by Foster, Lori
She accepted the blanket without protest, but he sensed every shift in her mood, even in the darkness. He turned her face to what little light still glowed from the windows. “What?” he demanded.
She forced out a laugh. “Nothing,” she said. “Hungry, I guess.”
The tiny frown between his brows did not fade. “I’ll make dinner.”
“I’ll help.” She held up her hand, forestalling his protests. “Just let me chop veggies, set the table. I promise I won’t get in your way.”
Doing something mundane and practical might help this dull, scared ache taking hold inside her. At least she hoped it would.
Chapter Seven
They worked together silently. She washed salad greens, he prepared the steaks, put the potatoes on to boil, and stuck the stuffed mushrooms in the toaster oven. He opened a bottle of wine and poured her a glass.
“Tell me about yourself,” he blurted out.
She was thrown off balance by the demand. “Tell you what?”
He shrugged. “Anything, everything. Hopes, dreams, plans. I’ve been so focused on getting you into my bed that I’ve gone about this whole thing backward. If you’d gone out to dinner with me when I wanted, I would’ve had all these facts straight by now. But no. You had to blow me off, string me along. Make me wait.”
She relaxed a little and sipped her wine. “OK. I come from San Francisco, and I just moved to Portland three years ago and enrolled in massage school. I got my license last year.”
“Last year?” He looked incredulous. “But you’re amazing. I would have thought you’d been doing it for years.”
She sighed. “I should’ve been, but I was too busy trying to make my parents approve of me. A losing battle if ever there was one, which culminated in my dropping out of my last term in business school. They still haven’t recovered from that.”
“Business school? You?”
She laughed at his expression. “Yeah, it’s a concept, isn’t it?”
He turned the steaks that sizzled on the grill. “So, to be a massage therapist, that’s what you’ve always wanted, then?”
“I’ve always liked it. I was always good at giving massages, and it’s something I never get tired of. The more I learn about the body, the more I like it. I’m opening my own studio, as soon as I can scrape the money together. I want to create a perfect environment for therapeutic massage. Maybe eventually expanding into a sort of mini spa.”
He nodded his approval, and turned to the sink to drain the potatoes. “And?” he said expectantly.
She lifted her eyebrows. “And what?”
“I was hoping you would tell me about the playboy who trampled all over you,” he said.
Her stomach knotted up. “Let’s not and say we did, shall we?”
The potatoes sizzled as he tossed them into the hot pot with melted butter and fresh herbs. “Please, Tess,” he said quietly. “Just the bare bones.”
She sighed. “Larry,” she said finally. “My ex-fiancé. The CEO of my dad’s investment banking firm, which I was being groomed to join. And he wasn’t really a playboy, to be honest. He worked very hard, and he’s good at what he does. It’s just that he has really high standards.”
Jonah paused in the task of transferring the steaks onto plates, his face baffled. “Meaning?” he asked. “You’re a goddess. Beautiful, smart, fascinating, sexy. What was his problem?”
She laughed at his gallant flattery, blinking away a rush of tears. “You are so sweet.”
He frowned. “I am not sweet. High standards for what?”
“Larry felt that he deserved the best in everything,” she explained wearily. “He wanted top quality, especially in his wife. He picked me out mainly because I possessed the sterling attribute of being the boss’s daughter, but to do him credit, he truly did think that he could train me into being good enough. He told me once I was great raw material.”
Jonah drizzled olive oil on the salad, waiting patiently for more. “And?” he prompted.
She shrugged. The memory of Larry’s disapproval made her queasy and depressed. “I wasn’t trainable,” she said flatly. “In fact, I was a hopeless case. I was the wrong shape, I dressed wrong, I didn’t laugh at the right places in the conversation, I wasn’t witty enough, I couldn’t—”
The wooden spoon froze in the act of tossing salad. “He didn’t like your shape?” Jonah looked horrified.
“What planet was he from?”
Trust Jonah to fixate on that. She was touched by his dismay.
“He wanted me to be more, uh, contained,” she explained. “Larry was into control. Finally I just couldn’t take anymore. I ran away. Like a coward, I guess.”
“Like hell!”
She flinched back, startled by his tone.
“He didn’t appreciate you because he was a brain-dead asshole! And you ran away because you’re brave, and smart, and no matter what he said, you know your own worth deep inside.”
She blinked at him, utterly taken aback. “Uh, well . . . thank you for defending me, Jonah. You are really—”
“Sweet, yeah. Right.” He thumped the wooden salad bowl down onto the counter with such force that greens flipped into the air. Chunks of radicchio and arugula flopped over the sides.
She crossed her arms over her chest and studied his rigid face. “You’re angry,” she whispered.
“Sure I am. It pisses me off that people put you down. It pisses me off even more that you bought into their bullshit. And you still do.”
She closed her mouth with a snap and crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh. I see. How about if you tell me some intimate, painful details about your past now, so I can criticize you and judge you? Go on.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but the cell phone on the counter rang, cutting him off. He checked the number on the display, and his face suddenly went blank of all expression. “I have to take this call,” he said. “Stir the potatoes, would you?”
He walked out onto the covered side porch. Tess craned her neck to watch him as she stirred the sizzling potatoes and herbs. It was none of her business, but she couldn’t help peeking. His face was grim and tense, and he listened more than he talked. Bad news.
After a few minutes, he came back inside and dropped the phone back onto the counter. He met her questioning gaze. “Work,” he said.
She turned back to the potatoes without a word.
Jonah slipped his arms around her waist and took the spatula from her hand. He stirred the potatoes, turned off the flame, and kissed her shoulder where the neck of his T-shirt had slipped off, leaving it bare. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was none of my business.”
“It’s OK,” she whispered.
“No, it’s not. We were in a really fine place together, and I wrecked it somehow. I don’t know what I said or did, but I—”
“It’s not you.” She spun around and hugged him hard, pressing her hand against his mouth when he tried to speak again.
His chest heaved in a heavy sigh. He kissed her fingers, and his arms tightened around her. She squeezed as hard as she could. Larry would have been horrified by her intensity, but Jonah seemed unfazed.
After a long while, he lifted his head. “Food’s getting cold.”
They smiled at each other carefully. “So let’s eat,” she said.
He’d broken the spell somehow. He could’ve kicked himself.
Good food was always a point in his favor, but it wasn’t enough to bring back that perfect, shimmering intimacy of their magic afternoon. Now that he’d had a taste of it, he would forever be pining for more.
Half of his mind was reeling over the news Dr. Morrison had called to deliver. Triple bypass surgery for Granddad on Wednesday.
Ever ready to multitask, the rest of his brain churned right along, speculating on what the hell he might have said or done to pitch them into this awful downward spiral. They ate, chatting inanely. Both trying so hard to be neutral and nice that he wanted to scream. It was
like a big, dark animal was sitting on the dining room table blocking their view of each other, and they were trying to pretend it didn’t exist.
There had to be some way to dispel it.
He dished up the hot Dutch apple pie, scooped ice cream over it, and drizzled it with hot caramel sauce, and when he turned around she was cupping her stubborn pointed chin in her hands, looking stern.
“OK, Jonah. Your turn,” she announced.
“For what?” He was pathetically relieved to see the sparkle back in her eyes. He preferred a difficult spitfire to a timid, careful mouse.
“Now you tell me something about you.” She sat back in her chair, looking expectant.
He set her heaping dish of pie and ice cream before her. “OK,” he said obediently. “I’m thirty-five. I have my own consulting business, specializing in problem solving and brainstorming techniques.”
She rolled her eyes. “Blah, blah, blah. I read all that in your profile in Northwest Business. I was thinking a bit more personal, please.”
“Personal?” He eyed her suspiciously. “What do you want to know about, my ex-girlfriends?”
She took a bite of her pie. “I was thinking more along the lines of family,” she said loftily. “Basic historical detail. Are you a dog person or a cat person? Do you resemble your mother or your father?”
“No parents,” he said. “They were killed in a plane crash in Chile. My dad was an archaeologist. I was eleven.”
Tess’s spoon froze in the air near her mouth. She slowly lowered it. “Oh, God, Jonah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s OK,” he assured her. “It was a long time ago. And I got through it. I had Granddad. He was the one who raised me. He was great. Strict, but great.”
“He’s still alive?” she asked cautiously.
“Yeah.” God willing and the creek don’t rise, he thought, silently willing her to change the subject.
They ate their dessert silently for a minute or two, both of them afraid of making another wrong move.
Finally Tess lay down her spoon and took a deep, audible breath. She touched his hand. “Jonah. That phone call. Was it bad news?”
He stared down at her hand. His throat tightened. He didn’t want to talk about it. His stomach was knotted enough as it was, thinking about Granddad’s chances. And then there were John and Steve, trying like hell to keep him out of the loop. Worried about their cut in the fucking will, as if he gave a shit about Granddad’s money. He’d made plenty of his own, but that didn’t help matters. His very success showed up their own lack of ability and made them hate him all the more.
It was all so raw that even at the thought of her gentle sympathy, the questions she would ask, made him flinch. He would shove her away by reflex if she tried to comfort him, and that would cook his goose for sure. That was no way to get back to their magical union.
He took a deep breath and did what he had to do. He plastered on a bright, ain’t-life-grand smile. “Work stuff. Nothing I can’t handle.”
Disappointment flashed across her expressive face. He felt guilty and stupid for lying, but he didn’t want to burden her with the embarrassing truth. He wasn’t on top of the world. He was scared to death of Granddad dying and leaving him all alone again. He remembered that empty, falling away feeling all too well, from when he was a kid. The awful, aching finality of it.
And no good-byes this time, either, since Granddad wouldn’t talk to him. The stubborn old geezer was still furious with his grandson for turning down the chance to head up Markham Savings & Loan.
Oh, fuck it. He was just about to open his mouth and lay it all out there for her when the shifting play of emotions in her luminous eyes abruptly receded, as if she had closed a door in his face.
It was replaced by a dazzling, utterly impenetrable smile.
“Well. That’s good, then,” she said.
“Uh, yeah.” He blinked at her, puzzled. “It is?”
She stood up and very slowly pulled his T-shirt up over her astounding tits. She tossed it behind herself. “I’m so glad for you, Jonah. Not a care in the world. It must be awfully nice for you.”
“Uh, yeah,” he said hoarsely. “It’s . . . great.”
There was a trap here, a bad one, and he was headed right for it, but with those perfect, puckered brown nipples right at eye level, his IQ was drooping in direct inverse proportion to the swelling in his cock. He would so, so much rather do this than talk about his deepest fears.
She stuck her finger into the soupy vanilla ice cream that was melted together with caramel sauce. She began to paint designs on her plump, full breasts with it. Deliberately glazing her nipples with creamy caramel goo. Loops and swirls, until she was wet and gleaming. She licked her fingers, one by one, and smiled. Not the shy, glowing smile, with all of her sweetness shining out of it. This smile taunted him, guarding its secrets. Provocative and bold.
Unreal, that after all the unbelievable sex he’d been having that he was ready to go at it again.
“You wanted me to articulate my desires,” she said.
He tried not to pant. “Uh, so I did.”
“Lick me clean, Jonah,” she commanded.
He didn’t have time to marvel over the sharp edge of command in her voice before he leaped to obey her. He was gone, lost, all over her, devouring her. She was sexy and syrupy and delicious, and if this was a trap, all he wanted to do was to dive into it headfirst, and stay in it.
For as long as he possibly could.
She had no idea what she was doing, or even why she was doing it. A powerful impulse had risen up out of the churning chaos inside her, and she had grappled onto it blindly. She wanted to be a goddess with the power to bestow pleasure or agony at her whim—a dark, tangled impulse, mixed with hurt and anger and fierce, animal need.
She wanted to make him beg.
It was going to be tricky. She had a tiger by the tail. He had pulled her onto his lap, licking the caramel and ice cream off her breasts with passionate thoroughness. Her panties had already sailed off into limbo, and his hand was between her legs, pressing with delicate skill against her clitoris. He shifted her so that he could shove his jeans down, and his penis sprang out, heavy and hot and straining.
He was going to be hard to master.
She reached down and wrapped her hand around his hot shaft—and squeezed. Hard enough to make him drag in a startled breath.
“Whoa,” he said. “Go easy with that.”
“Slow down, Jonah. I’m running this one.”
His eyes widened at the cool command in her voice. He lifted his hands in mock surrender.
“Kick off those jeans,” she said. “You won’t be needing them.”
He did as he was told, his eyes locked on hers.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she said.
His head jerked in agreement. She suffered a stab of doubt at the foot of the stairs, reluctant to walk in front of him and wave her big naked bottom right in his face, in all its full-blown glory. But she couldn’t think that way, even for a second, or she would lose the tenuous upper hand that she barely knew how to maintain.
She started up the stairs, back straight, hips swaying. He sighed with pleasure behind her, and then his big, warm hands were on her hips. His breath was hot against her skin. His mouth pressed against her backside. She spun around to tell him to stop, but before she could speak, he pressed his face against her mound, making her stumble back, almost falling onto the steps behind her.
“Give me a taste,” he said. “Just one little sip from the fountain of life, to get me up the stairs. Or I’ll fall down and expire right here.”
She stared down into his pale eyes. The house was silent, and the staircase was dark, just the sigh of the wind and the lash of the rain against the windows. She clutched the banister and let her thighs unlock, widening her stance. A guttural exclamation of triumph vibrated against her sensitive flesh, and he parted the folds of her sex, pressing his face against her
, his tongue thrusting.
He knew instinctively what she needed, the perfect, voluptuous blend of licking and suckling. His tongue fluttered and swirled against her clitoris, his teeth rasping, tugging, sucking her, bathing her in the hot cloud of his breath. He grasped her hips and devoured her as if he were starving. She was suspended in darkness and empty space, wind and rain swirling around her, and Jonah at the center, his mouth a hot vortex that claimed everything she had. She heard only the sounds of his mouth, saw only his broad shoulders, his dark head. She had no memory of sitting or falling, but she found herself sprawled on the stairs, legs draped over his shoulders, moving helplessly, eagerly against his face.
He knew her so well now, better than she had ever known herself. He could do what he pleased with her, and he damn well knew it.
No. The thought came from a cool, remote place inside her head that stood and watched her helpless pleasure, unmoved. If she let him unravel her, then the night would be his. The upper hand would be lost, and so would she. Undone, unglued. Conquered.
It went against every instinct, but she reached down and pushed his face away from her. He murmured in fierce protest.
“No,” she whispered. “This is my show. I have to tell you when.”
She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but she could picure the cool speculation on his face. He released her slowly, wiping his face on his arm, and let her struggle to her feet without offering to help.
They stared at each other in the gloom. He made an impatient, questioning gesture toward the head of the stairs.
She turned, trying to be dignified as she continued up the stairs.
Upper hand. Think upper hand, she repeated to herself as she led him into the bedroom. The upper hand really had less to do with physical strength than it did with confidence, inner power. Poise.
With Jonah, it was like walking a tightrope in a hurricane wind.
She flipped on the bedside lamp and made an imperious gesture toward the bed. “Lie down, Jonah,” she said.
