Oh, yeah, the spirit was leading, all right, his parts right into hers, if his flipping her onto her back was any indication. Not to mention the hardness of a certain body part which she’d made quite the close friend by now.
Although not as close as they were about to get, she thought, trying not to tense as he leaned over her, grabbing a condom off the nightstand. Oh, heck, what if he wanted her to put it on? She knew she should’ve picked up some bananas at the store...
She heard the package rip, some snapping—and grunting?—then he was between her legs, and again, instinct took over as she opened to him, almost crazy with anticipation from wanting him inside her.
And then he was, with a single thrust that caught her by surprise, making her cry out—and not in a good way—pushing him off her before she even knew she was doing it.
Chapter Eight
“Oh, Patrick...I am so sorry.”
Her words barely registered.
Feeling like he’d been knocked clear into an alternate universe, Patrick sat on the edge of the bed, his mood—among other things—rapidly deflating. And it had been a good mood. The best damn mood he’d been in since he couldn’t remember when. Her laughter, her no-holds-barred responses to his touch, the way she made him feel like nothing else mattered but what they were doing, right at that moment. To say it’d never been like that was an understatement. Except then, right before his mood got even better, she’d screamed, shoved him away. And in that split second afterward, he’d been horrified, confused, thinking it’d been too long, that in his eagerness to please her, to please both of them, he’d been too rough, he’d hurt her...
Another split second later, it hit him. That it hadn’t been him.
“You’re a virgin,” he said dully into the darkness, too stunned to even be incredulous.
He heard her sigh. “Was. I think. Technically.”
“How is that even possible! You were married, for cripes’ sake...”
“Technically,” she said again.
He turned to see she was backed against the headboard, facing the window with the sheet bunched at her breasts, and he silently swore. Yeah, he still felt like he’d been clobbered with a baseball bat, but in hindsight, there’d been clues, hadn’t there? That he’d had to show her where—and how—to touch him, a certain...amazement in her reactions, like someone seeing the ocean for the first time. But in the back of his mind—way in the back, thinking hadn’t been his top priority right then—he’d chalked it up to them being new together. Or that’d it been a while since her husband.
Then she lifted the edge of the sheet to wipe her cheek, and chagrin flooded through him, diluting the frustration. If not the confusion.
He reached for her hand, his heart constricting when she grabbed his back. “Are you okay?” he asked, wishing she’d look at him. More than half glad she didn’t. “Did I hurt you?”
She licked her lips. “It was...a surprise. I thought I was ready. I mean, I wanted...” Her eyes squeezed shut, then opened again. “I must’ve tensed or something...it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry,” she whispered again on a little sob, shaking her head. “That was stupid, I should’ve listened to my instincts and told you. But the girls said...”
“The girls? Your cousins, you mean?” When she nodded, he pressed, “The girls said what? That it was better not to tell me?”
Another nod. “They said you’d freak.”
“Like I’m not freaking now?”
Finally, she looked at him. “You don’t sound like you’re freaking.”
No, he’d done that before, hadn’t he? When he’d insisted on doing this in the dark. Because if they hadn’t, he probably would’ve picked up on those clues, seen in her face that something wasn’t right. So how could he fault her for not being totally honest with him?
Patrick shut his eyes. Damn. “So...that, uh, other thing we did. Was that—?”
“What can I say, it’s a night of firsts.”
Exhaling loudly, he stood, patting the nightstand for the box of matches he’d seen before they turned out the light. The box found, he opened it, her soft, surprised gasp that he’d changed his mind barely louder than the whoosh of the match when he struck it.
“What are you doing?” she said when he touched the flame to the already burned wick on the scented candle, then another, and another, until the room gently pulsed with the warm glow.
“Shedding a little light on things,” he said, shaking out the match and pinching the tip with his fingers to make sure it was out before tossing it in the trash can on the other side of the stand.
“Turn around,” she said gently.
He did, his hands curled at his hips. Nobody had seen him naked since Natalie, when he’d been dumb enough to think it wouldn’t matter to her. That as his wife, she’d pledged to stick by him, be with him, no matter what. Right?
With obvious relish, April’s eyes slowly grazed his body, inch by inch, a smile gradually curving her lips.
“Go ahead, take your time, I’m in no hurry,” he said, and she laughed.
“Can’t help it. You’re beautiful.”
“April, don’t—”
“I’m serious.” Then she held out her hand and whispered, “Get over here.”
Patrick hesitated, then climbed back into the bed to take her in his arms, laying his cheek on top of her rumpled hair. A large part of him wanted to believe he was only being kind. Or that she was. But another part—the part he didn’t want to hear from—knew it was more than that. That he was here because he wanted to be here, that holding her felt good. That he felt genuinely bad about what had happened, and not only because he’d been gypped.
“I still can’t believe...that you and your husband...?”
“Nope.”
“Why, for Pete’s sake?”
“It’s a long story. Which I really don’t feel like talking about right now. Suffice it to say we had an unconventional marriage.”
“Ya think?” When she sighed, he said, “Did you know this going in? That you wouldn’t—”
“Yes.”
“And you actually agreed?”
“I did.” She paused. “In writing, even.”
He remembered her...enthusiasm, those sweet little sounds she made in her throat, her joy...
How could she have willingly denied that part of herself?
Why not? You have.
“Are you angry?” she whispered, shattering his thoughts.
He thought. “Now that I’m mostly over the shock...no. Although it occurs to me if you’d warned me, I would have done things, well, differently.”
“Really?” She lifted her head to look up at him. “Not run off screaming into the night?”
“Once we were naked? Probably not.”
“I see,” she said, and he chuckled.
“What can I say, timing is everything.”
At his own words, Patrick shut his eyes, glad April couldn’t see the ambivalence crawling back out of the dark corners of his mind, nipping at his fragile peace. A large part of him did want to run, to get out of here while he still could. Before this gal wrapped herself around his damaged heart as tightly as she’d wrapped her legs around his hips, when he’d lifted her up in the hallway. All that trust...that giving...he couldn’t handle it.
And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to leave her, not yet, not until he knew she was okay.
His stomach muscles jumped when that soft, smooth hand trailed over his abs, then lower. Not quite to bull’s eye but close enough to get things stirring again.
Figuring this time—if, indeed, that’s what this was—it would be nice if they were both on the same page, he grabbed her hand, holding it flat against his belly.
“What are you doing?”
She paused, then slipped her hand out from under his and continued her journey. “Finishing what I started?”
He sucked in a breath. Shut his eyes. He forced out, “You don’t have to do th-that—”
“Just hush and show me what to do.”
So he did, forcing himself to watch her face as he tutored her, almost laughing when her brow puckered in concentration. Suddenly, she stopped, shaking her head, and he almost cried.
“What are you—”
“Get another condom. Now.”
Again, it took a moment for the words to register. Then he was frantically slapping the nightstand for the packet—
“Can’t find it—”
He felt a brisk breeze as he heard the sheet whip back. “Top drawer.”
Thinking, You have condoms? Patrick yanked open the drawer so hard the whole thing came out, scattering little foil packets all over the floor like an X-rated piñata. He stared, momentarily transfixed. “How many guys were you expecting?”
“They were for you, I didn’t know what to get, just pick something, for Pete’s sake!”
One quick riffle later, he was suited up and ready to go, only to have his breath leave his lungs when he turned to find April on her back.
In-freaking-credible.
He knelt over her, stroking her hair off her cheek, now realizing the real reason why he’d wanted to make love in the dark before—not so she couldn’t see him, but so he couldn’t see her. Couldn’t see the trust, the ingenuousness. Because if he couldn’t see it, it couldn’t get inside him, could it?
Too late, he thought as he said, “I’m going to go real slow, okay? You let me know if—”
“Got it.” Her eyes squeezed closed. “Just...go.”
“Not until you relax.”
“Relax. Okay.” He saw her take in a breath, let it slowly out. Still with her eyes shut.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he said, even as the “sweetheart” ricocheted in his brain. Her eyes popped open, and he laughed. “Are you sure...?”
“Yes, sorry. Although I think it was easier when I didn’t know what was about to happen.”
“Shh...” He stretched out over her, holding her hands in his as he kissed her, about to go crazy from her scent as he gently sucked at her neck, then her breasts, until her breathing changed and he knew she was in The Zone.
“You good?” he asked, getting a drowsy, “Mmm-hmm,” in response.
He lifted her knees, positioned himself, said a prayer. For what, he wasn’t sure.
“Look at me,” he commanded again, his heart stuttering when she did. Inch by exquisitely agonizing inch, he slid into her, watching her face for signs of whatever she might not be inclined to admit. At one point she tensed, only to immediately shake her head.
“No, it’s fine, I’m okay...oh...” Another inch. And another long, breathy, “Ohhh...”
He retreated. Gently pushed forward again. Farther, this time. April sighed, and smiled, her eyes drifting closed again.
He kissed her. “Close?”
“Shh,” she whispered, wrapping herself around him, taking him in. Smiling.
Holding him still.
There should be a medal for this, he thought, sweat beading on his brow from holding back. Then she sighed again and mumbled, “Go,” and he felt like a horse let out of the starting gate, except one push and over she went, panting and laughing and crying and carrying him right along with her.
Right into enemy territory.
* * *
His slice of pecan pie finished, Patrick set his empty plate on the coffee table, slightly startling April when he then stretched out on her couch to lay his head on her lap, claiming her hand to toy with her fingers as he stared into the fire.
Yes, they’d finally gotten around to eating—Patrick in his pants and shirt, April in her pale blue fleece robe and what she strongly suspected was rampant sex hair—although April had been a trifle distracted, what with glowing so much and all. Not distracted enough, however, that she hadn’t put away more food in the past half hour than she had all week. According to her cousins, sex was supposed to diminish your appetite. Not in this case, April thought with a smile as she stroked Patrick’s short, bristly hair. When the endorphins wore off she was probably gonna be a little sore. Ask her if she cared.
And you know something else? She had a really strong suspicion this would not have been nearly so much fun when she was a teenager. Especially since her partner would have most likely been a teenage boy. And for all Blythe’s smug “Nyah-nyah-nyah, I did it first,” truth be told her cousin hadn’t sounded all that thrilled about the “doing” part of things.
“I suppose you’re gonna tell your cousins all about this?” he said, and she laughed.
“That I’m a big girl now? I think they’re going to guess that part. But the details? Not if they tied me up and tortured my bare feet with feathers.”
She felt the rumble of his chuckle beneath her palm. “Wouldn’t put it past them.”
“Neither would I. But I won’t break. Promise.”
He arched to look up at her, then lifted his hand to the back of her head to pull her down for a kiss, whispering, “I’m sure you won’t,” when he was done.
What is going through your head right now, Patrick Shaughnessy?
Oh, they’d cuddled, and kissed, and exchanged what she assumed were the standard postcoital pleasantries. She’d thanked him—with every scrap of sincerity she could dredge up while still limp as a dishrag—and he’d said, “No problem,” with a ridiculously huge grin on his face, which tickled her immensely. Then he’d insisted she soak for a while in a hot bath—which tickled her even more—while he fixed them plates of food. In other words, as far as first times went? On a scale of one to ten, hers was well in the double digits.
Still, even though he was doing and saying all the “right” things, April could sense he wasn’t nearly as relaxed as he would have her believe. As though he was trying too hard, maybe? She also kept thinking she needed to say something to reassure him, somehow, but Lord alone knew what that might be.
And that was even before she’d finally finished telling him about her marriage. He’d listened while she’d talked, frowning into his food, mostly, but not saying much. Already she’d figured out he needed time to process things. Which apparently included when, or even if, to open up to her the same way.
The good news was...he was still here. That he hadn’t bolted, that he had listened, that he was now lying here with his head in her lap, gave her hope. A foolish, foundationless hope, maybe, but hope nonetheless.
Because she thought she might be falling in love. Not that she’d ever say this to Patrick. Lord, no. Not yet, at any rate. Because of course it was too early—to be thinking it, let alone saying it—even she knew that. And she wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t the hormones talking, since if you asked her right now to tell you why she thought she was falling, she couldn’t have begun to tell you why. All she knew was, she’d never felt like this before. That whatever this was, it was over and above what she’d called “love” up to this point.
But that thing about wanting to make him happy? To do whatever she could to see that grin again? And again and again and again?
Probably isn’t going away anytime too soon, nope.
He curled forward to sit up and face the fire, propping the soles of his feet on the edge of the coffee table before swinging his arm over her shoulders and drawing her close. “I know I’ve been kind of quiet, but that’s just me turning things over in my head. And somewhere along the line it occurred to me what a big deal it was, you trusting me like that. Can’t say as I understand why, to be honest, but you did. That was a huge step you took, and you took it with me, and, well, I guess I’m still kind of shocked.”
“Silly goober,” she said, and he softly laughed.
“My point is, though, that I got to thinking...the least I could do is trust you back. As much as I’m able to, anyway. And I suppose you’re curious.” He paused. “About what happened.”
“Your mother already—”
“She wasn’t there, April,” he said, and she thought she’d crumble inside.
Nestling against h
is chest, she slipped her hand inside his shirt, the scarring already familiar, almost reassuring in a weird sort of way. “I’m not sure curious is the right word. I only want to know if you want to tell me. I want to know...” She cleared her throat, sending up a silent prayer for the right words. “I want to know whatever you want to tell me. But I won’t pry, I promise. Or push. And if I do, tell me it’s off-limits and I’m good with that.”
“Really?”
“Let’s put it this way—I promise to try my best to be good with it. How’s that?”
“Deal,” he said, kissing the top of her head. He took his sweet time, though, cranking up, to the point that April wondered if he’d changed his mind. Then, at last, he said, “My gut instinct, afterward, was to shut down. Talking about it—what I remembered, anyway, a large chunk of that day is still missing in my brain—was the last thing I wanted to do. Took at least three therapists to get it through my head that was not the way to go. Crap happens to everybody. But you can’t deal with it by repressing the memories. I’d convinced myself...”
He paused, then released a breath in her hair. “That I was too tough to grieve. That admitting how lost and angry and resentful I felt was a sign of weakness. Because those feelings scared the bejeezus out of me.”
She thought of his mother’s words. Realized, at that moment, that perhaps her mission wasn’t only about bringing him joy, but about giving him permission to feel. To be human, for heaven’s sake. “They scare the bejeezus out of everybody, honey.”
“Took me a while to accept that, though. That said...other than my last therapist and my family, I haven’t talked about this to anyone.”
“Not even your ex-wife?”
“I tried to, believe me. She didn’t want to hear. Said she didn’t want all that ‘negativity’ poisoning the atmosphere.” At April’s silence, Patrick said, “No comment?”
“None that a good Southern girl should be making,” she said, and he smiled, kissed her hand.
She then listened in silence as he told her about the explosion, the fire, his momentary awareness of complete chaos as adrenaline and instinct took over, before everything went black. About waking up in the hospital in Germany to his mother standing over him, the tears in her eyes giving the lie to her smile. About having no recall of rescuing his teammates, the agony of realizing who hadn’t made it. The months of treatment that followed, the painful surgeries and treatments, the constant battle against discouragement and depression. And guilt, no matter how often he’d been reminded of the men he’d saved. The number of times he’d seriously considered ending it all.
A Gift for All Seasons Page 13
