Redemption's Kiss

by Ann Christopher

  And then—and he really needed to win a Nobel Prize or some such for an unselfish act like this, especially when his blue balls would probably shrivel up and fall off before the night was through—he pulled his hand away from all that silken heat, without ever tasting it, and sat up, twisting away and letting the treasure in his arms go.

  His bewildered body shut down immediately, turning to stone with all his frustrated lust. Clenching his fists, he rested his face on them, barely resisting the urge to pound his temples and hope the pain cleared his head.

  His constricted throat wouldn’t let him speak, so it took a minute to get his voice to work. When it did, it was hoarse, as though someone had taken a handful of shattered glass and run it over his vocal cords.

  “Jillian. Baby. We can’t do this now. You’re not ready.”

  God. Was this a punishment for his past sins? Here he was being a noble SOB, doing the right thing, even though the right thing and what he desperately needed were complete opposites, and she wasn’t even listening.

  She had a glazed look in her eyes and her wet lips curled in a sensual smile that was almost as powerful an aphrodisiac as if she’d used those lips to take him into her mouth and suck.

  And then it got worse.

  Tightening her thighs around his middle to bring him back, she ran her hands over her bared breasts and then down to her sex, where they did things he couldn’t bear to think about.

  “You know I’m ready,” she said.

  He stared, dumbstruck and nearly destroyed by his lust, slowly suffocating with it. Heh. Nice test, God.

  Seeing her spread out this way was like taking the three-day bar exam again, followed by the medical licensing boards and a triathlon just for good measure.

  Was he passing? Because it sure felt like he was dying.

  Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “We can’t. Not yet.”

  This, finally, seemed to pierce her sensual haze, and her color got even brighter, but with embarrassment this time, not passion. She blinked once, looked around, and landed back on earth with a thud that was almost audible.

  “Oh, no.” Shrinking in on herself, she yanked her clothes back in place—he almost tipped back his head and howled at the disappearance of those amazing breasts—bolted upright and scrambled as far away from him as she could get, which wasn’t far. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  She looked like she wanted to die of shame, all ducked head and flushed cheeks, and her lowered gaze didn’t come anywhere near his. The sudden distance, when they’d just been all over each other, was way more than he could take.

  They would not end their interlude together like this, with misunderstanding and hurt feelings.

  “Don’t, baby.” Grabbing her hand—she tried to pull it away, but screw that—he pressed it to his heart, which was doing a remarkable job of pounding its way out of his chest. A jackhammer couldn’t have done any better. “Feel that?”

  It was the right thing to do. Some of the fight went out of her, and she flattened her hand beneath his, discovering the truth for herself. Desperate to maintain this connection between them, he scooted closer, until they were practically in each other’s laps again, and rested his forehead against her temple.

  Man, he was sweaty. Or was that her?

  Neither one of them could stop panting. They sat together, trying to get a grip on their runaway lust, for several long seconds, and he couldn’t say whose breath was more labored.

  His, probably. Yeah—definitely his.

  Did she understand? She had to understand.

  Peeling her hands away from his chest, he pressed feverish kisses to them and lowered them to his groin, where he was still so hard, so unbelievably, freaking granite hard, that he was no doubt at serious risk of incurring permanent nerve and/or blood vessel damage down there.

  “Feel that, Jill?”

  Against his face, he felt her faint gasp and convulsive swallow. She cupped him, all on her own, and stroked him right to the edge of what promised to be an embarrassing explosion, not that he gave a damn about that at this moment.

  “That’s how much I want you.” His hips gave an involuntary surge and he wondered how tacky it would be if he unzipped his pants just to give himself a little relief. “I’m dying here. I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you, and I never will. You have to know that.”

  With a small sound of distress, she tilted her head back and looked to the ceiling, probably praying for any kind of divine guidance she could get right now. After a harsh breath or two, she faced him head-on, and all he could see were her big baby browns, glittering with as much hurt confusion as heat.

  “Then why?” she whispered.

  Proud, wounded Jillian. He knew what it cost her to ask a question like that.

  And he knew what it cost him to give an honest answer.

  “Because.” Man, he couldn’t even look at her right now. Taking their hands, all wrapped together in a tight ball, he lifted them to his lips and struggled to say this right, to get something right, for once. “I’ve spent too much of my life mixing sex in with things that had nothing to do with sex.”

  There. That was a fresh piece of his soul, sliced up for her review. Risking a glance, he saw the slight puzzled frown between her eyes.

  “I don’t understand.”

  This was so hard. He didn’t want to raise the subject of his infidelities, not now, when they’d made this much progress, but it needed to be dealt with.

  “Those other women—” she stiffened against him, but he held on for dear life “—that was never about sex. That was about me needing a break from the pain. I needed to look in someone’s eyes and see warmth and understanding rather than blame, and I was too stupid and afraid to figure out how to get that back with you.”

  Try as he might, he couldn’t read her expression. But she let him hang on to her hands, so he supposed that was a good sign.

  “And what is this about?”

  Ah. Finally, an easy question. He was happy to answer this one.

  “This is about finally getting it right and not clouding another issue in my life with sex. This is about rebuilding our relationship and making it stronger than it was before. This is about…”

  Oh, come on, man. You’ve made it this far. Don’t get choked up now. He cleared his throat to buy himself a little more time and then, when that didn’t work, did it again. There. Now he could speak without sounding like a hormonal teenage boy.

  “This is about me wanting to see you smile at me again as much as I want you wrapped around me naked. That’s all. I want us to be happy, together. And I don’t think we’re there yet.”

  Well, he was right about that. Her face twisted and crumpled and she fought, and won, the battle for control. Which was good. But then she untangled her hands from his, which was bad. And she didn’t pull any punches, which was worse.

  “I’m broken,” she said simply. “I’m not sure I can ever smile at you again. I’m not sure I want to.”

  Jesus, that hurt. He’d earned it, yeah, but it still felt like someone was using a machete to peel his flesh from his bones in long strips.

  The fighting instinct was still there, raring to go, but maybe they’d come as far as they could tonight. Maybe he had to let this go. For now. And try to be a man about it.

  “I understand.” This was partially true. His brain? No problem. His heart? It just wanted her back, wanted her to forget all about the past and start again, right now. “And here’s what you need to understand.”

  Cocking her head, she watched him with keen interest. “What?”

  It took him a minute to put it all into words, to summarize what he’d learned about himself and where he wanted to be.

  “I’m finished looking back. I’m finished with regret. I’m done beating myself up for stupid things I’ve done. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life the way the past several years have been. I’ve had enough misery. I’m done.”

  Her
eyes widened.

  “I’m doing everything I can—everything I can think of—to be a better man, Jill. Everything I can to be happy and find a little peace. That’s what I want from my life.”

  He paused, not at all certain he had the balls to stick to this next part, but he was going to say it anyway.

  “I’m changing, Jillian. I have changed. I’m not perfect and I never will be perfect, but I’m doing a hell of a lot better. Either that’s good enough for you, or it’s not. Either you want to work on us, or you don’t. You want to live in the past, or you don’t. You’re done hurting, or you aren’t. It’s up to you. But I’m done wallowing in my guilt. You’re the one who needs to decide what to do now.”

  Chapter 14

  What was that noise?

  Jillian rolled over, struggling to free herself from the tangled sheets.

  The shrill chirp of the cell phone sounded again, startling her.

  What the hell?

  Wide-awake now and yet completely disoriented, she fumbled for the nightstand, where the stupid little thing was flashing red, helping her locate it. Fighting both the blankets and her groggy bewilderment, she sat up and looked at the clock.

  Four-seventeen. In the morning. Shit.

  “Hello?”

  A woman’s voice, abnormally chipper for anyone who wasn’t a star on a children’s program featuring oversized puppets, came on the line after a one-second delay.

  “Please hold for the president.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Jillian muttered, and hung up.

  Idiot.

  She’d just flipped her pillow to the cool side and resettled against its delicious fluffiness when the freaking phone rang again. And again. Cursing, the last of her sleepiness gone now, she snatched the phone up again and snarled into it.

  “I am not holding for the president or anyone else, and I don’t—”

  “I really wish,” said her older brother, John, the president of the United States, who also sounded revoltingly bright-eyed at this ungodly hour of the day, “that you wouldn’t hang up on me every time I call.”

  “Well, first of all, stop having the stupid operator call me, okay? You’re just showing off. You’re not so important that you can’t pick up your own cell phone and use your precious fingers to dial it yourself.”

  “I am pretty important now. I’m not sure you appreciate that as much as you should.”

  The laughter in his voice only irritated her more. It was way too early for him to be having this much fun at her expense.

  “The second thing is, it’s the crack of dawn, you idiot. Why don’t you call at a reasonable hour?”

  “It is a reasonable hour. If you’re flying back from Tokyo, which I am.”

  “Well, I’ve barely gotten any sleep at all, and now I’ll get none. Thanks a lot.”

  “You’re welcome. Don’t you think it’s amazing how we can talk while I’m at thirty thousand feet, thousands of miles away from you? Listen to how clear the connection is.”

  She rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not as amazed as I was the first hundred and two times you called me from Air Force One. My amazement has waned, okay?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Why are you so cheerful? Are you happy because you’re wearing your silly blue plane housecoat with your name embroidered on it?”

  He sounded affronted. “It’s not a housecoat. It’s the commander-in-chief’s jacket, which I only get to wear when I’m on the plane. It’s very warm and comfortable—”

  “How special.”

  “—but that’s not why I’m so cheerful. Liza’s having twins. That’s why she’s so big already.”

  Twins? This, finally, was worth waking up for.

  “That’s wonderful, John! I’m so thrilled for you! How’s she feeling?”

  “She’s feeling great.”

  Whoa. Those three words were filled with so much male satisfaction she could almost smell the smugness leaching through the phone. Man, he was funny, and she knew what this was about.

  “Some women find that their sex drives go through the roof when they’re pregnant.” She clicked on the lamp and sat up. “Something about the raging hormones.”

  There was a low chuckle and she could visualize his Cheshire cat grin, clear as the lighted numbers on her new alarm clock.

  “Really?” he said with forced nonchalance. “You don’t say.”

  “Just let her rest now and then, okay?” John snorted. “Why aren’t you worried about her letting me rest?”

  “Okay!” She started to cover her ears and realized she couldn’t do that while on the phone. “La-la-la-la-la. I’m no longer listening to you. That’s waaaay too much information for me. I’m sorry I even brought it up.”

  He laughed, a low rumble of delight that cheered her up as nothing had in a while. Maybe there was hope for happiness in the world even if her own life was currently a snarled mess.

  “I’m happy for you, John.”

  “Thanks. What’s new with you?”

  Should she tell him what was new? Namely that Beau was back in a big way and she’d nearly made love to him a few hours ago? Yeaaah…no. Only if she wanted to kick off her own personal Armageddon. John put Beau in the same category as third-world dictators and terrorists, which meant that he’d be somewhat less than thrilled to hear her ex had made an unexpected reappearance in her life.

  Best to just keep her big fat mouth shut.

  “Beau’s moved down the street and he wants me back,” she blurted. “And I…still have feelings for him. I don’t want to, but I do.”

  A ringing silence, louder than a gong’s clap inside her ear, filled the line.

  It was dumb to tell him, yeah, but she needed help here because she was drowning inside her own thoughts and emotions. Maybe John had some good advice for her.

  She waited…and waited…and waited.

  Finally she pulled the phone from her ear and checked it, just to make sure they hadn’t been disconnected, but no, the tiny little clock display was still ticking the seconds by.

  “John?”

  More silence, and then, “I’m going to need a minute.”

  “You’ve had a minute.” Man, he was really pissed; she could hear the anger vibrating in his voice. “Just spit it out.”

  “I’m trying to be supportive and not fly off the handle, Jillian—”

  “I appreciate—”

  “—but, that said—are you out of your freaking mind? Have you gone insane? Are you off your meds? Is that it? Or have you started taking drugs? That’s the only thing that could explain this kind of—”

  “This is you being supportive?”

  “What the hell’s gotten into you?” he roared.

  Like she knew the answer to that crucial question. Please.

  “I don’t know,” she said helplessly.

  How could she explain Beau’s ongoing pull over her and the way, when he touched her, she felt as though she’d finally gotten back that essential piece of herself she’d been missing for years? That she still got lost looking into his hazel eyes and found again when he slid his hands over her? That tonight, when he pushed her away, the frustrated need nearly ripped her in half?

  “I’m sure I’m going to regret asking this.” John paused long enough to expel an aggrieved sigh. “But is this about sex? If you need to have sex with him, just do that and move on. Exes do that all the time. It’s part of the closure process, and it can take a while to tie up all your loose ends.”

  If only it were that simple.

  If only she just wanted Beau’s body, sweat-slicked and heavy, buried deep and thrusting inside her, over and over again for, oh, say, the next six months or so.

  If only she didn’t long to talk to him and share all the daily triumphs and traumas of raising a precocious little girl. If only she didn’t wish she could ask him his opinion on the inn and whether she should expand it or update the Web site or change the drap
es in the sitting room.

  If only she didn’t have the strong and growing feeling that Beau really had changed for the better and was determined to keep changing.

  “No,” she told John. “It’s not about sex. Well, it is, but that’s not the main thing. We talked about…about Mary.”

  It still hurt to say the name, but just a little less this time.

  “Oh.” John’s voice was full of sudden empathy. “Was that…okay?”

  Okay? That was a funny word to describe some of the most painful conversations of her life and the surprising and world-altering discovery that what Beau had needed from her back then was shared grief and comfort.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It was okay.”

  More silence from John, bewildered this time, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  The confession refused to stay trapped in her hoarse throat. “I pushed him away when she died. I turned my grief inside.”

  John snorted. The sound was so derisive that she flinched away from the phone. “Wonderful. As long as no other tragedies strike your family, you and Beau should be good to go. Good luck with that.”

  “I’m not saying he’s perfect now—”

  “Well, thank God for that.”

  “—or even that I’m willing to take a chance on him again.”

  “Well, what the hell are you saying, then?”

  Jillian struggled for that answer, her mouth flapping and useless. There was too much inside her, too much she didn’t know how to process, and the way ahead was still so dark and scary that she would probably turn back.

  But…maybe not.

  “I’m saying that I feel hope. For the first time in a thousand years, I feel hope.”

  John sighed again. She could almost picture him scrubbing his hand over his face. “I’m sure I’m going to regret telling you this, but—”

  Her entire body went on alert, desperate for any additional information that might help her figure out what to do with her life.

  “—when Beau was campaigning for me early on, I met up with him in California.”

  Jillian’s thudding heart wouldn’t let her sit quietly. She got up and paced at the end of the bed. “Go on.”

  “I went to his hotel suite and he was…a mess. Drinking and…well, I don’t need to give you all the gory details. He was a mess.”