Judy Gill

by Golden Swan [LS-377] (epub)

  9

  "There isn't much to see down here yet. Just this mess," she said, making a sweeping gesture to indicate the new, broad windows in the expanded living room. It had once been the parlor and den, which were now combined. The last rays of the sun angled through the streaked glass, picking up dust motes floating in air heavy with the scent of new lumber and glue. The kitchen looked as if an earthquake had shaken it up, tumbling its contents into a heap. A sawhorse blocked their way and they closed the door quickly on the scent of paint and putty.

  "And that's about it," B.J. said. "Next week the wall between the old formal dining room and the library is coming out to make a family room, and the new dining room gets built when they push out the south wall of the kitchen. It'll be more interesting when it's all finished."

  She drew in a shaky breath, her knees weak and her mouth dry as she added with false aplomb, "Want to see what they've done upstairs?"

  Cal's breath stopped but he nodded casually. That was exactly what he wanted to see, what he'd hoped for in arriving early to pick her up for dinner and asking for this tour. Upstairs. The room where she had slept as a child. Her sanctuary from the world.

  There, he hoped to find some of the missing pieces, the special nuances of growing up that had helped create the woman he knew now—yet didn't know well enough. If he could see the B.J. that had existed as a toddler, a child, a teenager, then maybe he'd be able to give his painting of her the depth he felt it was lacking. It was as if a secret portion of her was hiding somewhere, in spite of the honesty that had so attracted him at first. She was honest, he knew, but there were still sections of her life about which he knew nothing, as if she had drawn a veil, not of lies, but of omissions, over her childhood. He sensed there was so much more she could tell him, if only she would.

  She pointed out the skylight at the top of the stairwell, opened the first door on the left, and showed Cal a big bathroom, whose claw-footed tub hadn't been replaced, only refinished, and another skylight set into a newly lowered ceiling. It was a far cry from what he remembered, and he saw the wisdom of the changes that had been made. The place had a friendlier feel about it. It was a home now, not so much a museum. He wondered if the antique furniture was to be replaced as well.

  They peeked in at the girls' rooms, the master bedroom, and several others, all smelling of fresh paint and newly carpeted in the same pale beige as the hallway. None of the bedrooms had draperies to cover their enlarged windows, but the tracks had been installed. Opening another door, B.J. stood back for Cal to enter. "This is my room."

  He stepped in, finding it, as the others had been, large by modern standards, and airy, with pale peach walls, a big window open to catch the crisp October breeze, the sill wide enough for sitting. Outside, close enough to touch, the golden leaves of a huge old chestnut tree moved with a sibilant rustle. Within the room there was a double bed with a carved rosewood headboard, a matching dresser and chest of drawers, a chair, and a large closet covered by folding doors. He turned full circle and raised his brows. "This is it?"

  "Yes."

  "But where are the mementoes of your childhood?" He thought of his own room in his parents' home, the posters that still hung on the walls, the trophies in their case, the books he had loved, the pictures of himself and friends. Anyone looking at that room would know at once that while artistic, he'd also been athletic. They'd know that he liked adventure stories and science fiction and John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix.

  "Where's the one frilly doll you couldn't bear to put away? The ribbons you won for spelling contests or footraces or whatever? Where are you?"

  She smiled, understanding what he'd expected to see in her room. Opening the closet, she said, "In there. Packed away in boxes."

  "Of course. You couldn't leave things out when the workers were in here." He put a hand on her shoulder, leaning down to look at the label on one of the boxes. "Photo albums. Will you show me?"

  She froze, thinking of what his request could mean, and knew she could not show him. She shook her head. "No! I mean, not now. Maybe someday."

  He turned her to face him, eyes dark as he stared at her. "Why not now? Today."

  She pulled away quickly and bent. "Here," she said, reaching into the back of the closet and pulling out a smaller box. She set it on the bed. "I'll show you these."

  "Report cards!" he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and opening the top one on the stack. "Hmm, smart little creature, weren't you? I didn't know they gave letter grades to six-year-olds."

  "St. Agnes's did. It still does." She sat beside him, separated only by the small box. Her heart pounded hard in her chest. She felt unsettled, disturbed by being in her bedroom with him, on her bed, knowing that she wanted him. knowing that he wanted her and was only waiting for her to make some kind of move. Oh, Lord, would he still want her if he knew that the only reason she'd been holding back for the past weeks was because she didn't know how to tell him that she was ready? Couldn't he look at her and see that she was?

  She ran a hand around the neckline of her sweater, finding it too tight, too warm. Did he really want to look at report cards, or was he only being polite, because she'd offered them to him? What would he do if she lay back on the bed, reached out her arms to him, and offered herself? She stared longingly at his profile, wanting to lean sideways and flick the tip of her tongue over the little curve at the corner of his mouth. A heavy heat seemed to be pressing down on her and making it difficult to breathe. Didn't he want what she wanted with increasing urgency? Oh, dammit, she knew he did, but knew that he had made her a promise he wouldn't break. Why did she have to fall in love each time with a man of such high integrity? she wondered. Not that she'd really ever been in love with Antonio, not like this. She sighed silently and forced herself to relax. Flipping through at random, Cal tried, through reading the teachers' comments, to form a picture of the girl B.J. had been. Whereas the remarks on his reports had been along the lines of Talks too much in class and Spends more time doodling on his exercise books than doing his lessons, B.J.'s teachers had considered her a model student. Always completes her homework. Writes excellent English compositions. Except for one teacher. Cal scrutinized the signature and saw that it was the same one for four straight years and that the comment seldom varied much.

  He looked up at her and grinned, fanning out the pages showing that teacher's remarks. "I bet if this one had given you a motorcycle, you'd have put more effort into your physical education . . . 'Barbara.' "

  She laughed huskily and with shaking hands stuffed the reports back into the box. "If they'd offered me a motorbike in those days, I'd have run away, scared stiff. I was not athletic."

  Then what were you? Cal wanted to shout. He leaned across her to set the box on the bedside table, his arm brushing her breasts, and grimaced when she shrank away from his accidental touch. She got to her feet and would have left the room, but he reached out quickly and snatched her hand, spinning her around and drawing her close to stand between his legs. "When did you become B.J. instead of Barbara?"

  She smiled, thinking of Melody's insistence that a new person deserved a new identity. "Mel started calling me that quite a few years ago. It seemed to stick."

  "I'm glad," he said. "I like it. Are you ready to tell me yet what the J stands for?"

  She shook her head. "You were supposed to come up with something to cover that."

  "And I will. Someday." Then, frowning, he asked, "Why won't you show me the albums?" As her face tightened, he went on, "B.J., I only want to know you. Know the way you were, know the kind of child that grew into the beautiful woman you are. Is that so strange?"

  She swallowed hard and stepped out of his reach. "Cal... I don't want to. Not today."

  Getting to his feet, he encircled her waist with his arms. "When are you going to trust me?"

  "I do trust you. It's just that we're . . . different."

  He squeezed her gently as he drew her closer to his body, into the heat tha
t emanated from him. "Not in any way that counts," he said quietly, his eyes burning into hers.

  "In every way that counts," she argued. "You're so sure of yourself, Cal. And I'm not. I thought I was, but now I know I'm just as uncertain about things— about myself—as I used to be when ..." She caught her lower lip between her teeth and dropped her lashes.

  "No. Don't do that," he said sharply. "Look at me." He shook her gently and she looked up, still chewing her lip. "You think I'm sure of myself, but you're wrong. You scare me, B.J. I've never felt like this before, either, you know. For a long time I didn't know if I liked it, but in spite of that, I went with it because it feels so good I didn't want it to stop."

  It shocked her to hear that he shared some of her uncertainties. Shocked, and somehow comforted her. What about her could possibly scare him? Was that why he was hesitating? Not because he thought she was afraid, but because he had a few doubts, too?

  Emboldened by the idea that he wasn't as much in control as she had thought, that perhaps he needed almost as much encouragement as she did, she slid her hands up over his chest, letting her fingers curve around his shoulders.

  "Do you like it now?" she asked. "The way you feel?"

  Heat flared in his eyes as he pulled her against his chest. His hands stroked up and down her back, then cupped her buttocks and drew her into the cradle of his hips. Her fingers bit into his shoulders and she stared into his eyes, her own going slightly wild as he moved insinuatingly against her. To hell with caution, he said to himself. There had to be some way to communicate with her. If this was the way, then so be it.

  "Doesn't it feel as if I like it?" he asked, his voice a low, tense growl. "Doesn't it feel as good and as right to you as it does to me?"

  Desire surged within her. Tingling sensations slithered over her body, heating it, and she wanted those sensations to go on and on, build higher and higher, fly her to heights she could only imagine. "Oh, Cal," she murmured as she let her hands move around to the back of his neck, where her fingers locked. Pulling his head toward her, she placed her lips against his. "It feels very good," she whispered. "Make me feel . . . more."

  Her soft admission and request undid him. He held her face in his hands as he angled his mouth across hers, kissing her with all the desperate need he wanted her to understand, and she arched up against him, moving her hips in a subtle rhythm that inflamed his already scorching body.

  He felt the wild drumming of her heart. It was like something trying to escape from the cage of her ribs, and he knew that only part of it was excitement. She was afraid, too; he could taste it on her lips, feel it in her tremors. He let her control the kiss, loving the shy way she moved her mouth against his, the tentative exploration of her tongue over his lips and teeth, then the fluttering of it as she slipped it inside, where he sucked it gently. Her hands traveled down from his neck, onto his shoulders, over his powerfully muscled arms, then slid inside his suit coat, her fingers clinging to the back of his shirt, nails raking on the fabric. Slowly, almost furtively, she tugged on his shirt and put her hands under it, moving her palms softly over the skin of his back.

  "It . . . feels . . . better than anything," she whispered, pressing against his hard body. Desire soared higher, and this time she succumbed to it without a fight. She wasn't afraid, she thought in amazement. She wasn't afraid of anything anymore!

  Cal palmed one of her breasts, massaging slowly, and felt her flesh swell, grow warmer. Her soft murmurs of desire created a well of boiling pleasure in the pit of his stomach, and when her pelvis surged toward his, he slid his hand down to cup the throbbing center of her body, fingers moving slowly, evocatively, in small circles.

  B.J. felt the strength of his hand, the curve of his fingers as he slipped them between her legs, and knew that she needed more than this, much more. With the same sudden flood of certainty, she accepted that this was the man, this was the time, and from here on, there could be no turning back. The barrier of their clothing could no longer be borne, and she broke the magic kiss as she reached up to undo his tie. Pulling it loose from his collar, she dropped it onto the dresser, then attacked the buttons on his shirt.

  He nuzzled her neck, murmured in her ear, rocked her against him. Finally, when his shirt gaped open, she kissed his chest, loving the feel of his skin under her lips, the scent of it in her nose, the heavy pounding of his heart as it thundered in her ears. When an exploring finger found one of his hard nipples and she flicked it with a fingernail, he gasped. "Honey, you'd better stop!"

  She tilted her head back and sucked in a shuddering breath as she moved restlessly against him. "Do you want me to?" His gaze questioned her, his eyes deep and dark. His hand on her back trembled, and the other one rose to stroke her chin and throat. "No," he whispered.

  "I don't want to stop, either," she said, her voice tremulous.

  "B.J.?" Did she know what she was doing? Did she know what she was asking? Of course she did, he saw with a rush of joy. Her eyes were dark with passion and mystery, and her lips were parted, moist and swollen from his kisses, but there was a sold conviction in her gaze. She was ready for his love. "I didn't come here with this in mind," he said.

  "I know." She could scarcely breathe. "But I did."

  Still, he wanted confirmation. She saw him swallow hard as he loosened his hold on her. "But it only goes on from here if you truly want it to," he said, his voice husky with arousal.

  She moistened her lips, then said so softly he wasn't sure he'd heard her, "I want it to. Don't stop. Cal, please. Make love to me."

  "Oh, love!" His words trembled against her lips. "You'd better mean what you say because I've wanted you for so long that I won't be able to hold back."

  "I mean it. And don't hold back," she murmured.

  He felt the depth of her response, the strength of her conviction, as she caught his hand and brought it to her breast again, holding it there, moving it slowly as she cupped it around her fullness. He didn't need her encouragement. He caressed her willingly, thrilled and delighted in her womanliness and the pleasure she took in it.

  He had known it would be like this. When B.J. wanted him, when she was ready to take this step with him, she would do so with all the ardor in her lovely soul. And he had known that she would be worth waiting for. She moaned softly, exciting him further, as he covered her mouth with his own and kissed her as he'd never dared kiss her before, with all of his heart and his love and his need unleashed, and it unlocked something in her as well, setting it free to soar.

  It was a wild and willful kiss that took her by surprise, though it shouldn't have, B.J. thought, feeling Cal tremble as he snatched her even more tightly against him. His manhood rose hard and insistent against her, and he moved her slowly up and down along its length, groaning with pleasure. He filled her mouth with the hot probe of his tongue, thrusting inside, tasting, plunging with erotic demand in a seductive rhythm that her hips picked up and repeated. She tangled her hands in his hair, treasuring its crispness, the way it curled around her fingers, and taking sensuous pleasure in discovering the shape of his head, the muscles of his neck and shoulders. She could spend the rest of her days holding him, she thought, touching his body, breathing in his scent, hearing his breath and his heartbeat, feeling the taste of him on her tongue and lips.

  She shoved at his jacket and he shrugged out of it, scarcely letting her go while he did so. His hands were hard on her back and buttocks, moving constantly as if trying to memorize her. As she arched again, pressing her pelvis against his, he lifted one hand and caught a hard nipple through the layers of her clothing. He squeezed it in little tugging pulses that she felt deep inside her. She gasped into his mouth, and he loosened his hold, but she parted from him just long enough to say, "That's so good. Don't stop!" then returned his kiss with her own exploring tongue.

  He tugged at her sweater, but the belt around her middle held it down. He fumbled with the buckle, and the soft suede fell to the floor with hardly a sound. Then his
hands were under her sweater, on the bare skin of her back, and she went rigid with the sensations that flooded her body. "Cal . . . hurry!" she cried softly as he undid her bra and slipped tiny buttons out of holes all down the front of her sweater. He tugged it off her, slid her straps down and away, then took both her breasts in his hands, stroking up from their undersides with a slow, reverent caress.

  "So lovely," he said, looking from her full breasts with their hard, dark pink nipples and crinkled aureolas, into her eyes and then back again. "So perfect. I need to kiss them, B.J. I need to suck on them, fill my hands and my mouth with their sweetness, feel your nipples go hard against my tongue."

  She made soft cooing sounds as he put his words to action. Her legs trembled, her head spun, and her breath came in short, agonized gasps as a feeling of helplessness overcame her, filling her with a hunger so powerful she thought it could never be filled.

  "Someday," Cal said as he lifted his head, his voice and hands trembling, "someday you'll let me paint you like this, with your breasts all rosy and swollen, and their tips wet and hard from my kisses."

  She couldn't speak, could only draw in a shuddering breath and stare into his eyes. Anything, anything, she told him silently. Anything you want.

  He moved her backward until her legs touched the side of the bed, then he tilted her down, bending over her to kiss her breasts, kneeling astride her, his hair tumbling over his forehead to tickle her bare flesh, the open front of his shirt hanging down to make a private little tent for the two of them.

  He lingered over each breast in turn, starting on the undersides, where the skin was so sensitive she nearly screamed with the teasing touch he gave her, The hot, hard tip of his tongue, the softness of his lips, the feathering of his breath and hair were driving her slowly to distraction. She shivered and scissored her legs against him as her whole body began to pulse deep within and her nipples tightened to nearly unbearable hardness. Clasping his head, she held him to her, moaning with need and pleasure.