Save Me

by Margaret Watson

  "What's wrong?"

  "I wasn't sure you'd want me to come in," he said, feeling like an idiot when she grabbed his shirt again and yanked him over the threshold.

  "Of course I want you to come in," she said.

  She said it as if only an idiot would think otherwise. So he edged close in the tiny lobby.

  The silence was loud as she unlocked the inner door. As he closed both doors, she trudged up a flight of stairs to the first floor. She unlocked the door, walked inside, and waited for him to follow.

  He stepped into her living room and color surrounded him. Her couch was a dusky red, with blue, yellow and green throw pillows. Three paintings hung on the walls – two of beaches, one of a mountain meadow covered with wildflowers.

  The varnish on her hardwood floors was yellowed with age. An Oriental rug covered the center, its vibrant blues, reds and greens shimmering in the soft light.

  Crammed-full bookcases lined the walls, and a stack of magazines rose haphazardly on an end table next to the couch.

  "Nice place," he said. "Why did you move out of the high rise?"

  She unzipped her running jacket and hung it on the coat tree at the door. The tight shirt she wore outlined her running bra. It made him want to trace the contours of her body. Peel the bra off of her. Find what it was hiding.

  "This was Cilla's place. She wanted to move in with Brendan, but she had six months left on her lease. My lease was up, so I moved here. I have a lot more room for about the same amount of money."

  "Have a seat," she said, hovering in a doorway that led to the dining room. "I’m going to make some tea. You want some?"

  "No, thanks." He shifted his feet, glancing at the couch. He wasn’t going to sit down while she was standing. "I'm a coffee person."

  "You want a cup?"

  "Thanks, but don't bother. Too much work for one cup."

  "No work at all." She flashed him a smile, and one side of his mouth turned up in response. "My brother gave me one of those fancy single cup coffeemakers last year for Christmas. I don't use it much, but you're welcome to a cup."

  "Okay, then. That would be great."

  "Come into the kitchen, then, and pick out your fancy flavor."

  She disappeared into the kitchen, and as he followed her, he thought about how much things had changed. Three days ago, Livvy Marini inviting him into her home was unimaginable. Now he was standing in her living room, being offered coffee.

  Her kitchen was cramped, with barely enough room for a tiny table. But it was neat and tidy. No dishes in the sink.

  "The pods are in the pantry," she said, opening a door next to the sink. "Help yourself."

  The pantry was a tiny closet, lined with shelves holding glasses and dishes, boxes of pasta and jars of flour and sugar, cans of tomatoes. A metal rack holding the small coffee pods stood in the corner. He grabbed the first one he saw and backed out of the space.

  Livvy stood at the sink, filling a kettle, and he squeezed past her to the coffee machine. There was less space than he'd realized, because he brushed her butt with his hip.

  She froze.

  "Sorry," he muttered. "Thought there was more room."

  "Don't worry about it," she said, a little breathless. "It's a tight fit in here."

  A tight fit.

  He turned his back, trying to block out the images flooding his brain. When she finished with the kettle, he filled the coffee maker. Started the coffee brewing and slid past her, pressing against the table to avoid touching her again.

  He didn't exhale until he was in the living room.

  He stared out the window, pretending he was fascinated by the street below her building. Get hold of yourself. You're not getting involved with her.

  A few minutes later, she emerged from the kitchen holding his coffee. Setting it down on the coffee table, she said, "Sit down, Ward. The couch isn't booby trapped. I'll be right out."

  She disappeared toward the kitchen, and moments later he heard water running. She was in the bathroom. Finally she emerged, her face red and shiny. She'd cleaned off the traces of tears on her face.

  After fetching her tea from the kitchen, she turned on two lamps that cast a golden glow over the room, then sat on the couch. He lowered himself onto the other end. Watching him over the rim of her mug, she said, "So why were you chasing me tonight?"

  Ryan took another sip of his coffee, sighed and set it on the table. "I'd been on that path for an hour already. Watching for you."

  "Watching for me?" She frowned. "Were you just standing there, looking at everyone as they ran by?"

  He shrugged. "Nope. I was running. I had your old address at the New York Building, so I figured that underpass in front of it was where you'd get on the path. I ran up and down, staying close to the ramp. When you showed up, I ran after you."

  He set the coffee carefully on the table. "I wasn't trying to frighten you. It was damn cold on that path, so I put up the hood on my sweatshirt. It didn't occur to me that you wouldn’t be able to see my face."

  He'd thought she'd recognize him immediately. Stupid of him. Almost as stupid as chasing her down the way he had.

  "Okay." She'd curled her fingers around her mug, as if she were still cold. "I still don't understand why you were watching for me, though."

  "After I left you at the station, a black car followed me. Toyota Corolla. Matte paint on the hood."

  Her hand shook violently as she set the mug on the table. A tiny splash of tea spilled out, and she hurried into the kitchen. Came back with a paper towel and wiped it up, her hand trembling.

  "Yeah," he said grimly. "Has to be the same one you saw. It hung around most of the day. I couldn't see the guy's face, because I'm on the third floor. But he was there for several hours. When I came out to head over to the lake, it was gone."

  She paled a little, clutching the tea to her chest. It rose and fell with an unsteady breath. "I knew I should have taken Cilla when I talked to Freddie Sampson. She would have known what kind of car it was." Her mouth trembled a little. "She would have been able to tell you the make, model and probably the year. Maybe we could have tracked it down."

  He raised one eyebrow. "Your sister is a gearhead?"

  "Yeah." The trembling turned into a shaky smile. "My father owned car repair places. Cilla hung out with him at one of them, working on Betsy."

  "Betsy?"

  "Her car. It's an old Mustang."

  "You didn't soak up any of her knowledge, though."

  "Nope. I wasn't interested in cars."

  He couldn’t stop himself from leaning a little closer. "What were you interested in?"

  "Books. Movies." Her mouth curled into a tiny smile. "Boys."

  "Is that right?" He edged closer. "And did you spend a lot of time with your interests?"

  She took another sip of her tea. The muscles in her neck worked as she swallowed, and her shoulders dropped. Her tiny smile wasn't trembling as much. "I saw a bunch of movies," she offered. "Read a lot of books."

  "And the boys? Did you catch a lot of them?" He held his breath, wondering what she would say.

  "Sadly, no." She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and he wanted to lean forward and do it for her. Let the silky strands flow through his fingers. "I was too shy to actually talk to any of them. So I yearned at a distance."

  His heart thumped hard against his chest and other parts of him were pounding as well. "You still too shy to talk to the boys?"

  "I'm talking to you, aren't I?" Her eyes locked with his, her pupils dilated. The green of her iris was a barely-there rim around the black.

  She was as turned on as he was.

  She held his gaze for a few seconds too long. Then she stood up abruptly. Nervous?

  "I'm hungry. There's a good pizza place close by. They deliver."

  "I don't want to misunderstand," he said, swallowing hard. "Are you asking me to stay?" he asked. He was hungry, too. Starving, in fact. But food was the least of it.

&n
bsp; Holding his gaze, she nodded slowly. "I'm asking."

  Chapter 7

  "Good," Livvy said, her heart banging against her ribs like she'd run ten miles. "I'll order a pizza. What do you like?"

  "I'm good with anything except anchovies. Or eggs." Ryan wrinkled his nose. "Why would you ruin a perfectly good pizza with an egg?"

  "You don't like your pizza all gooey and slippery?" she teased.

  Ryan's pupils grew wider, until no color remained. The planes of his face sharpened.

  Oh. Heat blasted through her, warming everything. Especially…Oh, my God.

  "I’m a big fan of slippery and gooey." His voice was a low rumble of sex and lust. "Not for dinner, though."

  Her legs grew rubbery, and she backed against the door as she picked up her phone. Her hand trembled, and she gripped the phone more tightly. "Okay," she whispered. "No egg."

  She stared at the phone, mind empty of everything except the pictures his words had evoked. Graphic, X-rated pictures.

  "You gonna call?" he asked. "You want me to do it?"

  She lifted her head. He was staring at her, focused and intent. Waiting for her to move, so he could pounce. She swallowed hard, unable to look away. Cornered.

  He'd already hunted her once tonight. And when he'd caught her, he'd been gentle. Sweet. Caring.

  In the past, thinking of herself as prey and a man as the hunter implied vulnerability. Helplessness. That would have offended her feminist self. Pissed her off. Tonight? The thought made her knees weak.

  When he rose from the couch, she forced herself to look back at her phone. Scroll through her contacts until she saw the pizza place a few blocks away. Stabbing the 'call' icon, she swallowed again.

  "Genoa Pizza," a perky female voice said. "Can I help you?"

  "A pizza," she managed to say. "For delivery. Pepperoni and mushrooms."

  Two minutes later, she'd given the woman her phone number and address. She had no idea what kind of pizza she'd ordered. "Thirty-five minutes," the woman said.

  "Thank you." Livvy ended the call and dropped her phone on the table by the door. "We have thirty-five minutes," she said. "To wait," she added too quickly, her tongue tripping over the words. "Until the pizza gets here."

  "I'm sure we can think of a way to amuse ourselves," he said, holding her gaze as he lowered himself back onto the couch. Not as far in the corner now.

  She was certain they could. Watching Ryan watch her, his face taut, a slash of red on both cheekbones, she was afraid his ideas were identical to hers.

  Returning to the couch, she dropped onto the cushion in the corner. As far away from him as she could get.

  Not far enough, her prim, rational mind retorted.

  She didn't want to be prim tonight.

  Instead of moving closer, as she'd expected him to do, he frowned. Sat up straighter. "You're limping."

  "I am?" She glanced down at her feet, as if expecting a flashing red light on one shoe.

  "Your left foot. Did you hurt it while you were running?"

  "I don't remember." She frowned, tentatively scrunching her foot in the running shoe. "It hurts, though."

  He slid across the couch until he was close enough to grasp her foot. His fingers curled around her ankle, his hand warm even through her running tights. "May I take a look?"

  "Uh." Heat from his hand crawled up her leg, heading straight to a danger zone. She should move her foot. Back away from Ryan. But all she could manage with her short-circuited brain was an uh? She cleared her throat. "Okay."

  She bent to unlace her running shoe, but he gently pushed her hand aside. "Let me."

  He lifted her foot onto his thigh and tugged at one end of the lace. It fell open, and he wiggled a finger beneath the laces on the top of her foot to loosen them. Finally, cupping her calf in the palm of his hand, he worked the shoe off her foot.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Livvy curled her toes in the short running sock. "I'm good," she said, reaching for her foot.

  "No, you're not," he said, sliding his palm over the bottom of her foot, caressing her from toes to heel. "You're hurt."

  The touch of his hand made her squirm. And not because she was ticklish.

  "Ticklish?" he said, glancing up at her with a tiny grin. As if he knew why she was squirming.

  "Yeah," she said, swallowing. "Guess so."

  He peeled the sock away and dropped it on the floor. "You don't know?" He raised one eyebrow as he trailed a finger down her foot again. The rasp of his finger against her bare skin made her suck in a breath. Shift on the couch, restless. Needy.

  "Yes. I mean no." Irritated at the way her brain was leaking out of her ears, she swallowed hard. "It's fine now."

  Ignoring her, he bent her foot back and peered at the sole of her foot. "You have a bruise here." He skimmed the middle of her arch, his finger barely touching. Her eyes fluttered closed. Sparks shot out of the bottom of her foot, and not because it was bruised. "Looks like you stepped on something."

  "Wow." She swallowed again, forced her eyes open and tried to tug her foot away. Time to find some game. "Hope it won't have to be amputated."

  "I think your pain can be relieved without resorting to drastic measures." He pressed his thumb into the muscle and massaged it, and her eyes tried to roll back in her head. Holding her gaze, his eyes dark and knowing, he murmured, "I'm sure we can come up with more…specialized care."

  "What…what did you have in mind?" she managed to ask.

  "I think we'll have to do some testing." His hand closed around her foot, letting his fingers trail fire over her arch. "Find out what feels the best."

  You, she almost blurted as her eyes closed. You feel the best.

  He shifted on the couch, and her eyes fluttered open. Her heel rested on his thigh. If she bent her foot forward, she could touch the bulge in his jeans.

  Not that she wanted her foot on that bulge.

  Yes, she did. Mostly, she wanted her hands there. Her mouth. Other parts of her body.

  "Ryan," she whispered, drawing her foot away from him. "What are we doing?"

  He edged closer to her. Close enough that she could feel the heat pouring off his body. His hand was inches from hers. "If you don't know, I must be doing something wrong. Do you want me to explain?"

  Yes. Please. In detail. "Give me a hint," she said. She leaned toward him as if she was a magnet and he was iron.

  Her gaze dropped to the front of his jeans again. Don't think about iron.

  "We're talking about your treatment," he said, his low voice making every nerve in her body prickle. "It involves long, slow… consultations. Deep concentrations of…heat. Lots of hand to body… manipulations."

  Heat swept over her body, scorching every inch of her. She wanted to pull him closer. Rip off his clothes. Explore some of those slow consultations. Those hand to body manipulations.

  She slid her hands beneath her thighs to keep from reaching for him. "Not sure I can handle that much…treatment."

  "Oh, I think you're up to it, Livvy." His voice was ragged. Not quite steady. He edged closer. "If you need some help getting ready, I'd be happy to help you out."

  "That's a generous offer," she managed to say. "But I wouldn't want to take advantage of you."

  "Take advantage," he said, sliding close enough for her to feel his breath on her neck. "Please."

  "Maybe we need one of those long, slow consultations," she whispered.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he brushed the pad of his finger over her lips. "Let's find out," he murmured.

  His eyes fluttered closed as his nose bumped hers. He barely touched her lips, sliding his mouth along hers. Tasting, touching with the tip of his tongue, until he gently sucked her lower lip into his mouth.

  Someone moaned. It might have been her. Then he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her onto his lap. His body surrounded her, holding her tight against him. Cutting off all avenues of escape. He traced her cheekbones, smoothed over her ear, finally to
uched her mouth. The pads of his fingers teased her, barely touching.

  Her mouth fell open, and his lips found hers immediately.

  Their mouths fused together. When he slid his tongue along the sensitive skin inside her lips, she opened to him. Let her tongue tangle with his. Explored his mouth, drinking in the tiny sounds he made.

  She wanted to remember everything. The way his hands clutched at her, holding her as if he was afraid she'd disappear. The rich taste of the coffee she'd made for him. The hardness of his body against hers.

  She wanted more than that. She needed to touch his skin. Taste him. Feel his muscles twitch as she trailed her mouth over him. Drink in his scent.

  She wanted to see his chest, hidden beneath that hoodie. She yearned to press her palms against his muscles. Did he have hair there? Would it be soft against her fingers?

  He groaned into her mouth and speared his hands into her hair. Held her head steady as he plundered.

  She moved against him, unable to stop herself. He'd barely touched her, and she was so tightly wound she was ready to explode. She shifted in his lap so she faced him and pressed closer. Moaned when the hard length in his jeans pressed exactly where she needed it.

  She shoved her hands beneath his tee shirt, letting her fingers dance over his rock-hard abs. They twitched against her palms, and he lifted his mouth from hers to suck at the tendon in her neck. He held her hips tight, pressing her hard against him.

  "Touch me," she whispered, turning her head to find his mouth again. "I want your hands on me."

  "God, Livvy." He lifted his head and stared at her. His mouth was wet, his eyes hugely dilated. His hands shook as he brushed her hair away from her face. Then he smoothed his palms down her body to the hem of her running shirt. "You sure?"

  "Yes. Please." His muscles jumped beneath her fingers as she slid her hands up to his chest. He jerked against her when she found the hard nubs of his nipples. Sucked in a breath when she shoved his shirt up and licked one, then the other.