by Reinke, Sara
“Tell me to stop, pischouette,” Rene whispered, looking down at her.
She met his gaze, trembling. She wasn’t naive when it came to sex. Martin had spent four years forcing himself on her to get her pregnant. She’d never felt anything on those occasions but repulsion, but at Rene’s touch, his kiss, she found herself suddenly on that same brink of tenuous self-control as when the bloodlust would come upon her.
“Tell me to stop,” he said again, and she shook her head.
“No.” She caught his face between her hands and pulled him down, kissing him again. He touched her through her pants, sliding his hand between her thighs and rubbing against her, sending sudden pleasure shuddering through her. No one had ever touched her like that before; sure as hell not Martin. She found herself moving with Rene, and when he paused, unbuttoning her fly and slipping beneath her waistband, she moaned softly.
She felt his fingertips steal through the tangle of dark curls hidden just beneath the edge of her panties, then move lower still. She raised her hips slightly from the bed and he caressed her, delving between her folds, stroking against a wonderful, almost electrified point deep at her core.
“Tu es étonnant, femme,” he whispered as she clutched at him, gasping for breath. You are amazing, woman. When he slid his fingers inside of her one at a time, slow and deliberate, she moaned again. He kissed her, his mouth pressing hungrily against hers as she moved with a nearly desperate urgency, grinding against his hand, drawing him deep inside, filling her. Faster and faster he moved, plunging his fingers in and out. She could feel something massive and wonderful building with his pace, some mounting pleasure that crashed down on her all at once, making her cry out, writhing against the bed.
When it was finished, leaving her breathless and trembling, she huddled against him, her eyes closed as he stroked her hair. “You all right?” he asked, and she laughed, nodding.
“Yes,” she said, resting her chin nearly against his sternum to look up at him. “Very much all right.”
He smiled, lifting his head enough to kiss her forehead through her bangs. “Good,” he said.
Tessa wondered why he hadn’t made love to her. He could have. She would have let him. Impossible as it seemed, given she’d never felt anything but a rigid disgust when it came to sex with her husband, when Rene had been touching her, kissing her, she’d wanted him, a foreign but fascinating—and damn near maddening—sensation.
She felt certain that Rene had wanted to, as well; that much had been obvious from the fervency in his kisses, not to mention the fact that he’d been so aroused, she’d thought for sure he’d burst through the front of his jeans. He’d been as desperate for her, as much on the tenuous brink of self-control as she’d been.
Then what stopped you? She rested her cheek against his chest and listened to the heavy, racing measure of his heart as it slowed back to its normal rhythm. Why didn’t you make love to me, Rene?
Chapter Eleven
Stupid, Rene thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He’d damn near waited too long before plugging in the lithium ion battery in his knee joint to recharge. It was designed to warn him of this sort of little oversight by vibrating. He’d felt the thrumming at about the same moment as he’d kissed Tessa for the first time, and had ignored it as a result.
Would’ve been real romantic, too, he thought with a scowl. If the damn thing hadn’t frozen up and left me stuck there, unable to move without dragging it around with me—a goddamn 15-pound titanium anchor.
He sat in the motel room recliner with a blanket draped across his lap and his prosthetic leg propped against the chair arm beside him, the knee fully bent while the battery recharged through a nearby wall outlet. Tessa was sound asleep in the bed; he’d lain with her for a while until she’d drifted off in his arms, that damn knee joint vibrating all the while in friendly reminder. He kept stealing anxious glances at every soft sound, each time she’d shift or murmur in her sleep.
I don’t want her to see me, he thought. Not like this.
He didn’t mind particularly if men saw him without his prosthetic; in fact, Tessa’s brother, Brandon, had once, and Rene hadn’t been bothered at all. But women were different. He didn’t like for them to see him without the leg in place, and few ever had. He hadn’t made love to a woman face-to-face since Irene; when he had sex with the prostitutes he’d hire to feed on, he’d always done so from behind. It made things easier that way…in more ways than one.
While waiting until the last minute to tend to his leg had been foolish enough, that wasn’t exactly why he was remonstrating with himself at the moment.
Stupid, he thought again. What the hell was I thinking, messing around with her? And what the hell was she thinking, letting me?
He watched Tessa sleep, admiring the soft play of lamplight against the contours of her face, alight against her glossy hair, remembering how it had felt to touch her, taste her. He hadn’t meant to, but hadn’t been able to stop himself from kissing her. And then when she’d told him about her husband, the way Martin used to abuse her, his heart had nearly broken. Here was the secret she’d been so careful to hide all along, the truth she’d been unable to share with anyone, not even her own brother. She’d confided it to him, and he’d been moved by her trust. He’d lost his mind for the moment, just like he had at the rest stop earlier. Only this time, he hadn’t acted impulsively to protect her from some drugged-out kid with a gun. He’d wanted to protect her from herself, from memories that obviously haunted and terrorized her. He’d wanted to show her that not every man in the world would hurt her.
There’s irony, no? a mean little part of his mind said. Because Christ knows you’ve never hurt anyone, right, Rene? Especially a woman.
Goddamn it, I need to get up, he thought, tearing his eyes away from Tessa and shoving the heel of his hand against his brow. He hated walls. That was why his home in the city was utterly devoid of them; nothing but a broad, open loft with drapes to mark boundaries. Right now, the claustrophobic confines of the motel room were damn near suffocating to him. I need to walk right out through that goddamn door, get in my car and get as far away from here as I can.
But he couldn’t. Not now, because of his leg. My goddamn leg, he thought, and in that moment, he was tempted to hoist it up and throw it across the room, ruining a fifty-thousand dollar investment. He blinked against sudden, frustrated tears and hated the goddamn prosthetic more than anything else in the entire world. Worse than that, he wanted a drink. Vodka, bourbon, beer, something—anything to take away that horrible edge, to make him stop feeling.
Because that’s what got me into this fucking mess, he thought. Feeling. Letting myself get caught up in the moment.
He looked at Tessa again, the outline of her body beneath the crisp, pale sheets, all long legs and gentle curves. She was breathtaking, her figure flawlessly proportioned, slender and strong, graceful and lean.
And here I am, half a man, he thought. I couldn’t even make love to her because I had to charge up my goddamn leg.
She would have let him, too, and that had been the most humiliating part. He hadn’t needed to read her mind to know this; it was obvious from the urgency in her kiss, the way she’d moved her body against him, undulating to match the rhythm of his hand. When she’d climaxed, she’d jerked against him, uttering a soft cry, and he’d damn near shot off in his pants like an adolescent schoolboy. And all the while, his goddamn knee had been buzzing: Hey, Casanova! I’m about to die here! You’d better fucking charge me!
When it was over, Tessa had curled up against him and fallen asleep. His erection had withered along with his ego, and he’d lain there, feeling frustrated and humiliated, hating his goddamn leg.
And what would you have done if your knee had been fully charged? he asked himself sharply. You can’t just drop your Levi’s anymore, mon ami, not so she wouldn’t notice. She’d see your leg. She’d see you, asshole, and talk about a fucking mood killer! You aren’t some godd
amn romance novel hero, Rene Morin. Half a man, that’s what you are. That’s what she’d see. Half a man.
He glanced across the room at her, his brows furrowed deeply as he struggled defiantly against his tears, his lips pressed together in a stern, crooked line. “Stupid,” he whispered.
Before he’d left her in bed, he’d felt the baby again. He’d touched her stomach through her clothes and that dim but wondrous sensation—which he could only liken to a broad beam of sunshine spilling into an otherwise darkened room—had flooded his mind, an awareness of some basic, inherent consciousness that had been sweet and innocent, like the thoughts of the birds he could call and command, but amplified ten-thousand fold. Just as it had before, this sensation had momentarily made him lose his breath, and he’d lain in the bed, dumbstruck.
Do you wish it could be yours? that spiteful part of his brain whispered. Do you, Rene? Stupid, stupid, stupid—you couldn’t be a father to the one you had the right to call your own. You drove Irene away. You broke her heart, made her lose the baby.
“No,” Rene whispered, closing his eyes, his brows narrowing even more. “No, I didn’t.”
It was a mistake, what you did with Tessa. A big fucking mistake, and if you don’t stop things now, it’s only going to get worse. You’re going to end up disappointing her, hurting her—just like you did with Irene. Do you really think you could ever make someone like Tessa happy? You couldn’t with Irene. Do you really think someone like Tessa would ever love you? Half a man—that’s all you’ll ever be. Damaged goods, Rene. You’re as fucked up in the head as you are everywhere else.
“No, I’m not,” Rene seethed.
No? his brain quipped back. Then why the hell are you sitting here arguing with yourself?
He opened his eyes. “Goddamn it.”
His cell phone sat beside him on a small table. He reached for it, flipped back the cover, then cradled it in his hand for a long, uncertain moment, staring at the small, glowing display screen, his thumb hovering above the keypad. You won’t do it. Not sober anyway. You don’t have the balls.
At this, Rene defiantly punched the redial button and drew the phone to his ear. Fuck you, he said to that little inner voice as he sat in rigid silence, his jaw locked at so stern an angle, his back teeth hit together, nearly grinding. He listened to the phone ring once, then again, then a third time.
Maybe she’s not home. Maybe she’s out on a date with her husband.
Several years ago, he’d hired a private investigator to track down Irene. He’d learned that she had remarried several years after leaving him, some college-educated accountant type Rene was sure her father had approved of. They’d moved to California in the early 1980s, when her husband had taken a job with some multibillion-dollar tech firm in Silicon Valley. He was now the chief financial officer of the company, or some such bullshit, and they lived in a posh Victorian mansion in the exclusive Pacific Heights area of San Francisco. They’d had two children, both of whom were grown. She lived the proverbial life of Riley.
She probably never even thinks of me at all.
“Hello?” Irene’s voice was sleepy; he’d roused her from bed again.
Rene closed his eyes and remembered the day forty years ago when he’d first set eyes on her, the way she’d smiled, the sweet fragrance that had surrounded her, the way sunlight dappling down through magnolia limbs had fallen against her face and shined in her hair.
“Hello?” she said again, this time the tone of her voice lending itself to a frown.
She’d never known about Rene’s money. By the time Arnaud Morin had found him, Irene was long gone, moving on with her life. She didn’t know that in one fell swoop, he’d acquired a hundred times the fortune her husband had spent years to earn; that he could have bought the sprawling house she called home a thousand times over and still have spent little more than pocket change to him.
She’d only known him dirt damn poor, and it had never mattered to her. She’d been one of the few people he’d ever known in his entire life who had loved him simply as he was, with no expectations, no demands. Lina was one of the others.
And now Tessa, he thought, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Tessa is falling in love with me like that, and oh, sweet Christ, I don’t know what to do, because I’m falling in love with her, too.
“Is somebody there?” Irene asked.
“No, chère,” Rene said softly, lowering the phone from his ear as he hung up. “Nobody at all.”
He slept for a couple of hours, waking some time just before dawn. Tessa was still sleeping, and his leg had charged, so he pulled it on long enough to get up off the recliner and duck into the bathroom. He needed a shower. Taking one involved removing his leg again, and he wanted to get a quick one in before Tessa roused just to avoid the risk of her seeing him. He needed to shave, too, but figured that would wait; the buzz of his electric razor as he stood over the vanity sink would have disturbed Tessa.
Once safely behind the closed bathroom door, Rene sat down against the side of the tub and removed his clothes and leg, propping the prosthetic within his reach in the corner near the toilet. He turned the hot water tap open wide, watching it splash down against the tub drain, sending steam curling up in thick tendrils that quickly filled the small room.
He had a folding shower chair in the trunk of the car, but didn’t want to risk waking Tessa by going outside to get it. At home, as a general rule, he simply stood in the shower; he had a large, walk-in stall instead of a tub and could balance himself by leaning against the wall. The floor of his shower was some kind of special, nonskid surface, while the basin of the motel’s porcelain tub was glossy and potentially slippery. That, combined with the fact he’d need to avoid getting his hand wet, if possible, meant he was going to have to be really careful. If he fell, he’d have a hell of a time getting up on his own, because the bathroom wasn’t handicapped equipped; there were no bars or rails for him to grab hold of for leverage. As he turned the showerhead on, Rene frowned, again toying with the idea of going to get the bath chair.
“Fuck it,” he muttered, swinging himself around on the edge of the tub. Resting most of his weight on his leg, he shoved his good hand against the shower wall and stood. Once upright, he leaned his shoulder against the wall and closed his eyes, feeling the spray of hot water stinging his chest, peppering his face. Heaven, he thought.
Within moments, the cotton gauze wrapped around his left hand was soaked. He’d had to force his fingers into reluctant movement in order to unwrap the little bar of motel soap, something he’d not thought to do before getting into the shower. The wound had healed considerably since the day before, but was still incredibly sore, and trying to manage something that had required at least some modicum of dexterity had left his hand throbbing and aching.
He wound up using the soap to wash his hair, because he’d also forgotten to grab one of the miniature bottles of shampoo from the corner of the tub. Since bending over to get it was pretty much out of the question, he was stuck with what he had on hand. Literally.
And when the little bar of soap slipped out from between his fingers, clattering to the floor of the tub and skittering about like a runaway hockey puck, Rene stared down at it with a frown. “Goddamn it.”
He had the urge to reach out with his right foot and poke it with his toes as it came to a rest against the chrome-plated tub drain. Which was odd considering he had no right foot anymore, no toes with which to poke anything.
He glanced at the far corner of the tub, where the edge of the white nylon shower curtain was plastered against the wall with moisture. There was another bar of soap there, and the little bottle of shampoo, as well. If I just lean over a little bit, I can reach it.
Ordinarily, he might not have bothered. He wasn’t particular or picky about his appearance, but yesterday had been hot, and he’d also torn open the kid’s throat at the rest stop. Even though he’d washed in the bathroom there, he’d still felt kind of grimy
and unclean ever since, if only in the Lady Macbeth guilt-ridden sort of way. And messing around with Tessa last night sure as hell didn’t help any. Out, out, damn spot—and all of that.
He shifted his weight slightly, blinking against water droplets beading in his eyelashes as he reached out, his fingers splayed for the soap. You’re not going to make it. Now the mean little niggling voice in his head had turned into an annoying little nagging one. You’re going to slip and fall and wind up stuck in this goddamn tub like a turtle turned up on its back.
“I am not,” Rene muttered, leaning over, arm outstretched. All at once, he lost his balance, and he had a wide-eyed, startled moment to realize that nagging voice had been right after all before he crashed down into the tub, dragging the shower curtain with him. It ripped loose of the thin metal loops holding it onto the curtain rod and came spilling down atop him like a sopping, cream-colored shroud. He landed hard, catching the brunt of the blow with his right side and sending a bright spear of pain shooting up from his stump. He tried to catch himself reflexively—and put too much weight down on his injured hand, causing him more pain. His chin smacked the lip of the tub so hard, his back teeth clamped down against his tongue, drawing blood.
“Goddamn it!” he cried, swatting the curtain off his face. The shower was still going full blast; now the water pelted down on the top of his head, and he sputtered, choking for breath, spitting out a bitter mouthful of blood.
“Goddamn it!” he gasped, struggling to push the soaked shower curtain away from him. Oh, viens m’enculer, that hurt like a son of a bitch!
“Rene?” He heard a light but urgent rapping against the bathroom door. “Are you all right?”
Terrific. So Tessa was awake now. His humiliation was complete.
“I’m fine.” He grimaced as he shoved his good hand against the side of the tub and tried to sit up.
“I heard a big crash…” she said, sounding uncertain.
