopped taking care of a woman. She hastily buttoned his shirt and rolled up the sleeves. She pushed a hand impatiently through her hair, trying to get it to not look so mussed. She stepped into her shoes. All the while he stood there staring at her.
"I don't know what to say," he began.
"Nothing." She gave him an out. "There's nothing to say."
"I'm sure there must be something. I just don't know what it is."
"Look, it was a bad night," she said as evenly as possible, trying to look very much like it was nothing to her, either. "You were upset. You needed to not be alone."
"And that's supposed to make it okay?"
"It's just one of those things, Zach. It happens."
"Not to me."
She stared at him, a thousand questions running through her mind. He'd never once been that lost? Never once reached for a woman just because she was there and he needed to lose himself in her? His life had never been this bad?
Well, hers certainly had. She understood.
"Ahh, fuck, I didn't even use a condom," he said, his eyes going even bleaker.
"It's okay. I'm not going to get pregnant—"
"You're on the pill?"
"Yes."
"Thank God for that." He was still upset. "Sorry."
"It's all right." Stupid, but no harm done, right?
He frowned at her. "That's it? I got drunk and poured out my troubles to you and then we ended up in bed, and all you say is that it's all right?"
"What else is there to say?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Yeah, I know. Because you don't do this."
"And you do?"
Her cheeks burned at that. It really wasn't any of his business what she'd done over the years or how badly she'd felt about any of it.
"I'm just saying that I know what this was. I understand. You needed someone, and I was there. It's awkward, and I'm sure we both regret it and find it a little embarrassing, but people have done worse things. We'll just put it behind us and go right on."
"Go right on?" he repeated.
"What else would we do? Beat ourselves up over it? You really don't need to do that, Zach. It was one night, and in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn't matter all that much, does it?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Well, I do. I know what it was. Two people helping each other make it through the night. That's it. Now it's morning, and the thing is, problems never look quite so bad in the morning. You go put your life back together, and I'll go do the same to mine."
He frowned once again. "What about Steve?"
She winced. Zach might not believe her about this, but it was one thing she could not lie about. She found her other shoe, grabbed her purse and her keys. "I have to go."
He stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Julie, I'm sorry."
"It's all right," she said, his touch bringing back a million little memories of the night before, memories she certainly didn't need or want.
Then, unable to help herself, she turned to face him. Which was a mistake. She needed to forget him and this sad, lost lo
ok on his face, too. And all that bare skin and him all rumpled and uncertain. She'd never seen Zach uncertain, and it made her want to try to take care of him some more. But look where that innocent little impulse had gotten them both.
She rose up on her tiptoes and gave him a quick, soft kiss on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, okay?"
He nodded bleakly.
"And go home." Jesus, he had people who loved him, people who would take care of him. He didn't have to live like this.
"The trial isn't over." He looked defeated all over again. "We still have the sentencing phase to get through."
She didn't want to know that, to think of him still being here, to worry about him and want to see him. She wouldn't. She couldn't.
"But after that," she said, thinking he just had to go.
He frowned, still looking uncertain and so damned lost. "Houston. I heard yesterday. I have a case starting soon in Houston. They love killing people in Texas."
Which was the last thing he needed to do. Go rushing off to save someone else when he was feeling so bad himself. She was going to worry about him, even if he wasn't hers to worry about. He never would be. Just that little piece of him she'd had last night.
"I have to go," she said, and slipped out the door, refusing to look back and think of things she could never have.
* * *
After she left, Zach stood in the middle of the room, smelling the whiskey he'd hurled into the opposite wall at one point.
He'd kicked over the table, too. He remembered that.
He'd called Gwen.
Jesus, Gwen.
He sank down onto the sofa, leaning back against the cushion, head pounding. He absolutely could not believe he'd done this. He didn't go off on trips and get drunk, pick up strangers and take them to bed with him. He didn't fall apart. He didn't cheat. He didn't lie. He and Gwen were engaged, and that meant something to him. One thing it meant was that he didn't sleep with other women.
"Shit," he muttered.
He still wasn't quite sure how it had happened. He'd heard other guys say that exact thing after cheating on their significant other, and he'd thought, Bullshit. You know exactly how it happened.
Yet here he sat, his feet on that spot on the floor where he'd had her.
