Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy

by Patricia Burroughs

  “Where...where did you come from?” she asked groggily, arching against the floor and into his hand as he tweaked her nipple. “I... I don’t remember sending out for this.”

  “I’ve been lurking in the ivy, waiting for some unsuspecting virgin to leave her window open so I could slip in and have my way with her.” He let his free hand slide down her bare thigh, then back up again. “The virgins in this neighborhood are a cautious lot, I’m afraid. I had to settle for the loose woman—”

  “Brazen hussy,” she corrected on a sigh as his fingers skimmed and teased and tormented. "And I had Ralph to protect me."

  “Brazen hussy who left her front door unlocked. Again. And Ralph can be bought off with treats.” His voice was stern, but his actions weren’t as he nuzzled her neck, and she tilted her head back to give him more room. “I’m determined to break you of that habit.”

  “This...is...not...the way to...do it,” she finished in a rush as his fingers worked their way under her shorts, her bikinis, and stroked the full, rounded flesh of her bottom. “Oh...”

  “My,” he finished for her.

  “We’re on the floor,” she whispered hoarsely. “Mm-hmm.” Her blouse having somehow gotten worked up around her neck, his lips had found something other than speech to occupy them.

  “Jeff,” she groaned, “you’re getting very unpredictable. Very untrustworthy.”

  His lips worked magic on her breasts. Each moist tug seemed to pull something deep inside her, tightening into an ache between her thighs, until she broke away long enough to peel her blouse over her head, then melt back into his arms.

  “Not at all.” He raised his face to hers and grinned. “I put Ralph out and locked the door.”

  A giggle started low in the back of her throat and grew. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Believe what?”

  “Believe that... Oh, goodness.” She felt her cheeks flaming. “All those years ago, I had this fantasy. You were so solemn, so studious, so stuck up.”

  “I was not!”

  “You were!” She laughed at his consternation. “You were! I just knew you were waiting for someone to— Oh, I know it sounds dippy, but I was fourteen years old, for pete’s sake. I thought you were waiting for someone to teach you how to laugh. To light up your life. To be your sunshine. And I was determined to get the job.”

  “An understatement if ever I’ve heard one,” he growled playfully, drawing circles on her abdomen.

  “Who would have ever thought—” she felt a gentle smile curling her lips “—that all these years later you do that for me? Make me laugh, remind me to loosen up once in a while.”

  “Who would have thought?” His hand stilled on her stomach, his eyes darkening. “Cecilia, I want to do more for you. So much more.”

  She touched his lips, traced them with her fingertip. “It’s enough, Jeff, it’s more than enough.”

  “Not for me,” he said. He wove his fingers into her hair and pulled her closer, until her face was inches from his own.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  “Cecilia, I love you.”

  Her eyes closed; she almost swayed at the sound of his words. A tremor of dread and anticipation swept through her. I love you. Words she’d never dared hope to hear from him. Words he wouldn’t speak lightly, for he did nothing lightly. I love you. He was waiting for her to respond, but the words he wanted to hear were trapped inside. She spoke the only commitment she could make, the only words she could say. “Kiss me..."

  His arms circled her bare waist. He began nibbling her shoulder, sliding kisses up her neck. Then his hands moved to skim over her ribs to cup her breasts, his fingers long and strong and dark against her pale ivory skin.

  Her arms fell limp to her sides as he suckled her right breast, then her left, then her right again, each time greedier, more demanding. Every nerve twisted and ached, wanting to give in. Her hands trembled as she unbuttoned the waistband of her shorts and slid them slowly to the floor. His hands tugged the thin, silky fabric of her bikinis, slid them down her legs. Reflexively she lifted her foot to kick them off. That movement, slight as it was, provided him the opportunity he was seeking as one hand encircled her and held her still and the other explored the tender flesh between her thighs with studied precision.

  He knew what he was doing.

  Gracious, he knew what he was doing.

  He was relentless, stroking her moist heat until she turned her face into her own shoulder to muffle the whimper and trap it in her throat as she felt herself swelling toward release. But then his hands were gone and she gasped her frustration.

  His lips closed over hers, savage and demanding. Her mouth opened, drawing him in, meeting him with equal demand, equal frustration. She took great gulping breaths of him, soaked the feel of him into her pores, the sound of his harsh breathing and pounding heartbeat, the taste of desire and passion.

  “Jeff,” she whispered hoarsely, pulling him to the bedroom, to the bed. He stripped off his shirt; she fumbled with his trousers. The zipper snagged halfway down, and before he could carefully, sensibly fix it, she’d slipped her hand beneath the waistband of his shorts and lower, until her fingertips found him. A choking sound came from his throat and he fell over her. The old iron bed frame squeaked under them as he braced himself above her on outstretched arms while she stroked and explored. He was trembling; she could sense him about to pull away, and instead she withdrew her hand and stroked the flat, hard muscles of his belly.

  She had let him love her. She had taken and taken and taken. This time she wanted to give.

  “Lie down,” she said, and he collapsed beside her, attempting to pull her with him, but she sat up, instead. “Shhh...” She straddled his thighs, her fingers patiently unsticking the zipper. He stroked her hair, her shoulders, his fingers rigid. When finally the zipper slid down, he raised his hips and she tugged off his trousers, working them down his legs until they landed in a heap on the floor. And then she reversed her path, stroking his legs, his thighs, with teasing fingertips and with moist kisses. Slowly she eased back up to him, over him, until her fingertips grazed the hem of his shorts. His iron-hard thighs flexed at her touch as she slid a hand under the soft, cool fabric and found the hard distended heat that awaited her.

  “No,” he said as he realized her intention, but she didn’t listen, refused to give herself a chance to change her mind. She found the opening of his shorts and freed him, kissed him tentatively, felt him shudder, and gave herself over to the desire to give pleasure for pleasure. Remembering his loving, she held back nothing, even when his fingers twisted in her hair.

  Then he was pushing her away from him, groaning, grabbing her by the shoulders and rolling with her, pressing her against the mattress as he eased slowly into her, holding back, even as he moved within her, relentlessly bringing her with him to the brink of completion. Her hands ran down the taut, bunching planes of his back to the small of his spine, riding his hips as they plunged, then withdrew, and plunged again. She clutched him, exploding with him in a radiating pleasure that spiraled through her to the outermost tingling reaches of her body. She thrust against him until her body had nothing left to give, accepting his driving passion until it was almost a pain. And still he moved and still she clasped, until nothing remained but the tears welling in her eyes, the heartache welling in her soul, that this had to be temporary, fleeting, could have no permanent place in her life.

  He didn’t roll away. He stayed over her, wrapping her in his arms and rocking slowly, gently, sorrowfully, dragging the act beyond its natural bounds, and she let him, sucking her cheeks in to keep from losing it all together. She wouldn’t break down. She wouldn’t cry in his arms. And, heaven help her, she couldn’t explain, that what he gave her was so momentous, so devastating, she was left without hope of ever loving or being loved again.

  I can’t, she said silently. I can’t keep pretending you’re the whole world until I believe it, until I can’t live without you.r />
  But she didn’t speak the words. Instead she whispered his name, over and over again, until his lips silenced her. They were meshed, legs and arms and bodies and souls.

  They drifted into a restless sleep, and as usual, she was the first to waken. She covered them both with the quilt, then lay there in the silence, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

  His eyelids opened slowly, but his eyes were clear, as if he’d been awake...and waiting...and thinking...and feeling her watching him. “Cecilia.”

  She reached to touch his lips to trace their shape, to remember.

  His words were measured. “Cecil, marry me.”

  She froze, not believing her ears, testing the lead weight in her stomach, the reaction that was not joy. Why? she wanted to ask him. Why couldn’t you leave it alone? Why couldn’t you leave things the way they were? She tried to pull away from him, but he wouldn’t let go. “Come on, Jeff," she said, forcing a smile. "You know it would never work.”

  "Why not?"

  She took a deep breath and fought to keep her tone light. "You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you can spreadsheet all the reasons."

  "But I don’t want to be that guy, the careful guy who spreadsheets all the reasons not to marry you. I want to be the guy who grabs happiness and holds on." He pulled her closer, tasted her lips, took them in a gentling kiss. “Feel that?” he murmured. “Do you feel it?”

  “Yes, and it’s—it’s wonderful. It’s beyond wonderful. But, really, marriage? You just think you want to marry me. But what about living with our insanity for—” she choked on the words “—for the rest of our days.”

  "The rest of your days? When you put it that way..." He nibbled the tender skin stretched over her clavicle, then stroked it with his tongue. "I’ll have to think about that. Men have committed murder and gotten off with shorter sentences."

  "No fair! I’m ticklish!" And despite her core-deep knowledge that he was wrong, so wrong, for her and worse, for her oldest son—she found herself laughing in his arms, cuddled against his strong, warm chest.

  “How can I convince you?” he asked, his thumbs rubbing her shoulders.

  “Just slow down a minute, please,” she begged. “Jeff, listen to me. We’ve got to be reasonable. I can’t even picture you and Peter under the same roof.”

  “Peter’s a spoiled brat.” His blunt words were softened with a crooked smile. “So am I. And we’re both used to getting our own way. We’ll both have to give, and learn to share you. It won’t be easy, but it’ll work. We’ll make it work.” He took her hands and squeezed them reassuringly. “And Brad and Annie are so much like you, how could I not adore them?”

  “You make it sound much easier than it is,” Cecilia muttered.

  Jeff tugged at her chin until she had to look straight into his eyes and see the confusion there. “Do you realize how difficult this is for me?" he asked. "I feel like I’m stepping blindfolded off a gangplank, hoping the water’s deep enough so that I won’t break my neck, and hoping that the sharks that are circling aren’t hungry, and hoping that I can swim with my feet and hands bound—and not giving a damn if all those hopes fall through, because the bottom line is that you’re waiting under that gangplank for me, and you’re worth all the risks. I don’t have all the answers, but I know the answer begins with you and me. Together. Whatever else it takes, I’m willing.”

  “I want to believe you so badly.”

  Finally she faced him, tears clogging her throat like stones. “You want to know what I’m afraid of? I’ll tell you what I’m afraid of! I’m terrified of needing you. Because I don’t know if I’ve got what it takes to pick up the pieces if I ever let myself get close to someone again and it doesn’t work. You don’t screw up your bank account and you don’t drop your towels on the floor and you don’t know how to walk barefoot across a minefield of toys in the dark to check on one of kids without waking them up, and—and you’ll end up miserable, and making me miserable because I can’t live up to your definition of orderly and normal. I’ve already lived that life, and I failed at it, and now that I have a life that fits me, that fits my kids, that works—I can’t risk it all again. I can’t."

  “That’s it?” he asked, his voice strangled.

  She nodded mutely.

  “Do you realize what you’re saying? This—” his hands sliced the air “—this steel wall I’m banging against—it’s not even the issue! The kids aren’t the problem at all.” His tone was low, controlled, but his anger was as evident as if he had shouted. Moments passed and finally he added, his voice hoarse, “I thought there wasn’t anything we couldn’t work out. The kids, our differences. You see, Cecilia, I’ve spent the past weeks hoping, praying and finally believing that you needed me, loved me, would want me to be in your life. You’re such a damned good mother, always putting your kids first, and I understood that. But that’s not the way it was at all, was it? The kids were your excuse, your shield.”

  “No,” she whispered. And then she added, more painfully, more honestly, “Maybe.”

  “If I were a damned scoutmaster—you’d still say no.”

  Was he right? Had she used the children as an excuse? Sick dread filled her, dread that she’d been lying even to herself. And so she dug deep, dug for the most quivering, vulnerable honesty she possessed. "I’d say no if you were a scoutmaster...who was also an accountant,” she said, wiping tears with the backs of her hands.

  "Wow." She saw the shadows shift as he moved away from her.

  "You think that because you love me, you can change, you can be somebody different, to fit into my world. But I’ve already lived that nightmare, tried to be someone different to fit into someone else’s world, and I failed so hard, I took three kids and a broken family with me. And you think because you..." She forced the words out, words that she still couldn’t believe, "Because you love me, you can do this thing, change everything about yourself to fit in. But how long until you start making reasonable requests, little requests that anybody in the world would agree were reasonable—for me to meet you halfway? For me to change, too? And how selfish am I, that I can’t do that, that I can’t at least promise to try? How selfish am I, that I can’t go back to that life of trying and failing to fit into a neat, orderly world? Not even for you?"

  “Sweet, sweet Cecil.” The kiss he offered her was almost reverent, beseeching, his lips soft against hers, continuing the promise his words had begun. “Give me a chance,” he whispered. “Give us a chance.”

  “No,” she answered, tears welling in her eyes.

  He rolled away from her. His movements were jerky with barely controlled frustration as he tugged on his shorts, his trousers, then, bare chested, braced himself against the old dresser and faced her. “What do I have to say that I haven’t said? What do I have to promise that I haven’t promised?”

  His anger hung between them and she shivered, not because she felt cold, but because she knew this was the end. She’d known all along it wouldn’t last, but she hadn’t expected it to blow up so fast, so hard,. He snatched the quilt from the floor and tossed it at her.

  She wrapped it around her shoulders and swallowed.

  “Cecilia, don’t worry. You’re safe. You don’t need me. I’ve seen that from the beginning. I tried to make a place for myself, and maybe I could have if I’d been more patient, if I’d been willing to settle for less. But I’m just too selfish for that. I wanted to be more than just the something extra in your life.”

  She heard the front door hinges squeak, long and grating, the screen shut, muffled and final.

  She stumbled to her feet, to the foyer, wanting to call him back, yet knowing it was over.

  When she heard his car drive away, she fell against the door, her trembling hands covering her face, the quilt sliding to the floor.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SHE COULD ALMOST mark off, hour by hour, her existence during the ten days since she’d chased Jeff away.

  At first she’d felt onl
y numb acceptance. She’d done the right thing for her kids, for her, for Jeff. The house wrapped its familiar, comforting arms around her. She played the music that had masked the empty, painful places in her life after the divorce. She slept. It had been years since she’d slept that dead-to-the-world kind of sleep that sucked her under and blocked out the pain.

  The kids had returned, too, full of their adventures at the Alamo and Sea World, and they noticed when her enthusiasm was too forced and too quickly spent. Monday afternoon had been hell. The kids had their playoff tickets and, of course, expected to go to the Mavericks game. Not knowing what else to do, she’d taken them...to be haunted by the empty seat where Jeff should have been. She had muttered an explanation—Jeff obviously hadn’t gotten back from his “business trip” in time to attend—and in the frenzy of the loudest arena in the National Basketball Association, no one questioned her excuse, not even Peter.

  And when they asked why she wasn’t yelling, cheering, jumping up and down as the Mavs came from behind and won by thirteen, she had the best excuse of all. My voice. I can’t strain my voice. I have to sing tomorrow.

  Tonight, Wednesday, had been the same. Walking up the steep concrete steps at American Airlines Center she’d scanned their row, looking for that familiar head of brown hair and the tall, lanky frame... and found the empty chair. She was numb, too numb to care, she told herself. Liar, she called herself. She cared. God, she cared.

  The children had fallen into an exhausted sleep on the way home from the game and had been in their beds for hours. She would have to explain, somehow, why Jeff wouldn’t be around anymore. But not now. Not when she couldn’t even talk about Jeff without her throat tightening and her heart aching.

  But she was right, damn it. She might be miserable, but that didn’t change the fact that she was right.

  She stared into the darkness, the heavy scent of lemon oil from her cleaning spree still clinging to the air. She should be very proud of herself. Her life was continuing, smooth as clockwork. Smoother than usual. Recordings, basketball games, soccer practice—she was too busy to fret.