by Anne Calhoun
It was the oddest date he’d been on in recent memory . . . well, the only date he’d been on in recent memory. The first wave of exhaustion hit him. Lack of sleep, adrenaline crash, alcohol. But then they receded, and he found himself wondering exactly what it took to make a flush climb that dusky throat, make those serene eyes close in surrender.
“What’s next?” she asked when the waiter brought the bill.
He paused in the act of pulling out his wallet and cut her a glance. “The Pleasure Pier’s what you paid for, but lady’s choice,” he said casually.
She bit her full lower lip, but met his gaze head-on. “I’d like to go back to your place.”
Her tone, low and clear, set his radar pinging because the words sounded almost rehearsed, but really, he didn’t give a fuck. This was who he was, what he did, because he could do this. Ben thumbed through the twenties and left a small stack in the leather folder, then got to his feet and held out his hand, guiding her through the front door and into the parking lot.
“I’m in the truck,” he said, pointing to his black crew cab F-150. “Stay close.”
A small green Ford Focus, bearing the dimples of hail damage the body shop couldn’t fix, pulled into traffic behind him and parked in one of the visitors’ spots when they arrived at his apartment complex. She stayed silent as they climbed up the stairs to his apartment. He flicked on the entry light, then shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of a dinette chair.
Rachel closed the door behind her. He turned to face her. “Want a beer?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Have you changed your mind?”
“About what?” he said, pretty sure he hadn’t agreed to anything he would normally change his mind about.
“About going that far.”
Never in his life had a woman checked in with him to make sure he was in the mood. “Maybe,” he said. Amusement roughened his voice.
She reached past him to set her purse on the table. His cock shifted and thickened as she did. Then she looked at him, as if she wasn’t sure what came next. Her hesitation amused him, so he beckoned her close. The play of muscle under the skin of her shoulders transfixed his gaze as her humid, earthy scent rose into his nostrils.
Lust. She smelled like risk, and lust, but he stopped cataloging scents when she went on tiptoe and pressed her full lips to his. Mouth on mouth, her body aligned with his, heat shot straight to his cock. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her against him as her lips barely brushed his. The way her breath heated his mouth made the nerve endings there tingle, made him want more.
He took more, slanting his mouth across hers, dipping his tongue inside to touch hers, then licking the curve of her full lower lip. In the back of her throat she made the oddest, softest noise, somewhere between surprise and pleasure. Even through his T-shirt, dress shirt, and her dress he felt her heart kick hard against her breast.
“Very persuasive,” he said when she pulled back to inhale shakily. His arm held her on her toes, kept his erection pressed to her stomach. She wore flat-soled shoes, another oddity in the days of obligatory fuck-me heels, so she had to tilt her head to look up at him. Uncertainty flared in those mysterious eyes.
“Really?” she said.
No need to tell her that tonight of all nights, he was a sure thing. Instead, he held her against him, studying her face, the parted lips, the pulse pounding at the base of her throat. No flirting, no teasing, no tempting. No licked lips. No dropping to her knees to talk him into it with a blow job. Just a heat, raw and intense, unlike any he’d ever felt before, simmering under her skin, authentic and true.
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she said simply. “Let’s do it.”
Perfect, because the exhaustion lurked at the back of his brain, waiting to take him down. Tonight his role came easily, a little badass, a little rough, very intense. He reached for the loose, off-kilter knot of hair behind one ear and worked his fingers into it, the better to hold her mouth exactly where he wanted it. He tasted white wine and scorched-sweet custard as his tongue swept into her mouth, then he dragged his lips across her jaw, getting that first taste of skin. She shuddered when he closed his teeth over her jaw, but he didn’t let go of her hair, just walked down the hall with her feet inches off the floor, and tumbled them onto his bed.
She gasped when she landed on her back, again when his hand delved under the folds of her skirt to skim up her thigh. He brushed his thumb over her mound as he came down on top of her, then with the hand still fisted in her hair urged her head back to expose her throat. He licked and bit his way down her neck to the swell of her breasts above her bright copper neckline.
“Get this down,” he growled. She blinked at him, her eyes still so shockingly catlike. It took his hand at the zipper at her back for her to get the point, then she arched into him, her hands fumbling for the tab. The zipper rasped down. He nuzzled into her firm, lush breasts, then flicked his tongue over her nipple, sparking another gasp, this one with a shuddering little noise at the end.
Her hands touched down at his waist, the pressure light until he found the right combination of teeth and tongue to make her slowly writhe under him. Then her grip tightened, tugging his shirt from his suit pants, then unbuttoning his shirt from the bottom. He solved the problem of too many clothes by kneeling on the bed and yanking two shirts and his tie over his head.
With one hand he took both of her wrists and pinned them over her head as he took in her disheveled state. Her hair was coming loose from the knot, streaming over his sheet, her pale breasts tipped with nipples reddened by his mouth. Her skirt had climbed to her thighs; with the other hand he smoothed it up, revealing black lace briefs. Still watching her face he tugged them down, baring her to his gaze.
When he slid his fingers into her soft folds, her eyelids fluttered. Her panties held her legs closed, and she made a soft, panicked noise when he found her mostly dry. Still holding her gaze, he brought his middle finger to his mouth and licked it, then started slow circles around her clit. For long moments her only response was long quivers running from breasts to thighs, then the nub began to swell under his finger. When he dipped lower, seeking the better lubrication of her own juices, this time he found her damp. One leg draped over hers, he rubbed against her hip as she quivered under his touch.
She wasn’t ready. Getting there, but not ready, so he tugged her panties all the way off and slid between her thighs. But when he worked his hands under her ass, she struggled up on her elbows.
“No,” she said. “Just . . . I want you inside me.”
Something was off here, her responses out of kilter, either lagging behind or rushing, but her impatience spurred a very typical, very male response. He unbuckled his belt and freed his cock, rolled on a condom, then braced himself over her, his hands above her shoulders, his knees spreading her thighs even wider.
“Look at me,” he said.
Her eyes widened but she did as he said as he aligned himself at her entrance and slid into her until he bottomed out. Tight. Jesus. So fucking tight, wet, tense, and trembling under him. He worked in and out of her, watching the tension grow in her face and body. Her hands gripped his upper arms, her eyes feral and unreadable, her breathing catching sharply as he moved harder, then faster. When her eyes slid closed, he said more sharply, “Look at me.”
Her nails dug into his upper arms as her knees drew up, clamping around his hips. “Ben,” she gasped.
Friction unmoored her hair from the loose bun as he fucked her, the strands glinting in the light from the parking lot coming through his windows. Her soft breasts bounced with each thrust, and the heated rush of sexual energy seared his veins. He wasn’t a little drunk. Neither was she.
She was burning him alive.
He dropped to his elbows, gripped one leg, and opened her a little more. She
gave a trembling, gasping laugh. He shifted his angle, but while he was on the edge, she was somewhere near it. In the vicinity. Not quite there.
Not too proud to ask for directions, he said, “Help me out here, Rachel,” as he slowed.
Her hand clamped down on his nape as she bit the tendon in his neck. He froze, then her tongue traced a warm path up his neck to his ear. “Don’t stop,” she whispered, then bit the lobe. The unexpected pressure and sensation raced along his nerves, straight to his cock. With a long, low groan he plunged deep inside her one last time, then shuddered hard against her as he came.
And she didn’t. She was trembling under him, still in that no-man’s-land of near release.
“When I said help me out, that’s not what I meant,” he said when he got his breath back.
“It’s fine,” she said.
The relief he heard in her voice set off warning signals in his brain, but there were half a dozen reasons why girls came home with a cop, and getting off wasn’t the only one.
He pulled out and rolled onto his back, stripping off the condom as he did. He dropped it in the trash can beside his bed, then lay there. Exhaustion hit him like a roundhouse punch so that when the bed tilted slightly under him for a split second he thought he was on the rescue boat, heading into the harbor. But it was just Rachel, getting to her feet. Zipping up her dress. Finding her panties in the wreck of his suit on the floor.
“You okay to drive? You can stay,” he said.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” she said when she straightened, black lace in her hand.
He wasn’t one of those assholes who kicks a woman out the second the condom hit the trash can, he thought, then realized in his stupor he’d actually said the words.
“I’m fine,” she repeated, and backed out the door. “I’ll lock up behind myself.”
A pause by the dinette set where he assumed she was putting on her panties, the rustle of her purse and keys, then the sound of the doorknob.
The oddest fucking date of his life. He should at least get up and hang up his suit, then take a shower, but the bed sucked him down. The last thing he heard before he dropped into darkness was the click of the latch as the door closed.
Chapter Three
Rachel couldn’t stop trembling. Unpredictable little tremors ran through her body, shoulders to toes, although whether they came from losing her virginity or the sheer waves of emotion crashing from Ben Harris, she didn’t know. An uncertain little laugh stuttered from her throat.
Did I just do that? Did I just drive alone to meet him at a restaurant, unchaperoned? Did I just drink alcohol? Did I just break bread with him, go back to his apartment, kiss him? Because I kissed him first. I kissed him, I helped him take off his clothes, I spread my legs for him, and I had sex with him.
That wouldn’t go in this week’s letter to her father.
Did I just take a man not my husband into my body?
Then leave?
Did I just do that?
She knew it was unlikely for her to reach orgasm the first time she had sex, but still it had been intense, visceral, a full-body experience that left her shaking from the promise of something left unfulfilled. Two steps behind him every step of the way, she wished she had known how to tell him what she needed. It was probably for the best that she couldn’t. Surrendering to the fever pitch of climax while awash on the waves of masculine energy pouring from Ben Harris would have blown her mind.
I did do that, and it was good. Oh dear Lord, it was good. I will do it again.
She’d fooled him. Thank goodness for Jess and her rack-by-rack knowledge of Galveston’s secondhand stores. Her entire life, Rachel wore print blouses and full-length denim or khaki skirts, fabric that covered the shape of her body yet clearly marked her not only as a woman but a justified, righteous woman from Elysian Fields. She’d never chosen clothes because she liked the color or cut, or because they made her feel a certain way. But she’d loved that dress; the bright, shimmering copper color; the silky soft fabric; the way it covered her from collarbone to knees but clung to her at the same time. A dress with nuances led to feeling sexy, desirable. Normal. Just a woman . . . on a date . . . with a man.
The man who’d taken her virginity without a backward glance.
Shame should be making itself known now. She’d lain with a man outside the bounds of wedlock, without even a relationship. He was essentially a stranger. She should feel ashamed, but she drove through the darkness back to the farm with only a rising fury for company.
They’d kept this away from her. Her father, her pastor, all the male leaders of the community, the women who guided and taught her had kept this intimate, vibrant, shocking thing from her, and that made her furious. Or maybe some of the energy pouring from Ben still reverberated through her, lingering pings of sensation as parts of her body she’d never thought much about before took center stage in her awareness. A faint tingling from the scrape of his teeth over her nipples subsided as she left Galveston’s brightly lit streets for two-lane highways, but the stinging sensation between her legs didn’t ease.
Time, darkness, and solitude gave her space to process what had happened. Her lips throbbed from the pressure of his mouth. Ben’s kiss was hard, demanding; as hard as the body she’d seen so briefly, thin skin stretched taut over muscle, sinew, and bone. She’d never seen an erection jutting thick and swollen from a nest of darker brown hair, and she’d certainly never felt one push into her body. Access to the Internet, which was tightly controlled at Elysian Fields, enabled her to familiarize herself with the things men and women could do together, but knowing and experiencing were worlds apart in this situation.
It was casual, and violent in a way she’d never expected, the way he held himself above her as he thrust, the way his hips slapped against her inner thighs. He held her where he wanted her with hands in her hair and hips spreading her open and the strong glide of his shaft into her body. It was unspeakable, and incomprehensible.
But that interested her, because that rough touch made her muscles coil like hot wire. She’d felt hot and achy and needy, a dark, so-right urge to cling to him as he moved.
It was hers, and hers alone. Authentic. Real. Not filtered through older women’s whispered descriptions, older men’s decisions or expectations. Hers.
She drove past the farm’s main entrance to the dirt road leading to the employee parking and the rambling bunkhouse the interns shared each season. Jess’s car was still gone, as was the truck shared by the two boys getting their degrees from Texas A&M. A single light burned over the bunkhouse’s front door. Getting out of the car made her wince, but there was no one in the combined kitchen, dining area, and living room to notice her discomfort. She hurried into the room she shared with Jess to shed the dress and wrap herself in her cotton robe, then grab her shower caddy and head for the girls’ bathroom.
Light from the full moon poured through the window, illuminating pine walls and faded linoleum. Once in the shower, she stood for a moment, head tipped back, eyes closed, and let the hot water stream over her. She lathered up her facecloth and washed her face until no traces of makeup remained, then soaped up again and gently cleaned the sore skin between her legs. A smear of blood lingered on the cloth, then disappeared under the spray.
She dried off and pulled her nightgown over her head, then risked another glance at the mirror. There was her face, the wide brown eyes and curved cheekbones, the sturdy chin and full mouth she recognized from her previous lifetime. She looked no different. A woman’s most precious possession, according to her pastor and every other male authority figure in her life, the thing valued higher than rubies, more treasured than gold, was gone forever, and all she felt was a longing to know more.
Jess sat on her bed in her sleep shirt when Rachel walked back into their shared bedroom. “Hey,” she said avidly. “How did it
go?”
“Well,” Rachel said. “The restaurant was really good.”
“You went out with a hero, you know.”
“I did? I thought you said he was bad news.”
“Maybe he’s both. He walked into a robbery in progress at a gas station. The guy had a gun and Officer Harris, an eight-year veteran of the department with an assignment to the SWAT team,” Jess said, mimicking a newsreader’s intonation, “punched him out. The guy had a gun and three hostages, and your date clocked him, like something out of a movie! The video is all over the Internet!”
Oh. Oh, oh, oh. And he’d told her about the poor homeless man instead. She let out a little laugh. Nuances. Unexpectedly, her “bad news” had them.
“What’s so funny?” Jess asked.
“He didn’t mention it. He didn’t even hint at it.”
“Weird,” Jess said, then blinked expectantly, but Rachel said nothing more. She might still be living in a communal setting, but her body and mind were now private. Instead, she switched on the oscillating fan that was their air-conditioning, set the alarm for 4:45 a.m., crawled into her bed, and curled up under the thin sheet. When she closed her eyes, flashes of the night came back to her. Ben’s smile. Flickers of lightning down low in her belly, hinting at the possibility of so much more. She’d gotten what she wanted, but now she wanted more.
• • •
Ben awoke to sunlight pouring through the open shades, and a bitch of a headache. The wicked cocktail of adrenaline, the post-fight crash, alcohol, and sleeping later than usual resolved into what felt like a posthole digger slamming away behind his left eye. He needed water, aspirin, and based on the lingering scent of Rachel’s skin on his, a shower.
