The Year that Everything Changed

by Georgia Bockoven

  Emotionally exhausted, she leaned forward and touched her cheek to the top of his head. “I miss you,” she whispered. The admission came from the depth of her soul, the haunting call of the swan left behind by a hunter’s bullet.

  Jeff stood and brought her with him. He combed his fingers through her hair, holding her still for a kiss. She didn’t fight or try to turn away. Instead, her lips parted and she moaned with a fierce release. Her reasons for holding back no longer mattered. She abandoned all she knew for what she felt. She wanted him. She wanted all they had had, all they had been, even if only for that moment and only in her imagination.

  Jeff took her arms and put them around his neck. Her emotional defenses collapsed. She became the aggressor, thrusting her tongue deep into his mouth, bruising her lips in her eagerness. She ground her hips into his, moving hard against the bulge in his jeans.

  “Oh, my God, Rachel,” Jeff said. “I’ve dreamed—”

  “No—don’t say anything,” she said. “I don’t want to talk about this. I just want to do it.” She slipped her hand into his jeans and held him, squeezing and releasing until he let out a cry of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. “I need you to make me forget, Jeff.”

  He tried working the buttons on her blouse, gave up and ripped the fabric open. He unhooked the closure at the front of her bra and swept the cups aside, capturing her breasts with a rough urgency, pinching her nipples between his thumb and finger.

  “Harder,” she demanded. He bent and pulled a nipple into his mouth, sucking, lapping, nipping her with his teeth. She lifted a leg and wrapped it around him, rubbing herself against his erection. In a tangle of arms and legs he removed the rest of her clothes, stopping to kiss and touch and caress until her entire body became an erotic organ that screamed for release.

  He picked her up and laid her on the sofa, then stood over her to shed his own clothes. His hands on her knees, he pushed her legs up and open. He tested her readiness with his fingers, massaging her clitoris then thrusting his fingers deep inside. She moaned and moved against him.

  “Now,” she demanded and reached to pull him down. He took her arms and pinned them to her sides, then did with his mouth what he’d been doing with his hand. She cried out, rocking her hips and arching her back. A sweet tingling ache spread from her clitoris to her stomach and thighs, then contracted to a hard, throbbing urgency deep inside. Her need for release grew, each tongue stroke sweeping her deeper and deeper into a sensual one-way current until she was hit by wave after wave of a climax so intense she tried to curl into herself to contain the ride.

  Jeff released her arms and lowered himself, entering her while she was still in the throes of orgasm, thrusting hard and deep and fast. Rachel wrapped her legs around his waist. He reared back and grabbed her buttocks, pulling her closer, rhythmically matching his thrusts.

  Rachel had never experienced multiple orgasms. She and Jeff had tried, she’d even tried alone, but it had never happened. She’d finally decided it wasn’t possible and gave up. Which was why she didn’t recognize what was happening when the sweet ache in her loins at having Jeff inside her changed to something more. She was back in the current, the ride swifter this time, the water deeper.

  She looked at Jeff, her eyes wide. He must have guessed what was happening because he smiled and then did something he’d never done before, reached between them to touch her, prolonging the climax longer still. She caught her breath in surprise. Confusion at what had been an automatic reaction turned to anger. She tried to pull back, but it was too late. She’d reached the edge and tumbled over, sent on a sensual ride she resented more than enjoyed. Oblivious to her thoughts, Jeff followed with his own climax, pounding deep until he was spent, then collapsing beside her and pulling her into his arms.

  Rachel listened as his panting slowed to deep breaths and then a long sigh. He brushed the hair from her forehead and kissed her. “I love you.”

  “Don’t say that.” She turned away from him but didn’t get up. She was crying and didn’t want him to see.

  He put his hand on her shoulder to turn her back, but when she resisted he stopped trying. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve never done that—never touched me that way.”

  “What way?”

  He knew what he’d done. He only asked because he thought it was expected. “Did she teach you to touch her like that?” Before he could answer she sat up and reached for her blouse. “Was it better for you with her?” God, why was she humiliating herself this way? “Is that why you kept going back—because making love to me wasn’t exciting anymore?”

  “I give up.” Jeff reached for his jeans. “I’ve told you I’m sorry in every way I know how. I can’t give you what you need, Rachel. I can’t turn the clock back. There’s no way I can make what I did go away.” He finished dressing in silence, then headed for the door. “I made a mistake. A huge mistake. It didn’t mean I don’t love you or that I’m not in love with you.” He looked at her for a long time. “I know it’s hard for you to believe, but I never stopped loving you, Rachel. If I’ve really lost you, then that’s my punishment. I don’t know what else to do. Where we go from here is up to you.”

  She could have stopped him with a single word but instead watched as the door closed behind him with an indifferent finality.

  Chapter Thirty

  Ginger

  Ginger had every intention of going to work after she dropped Rachel off. She’d only taken half a day, intending to spend the afternoon finishing a report on an employee returning from disability leave, due in the morning. But the idea of voluntarily returning to a windowless cubicle in the human resources division of Selex Electronics on this sun-filled day held as much appeal as a pair of four-inch platform shoes. Instead, on impulse, Ginger stopped for a late lunch of crabcakes at Pisces, a restaurant she and Marc had frequented when she first moved to California. They’d stopped going there after running into the credit manager from the Oakland dealership—not because Marc was concerned about someone discovering them together, but because he was looking for an excuse to fire the manager and didn’t want anything getting in the way. The crabcakes were even better than she’d remembered, and she left promising herself that she would return soon. Maybe with Rachel on their way home from one of their meetings in Sacramento.

  Yeah, she liked that idea and hoped Rachel would, too.

  Ten million dollars. She’d had several hours to get used to the idea but simply couldn’t wrap her mind around the figure or the possibilities. It was easy to think of things she could do for her mother and father, but she floundered on ideas for herself. She never had to work again. But if she didn’t work, how did she fill her days? She could buy a house, almost any house she wanted. But where? It all depended on Marc. She could finally get rid of her seven-year-old Camry—and replace it with what? She didn’t like Mercedes, the cars Marc sold, and he’d be hurt if she bought from anyone else.

  The thought brought her up short. Where were her dreams, her goals, her ambitions? When had she stopped being an “I” and become a “we”? Her world revolved around Marc. His world included an entire universe.

  They weren’t new thoughts, just ones that she’d never given free rein. What was the point? She loved him, and that meant accepting the good and the bad that came with loving him.

  If only their being together were a matter of money.

  Ginger spotted Marc’s red Mercedes as soon as she rounded the corner into the parking area behind her condo. Surprise and anticipation fluttered in her chest like butterflies released at weddings. Three years she and Marc had been together, and she still felt this way just knowing she was about to see him. Wasn’t that the definition of love?

  She glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes after five. He never left work before six. Curious and anxious, she carelessly swung her Camry into the narrow space allotted her, a space made even smaller by her neighbor’s monstrous SUV, and had to back out and park again. Infringi
ng on a neighboring parking space was a sure way to start a turf war, something she didn’t have the patience to put up with or stubbornness to maintain.

  Marc met her at the door flashing his you-are-the-most-important-person-in-the-world smile, the one she suspected came as easy as breathing to him, but that she still found impossible to resist. She was so damn easy. “What are you doing here?”

  Instead of answering, he reached for her and took her into his arms, pressing a quick kiss on her forehead followed by a longer, not-for-public-consumption kiss on the lips. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting over an hour.”

  Not exactly accusatory, but close. “There was construction on 580. Traffic was backed up for—”

  “What were you doing on 580? I thought I told you it would be shorter to take 680.”

  It used to amuse her that he automatically assumed she followed his advice, as if by asking a question she subjugated herself to his answer. Lately, she’d begun to find it more annoying than charming. “Rachel went with me. I dropped her off at the BART station in—”

  “So, how did it go?” He helped her out of her jacket and laid it over the end of the sofa.

  “It was actually a little sad. I wasn’t expecting that.” Ginger put her purse in the closet and noticed a bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of ice on the coffee table. “I think Lucy Hargreaves was more than Jessie’s lawyer. It was obvious his death affected her pretty deeply. It makes me wonder if—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Marc said. He paused, waited for her, and when she didn’t say anything, prodded gently, “The will, Ginger.” When she still didn’t say anything, he added, “What was in it?”

  Unexpectedly, unreasonably, she resented his asking. “I thought you weren’t interested. At least that’s what you said when I asked you to go with me.” She’d only asked because she knew he’d expected it and was relieved when he’d said he couldn’t get away.

  “You’re right. And since you obviously think it’s none of my business, we’ll just let it go at that.”

  Zing, a blow to the midsection, calculated to do the most damage and put her on the defensive. Damn, he was good. “You know that’s not what I think. I’m just tired. It’s been a rough day.”

  “Then you should let me take care of you. That’s what I’m here for.”

  That surprised her and instantly lifted her mood. Yeah, he was good, and yeah, she was easy. So what? “Oh, and just what was it you had in mind?” She gave him a smile. A peace offering he readily accepted.

  He led her to the sofa, and when she was seated, propped a pillow at her back. He opened the champagne and poured each of them a glass. “Dinner will arrive at six-thirty,” he announced, handing her a glass and sitting close beside her. “I had the chef at Luraine’s personally prepare all your favorites—Caesar salad, filet mignon with orange Bearnaise sauce, wild rice pilaf with scallions—and fresh whipped cream.”

  They were menu items, not something out of the ordinary that the chef would have to “personally” prepare, but to say so, to even think it, made her sound petty and ungrateful. “Just whipped cream? Nothing to put it on?”

  His slow, answering smile said it all—she was the dessert.

  He tucked his head into her neck, nipping her ear, and kissing the sensitive skin at the base of her jaw. “God—you smell incredible. What are you wearing?”

  “Too much,” she said turning into his kiss.

  “Not so fast. You’re always complaining there’s never enough time for us to talk. Now’s your chance.”

  She licked her lips and then his. “Later.”

  “But what about the whipped cream? I promise you that you’re going to like what I have in mind.”

  She got up and went into the kitchen, coming back with an aerosol can of low-fat, low-calorie, low-taste whipping cream. “Will this do?”

  He grinned. “It’ll do just fine.”

  She held out her hand and led him upstairs, tossing the can on the bed and adjusting the blinds. Slowly, the way he liked her to do, she began undressing. He stopped her when all she had left were her bra and panties. She reached back to unhook her bra.

  “Let me do that,” he said.

  She turned her back to him, the silk parted, and he traced a line of kisses the length of her spine. She sighed and leaned into him when he reached around to cup her breasts, kneading them with gentle insistence. Her nipples grew hard and pressed into his palms.

  “You have the most incredible breasts,” he whispered against her hair. “They’re perfect. You’re perfect.” He turned her to face him, smiling. “I see other men looking at you, undressing you in their minds, and I want to tell them whatever they’re imagining, they don’t have a clue.” He leaned down to take one nipple into his mouth and then the other, tugging gently, circling with his tongue, and then suddenly pulling hard. She gasped.

  He slid his hands down her stomach, caught her panties, and slid them over her hips. When she was naked, he held her at arm’s length to gaze at her. “Even like this, no one would ever guess that you’re thirty-two.”

  “Even like this?” she echoed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. You could make a fortune as a body double for all those aging movie stars.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” she teased. “One of these days it’s going to head south.”

  He removed his clothes and hooked them on the bedpost. “When it does, we’ll just find someone to prop it back up again.”

  She would expect Marc to give her gentle jabs if she ever let herself go. Aging wouldn’t come without a fight or without regret, but she absolutely would not become a tucked and padded and Botoxed replica of the woman she’d been at twenty. She wanted him to accept her as she aged naturally, the way he accepted the growing bald spot at the back of his head and the beginning of the spare tire riding on top of his belt. Growing old together, sharing the ups and downs, the good and bad, was the best part of loving someone.

  Naked, armed with the can of whipped cream and a wicked smile, Marc reached past Ginger and pulled back the bedspread. He brought her onto the bed with him, opening her legs and sitting between her knees. He came forward and kissed her, drawing her tongue into his mouth and then thrusting his tongue into hers. Sitting up again, he shook the can, sending her an erotic, almost malevolent look as he drew a circle of foaming cream that covered her areolas. He then dipped his finger into the center of the cream, brought it to his mouth, took half and transferred the rest to hers. Slowly, deliberately he shared the cream this way until only traces remained on her breasts.

  Marc had always been a creative lover, but this was something new, something that left Ginger curious and quivering in anticipation. He drew a line of cream from her breasts to her belly and into the dark triangle between her thighs. He didn’t like oral sex, at least he didn’t like giving it, saving going down on her for “special occasions” when he wanted her especially sated by their lovemaking. He’d always denied that was the motivation, and she let him. She had her own “special occasion” ways to please him. Wasn’t that a part of any good relationship?

  What he did next was beyond her imagining. She caught her breath and jerked into a half-sitting position when something cold was inserted into her vagina and she felt the cavity being filled with cream. He discarded the can, put his hand on her shoulder, and pushed her back down, silencing her protests by covering her mouth with his and giving her a long, plundering kiss. He moved between her legs and thrust deep and hard inside of her. The sensation was unbelievable, the cold of the cream, the heat of his body, the hard driving force. Instantly, she was out of control, meeting his thrusts with an insistent, bruising force. It seemed like only seconds and she was aboard the wild horse, fighting to prolong the ride.

  Later, fresh from a bath, dressed in oversized robes and sitting on the floor eating their gourmet meal off her everyday dishes, Marc stretched across the coffee table to wipe the co
rner of her mouth with his napkin. When he leaned back against the sofa he asked the question Ginger had been waiting for him to ask again. “So, are you going to tell me what happened this morning?”

  “A half-million.” The lie slipped out with stunning ease. It was a first between them, at least on her part. She didn’t count the small lies, the ones she told him every day about understanding why they had to wait to be together. They were the thread that held the fabric of their relationship together. This was different.

  “That’s it?”

  She was stunned at how much she resented his disappointment. Half a million dollars was a lot of money. Instead of backtracking while she still could, she made the lie more complicated. “Divided four ways.”

  “That can’t be right. The investigator I hired said he was worth at least fifty times that.”

  She tried to wrap her mind around this new piece of information. Her deception no longer seemed so important. “You hired an investigator? Why would you do that?”

  “I was afraid something like this would happen. Plainly it’s a good thing I did.”

  “How dare you hire someone without telling me? You had no right. Jessie Reed is my father and my business.”

  “You used to say Jerome Reynolds was your father.”

  “That was a low blow.”

  He tossed his napkin on the coffee table. “You know, I gave up a lot to be here with you tonight. If you think I’m going to stick around and let you attack me just because I didn’t tell you everything I was doing to look out for you, you’re crazy. That’s the kind of shit I get from Judy. I’ll be damned if I’m going to take it from you, too.”

  She knew what he was doing, how he was manipulating her by comparing her to Judy, but after three years the pattern was as set as her reaction. If she didn’t find a way to pacify him, if he left with the argument unresolved between them, she wouldn’t hear from him for days.