by Amy Andrews
‘Gone.’
Gone? ‘Gone to bed?’
She gave a harsh laugh, the noise so unexpected that she startled both of them. ‘Gone, gone,’ she said. ‘Left an hour ago. Couldn’t stop. Had to go. Too depressing. Too many memories of Mum.’
James stared at her incredulously as she rattled off the words. Owen had left town? His fingers dug into the carpet, fisting in anger. He could feel a flush of heat creep up his neck as a dose of fury flooded into his bloodstream. How could he desert his own flesh and blood like that?
He wanted to leave. Right now. Get on his bike and drag the useless son of a bitch back to town. Demand that he be a father for once. Shake him. Hurt him. Make him suffer as Helen was. Make him see how selfish he was being. Maybe even rearrange that perfect straight smile.
Helen made another low whimpering noise, snapping him out of his vengefulness. He took a deep breath, shocked at the savagery of his response. None of that mattered now. Helen needed him. Helen needed to let go of the grief she’d been burying inside.
‘Helen,’ he said gently, and placed his hand on her calf. ‘It’s OK to cry. You need to cry.’
Helen shook her head convulsively. ‘No. Elsie wouldn’t have wanted me to cry for her.’
James could feel a fine tremor running through the skin beneath his hand. Maybe Elsie wouldn’t have—one thing he’d learned out here over the years was that outback women were tough, not prone to emotional tendencies—but he was pretty damn sure Elsie wouldn’t want to see Helen like this either. ‘Doesn’t stop it from hurting, though, does it?’
James felt momentarily lost, he had to get through to her.
‘Helen.’ He shook her leg. Nothing. ‘Look at me, Helen!’ He raised his voice and gave her a firm shake. She gasped and looked straight into his eyes.
‘You loved Elsie. It’s OK to cry and rant and scream and yell. That’s what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to beat your chest and shake your fist at the sky. You’re allowed to be angry and you’re allowed to be sad and you’re allowed to want to have your father by your side.’
Helen’s eyes filled with hot tears. ‘No. I have to keep my chin up.’
James swore. ‘No. She raised you, Helen. She’s dead. You don’t have to keep your chin up. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.’
He saw a tear spill down her cheek. Felt the trembling beneath his hand intensify, could see her trembling all over as she fought their release.
Another tear fell from the other eye. ‘It…it hurts.’ Her voice was low, guttural, the admission sounding as if it was wrenched from deep within her.
‘Of course it does. When my father died I felt as if my heart had been ripped out of my chest.’ And they hadn’t even been close. ‘It hurts for a long time.’
A sob escaped. ‘I don’t want to feel this bad any more.’
‘It feels worse because you’re bottling it up. The pressure’s too much. Let it out, Helen. Elsie died. Grieve for her.’
Helen felt overwhelmed by the tide of emotions rising inside her. Her chest hurt, her head hurt, her eyes hurt. She wanted it to stop. She wanted it to be gone. She opened her mouth and released a tiny anguished peep. Like a kitten’s meow. And another, more of a moan this time. The moan become a cry, the cry a sob and before she knew it she was blinded by tears and deafened by the noise of the sobs that racked her body.
She didn’t feel James moving onto the bed until he was behind her. Pulling her back into him, spooning her, cradling her against his broad chest. She didn’t resist, she wasn’t capable. It hurt too much inside still and getting rid of it was all that mattered.
The tears came and came, the grief and anguish seemingly inexhaustible. A lifetime of sorrow and heartache falling out at once. She cried not just for Elsie but for years of bottled-up emotion. For her ill mother and for her absent father and an uncertain childhood.
The tears were relentless. Like a tap had been turned on and then broken so it couldn’t be turned off. And all the time his chest felt good against her back. Solid. Reassuring. His arm around her waist felt heavy and comforting.
It was a long time before her grief started to wane, her tears started to lessen, her sobs became muted. She slowly became aware of him murmuring soothing words, of his gentle kisses in her hair. She turned in his arms. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said brokenly, a sob catching her voice.
James rolled on his back and pulled her in close, her body pressed into his side, her head resting against his chest. ‘I’m not.’
He stroked her hand which was curled into a fist against his chest. She slowly flattened it and he felt a hard object being pressed into his skin. He lifted her hand and discovered the duck Owen had given her that morning. And he felt another spurt of anger rise in him.
Did her father seriously think it was OK to breeze into town the day she buried probably the most significant person in her life, bearing a mother-of-pearl duck, and then leave again hours later? He removed the object, offended by its symbolism, and placed it on her bedside table. She didn’t protest as he’d thought she might and he gently kissed her forehead as he castigated himself for being at the pub when he could have been here with her.
Minutes passed. He lost track of time. He just held her and stroked her arm until her breathing evened out and she slept. Then he slept, too.
Helen awoke in a state of confusion hours later. Her eyes fluttered open and she lay very still, trying to orientate herself. The luminous figures of her alarm clock told her it was twenty past three. Her mouth felt dry and despite her slumber she felt an exhaustion that went deep into her bones. A weariness that came from an emotional rather than a physical source.
Even before the memories came back she knew the solid chest muscles beneath her ear belonged to James. Her nose was pushed against his shirt and she could smell his spicy fragrance. The scent that had been driving her crazy for months. And he was here, on her bed, every magnificent inch of him.
She remembered how he had held her, how he had crooned sweet nothings and kissed her hair. How he had insisted that she let it all go, let it all out. How he had been there for her. How her father had let her down and James had been there to help her through it.
When her father had told her he was going, Helen had been completely shattered. She’d thought he’d stay around for a while, a few days at least. But he had that look in his eye. The one he always got, and she knew any protests would have fallen on deaf ears. She’d needed him to stay but couldn’t have borne his rejection. In her fragile state it would have been too much.
The light still spilled in from the hallway and she watched James’s face. Relaxed in sleep, it was even sexier. His face was turned away from her slightly and she could just see the shadow at his square jaw and the outline of his full mouth. It pouted deliciously, looking soft and inviting, and then she remembered how hot and hard it could be and she felt heat stir low in her belly.
His chest rose and fell evenly beneath her cheek. Her hand was resting on his stomach and she could feel the tautness of his abs even slackened in slumber. They were warm and solid and she liked the feel of them, liked how, despite his sleep, they reacted slightly as she moved her hand.
Her leg was casually thrown over the top of his thighs. Her own thigh very, very close to his masculinity. All she’d need do was bend her knee a little and she could rub against him. She admired herself against him, her pose possessive. The heat flared in her belly.
Don’t do this. You’ve just buried Elsie, waved goodbye to your father and slobbered all over James like a deranged baby. You’re a wreck. You probably look like hell. He’s not going to touch you with a bargepole. And, more importantly, you’ve already told him it wasn’t going to happen.
But she wanted to. Suddenly it seemed like a perfectly sensible way to end a really terrible day. She wasn’t fooling herself or trying to pretend that he wouldn’t be gone in a few weeks. This wasn’t about the future. She was a woman, with a woman’s n
eeds. This was about tonight. This moment.
Earlier tonight she’d needed to be held and he’d done that. He’d comforted her as if she’d been a child. But now she needed more. Now she needed to feel like a woman. Not Helen the super-organised practice nurse, or Helen of Helen’s Heroes or Helen the recently bereaved. Right now she wanted to be Helen the woman.
Was it going to help her forget a little? Yes. Was it going to help ease the sadness a little? Yes. Was that entirely responsible? No. But did she care? Life was short, the day had been long and harrowing and this was an opportunity she’d already passed up. She was damned if she’d do it again.
Helen lifted her hand from his stomach and advanced it slowly through the air, nervous that he might reject her. Could she stand to be rejected again tonight? Her hand hovered for a second above his jaw before she decided.
His stubble scratched against her finger, sending an erotic shiver down her arm. She traced his jaw, up over the contours of his chin, resting briefly in the indent of his dimple. She reached his lips and stroked her finger along their plump softness.
James woke to the sensation of his lips being caressed. It was light, like a feather, like a whisper. He opened his eyes, shifting slightly to try and assimilate what was happening.
Helen’s hand stilled but she didn’t remove her finger. She held her breath. Was he awake? His hand slid up and captured hers. He kissed her fingertips lightly and she practically mewed. Then he pulled them away, bringing both their hands down to rest on his chest. He patted her hand soothingly. As if she were a child.
Well, to hell with that.
‘You’re awake,’ she whispered, rising up on her elbow to look down into his face. His dark hair fell in unruly waves and she wanted to touch it. She moved her hand out from under his and brushed at his fringe.
‘Yes.’ He smiled, bringing her hand down again.
Helen frowned. In the half-light he looked dark and dangerous, his gypsy soul shining through. She wanted him.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. Even in the subdued light he could see the flare of the amber flecks in her eyes and he knew he was in trouble. She had lust in her eyes and, as much as he wanted to go there, he didn’t think the aftermath of a huge emotional meltdown was an appropriate time.
He was babying her again. She almost said Horny, just to get a reaction, but she knew he was just concerned. ‘Better,’ she admitted.
‘Good.’
He looked up into her face and saw the honesty there. But he also saw the passion. He needed to get out. Her leg was very close to the ache in his groin and he knew if he stayed for much longer he might not be responsible for his actions. They’d been right to keep their relationship platonic. Helen was someone who would demand more than he knew how to give. He wouldn’t let their resolve falter now.
He swallowed. ‘I’d better go.’
Not so fast.
As he made to get up she exerted gentle pressure through her leg and the arm that was slung across his chest. ‘No, wait.’ She toyed with a button. ‘I told you a while back that I wasn’t going to act on my attraction to you. And I meant it then. But tonight…tonight I’d like to exercise my female prerogative to change my mind.’
James licked his lips, suddenly very aware of the satiny feel of her slip as it rubbed against him. ‘Ah, Helen…I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.’
Helen smiled at the struggle she saw going on in his turquoise eyes. ‘You don’t want to any more?’
He sat up quickly as the line between appropriate and lust blurred, displacing her. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, keeping his back to her. He couldn’t concentrate with her looming over him, her softness pressed into him.
‘You’ve been through an acute emotional upheaval. You’re not thinking very clearly.’
‘So you do want to?’
‘Helen.’ He turned slightly to face her, exasperated. ‘This isn’t about what we want. This is about what’s appropriate for the situation.’
She felt like a naughty kid who’d been caught attempting to steal biscuits from the biscuit barrel. Which may have been OK had she actually got to have a nibble first. It was time he stopped seeing her as the needy girl of a few hours ago and saw the black-satin-clad woman in front of him. ‘I’m not a child, James.’
God, he knew that. She was lying there in black lingerie, looking at him with sin in her eyes. He turned away from her again and ran a harried hand through his hair.
Helen could feel him slipping away from her. Another time she may have admired his self-control but tonight wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about thinking. Tonight was tactile, not tactical.
She crept up behind him and wound her arms around his neck, pushing her body against him, pressing a kiss to his neck. ‘You’re not going to make me beg?’
‘Helen.’
She loved the warning edge in his voice, the slight crack that told her he was just hanging on. She unwound herself from his neck, slipped off the bed and moved around until she was standing in front of him. Then she knelt between his legs, their heads level.
She moved her face close to his. ‘I feel like I’ve been stripped bare tonight. Emotionally bare. You’ve seen me at my most vulnerable, my most private. Now I want you to strip me bare physically. I want you to see all of me. You held me before and rocked me and soothed me like you would a child. And I needed that. But I need to feel like a woman now.’
She pressed her lips against his, asking a silent question. There was resistance for a couple of seconds and then he groaned and his mouth softened. And then it opened and his tongue stroked against her lips and she sighed and pressed herself into his body, snaking her arms around his neck and opening her mouth, surrendering it to his.
The long-suppressed passion flared inside her like New Year’s Eve fireworks. She moaned and pushed her hands into his hair, wanting, needing to touch him, all of him. Her hands fell to his buttons and her fingers pulled at them impatiently, desperate to feel his naked skin, feeling his heat and needing to get closer.
James could sense her loss of control and pulled away from her mouth, kissing her neck, trying to slow the proceedings down. If she kept going like this, there was no telling how they might end up or how quickly it would all be over.
He’d wanted this for a long time and now they’d thrown caution to the wind, he had no intention of making it less than perfect. And whether she cared to admit it or not, she was still in an emotionally vulnerable state. He wanted this to be slow and easy. Soothing to the ache inside. He wanted it to be thorough, he wanted it to be amazing.
As her hands yanked his shirt out of his trousers and roamed freely over his naked chest and his loins leapt, he knew he had to slow it down. He had to protect her emotional vulnerability. He pulled away from her hot, frenzied mouth.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he crooned, grabbing her hands and bringing them to his mouth, pressing a kiss in each palm. ‘Slow down.’ He chuckled.
Helen drew in deep ragged breaths, her lips already lamenting the loss of his. ‘No,’ she croaked.
He laughed again. ‘I want this to be perfect. I want to make this right for you. I want it slow and long and gentle. I want to…’ he grinned at her ‘…savour you.’
Helen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Any other time she may have wanted all those things but right now she wanted to feel him inside her more than her next breath.
‘Next time,’ she whispered, and took his mouth again, revelling in the surge of passion as he met her almost brutal kiss stroke for stroke.
James dragged himself back from the brink of surrender, his erection unbearably tight, straining against its fabric confines. ‘Helen,’ he moaned into her neck.
Helen drew in some much-needed breaths. He was still treating her with kid gloves. The whole town had been treating her like a fragile piece of china and she was heartily sick of it. ‘I’m fine, James. I’m not going to break. I’m n
ot a child.’
‘We all need a little tenderness from time to time, Helen.’
She was going to go mad if he didn’t take her soon. She needed to prove that she was OK. That she wasn’t the grieving girl of hours ago. She was a woman with a woman’s appetites.
She pulled out of his arms and stood before him. She whipped her satin slip off over her head and in a second was standing before him in just black lacy knickers. She ran her hand over her naked breasts and watched his pupils dilate.
‘Do I look like a child?’
She whipped her undies off, too. ‘Do I?’
She pulled her ponytail out and shook her hair free. ‘Or do I look like a woman who needs a man?’
James’s mouth dried. She was magnificent. Her breasts high and firm, her waist small, her legs slender. Her hair swinging loosely about her shoulders, brushing her delicate collar-bones. The bulge in his pants throbbed with need.
‘Because right now I want it rough and hard and fast. Can you give me that?’
He didn’t talk, just grabbed her wrist and twirled her around so she landed on the bed on her back under him. He plundered her mouth, all thought of slow and easy totally obliterated. He moved his mouth to a rosy-tipped nipple, savaging it as her hand undid his fly. She pulled his throbbing manhood out of his underpants and squeezed hard. ‘Now,’ she panted.
She didn’t have to ask again. He shed his trousers and was sheathing himself in her hot core seconds later. Her guttural cry spurred him on and he thrust into her again and again, his face at her neck, his hand on her breast.
‘Yes. James. Oh, yes.’
He could feel her starting to tighten around him, heard her cries become more desperate, and he rammed into her harder. Faster.
He felt Helen break first, her nails raking down his back. He followed shortly after, joining her in an alternative universe where only their cries and their breath and their rhythm mattered. Not Elsie or Owen. Not their lousy childhoods. Not even his own imminent departure. Just a fantastic, addictive ecstasy which, when they bumped back to earth, left them craving more.
