Back in Service

by Isabel Sharpe

  “Woman logic.” Jameson rested his head despairingly in his hands.

  “She’s just having lunch with him.” Kendra patted him consolingly, giving Matty a wink. “I don’t think that’s so awful.”

  “Thank you, Kendra.”

  Jameson’s head shot up. He glared at Kendra teasingly. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “I was talking to Mom yesterday.” Matty spoke to change the subject, grateful for Kendra’s support. “She’s already baking and freezing pies for Thanksgiving.”

  Jameson chuckled. “Trust Mom to have it all under control.”

  “What’s your Thanksgiving tradition, Kendra?” Matty’s stomach sank the second the words left her lips. To someone who’d lost her family so recently, it was not the offhandedly polite question Matty meant it to be. “Sorry, that was awful. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” Kendra’s smile was strained but genuine. “Last year I spent it with a friend’s family. I think I’ll just hang out at home this year.”

  “Come to ours.” Jameson stroked her hair back from her face. “Food’s great. And maybe Dad will convince you to enlist.”

  “You can wash dishes while the men watch football.” Matty rolled her eyes. She’d given up trying to fight the gender inequity ingrained in her family culture, but it still drove her nuts.

  “Oh, that’s tempting.” Kendra snorted.

  “I help. Sometimes.” Jameson’s hand was gently massaging Kendra’s neck. “I did once, anyway. I think last year I rinsed a fork.”

  Matty cracked up. This Jameson was new. She liked him very much. Watching him respond to Kendra’s distress, the way he looked at her...

  She was just plain envious.

  Steady. Matty was not going to let herself jump into a relationship with Chris because she was lonely or because she hadn’t been touched tenderly by a boyfriend in a long, long time and she craved it like crazy. Before tomorrow’s lunch she’d need to have her list of reasons to go slowly, eyes open, intellect on full alert for a good long time. Only then would she permit herself to soften toward him.

  Well, ahem, she’d softened pretty much like butter in the oven last time she saw him. But that was because she hadn’t been forewarned or forearmed. Because she’d had champagne, because the night had been clear and beautiful and romantic and Chris was...Chris. Tomorrow they’d have a picnic lunch at Blaisdell Preserve, a public park ten minutes north of the Pomona College campus, emphasis on public. Daylight. No alcohol because she had a show that night. Not a setup for getting carried away.

  She’d be cool, confident, calm and controlled.

  * * *

  COOL, CONFIDENT, CALM and controlled.

  The words rang in her head as she sat behind the wheel of her Kia on her way out to Claremont, home to the Pomona campus and the very sexy Professor Chris Hamilton. The day was cool and hazy here by the coast, but farther inland when she reached the desert, the air would clear and temperatures rise. Southern California had it all.

  She couldn’t say she was entirely cool, confident, calm and controlled, but she was enough so that she’d come across that way. Machiavelli would approve. Inside she was tense, timid and in turmoil. The memory of the pain Chris had caused her battled with the memory of his arms around her Wednesday night in the downtown parking lot. Every time she thought of his lips on hers, a bolt of adrenaline got her attention in a serious way. A sexual way.

  Oof. Maybe Jameson was right and this was a mistake. Matty just couldn’t imagine putting her feelings for Chris to rest unless she faced him again and worked through the mess they’d gotten themselves in. Her hope was that, at the very least, she’d reach a place where she’d be better able to give another man her whole heart. The dating she’d done over the past six years had been an exercise in confusion and comparison. Not fair either to the guys she was seeing or to herself.

  The trick was to define seeing Chris today as a new, healthy exercise, and let go of the persistent hope that she could give her heart back to the man who still held a piece of it.

  She turned up the Patsy Cline CD she had playing and sang along with a Gershwin tune, clearing her mind of any complication. The haze was gradually lifting as she sped west on I-10, sharpening the beauty of the distant snow-dusted mountains, a welcome natural contrast to the traffic and urban sprawl close by. As she’d predicted, the air was warming, too. The temperature sensor on her car read in the low seventies, compared to the sixties close to the coast.

  By the time she reached Claremont and had turned onto Harvard Avenue, she had managed to pull herself together internally, as well. She had all the power here. This was Chris’s battle to fight. If he wanted her back, he’d have to work hard, regain her trust, prove himself worthy. She could sit back like the emperor at the Colosseum, thumb ready. Up? Okay, she’d give him another chance. Down? Hurl him to the lions!

  On Seventh Street she slowed, looking for the right house number, heart pounding again. Normal to be nervous. It meant nothing. Getting close, closer...there. A charming house set back from the street, Craftsman style, painted deep green, with large trees and a nicely landscaped front yard.

  Taking a deep breath, Matty swung the car to the curb and parked. Switched off the engine. Closed her eyes and counted to ten.

  Then she opened the door and launched herself out, big smile on her face, clutching the container of cookies she’d offered to bring for their dessert—peanut butter–oatmeal–chocolate chip, made that morning while she sipped her coffee.

  She approached the front door, raised her finger to stab the doorbell.

  Cool, confident, calm and controlled.

  The door opened, revealing Chris in thigh-hugging jeans and a loose maroon T-shirt, one hand on the door. His hair was damp from a recent shower, his eyes were clear and warm and he smelled like soap and shaving cream and man.

  Crap. Crap.

  “Hi.” The syllable barely sounded. She had completely fallen apart, victim to a wave of lust so intense the only thing keeping her from flinging herself at him was that she’d drop the cookies.

  He stepped back from the door; she crossed the threshold, fly into the spider’s web, closing her eyes as she passed him, trying desperately to reconnect with the part of her that had been so strong seconds before. Where had it gone? How could she get it back?

  Come on, Matty. She needed to break this tension, jump-start a normal, casual tone, start chatting, comment on the house, how it was in such good shape and how he’d done such nice things with it.

  His hand took her arm. He turned her toward him, took the cookies from her stiff hands and laid the glass container gently on a table in his front hall.

  She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but he pulled her toward him and kissed her, over and over, walking her back until she hit the wall and his body could press into hers.

  Oh, that body. A man’s body, fully formed, broadened, muscled and loaded with life and experience.

  She kicked off her flip-flops one at a time, thunk, thunk, and gave in, wrapping her arms around his neck, realizing deep down she’d known this was going to happen, that this was why she was here, what she wanted more than anything.

  Her hands found their way up under his shirt, to his chest, firm and sexy, a man’s in the prime of life. He was eleven years older than she, but she had never felt so at home or natural with anyone else.

  He had her cream-colored top off in seconds; his face rubbed the swells of her breasts while he unhooked her bra.

  It slid off, leaving her breasts cool and sensual, exposed to his sight and his touch.

  “Oh, Matty.” He gazed reverently, cupping their weight, then took a lingering taste of her nipple, a hot sensation that shot down between her legs.

  She whimpered, let her head drop back to rest against the wall, scrabbli
ng her fingers over his shirt, bunching the material to take it off more easily.

  The shirt pulled over his head; he straightened, a naked-torsoed god among men, and gathered her in his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder and stood still, listening to his breathing, as rough as hers, absorbing the familiar feeling of his skin on her skin, of her soft breasts pressed against his hard chest.

  His sigh was a mixture of ecstasy and relief. Matty understood. She’d had one word running a loop through her brain: finally.

  Finally.

  “Do you want this, Matty? You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” Her voice came out a husky groan. “Yes.”

  He released her, hands traveling down her sides as he slid to his knees, pressing his face against the flirty cotton knit skirt she’d pulled on that morning, wanting to look casual and sexy for him, but not as if she was trying to do either.

  She fisted her hands, breath ratcheting up a notch, waiting for the heat of his mouth on her, the way he could make her come faster than a speeding bullet, with orgasms more powerful than a locomotive.

  Oh, Chris.

  His hands explored her waistband, then yanked the skirt down, her panties after; he buried his face between her legs, searching for and finding all the spots that would send her over the edge.

  She lowered herself, spreading her legs, fisted his hair, urging him on, not that he needed encouragement. His tongue was driving her wild, bringing her close already.

  “Yes.” Her breath stuttered; her thigh muscles trembled. She pushed back against the wall, closing her eyes, bracing herself, waiting. She was close. So close.

  The tongue stopped. Her eyes shot open to find Chris standing, hair disheveled, eyes hot with desire. He stepped forward and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her into his bedroom, laid her on the bed and proceeded to take off his jeans faster than it had ever been done by any human since the dawn of time.

  With a small sense of satisfaction, she watched him retrieve a condom from a box on a high shelf in the back of his closet. Satisfaction because she got to watch the fabulous bunch and release of muscles in his back and very nice ass, but also because he wasn’t keeping a big box right by the bed, available at a moment’s notice.

  Matty pushed the thought away as soon as she had it. This was about him and her and right now.

  Condom on, he nearly dove back over her on the bed, making her giggle. “Been a while?”

  “Six years.”

  She blinked in astonishment, then snorted. “Come on.”

  “Since I’ve been with you, Matty.” He lowered his head and kissed her sweetly, tenderly, then again. “I’ve never stopped wanting to be with you.”

  No, no, no, none of that romantic stuff. They were here to screw each other because they couldn’t keep themselves from doing it. That was all. That was enough.

  She pulled his head down harder to deepen the kiss, spread her legs and tried to pull him over on top of her.

  “Wait. I want to look at you.” He put his hand at her collarbone and drew it slowly down her stomach to the hair between her legs, down one thigh, then the other, low as he could reach, following its progress with his eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Um. I’m actually up here.” She pointed to her head, wrinkling her nose at him, even knowing exactly what he meant, because she’d missed his body, too. And him.

  He grinned and moved on top of her. “Trust me. I know where every inch of you is. How it likes being touched. And tasted. And loved.”

  Not that word.

  He slid inside her, watching her face, filling her completely. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths to keep from crying. She still loved him. She might always love him.

  Then he started moving, and she concentrated with all her might on the sensations in her body so she could ignore those in her heart, pushing against his thrusts, savoring his size and shape, not too big, but enough that she knew he was inside her, felt him deep and hard, out and in, long thrusts alternating with smaller, gentle ones, bringing her closer every time.

  Slowly, her thoughts were wiped clean; her body’s hunger took over. She writhed underneath him, lifted her head, let it drop, sweat breaking on her skin, clutching at his back, panting and gasping for her climax.

  And when it came, it bore down on her with astonishing power, a shaft of hot sweetness that built nearly unbearably, making her strangle a scream in her throat. Then the beautiful release, vaginal muscles contracting around his penis. He paused to feel her coming, then pushed again savagely until his body arched and his mouth opened in a silent yell. She didn’t have to look. She knew how he came. She knew so much about him.

  Except whether he’d break her heart again.

  13

  KENDRA LAY IN her bedroom, Jameson spooned behind her, his arm draped protectively over her waist. She hadn’t slept well, and when she finally drifted off she’d had another nightmare. This time she wasn’t watching Jameson be shot by a sniper or exploded by an IED. This one took place on Thanksgiving at the Cartwrights’, only the house had become a huge, columned, Southern-style mansion. She’d had to pass between his parents on one side and his leering brothers on the other, one of whom took pictures while the other took her measurements with a tape and called out the numbers with immense disappointment.

  At dinner, a sneering servant placed a thirty-pound turkey in front of Kendra, who was expected to carve with an antique sword. Jameson hadn’t been there, but as she’d tried to hack pieces off the bird, which slipped and skated around the platter, the Cartwrights’ phones had rung in unison with the announcement of Jameson’s death—crushed under a load of mashed potatoes tipped from a truck. Driven by a cat.

  Amusing, except in the dream the emotions had been very real. Foreigner in a family that didn’t belong to her. Panic in a situation she could normally handle—she’d helped her dad carve the turkey once she was old enough for knives. And the wrenching pain of that phone call.

  She blinked away tears and screwed her eyes shut, angry at her subconscious for doing this to her.

  “Kendra?” The worried whisper was barely loud enough to hear. “You okay? You were making funny noises.”

  “I’m fine.” She tried to speak normally. “Bad dream.”

  “Yeah?” He stroked her, embrace tightening, hand traveling up between her breasts. It was an effort not to flinch. His arm felt like a vise. “What about?”

  “I can’t remember.” She needed to get up, move around. She’d be fine. It was just another dream. Kendra hadn’t yet accepted Jameson’s Thanksgiving invitation. She didn’t have to meet his family. She didn’t have to get into this relationship any deeper than she was already. Jameson would leave in a week and a half. She’d get over him and move on, be fine on her own again, helping people, enjoying her friends. A good, productive life. And when she was ready to get serious about someone, she would. Not now. Not yet. “Be right back.”

  She wiggled out of his embrace, jumpy and irritable, used the bathroom, then grabbed her short nightie from the hook behind the door and crossed the foyer and dining room into the kitchen to slip out onto the deck.

  It was chilly, low sixties probably, maybe high fifties. She hugged her arms around her chest, trying to calm herself, gazing out past the city’s twinkling lights toward the blackness of the ocean, imagining its vast, peaceful depths.

  The door opened behind her. A flash of annoyance made her close her eyes. It wasn’t Jameson’s fault. None of this was his fault.

  “Hey.” He stepped out onto the deck with her, gloriously naked. Lucky neighbors.

  “Hi.” She gestured out toward the view. “I was just wanting some air.”

  “What’s bugging you, Kendra?”

  “Me? Nothing.” She shook her head. “The dream was upsetting
. I guess I was just feeling—”

  “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. But quit the B.S.”

  She took in a sharp breath, drawing herself up, opened her mouth for a rude retort, then deflated abruptly. “Yes. Okay. Sorry.”

  His hands were on his lean hips. She could see in the dim glow traveling up from the night-lights around the pool that his features were drawn with worry. He was so handsome, her naked airman, eyes narrowed, strong chin slightly jutted, full lips compressed. “It’s cold out here. You need something warmer?”

  “I can’t go to your parents’ house for Thanksgiving, Jameson.”

  A gust of wind sent leaves scuttling across the deck. “Okay.”

  “I don’t want to get serious with you.”

  He jerked back slightly—or did she imagine it? She’d blurted the words out, not even aware they were on their way to her voice box. But maybe if she had to hurt him, it was better to do it sooner rather than later.

  Jameson nodded slowly. “Understood about Thanksgiving. And not getting serious, yeah, I get that, too. Easier, actually, since I’ll be leaving.”

  “Yes. Yes, exactly.” She should feel relieved. She didn’t. If anything she felt more keyed up, angrier, more panicky. “Since you’re leaving.”

  “That it?”

  “I think so.” She nodded, relaxing a bit, realizing she’d subconsciously expected some kind of battle. Or a strong reaction, anyway. So he hadn’t wanted to get serious either. Well, good. That was good. “I mean, yes. That’s it.”

  “So.” He folded his arms across his magnificent chest. “Are you really intent on freezing to death, or can we get back into bed?”

  “Jamie...”

  He looked surprised, either because of the nickname or the fact that it came out sounding as though she was about to do something desperate.

  She wasn’t. But she wanted to. Pressure was building in her chest, in her throat. She wanted to do something totally desperate, scream or throw something.

  “What is it?” He took a step toward her. Her panic increased, her breathing quickened.