by Louisa Trent
Besides providing breakfast and lunch and a referral to appropriate residential transitional living programs, The Shelter provided a continuum of services to meet the individualized needs of their clients, many of whom were high school dropouts.
The idea was to give homeless street youths a shot at becoming independent, self-sufficient adults. GED prep, pre-employment programs, computer training, internships, job shadowing, worksite and college tours and job training were all offered. Every time the support services worked it was a triumph for the kids, for the program, for all the workers, for society as a whole.
She would love to share her renewed hope about John Smith with Drew, but she would bite her tongue until their two weeks together were over. She would probably burst at the seams holding it all in, but she really did need to recharge the batteries, grab some time for herself or face the depletion of her energy.
Burnout. It happened all the time to workers in human services. The only prevention was to have a life outside the job, something she'd put off for far too long.
Not anymore. Time for a change. Time to grab a little happiness. Time to find a guy and make things happen. Way past time to start having sex. What had held her back?
Kesley admitted to certain conformist traits. She didn't like to argue, wanted everyone to be happy, everything to be nice and orderly. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a plain woman, nondescript, nothing that would ever catch anyone's attention, particularly a man's attention. As long as she liked who she was on the inside, that's what mattered. And sometimes, a timid appearance on the outside served as a helpful tool. No one saw her as a threat. Basically, she was overlooked. Who would think to notice a little brown mouse?
When it came to her kids, the little brown mouse roared like a lion.
As a social worker, she advocated for young people amidst the confusing tangle of bureaucratic red tape, acting as a voice for those without a voice. Understanding how it felt to be seen as a nonentity, she made sure her kids were heard and seen. She did it with a vengeance, her vocal cords loud and strong and persistent, her images of lost kids as vivid as she could make them. She wore the system down until her teens got what they needed. When the directors of governmental and private agencies saw her coming, they ran and hid--from her, the little brown mouse. And she went right after them; no one escaped her mighty advocacy. If she could only speak up for herself and her own needs as easily!
Maybe today she would start. The sun shone like a big yellow beach ball up in the clear blue sky, she was no longer down in the dumps about John Smith, and she had an appointment that didn't involve crisis intervention. An assignation--imagine that!
She'd received notes before from Drew. They were either jotted on the back of a brown paper bag or at the very most, written hastily on a sheet torn from a legal-sized note pad. Now this! A message on rose-scented stationary! What a sweet gesture.
Carefully folding the rendezvous note, she placed it in her jacket pocket. The Shelter was an informal place. Unless she had a meeting to attend, she generally dressed casually, jeans and a cotton shirt for the most part. Dressing down made the kids less suspicious of her as an adult authority figure. But since Drew made a point of saying he liked his women in dresses, today she had worn a sleeveless summer dress in a soft pastel floral print with a linen cover-up jacket. As her clientele was predominantly male, she never wore anything revealing. She would meet Drew wearing the dress, returning to work afterwards for a fast change into the extra pair of jeans and shirt she always kept in her office before hitting the street for outreach that night.
The antique furniture store was only a block away from The Shelter. Excited about the tryst, she raced all the way there.
Mr. Gordon, the owner and sole salesperson, looked up when she entered. "Need help? Give a holler."
At her nod, he returned to reading his newspaper.
Drew had already arrived. He waited for her at the rear of the showroom. When he smiled at her across the overstuffed chairs, a little wobbly ping went off inside her chest.
That smile wasn't Drew's usual smile at all. It was a very adult grin he was sending her way, his eyes hooded and seductive, the pupils an electric blue, sparking with sexual awareness.
And he wasn't comfortable with that awareness, she could tell. He didn't like thinking about her in a sexual way. His hands were stuck in his pockets, causing his broad shoulders to appear slightly hunched. With tufts of thick blond hair falling carelessly over his forehead, he resembled a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
She was no cookie jar and Drew was no little boy. His head almost scraped the store's ceiling; his masculine allure energized the air particles that separated them.
Then again, that could have been the dust in the place. Mr. Gordon had some beautiful antique pieces on display but the showroom hadn't been cleaned this century. Holding back a sneeze, Kesley felt the same tingling awe she always did when she saw Drew. That staggeringly handsome face, those manly features, the raw sensuality he exuded.
Of course, he wasn't exuding much in the way of pheromones today. His guards were up. Drew was wary of her now that she'd asked him to sleep with her. He'd much prefer to see her as safely asexual.
And that brought her to his sweet romanticism. Sex for Drew was fun and bawdy, never heartfelt. She couldn't help but feel that Drew was using chivalry as a method of keeping up the distance between them. That was fine, as long as the hearts and flowers didn't postpone the nitty-gritty. Time was of the essence! They only had two weeks.
Two steps brought him to her side. He leaned down, whispered, "You look beautiful."
She was not about to argue, though she knew she looked the same as she always did. Okay, maybe a little different because of the dress, but basically the same. She wasn't a beauty and she was reconciled to it. No makeover, diet, or exercise program would magically transform her into a magazine image. And that was okay. She liked who she was, was basically satisfied with her trim, smallish body, with her neat but plain appearance. How she looked wasn't why her sex life sucked. The blame rested in not making things happen. In not advocating for herself and what she needed.
No more. She planned on making things happen.
But poor Drew! He looked terrified. Change was always difficult--how many times had she told that to the kids at The Shelter? And Drew, for all his free and easy ways, was not a person who liked change.
"Thank you for the com ... com ... compliment," she said haltingly.
He tilted his jaw to her breathless voice. "Did you run all the way?"
"The note ... I was so excited. I've never had an assignation before. I couldn't wait to get here."
"Take a deep breath," he interrupted. "I'm not going anywhere. There was no need to run."
"I was afraid I'd be late and you'd leave and I'd die a virgin and..."
"Come here, you." Taking her hand, he led her to the stairs.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Some place private where I can shake some sense into you."
"Oh goody. I love domineering men. At least I think I do, but as sadly lacking in experience as I am, I could be mistaken."
He led her down the stairs to the basement where Mr. Gordon kept the furniture bargains. After kicking some dusty boxes out of his way, Drew stood behind her, forcing her to face a cheval mirror. Clamping his hands on her shoulders, he said, "Look at that woman!"
Kesley took a quick peek at herself.
"No! Really look. Look hard." When her muscles tightened, he started massaging her upper arms. "Now listen to me."
In utter abandonment, her head lolled back against him, her gaze receding from the mirror to stare at the ceiling.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Uh-huh."
"You are beautiful. Very beautiful. Any man who gets you is damned lucky."
"Keep talking. I might keep you around."
"Do that. Keep me around. You've kept me around for a decade already." H
e kneaded her neck.
"Mmm." She heaved an orgasmic sigh. "Don't stop what you're doing. I'm putty in your hands."
"I'm good with my hands."
Oh, she could attest to that. So could probably a million or so other women. "But you know, Drew, eventually, with time, putty gets all dried up and cracked, and it sort of crumbles around the windowpane it's supposed to hold in place and the glass falls out and shatters. That's how I feel inside, like I'm shrinking, about to disintegrate, about to crack. Don't let it happen, Drew. Please?"
His knuckles skimmed her cheekbone. "You are the most irritating, exasperating, beautiful woman I've ever known. You're not going to dry up like a spinster in some damn Victorian novel. I'll walk you through all the first-time-sex embarrassing stuff, show you some tricks, and then you can go out and get any guy you want."
"Any guy I want, huh?
"Yep. You bet. Guaranteed."
"Good. Because I don't want to die a virgin."
He braced her shoulders to his chest. "You're not dying a virgin. I made you a promise and I intend to keep it. And when we're done, you'll be able to cut a mile wide swathe through all the eligible men in Boston."
Her lashes fluttered down from the ceiling to look in the glass, tagging his gaze with hers. "Goody. I can't wait. Let's get started before all those eligible men get away."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Another time, Drew might have laughed off Kesley's tasteless show of enthusiasm. Not today. For some reason, today he found her eagerness for sexual experience amazingly unfunny.
He spun her around to face him so he could tell her so, but before he could spit the words out, her lush mouth played him for a fool. He felt himself sinking into her lips and there was nothing he could do to save himself.
Moronic to fight the kiss, he thought, when every cell in his body screamed out for her with the kind of physical urgency that defied good intentions. Surrendering to an impulse that seemed more holy than base, the kiss that came from out of nowhere gained momentum fast, until it had a life of its own, a heat of its own, a pulse of its own. His lips locked on hers.
Two hands clamped to her shoulders, he determinedly pressed her closer, his mouth opening over hers until their tongues met, coiled, entwined, no more beating around any damn bush. As the kiss sizzled and popped, he realized right away that Kesley sure as hell didn't kiss like a virgin. Her mouth went from soft and giving, to clinging. From there the contact escalated to sexual hunger. He couldn't tell which of them drove the kiss, he only knew he was taking the ride of his life.
So much for teaching her kissing techniques, Drew thought in bewildered dismay. Looks like they were skipping the prerequisites and moving onto advanced subjects.
Too quickly. The jump was just too fast. He wasn't ready.
"More," she demanded, all husky in his ear.
"More?" he croaked, husky too. From fear. "How much more? We're in the middle of Gordon's."
"I don't care."
"Take a breath first," he replied, gasping for air himself. "And I'll see what I can do."
When she finished sucking in a mouthful of oxygen, he gave her the more she wanted. Unbelievably, more was what he wanted, too. Their tongues sparred and warred and teased. There was nothing warm or tender or friendly about the embrace. Her hands were everywhere and anywhere at once. Wild and unstoppable, assertive, aggressive, a tyrant calling the shots. Although he let her take full advantage of him, he kept his own hands securely glued to her shoulders.
Going up on her toes, she ran her hands through his hair. "Oh, Drew, Drew. Kiss me, Drew, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. Keep on kissing me."
He yanked her closer.
He hadn't intended to, but his hands were acting without any connection to his brain. "Kes, sweetheart, we'll end up on the floor if we keep going at it like this."
"I don't care."
"But the floor is all dirty and stuff," he argued, while his disembodied hands kept holding her tight.
"I don't care."
"You're dress will get ruined," he said, looking for a straw to grasp.
The little wanton made a wounded noise at the back of her throat, something between a mew and a moan.
"I don't care."
Forget about grasping at straws, an acre of haystacks wouldn't save him now. He was a beaten man.
Hauling her arms up over his shoulders, Drew hoisted Kes up the length of his body, anchoring his bulge to her sweet slit. Mindlessly, their bodies grinding together, her yellow dress crushed like flower petals between them, he growled, "This is definitely not a good idea," and half-walked her, half-dragged her, to the wall under the stairway for the sake of privacy. "Not a good idea at all."
"I don't care."
"Funny, I thought you would say that." Then he kissed her hard, one ear listening for customer footsteps on the tread above them while she gyrated against his zipper, the incredibly sexy hip moves shaking the brains right out of his head.
Brainless, his big hands went to cup her bottom, only to hold her still, but one palm somehow ended up beneath her skirts and slid over her ass.
Cotton panties. Little-girl innocent panties. He froze.
"Yes, Drew, yes."
"Un-un. Hell no. No fucking way. I'm good, but I ain't that good. I can't do what you want me to do, not here." He fixed his forehead to hers. "Sweetheart, we need to save this vertical stuff for later. We've already skipped the class on kissing, no way am I plowing ahead to the graduation ceremony."
"Pardon?" she chirped, a bird leaving the nest way too soon.
"I said this position is too advanced for the beginner."
He slid her down his body, pointed to the stairs above their heads. "I hear footsteps. Customers. They're headed our way."
She opened her mouth to speak.
He put a finger to her lips. "And please don't say, 'I don't care' because I do care. A hell of a lot. You can't be caught with me like this."
"You're no fun," she grumbled.
"At the end of two weeks, I'll be fun. Not 'til then."
He put her away from him, then bent to straighten out her dress.
She didn't say a word.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. How come she wasn't talking?
Kes always talked things out, through, and over. A social worker to the core, she would tackle the most sensitive topics, the kind of complicated, not-so-nice stuff most folks wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole, that most people wanted swept under the carpet, out of sight, out of mind.
Not Kes. She fearlessly shone a one-hundred-watt bulb right at those dark places. That's why she was so good at helping kids in trouble. She not only cared, she was one tough lady. The places she went to at night with those streetworkers, the situations she encountered day in and day out, the problems those kids had ... just one of those things would break most people's optimism.
Not Kes. She remained hopeful throughout it all.
"You look pretty, like a yellow rose. Did I tell you that yet?" He gently touched the corner of her swollen mouth when she remained silent. "Kesley? Aren't we talking today?"
Her quietness was more than he could stand. He pulled her close again, placed his lips at the crown of her head, thankful when he heard loud voices and steps descend the stairs so he wouldn't do something stupid, like start kissing her all over again.
"We'd better leave. You go up first. The bed I want you to check out is on the left. You can't miss it. There's a white canopy on top with a curtain enclosure. Solid mahogany, Williamsburg reproduction."
With a dazed nod, she turned and left.
As soon as he was alone, Drew washed both palms over his face, then smashed his clenched fist against the wall.
Shit, piss, and corruption! How the hell could he go through with this?
When it came to sex, he went through the motions by rote. He'd satisfy whoever he was with first, before getting off too. On and off. Just like a light switch. No complications. No making it out to be more than a
good time.
Sex wouldn't be like that with Kes. Sex with her ... sex with her...
Making love to Kesley would mean something.
Was he ready for meaningful sex?
Drew broke out in sweat. Why was he doing this? Why had he ever agreed? They had a perfect thing going. What were they doing screwing with perfect?
Because Kes had asked him to do this for her. Because he would do anything for her, anything to make her happy, even run the risk of messing with his head.
The prospect of making love for the first time terrified him.
But terror didn't make his dick go soft.
That kiss. That wet, hungry, cock-hardening kiss. Where had Kes learned to kiss like that?
"Nice bed," Kesley said conversationally, looking his way when he stumbled up the stairs to join her.
Good! They were talking again. "Ya think?"
"I do. Yes. Different from what I thought you'd pick out."
"I'm glad you like it." He strolled over.
An effort, that lazy stroll. The easy gait cost him. His balls ached, his dick hurt. Since that make-out session under the stairs had brought him to his knees, a crawl would have made more sense.
Kes puckered her brow. "But why go to all the expense of buying a bed for only two weeks?"
"I've been wanting an antique bed for some time," he lied, though it didn't feel like an untruth once the words left his mouth. "A piece of furniture, an heirloom, something that will last. Used to be, a man and his bride would begin their married life in a bed like this, their babies would get birthed in a bed like this, they'd die in a bed like this, and then the bed would get passed down to one of their kids. A bed like this means something."
He puffed on one of the elegantly carved posts, then buffed the coin-sized area with his flannel shirt cuff until the spot gleamed. With a satisfied pat, he went on to check the headboard, actually grabbing it with both hands and giving it a shake. When it didn't fall apart, he bent to check the bed's underpinnings.
