by Webb, Peggy
As it was, the table provided a place to hide the almost painful state he was in.
"Still thinking?" she asked, taking one final, delicate lick at the sweets on her finger.
"Hmmm." He crammed his mouth full of food in order to give himself time to gain control. The sticky bun went down in one uncomfortable lump. He didn't know whether or not he chewed it.
"It seems to me you just used this food as a chance to come flirt with my dog," he was finally able to say.
"Exactly." Her happy laughter filled his kitchen, making it seem brighter, cleaner, better, than it was. “I came because of Rover.”
At the sound of his name Rover got up from his nap in the corner and wandered over to lick Rosalie's ankles.
She laughed and patted his head while David watched with envy. When the dog had his quota of petting, he ambled back to his corner and settled in for what appeared to be hibernation rather than napping.
"You'll notice I selected the most vicious watchdog at the shelter."
"You should have named him Killer." Rosalie pushed her plate aside and stood up. "I'd better be going."
Her sudden decision caused a tumult of emotions in David, quick pain at losing her sweet presence followed by intense relief that he had been spared breaking his own rules.
"Busy day?" he asked, trying to seem just a friend.
"I'm going to negotiate a really clean deal with a pile of laundry, then I'm going to a clandestine appointment in a dark and shady pantry. There are some old cans of peaches getting uppity and a few sour pickles ready to revolt."
Almost recovered from the sugar-icing episode, David escorted her to the door.
"I'm glad you came over, Rosalie. Thanks for the food."
"Thank you, David, for the company." She squeezed his hand, and he tried not to take it personally. After all, he was the one who had made the rules. "I wasn't going to come here, but the recipe makes more than enough for one."
Her pink tongue flicked over her lips, as if sugar still lingered there. He guessed that it did, Rosalie's own special brand of natural sweetness. The remembered taste still lingered in his mind.
"Anyhow," she added as she fiddled with the ribbon that bound her hair, "we both agreed to be friends, and I knew you wouldn't misinterpret my visit."
"Sharing a meal is far more pleasant than eating alone."
With a wave she was gone, back across her yard and into her house. David cursed the fates that made rules necessary with Rosalie, then took up his cleaning supplies and scrubbed his house with a vengeance.
o0o
They both spent the rest of the day studiously avoiding their windows and congratulating themselves on their discipline and their sensible decision to keep a safe distance.
Just friendship. They could handle that.
David tried not to notice when Rosalie's car pulled out that evening. He tried not to think of her in the cafe, smiling at other people. Would she look for him at table two? Would she miss him if he didn't come?
"Dammit." He threw his dishes into the sink with unnecessary force. Rover wandered over and sniffed his legs, then meandered back to his dog dish.
David thought of Rover licking Rosalie's legs. "Dammit," he said again.
He soaped his dishes twice, scrubbing them with the same vigor he had used on his house.
"Repressed sexual urges. It's a hell of an incentive to clean the house, Rover."
Filled with restless energy, David roamed his house after he finished the dishes. Rover trailed along behind him. He picked up and rejected all his books. He considered, then vetoed, every movie listed in the newspaper. What he needed was a task that would consume him.
When the solution came to him, it was more than an answer; it was a revelation, a compulsion, a passion. Hurrying, he went into his bedroom and took his art supplies from their storage place.
He held a sable brush in his hand, glorying in the feel. It had been so long.
A secret hopeful place in his heart had been touched, and now it was awake to dreams of color and form and beauty, dreams he had thought were dead.
David took out his sketch pad and carried it to the rickety desk in his den. The light was bad. He'd have to get some lamps.
His hands felt clumsy at first, uncertain, but soon they took up the rhythms they knew so well. Time melted and flowed by. A face emerged on the pad.
Rosalie.
He traced the sketch with his fingers. Rosalie, down at the cafe in an old car that might never make it back home.
David pitched his pad on the desk and glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. The cafe closed at eleven. He could make it.
o0o
When he reached the cafe, he saw her through the green-tinted windows. She was bending over a table in the subtly provocative way that was sexier because it was totally unconscious.
His pulse raced, and his heart throbbed. Who was he trying to kid? He hadn't come to the cafe to protect her from an old car that might go dead on dark, deserted streets. He hadn't come for coffee. He had come to watch, to long, to hope.
He had come to prove how strong he was, how dependable, how trustworthy. He turned to leave, but she saw him.
Astonishment, then joy, lit her face, and she lifted her hand in greeting.
David went inside. He would order coffee and escort her home. Nothing more.
Chapter Five
The rains had started before they left the cafe. By closing time, a storm was brewing. Great slashes of lightning lit the sky, and loud crashes of thunder echoed through the almost-empty city streets.
"And I didn't even bring an umbrella," Rosalie said, standing in the doorway of the cafe looking out.
"Neither did I. I didn't expect rain." David whisked off his coat. "Maybe this will help."
"You'll freeze."
"I'll survive." He held the coat over her head with one hand and pulled her close with the other. Electrical currents pulsed through them, but not from the storm. Both of them pretended not to notice. "Hold tight, Rosalie."
They ran through the rain, pressed together like bookends to a book, hip against hip, thigh against thigh, shoulder against shoulder. The storm beat at them with a fury that was almost malicious.
By the time they reached Rosalie's car, they were soaked.
"You drive," she said.
The storm had driven away the last vestiges of Indian summer, and the car was cold inside, cold and damp with the increased humidity.
"You're shivering." David cranked the car, then put his arm around Rosalie's shoulders, pulling her close. "You'll be warmer over here. Body heat."
Rosalie didn't protest. His arm around her felt too good.
Body heat. If only he knew. She felt the searing heat of him all the way to her bones. It melted her. She felt liquid and languorous. She had to exert great effort to keep her head from lolling on his shoulder.
"Comfortable?" he asked.
"Hmmm." Heavenly.”
"Great. Let's head for home."
It sounded so good when he said it. Home. As if it were a place they shared, a place with two chairs by the fire and matching mugs for hot coffee and two dented pillows on a bed with a feather comforter.
Except that she didn't need the feather comforter. Not with the amount of body heat David was putting out.
David drove through the streets without speaking. But he kept one arm wrapped tightly around Rosalie.
She imagined how it would be if he were always there waiting for her.
They would laugh together as they had over the sticky buns. They'd share music; he had said he loved it. They would cuddle by the fire, or perhaps dance, holding each other so close, she couldn't tell where she ended and he began.
Fantasizing again. She was going to have to stop it.
Thunder rattled the car windows, and rain collected in small rivers.
"Looks like the streets are going to flood," David said.
"Sometimes it happens . . . with this much rain."
The heat building in her was now a full-fledged conflagration. Her body felt limp; her legs felt wobbly. She didn't know how she would manage to get into her house.
Great sheets of water were spewing up from the tires by the time they reached Rosalie's street. David slowed the car to a crawl so it wouldn't hydroplane through the water.
Rosalie wished the ride could go on forever.
"I'll see you to your door," he said as he parked the car.
"There's no need. You'll get soaked."
"I already am."
They ran through the rain once more, clinging together under David's wet coat. At her door, Rosalie fumbled with her key.
"Wet hands," she said.
"Let me help you." David steadied the key by putting his hand over hers. He stood close behind her, pressing his chest into her back. Rosalie shivered. "You're freezing. Do you have a fireplace?"
"Yes."
"I'll come in and build a fire."
You already have.
He followed her inside, and suddenly her drab little rental house seemed beautiful. With his warmth and strength and vitality filling the rooms, they took on a charm they had never had.
Rosalie stood with her arms wrapped around herself, watching David build the fire. He got dry logs from the back porch, stacked them inside the fireplace, lined the kindling underneath.
She knew there were things a good hostess would be doing—fetching towels to dry their hair, brewing hot coffee, fluffing pillows.
Now there was a thought. Pillows side by side on the bed. David's head denting one, hers the other.
He found the matches without her help, in a small box atop the mantel. The tiny flame flared, then caught. Burning wood crackled in the stillness.
David stood up, then turned to her. His wet shirt hugged a very broad chest, and the wet jeans clung to his muscular thighs. Rosalie hadn't seen that much man so close up in fourteen years. She shivered.
"You're still freezing." David wrapped his arms around her and brought her close to the fire. She leaned into him, loving the way her wet body felt against his.
"Stay right here," he said. "Don't move."
She couldn't have moved if wild elephants had been stampeding toward her. Weak-kneed, she watched as David started down her hallway. He made a turn into her bedroom, backed up, then went across the hall into her bathroom.
When he came back, he was carrying two pink towels. Without a word he began to dry her hair. One by one he lifted damp strands of her hair and rubbed them between dry towels. Rosalie hadn't felt so cherished since Joe Mack had died.
She closed her eyes. Everywhere his hands touched her scalp, she felt a tingle. His touch was warm, tender, and exceptionally erotic. Closing her eyes, she leaned into him.
She sensed rather than felt the towels fall away. David's hands were in her hair, his fingers spread over her scalp, massaging gently.
Heat from the fire toasted her cheeks, but it was heat from David that burned her body. She didn't know who made the first move, but suddenly they were in each other's arms, wet and wild and hungry.
There was no gentle kissing this time, no delicate joining of lips. His mouth was demanding, hers wanton. They tasted each other until tasting was not enough. The tip of his tongue seared across her lips. She opened for him, and he plunged inside. Groaning, he explored her mouth, expertly, thoroughly.
She took his tongue deep inside, toying with it, sucking it. Sanity fled. David cupped her hips and fitted her tightly against his groin.
A rhythm as old as time overtook her. She swayed against him, gently at first, and then with increasing fervor.
"Rosalie . . . Rosalie." His lips left hers and seared down the side of her neck.
"Please . . ." She rocked against him, feeling his wet jeans grind into her skirt and wanting more, ever so much more.
One hand left her hips and found the buttons on her blouse. In a fog of passion she felt his hands upon her breasts, hot and possessive.
"You are beautiful . . . exquisite."
She didn't want to be admired; she wanted to be possessed. Instinctively, she pulled his head down to her breasts. His warm breath fanned against her skin as he bathed her nipples with his tongue.
She clung to him, mindless now. The part of herself she had kept deeply buried was suddenly alive, alive and demanding attention. Fear vanished. Caution fell by the wayside.
She tugged at his shirt, pulling it loose from his waistband. Her hands inched underneath, touching his skin, tentatively at first, and then with boldness and joy.
For Rosalie there was only the moment—the fire inside and the storm without—and David, who had found the magic. She whispered his name, over and over, and the sound was like music.
o0o
"David . . . David. Please."
Her hands climbed upward under his shirt, warm against his skin, gentle. He was free-falling, plunging downward at breakneck speed with no way to stop.
She whispered to him, moving her hands over his skin in ways both tender and erotic. He wanted her. She wanted him. They were both free. It all seemed so simple.
They swayed together, tasting, touching, feeling. And then her hand flattened over his scar. She went very still.
"David?" she whispered, leaving the question unspoken.
How could he have forgotten? he wondered. How could he have been so careless?
"It's nothing, Rosalie," he whispered. "Nothing."
Satisfied, she moved against him once more, murmuring sweet words of encouragement.
He had lied. The scar couldn't be dismissed as nothing. It was his judge, his jury, his sentence.
He had to let Rosalie go.
He eased back a little, separating himself from the tantalizing motion of her hips. The pain of denial was so great, he groaned. Her skin was warm under his mouth, warm and fragrant and inviting. One more taste. That was all he needed.
He took her nipple deep into his mouth, savoring that one last forbidden taste while damning himself for being a selfish bastard. He couldn't let go abruptly. He couldn't just back off. Both of them were too close to the edge.
He gentled her with his hands, his mouth, easing them away from the dangerous precipice that yawned before them. His hands moved up and down her back in long, gentle strokes. He brushed tender kisses across the tops of her breasts, up the side of her neck, until he found her lips once more.
She opened her mouth for him, teasing with her tongue, inviting him in, but he steadfastly refused the invitation. With a control he was far from feeling, he tried to bring them back to the beginning of their friendship, when their kisses had been simple and sweet.
Rosalie stiffened. "David?" she murmured, her lips still against his.
"I'm sorry, Rosalie."
"You're sorry?" She leaned back in his arms, staring at his face.
"I didn't mean to let it go that far." He pulled her blouse onto her shoulders and began to fasten the buttons. She pushed his hand away.
"I wanted it to, David." With great dignity Rosalie stepped out of his embrace and arranged her clothes. Her cheeks were rosy with embarrassment, and her eyes were bright and damp. "I guess I still do."
He had made her cry. The knife that sliced at his heart was just as real as the one that had sliced his back. He swore silently, damning himself to the deepest pits of hell. One or two violent words must have escaped, for suddenly Rosalie was beside him, her hand resting tenderly upon his face.
"David . . . don't. I led you on."
"Led me on?"
"Like a wanton woman. You're strong and tender, virile and appealing."
One tear trembled on her lash, then trailed silently down her cheek. David didn't dare brush it away.
"And I . . ." Rosalie paused, wetting her lips.
Desire, fierce and threatening, washed through David, almost overwhelming him.
&
nbsp; "It's been so long, David. What Joe Mack and I had was wonderful, tender, precious, and extremely satisfying . . . even though we were just kids."
She released his hand and stepped back. "I guess you remind me of him, a little. You've unearthed that part of myself I've kept buried."
Every bit of the pain he felt was reflected in her face. Their eyes held for a heart-wrenching moment, and then she looked away.
"I'm sorry, David," she whispered.
"Dammitall to hell." He gripped her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "You have nothing to be sorry about. Do you understand?" Her eyes widened as she stared at him, and he saw her fear. It was only a fleeting emotion, but he recognized it.
He released her and strode across the room, swearing in earnest now. What kind of monster had he become?
"I wanted you." He turned back to her, moderating his voice. "I still do. It's that simple. Every time I get near you, every time I touch you, I want you so much, it's a physical pain."
She sucked in her breath. He saw hope come into her eyes.
"None of this is your fault, Rosalie. I'm to blame. I lost control." The light in her eyes almost blinded him, almost swayed him from his course. "It won't happen again. I promise you that."
Rosalie moved across the room, her wet clothes clinging to her body with an intimacy he envied. She sat in a comfortable-looking plaid chair and folded her hands in her lap.
"No. It won't happen again, David. It was my mistake as much as yours."
There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to do. But it would only prolong the agony, postpone the inevitable.
The fire crackled in the still room, and the storm moaned around the windows.
I can't love you, Rosalie. Don't ask me to. The words he couldn't speak echoed through his heart.
He lingered, savoring one last precious glance of the gentle woman who had come unexpectedly into his life.
"Don't stop singing because of tonight, Rosalie."
She smiled wistfully and pushed her damp hair away from her flushed face. David knew that she wouldn't be the one to say good-bye.
Neither could he.
He lifted his hand in salute, then headed for the door, leaving behind a cheerful room and a warm and lovely woman. Parting was a small death.
