by Naima Simone
“Oh. Wow,” she breathed. Her foot eased off the accelerator and the car slowed to a crawl as the sprawling home came into view.
Good Lord. This place differed from her small, West Roxbury apartment like the majestic mountains contrasted with Boston’s steel giants.
A quintessential New England farmhouse greeted her, with a wide, spacious front porch and an emerald green lawn that seemed to stretch for miles. Out her side window, a fence as pristine white as the house ran the length of the driveway. Several elegant horses grazed behind the barrier and their regal beauty momentarily distracted her from the nauseating twists of her stomach. A city girl, she’d never had the opportunity to be around the animals much less ride one. They were beautiful.
Shaking her head, she pressed the gas pedal, continued up the long lane and soon pulled to a stop in front of the house. She shoved open the door and spilled out of the front seat. Every ounce of her strength and concentration was poured into covering the space from the car to the front door. In reality, the distance was most likely a couple hundred feet, but it yawned to the size of a football field with each shuffling step.
Finally she climbed the steps and knocked on the door. I made it. She sighed. But the respite was short-lived. Nausea cramped her insides and a wave of darkness swamped her. It faded almost immediately, but the calling card of unconsciousness left her reeling on her heels and gold sparks twinkling in her peripheral vision. Oh shit. I’m not going to make it.
One of the front red double doors opened. She stared up at Xavier through a dim veil of misery. Yet even her abject suffering didn’t detract from the potency of his sexual magnetism. Dammit.
He arched a dark-brown eyebrow. “Congratulations. You made it without a second to—” He frowned and the sarcasm melted from his tone to be replaced by confused irritation. “You look like shit.”
“You charmer, you,” she whispered. And then her world crashed to black.
* * * * *
She met Jesus.
And he was hot. Like gorgeous hot.
Was that sacrilegious?
Must be, because He’d tossed her blasphemous ass into hell. And God—did one call on God when roasting in hell?—she was burning up. The flames licked and roasted every part of her body. Tears stung her eyes as she flipped to her left side. So this was how Joan of Arc had felt…
Wait. Not hot. Cool. Refreshing coolness. She cried…blubbering like a person who’d been redeemed from infinity as Satan’s bitch. Maybe she hadn’t been condemned to eternal damnation after all. Everyone knew there was no ice water in hell. How many times had her mother warned her of that?
God—she could call on him now, right?—the bracing cold on her skin was wonderful. Must be back in heaven.
And Jesus was still a hottie.
* * * * *
Gwendolyn fought to lift her eyelids. When had they been glued shut? After several more seconds, she won the battle and a bright, hazy light immediately assaulted her eyes. Groaning, she tried to roll over…and remained still.
What the hell?
Bewildered, she sucked in a breath as anxiety crept into her chest like a stealthy thief. She attempted to move again and this time shifted to her side, but not without a lot of effort and heavy breathing. Jeez. Her breath rushed in and out of her nose and her muscles whined as if she’d just completed a marathon.
“So you’re finally awake.”
That voice blasted the confusing lethargy away. It all came crashing back. Xavier’s proposition. Driving to his home.
Burning up…
Jesus?
Rolling to her back—which was a hell of a lot easier than moving to her side—she stared up into Xavier’s gorgeous, scarred features. His sharp gaze examined her face as if tracing every line and dimension. She resisted the urge to skim her fingers over her skin. Not that she possessed the energy.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been beaten like a runaway slave and hot pokers have been jammed into my eyes.” Was that her grumpy response? Sheesh.
The corner of his full, sensual lips quirked before he turned toward the huge bay windows that allowed sunshine to spill across the blue comforter she huddled under. He dragged the curtains closed, shutting out the worst of the bright rays, and the fascinating play of muscles between his shoulder blades snagged her attention.
“Better, Kunta?”
“Much,” she grumbled. Smart ass. “Thanks. What happened?”
“You’ve been sick with fever for two days.”
She gaped at him. Her mind reeled. She’d arrived in Great Barrington on Saturday evening. And Sunday…Sunday… She frowned. What the hell happened to Sunday?
“That’s impossible,” she protested.
“The doctor has been here three times since Saturday night.” He arched an eyebrow as if daring her to object again. “If your fever hadn’t broken yesterday afternoon, he was going to have you admitted into the hospital.”
“But I went to the doctor and all I had was a twenty-four-hour virus.”
Xavier crossed his arms. “When did you do that?”
Gwendolyn dropped her gaze to the blanket. He would ask that. “Friday,” she mumbled.
Apparently he didn’t just own the eyes of a hawk, but the ears of one too. “Friday?” he repeated, narrowing his gaze. “You were sick since Friday and still drove up here feverish on Saturday?” His arms dropped and his hot glare pinned her to the bed like a butterfly on a corkboard. “You fucking fainted on my doorstep, Gwen.” She flinched at the quiet menace in his dark accusation. “If you had passed out behind the wheel instead of in my arms, you could have been seriously hurt. Or worse.” Xavier stalked closer. Tension corded his body and his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. “Why the hell didn’t you call and tell me you were sick?”
“You wouldn’t have believed me,” she shot back, irritation rising and infusing her body with enough strength to struggle to sitting. Weakness be damned. She wouldn’t spend another second lying flat on her back while he towered over her like a stern parent lecturing a recalcitrant child. “What are you so angry about, Xavier? I arrived here on the designated day by the designated time.” All she contained in her arsenal to battle him with was the derision in her voice and she wielded it like a broadsword. “What? Are you mad because you’ve lost two days off your precious bargain? I humbly apologize that my fever cockblocked.”
Xavier stiffened. Something…hurt?…flickered in his eyes before a glinting fury followed fast on its heels. He scowled so darkly, his scar whitened and she fought not to shrink into the pillows. Hurt? She scoffed. Must have been the residual effects of the fever. The mountain of stone looming over her could never experience a human emotion like pain.
“That’s it exactly,” he growled. “You have no idea how close you came to being fucked while you were delirious.” He skewered her with one last disgusted glare before sharply spinning and stalking across the room. He gripped the doorknob and yanked the door open, pausing only long enough to bark, “Call whoever it is you need to notify about your stay being extended since I won’t be able to collect for at least another two days. I believe in getting my money’s worth.” He slammed the door behind him.
Gwendolyn gaped, the echo of wood cracking against wood ringing in her ears. Whoa. She replayed their conversation in her head. What did he have to be angry—
Ah damn. She wanted to smack herself in the forehead, but her head ached already. How could she have been so stupid? So obtuse? If you had passed out behind the wheel instead of in my arms, you could have been seriously hurt. Or worse.
Of course. He’d lost both his brother and father in car accidents. Even if he didn’t care for her, the fact she could have been hurt driving to his home because of their deal would have affected him. He probably feared car crashes like most people feared snakes or heights. She sighed. And she’d accused the man of being a horny asshole.
The only asshole in the room had been her.
* * * * *
Xavier lifted his hand to the gold doorknob of Gwendolyn’s room. And paused. A low hum of anger simmered deep in his gut, but at least it had cooled from the inferno that had raged when he’d left her room earlier. Hours had passed before his fury had settled to a slow heat. During that time, the doctor had come and gone, he’d had a lunch tray sent up to her while she napped and he’d managed a few hours of work. Yet not until an hour ago had he dug past the bullshit and his offended pride to the heart of the reason cowering behind his anger. Gwendolyn had every right to be suspicious of his motives. Hell, since the moment they’d reunited, he’d rebuffed her, blackmailed her, and then shoved his hand between her thighs.
Yeah, he’d done a bang-up job of bolstering her confidence in his character.
Yet acknowledging she had reason to suspect his concern didn’t lessen the sting. Once upon a time she had been free with her smiles and affection. Before Josh’s death six years ago and his father’s just this past year. Before the disfiguring scar. Before his life had gone to shit.
Prior to the car accident, he would have never considered himself vain or self-absorbed. His appearance and lifestyle had been things he’d taken for granted. It wasn’t until after the bandages had been removed and people stared as if he belonged in a cage like a sideshow freak—and those he’d believed friends avoided him like the clap—he’d realized how much his life had revolved around those superficial aspects. His eyes had been opened to how shallow his life had been…as well as the people in it.
The truth didn’t prevent him from being bitter as hell, though.
With a muttered curse, he twisted the knob and opened the bedroom door. Gwendolyn reclined on a mound of pillows, her unruly curls a bright halo around her head.
God, he loved her hair. Even when Josh was alive, her soft, springy curls had been a source of erotic dreams. He’d envisioned snagging the spirals in his fist as he dragged her head back for his mouth. Or imagined the soft slide of them over his chest and stomach as she tongued a path to his cock. Or dreamed of wrapping the curls around his flesh.
He’d never fantasized about fucking his ex-fiancée’s hair, for Christ’s sake.
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Gwendolyn’s lashes lifted at the muted click. Her dark gaze locked with his. Though still dulled by her bout with illness, the sharpness in her blatant scrutiny threatened to peer too deep, see too much. He turned away.
“Dinner is almost ready,” he murmured, crossing the room and pausing at the foot of the bed. “I thought you might like a bath before you eat.”
Her delighted sigh made him swivel his head to face her. Breath trapped in his throat, he thrust his hands in the front pockets of his pants to keep from reaching out to her. Here was a woman who did not take life for granted. Not when something as simple as a bath caused her lashes to lower and the corners of her soft mouth to tilt in a grin of hedonistic bliss. His heart hammered and he released his pent-up breath. It eased the drumming in his chest, but did jack shit for the pounding in his cock. He longed to see her cat-who-just-ate-the-cream smile as he rose from between her spread thighs, after she’d just come on his tongue.
“I would give you my firstborn child, Rumpelstiltskin.”
His spurt of amusement caught him off guard. Laughter had been in short supply for a long while and the tickle of humor was strange. How…sad. Had his existence become so solitary, his bitterness so entrenched, joy was an alien experience?
He cleared his throat and tugged on the bedcovers. “Not necessary, since any child of yours would probably inherit your ‘hell on wheels’ gene.”
“I was precocious.” Gwendolyn scowled at his snort, eased to sitting and gingerly swung her legs over the side of the bed. The large T-shirt he’d clothed her in bared smooth brown thighs and calves to his starved gaze. With herculean effort, he tore his stare away from her lovely skin, but the image stayed emblazoned in his mind.
With more care and gentleness than he would have believed himself capable of, he grasped her upper arm and helped her stand. After two bedridden days, her legs trembled and a slight tremor traveled up her body to the slender, fine-boned hand clutching his forearm. Muttering a curse, he bent his knees and hooked an arm beneath her knees while the other supported her back. He straightened with Gwendolyn in his arms, pressed to his chest.
Her squawk of surprise echoed in his ear as she flung her arms around his neck as if she dangled from a great precipice instead of several feet in the air. He rolled his eyes even as he surrendered to a small grin.
“Calm down, Gwen,” he said.
“What are you doing?” she ranted. “You can’t carry me. I’m too heavy.”
“Don’t I know it. I think I may’ve slipped a disk.” He grunted and grinned wider at her outraged gasp. Truthfully, in spite of her height, she was a negligible weight in his arms. If she realized how much he savored the crush of her breasts against his chest and the press of her soft thighs over his arm, she would have demanded he lower her to floor. Good thing his parents had raised a man intelligent enough not to mention the obvious.
Her protests continued into the spacious bathroom and didn’t end until he lowered her to the top of the closed toilet lid.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she grumbled as he turned to the large, Jacuzzi-style bathtub and twisted the faucets. Water gushed out and filled the bottom of the tub in seconds. He wiggled his fingers under the steady stream, testing the warmth. Satisfied, he whirled on his heel and exited. It required only moments to gather a fresh pair of pajama bottoms and one of the tank tops she’d packed, along with the vanilla-scented shampoo and conditioner. When he returned to the bathroom, her scowl transformed into a delighted smile as her eyes lit on the articles in his hands.
“Are you ready?” He placed the clothes and bottles on the counter and stepped forward.
“Yes.” Her wide brown eyes dipped to the floor before lifting to meet his once again. “Xavier, I can’t, um, get undressed with…” She fluttered her fingers in his direction.
He grasped what she had a hard time voicing and suppressed the automatic objection tickling his throat. Hell, who did she think had bathed her and changed her sweat-drenched clothes for the past two days? The need to protect her from further injury warred with her determination to preserve her pride. He sighed. She was weak, uncertain and vulnerable. He understood her need to have a tight rein over even the smallest detail when everything else was spinning out of control.
“I will be right outside the door. Call me if you feel the slightest bit faint or sick and I’ll come right in. Promise me?” Her relieved nod was immediate and, though he would’ve rather been beside her in the room, her grateful smile turned him into enough of a sucker to leave and shut the door behind him.
He wedged his shoulder against the doorjamb and waited, listening for any sign of distress on the other side of the door. When a soft splash followed by a tired sigh reached him, he released his own gust of breath. And relaxed.
The muffled sounds of her bathing became a form of exquisite torture. Thanks to her illness, he knew exactly what beauty awaited in the other room. Their forced intimacy had stripped away any barrier of modesty. Animal lust had clawed at his gut even as fever had raged through her lovely body. Of course he hadn’t sunk so low on the moral barometer he’d molested her, but it would have taken an act of God to keep him from imagining those luscious curves writhing under him in a heat not associated with illness.
Snorting with disgust, he grasped the knob and entered the bathroom again.
“Dammit, Xavier!” Gwendolyn gasped. Water splashed and he glimpsed smooth brown shoulders before she disappeared beneath the rippling surface of the water. As if her hands and the small square cloth he’d left her to bathe with would hide her body from him if he stepped to the tub’s edge.
Shit. He stifled a moan and wheeled toward the counter. His heart and cock throbbed from the brief flash of flesh al
one. She had been in his home, sick for three days. Sick, you perverted piece of shit. Yes, she was on the mend, but she remained as weak as a newborn foal. Gwendolyn needed care, not out-of-control lust. He inhaled and willed the arousal away. Splashes of water and her sputtered curses filled the room as she came up for air. Good. He exhaled, the breath slow and even. It’s all goo— Fuck, he wanted her. He closed his eyes, grabbed the shampoo bottle and held on as if it were the last paddle on shit’s creek.
“Calm down, Gwen,” he said soothingly. Hello, kettle. I’m pot. “I’m just going to wash your hair.” When he opened his eyes, the gaze that met his in the mirror gleamed bright green with desire and anticipation. The shadows of fear and longing for something other than her body that lurked behind his arousal—he ignored those. He turned with the shampoo in hand and faced her glare.
“I can wash my own hair,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest and encircling them tight with her arms.
“You could,” he agreed and settled his hip on the wide lip of the tub. “But I’m going to.”
“Fascist,” she snapped as he flicked the cap up.
Xavier snorted and shifted more of his weight onto the tub’s ledge.
“That’s not what you called me two nights ago.” He leaned forward, removed the cloth band she’d use to constrain her hair in a high ponytail and drizzled a large dollop of clear vanilla-scented shampoo in his palm. “Then I was Jesus.”
“I did not—” He tunneled his fingers into the thick strands, scrubbing his palms over her scalp, and her protest morphed into a long, satisfied moan. He smiled and continued the firm massage. “Oh my God, that feels good,” she sighed.
The smile vanished from his lips as he conjured images of her uttering the same words, arching over him as she took his cock in her sex. Or of him savoring that same sweet flesh with his mouth.
“Xavier?”
The soft voice dragged him back to the present. His fingers had stilled mid-stroke and Gwendolyn stared at him over her shoulder.
“Sorry,” he murmured, the word husky as thoughts of having her wet, tight sheath surrounding him and the sugary spice of her on his tongue flooded his mind. “Lean your head back so I can rinse the shampoo out.”
