by Brenda Novak
She tilted her head as he fingered a stack of files. “If you think I have a file there on you, you’re wrong.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you so interested?”
Because, as much as he wished otherwise, he was interested in her. She must realize that already. If not, he wasn’t going to point it out. “These things…” He waved to indicate a cabinet that held a variety of handmade objects—baskets, pictures displayed on small easels, leather pieces, jewelry.
“What about them?”
“They’re gifts?”
“Yes.” She seemed proud.
“From inmates?”
“Mostly.”
That wasn’t difficult to guess. Many of the inmates he’d known made similar objects—weak attempts to make their lives matter when they didn’t matter at all. “Why do you keep them?”
“Because they’re special to me.”
Jealousy stung him but he also experienced an emotion that went far deeper. “They’re trophies of some kind?”
“Trophies?” she repeated.
“Tokens of the creators’ admiration and devotion. Proof of how many men have wanted you.”
She jumped to her feet. “Stop it!”
“Am I being too direct?” he asked, but he was glad she was angry. He wanted to make her angry because he was suddenly angry himself.
“It’s the implication I’m having a problem with. That’s the second time you’ve accused me of leading men on!”
“Isn’t that what you do?” Why else was she being so kind to him? He could only imagine she liked the risk of “slumming.” Or she enjoyed the thrill of bringing men like him—hardened, bitter men—to their knees.
She crossed over to him, coming close enough to jab a finger in his chest right below the medallion that hung from his neck—a Spanish eight-real coin from 1739, which was the only object of any value he owned. His father had left that behind. Not for him, exactly. He’d just forgotten it when he packed.
“You have no idea who I am, what I’m like. You know that?” she said.
Her touch sent an electric charge through him and nearly triggered the reaction he hoped to avoid. He almost dragged her up against him, but he knew that would scare the hell out of her, and fear wasn’t what he had in mind.
He swatted her hand away instead. “Then why do you keep them?”
“Because they mean something to me, okay? And so do the men who created them. They’re proof that beauty can be found where you’d least expect it. That most people have some good in them. That the amount of talent that goes to waste in prison is a tragedy.”
She was too close. He couldn’t think. He longed to take her in his arms and push her away at the same time, which made no sense. “That’s bullshit! The men who created these things aren’t significant to you. They’re just a bunch of lost souls grasping for something, anything, to make them feel they have value. And you believe you’re a bigger person for patronizing them. But you’d never open your heart to one of them, not really, and you know it.”
He was almost yelling when he finished. He could see the effect of his outburst, the way her face drained of color, and regretted it. But he was too far gone to change course, too torn by his own emotions to even apologize. It was better this way, he told himself. Better if she hated him. Better if she took him back to the damn motel and left him there. Then there’d be no chance of becoming the next man to contribute to her “collection.” The last thing he wanted was for some token representing him to be displayed here with all the others. Let her feel sorry for the poor bastards who’d made these arts and crafts. He wanted none of her pity.
What he wanted was her body, he told himself.
But, deep down, he knew he wanted much more than that.
What he really craved was her respect.
11
Her chest rising and falling much too fast, Peyton stood in the middle of her office long after Virgil had stalked out. She knew she needed to calm down. But she couldn’t. She was caught in a web spun by her own emotions and desires—one that challenged every instinct she possessed regarding self-preservation, not to mention sense of duty. She’d hoped to achieve some sort of equilibrium with this new person in her life. But she couldn’t. For one thing, he wasn’t someone to whom she could simply explain how she felt—because he understood more than she wanted him to understand, looked far deeper, to the hard truth, blanching at nothing. For another, in all her years in corrections, she’d never encountered anyone so at war with himself. That made everything more complicated.
She didn’t think of the inmates who’d given her these gifts the way he thought. She considered them friends, and there was nothing wrong with that. But she doubted she could convince him. What difference would it make, even if she could? Their argument hadn’t been about other men. It’d been about the two of them and how they felt whenever they were together. He understood that she was attracted to him. She’d made that obvious enough. He also understood that she was fighting it—that she wouldn’t, couldn’t, take a chance on someone like him—and he resented it.
She’d resent it, too, if she were him, wouldn’t she? Not only was he a victim of his mother’s and uncle’s actions, he was the product of an imperfect system. Her hesitation to get involved with him further convinced him that he didn’t deserve to be considered by someone like her, which wasn’t true. He’d said, You know what I want from you. If you want it, too, you don’t have to make me dinner. You don’t have to view me as an equal. Hell, you don’t have to do anything at all. Just ask. But now he acted as if he’d accept nothing less than her soul.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she counted her own heartbeat. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. It hammered away, refusing to slow down.
Go back to your room, close the door and lock it.
She promised herself she would. But once in the hallway she turned to the guest room and, swallowing hard, lifted her hand to knock.
Virgil’s whole body tensed when Peyton came to his door. “Go away,” he snapped.
“That’s it?” she said.
Yes…. No. God, he liked her and he hated her. Or maybe it was what she stood for that he both liked and hated. He barely knew her, and yet she represented everything he couldn’t have and everything he wanted all at once.
He should keep his hands to himself. That was the one course of action where he couldn’t go wrong. So he gritted his teeth and clung to his control. “Yes.”
He heard the weight of her footsteps as she left. Then his stomach knotted and his hands curled into fists because he wanted to hit something, something that would send enough pain through him to crush the physical longing.
Pulling the pillow over his head, he ordered himself to let her go.
Fifteen minutes later he got out of bed and descended the narrow stairs leading to her room. “Peyton?” he called when he reached her door.
It took her a moment to answer. He got the impression that she couldn’t decide whether or not she owed him that much. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say; he sure as hell couldn’t explain his actions or his emotions.
She opened the door. The look on her face accused him of hurting her even though he had no idea how he’d managed to do that. Maybe it was her pride he’d damaged. He supposed a woman like her wasn’t used to being turned down.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
She must’ve believed he was sincere because her pained expression dissolved and she began toying nervously with the bottom of her T-shirt.
Once he allowed his gaze to fall lower than her face, he realized that the sweatpants she’d worn earlier were gone. Bare legs extended to bare feet, the sight of which sent a fresh charge of testosterone through him.
“I don’t know how to help you,” she whispered.
“Maybe I don’t want you to help me.”
“Then what do you want?”
For her to see him as an ordinar
y man. To desire him as an ordinary man.
“Take off your clothes.” His voice sounded so raspy he almost didn’t recognize it. He felt so much more than lust, but whatever else he craved was like an itch he could never scratch. He figured he could be happy with pure sex. Being able to make love to a woman, a woman like Peyton, was far more than he’d expected before returning to prison, wasn’t it? So why had he tried so hard to resist?
She stood, seemingly transfixed. Would she refuse? He’d made his request a command because part of him hoped she would. That she’d save him, since he couldn’t save himself. The other part felt as if he’d die a little if she shut him down….
“Why do you have to tempt people, challenge them, into not giving you what you want?” she asked.
His chest burned; he wasn’t sure why. “This isn’t a psychoanalysis session. Are you going to fuck me or not?”
“No. Forget it. Just get out of here.” She started to turn away, but she didn’t close the door and he clasped her elbow.
“Don’t say no,” he murmured, but he didn’t hold on to her very long. He didn’t want her to feel forced.
She stared at him as if she understood why he’d been crude, as if she was just as lost as he was. Then she lifted her T-shirt over her head and let it drop to the floor.
The sight of her in nothing but a pair of sheer lace panties hit him harder than any physical blow he’d ever sustained. He stepped back and gulped for breath, dared not move toward her for fear she was just another dream that would dissipate into thin air if he tried to touch her.
“Virgil?” She sounded uncertain of his reaction, or lack of reaction.
His throat so dry he couldn’t speak, he raised a hand to tentatively cup her breast. The weight and feel of her resting in his palm shot to his brain like a snort of heroin. It’d been at least ten years since he’d wasted any brain cells on drugs, but it was a feeling he’d never forgotten.
Half expecting her to stop him, he caught his breath. He’d had so much practice being disappointed in life he didn’t truly believe she’d give him what he wanted. Bringing him here, teasing him with her nakedness, could be some sort of test, to see if he’d resort to force if she suddenly changed her mind. He’d heard of C.O.s who did that. Some got off on the danger of such games. But he had no desire to force Peyton or any other woman. It was her cooperation and participation he desired.
She didn’t know that, of course. But she didn’t refuse. Her lips parted and her eyes slid closed as his thumb brushed lightly over one tantalizing nipple.
When he began to shake, he tried to pull away so she wouldn’t notice. His reaction embarrassed him. But she covered his hands and held them in place. “It’s okay,” she promised. “No matter what happens, it’s okay.”
He hadn’t told her he’d been with only one girl, way back when he was a teenager, but he had told her he’d been eighteen when he went to prison and hadn’t had sex since then. He wondered if Peyton found it ironic that a man who’d seen and done so much was almost completely uninitiated in physical pleasure. Maybe. Regardless, she didn’t seem worried that he’d disappoint her.
Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his, kissing him softly, sweetly—and that was all it took. With a growl, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed, where he bent over her so he could use his mouth as much as his hands.
Making love to Peyton made Virgil feel as if he’d spent all those years in prison waiting for this one moment. He didn’t want it to end, especially too soon, which was why he didn’t remove his pajama bottoms when he removed her panties. It was Peyton who eventually peeled them off. Then there was nothing to stop them, and the drive to consummate became both frenzied and desperate.
“I want to feel you inside me,” she whispered when he still held back.
He wanted the same thing. More than he’d ever wanted anything. But just in case all those tests they’d given him before releasing him from prison had somehow been wrong, and he’d picked up HIV or something else from all the fighting, he didn’t want to expose her. Neither did he want to run the risk of getting her pregnant. That couldn’t be good for her life or her career, for a lot of reasons, including the fact that it would provide proof, should Wallace care to make any accusations, that they’d been together.
Pulling ragged gulps of air into his lungs, he rested his forehead against hers. “Do you have a condom?”
“I thought you said you were clean.”
“I am, but…what about pregnancy?”
“There’s no need to worry about that. I’ve had endometriosis since I was thirteen. The doctor has me on the pill.”
What, exactly, did that mean? “Endometriosis doesn’t make this…painful for you, does it?” He knew that was probably a stupid question. She seemed eager enough. But one thing he hadn’t come across in prison was any information on the various conditions that affect the female reproductive system.
“For me it’s not usually painful. It just means I might have trouble getting pregnant if and when I want children. But there’s a lot doctors can do these days, so…I’m hopeful.”
“I’m sure they’ll be able to help.” He didn’t know the first thing about it, but he would’ve said whatever she needed to hear. He felt too protective of her to do anything else. “So…we’re good to go?”
“We’re good.” She whispered those words while tracing the rim of his ear with her tongue. He nearly melted into her right then and there, but he wanted one last look at her the way she was now, completely undone, her mouth swollen with his kisses, her hair tangled from his hands, her face slightly chafed from his beard growth. Pinning her hands lightly above her head, he stared at her, intent on memorizing every detail.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing.” He traced the curve of one cheek, ran his finger along her lower lip and all the way down to her navel. Then he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the sensations that promised such sweet release: her satiny skin, her wet mouth, her musky smell on his fingers. He was trying to take it slow; he didn’t want it to end too soon. But what they felt turned into such frantic need he could’ve more easily stopped a speeding train. Gripping his buttocks, she arched into him to let him know what she wanted, and he responded by pushing inside her as far as he could.
The tight warmth of her around him was almost too much. He tried, once again, to slow down, but it was a futile effort. The compulsion was too great, for both of them. She moaned her pleasure as the rhythm increased, and he began to shake again. This wasn’t like those sloppy, careless sessions with Carrie. He’d lost enough since then to know that this was one of those moments he’d always treasure, regardless of what happened afterward.
“I think…maybe you’d better give me a minute,” he gasped, “or I won’t…be able to hang on until—”
“Don’t worry about that.” She wrapped her legs around his hips, drawing him even deeper. “Just let go.”
And then the last of his defenses slipped away, along with his control, and the most exquisite pleasure broke over him, rocking him with a series of shuddering waves.
The soothing, metronome quality of Virgil’s breathing suggested he was sleeping soundly. He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his head. Peyton wondered how long it’d been since he’d really relaxed like this. She was tired herself, but she didn’t want to drift into unconsciousness. She preferred to relish the time she had with him. His warmth seemed to hold the fog’s pervading dampness at bay and the size of his body offered a greater sense of security than she’d felt in ages. For the first time since she’d met him, except for when they were making love, he was unguarded. She liked that. More than liked it. And yet she had to ask herself: What have I done? She was the chief deputy warden of the facility where he’d be incarcerated on Tuesday. After this, how could they maintain any type of professionalism?
Playing their respective roles had been a battle from the start, hadn’t it? He’d always defied her on
one level or another. Because he wasn’t really an inmate, she couldn’t seem to employ the same defenses that normally kept her safe. Until she’d met him, she’d never dreamed anything like this could happen to her.
But if she’d been wrong to allow him into her bed, it certainly didn’t feel that way right now. Sharing what they’d shared seemed to ease his pain. It’d also left him exhausted and able to sleep, and that brought her a measure of relief, too. But she felt free to do as she wanted here, in her own home, especially in the dark of night. Would that perspective change come morning?
Shifting carefully, so she wouldn’t wake him, she studied what she could see of his face, beautiful in its rawboned masculinity, illuminated by the moonlight slanting through her floor-to-ceiling windows. She had drapes, but almost always left them open. Living on towering ocean cliffs had certain benefits. Privacy was one. No one could see into her bedroom.
Lowering her eyes to his chest, she took particular note of the tattoos on his body and what they might represent. The grim reaper covered one shoulder as if daring death to take him. Or maybe it represented how often he’d stared death in the face? A medusa languished over his heart, the snakes of her hair detailed and real-looking as they slithered across his torso. She already knew he was familiar with Greek mythology. Had he chosen a medusa to represent his mother—someone once beautiful who’d become ugly because of her actions?
There were plenty of scars, too. He’d been shanked several times. How many fights had he been in? And what had the C.O.s done to him as a result? They’d probably vented their anger on a number of occasions, possibly with a few blows of their own. At the very least, they would’ve put him in isolation.
Peyton winced at what he must’ve gone through—a man falsely accused and erroneously imprisoned. It could’ve destroyed him. Maybe, in ways, it had. But it didn’t seem like that. He was a gentle lover. A generous one, too. Surely that revealed as much about him as anything else.
