Kisses From Heaven

by Jennifer Greene

  “Buck…”

  Slowly, he turned her over, then reached for the bottle of warmed oil again. Silvery eyes met emerald ones. Her arms were lifted, massaged, laid back. He took a year to glide the oil over breasts, kneading warmth into one silken orb at a time. The fire crackled next to them, creating a very small world of light and shadow where no one else existed but the two of them. His face reflected intense concentration, his eyes still holding hers as the oil was soothed onto her stomach, then down to the most sensitive flesh. Her fingers curled at her side; her toes curled, and still she could not look away from his eyes.

  His eyes were dark and grave, watching her. The sweet-scented oil and the touch of his hands had aroused the most sensitive and powerful sexual vibrations she had ever conceived of. She wanted him with a primal need; her desire was mindless and fierce and helpless. She read the same desire in his eyes. Mine, she read, mine, Loren. Fingertips knees, thighs, breasts…

  She rose up on her knees taking the bottle of oil from him. Her flesh was golden, glistening and almost iridescent as she knelt over him, her small fingers stroking in the oil over his long legs. A thousand sensations seemed to rush through her bloodstream. She could see her shadow on the wall as she had seen his; she could see her breasts full and her nipples raised and the curve of her spine as she concentrated on giving him pleasure. She felt on fire, and she felt very soft; she felt the power of being a woman and the frailty. She took a breath suddenly and just looked at him.

  Helplessly, she averted her eyes as she shifted her body, feeling a slight awkwardness when she wanted no awkwardness; she wanted the moment perfect for him. “Close your eyes,” she whispered, but he wouldn’t. He watched as she straddled his legs, as she very slowly took him inside of her; he watched her eyes close for those seconds and the way her hands trembled when she picked up the bottle of oil again. She hadn’t touched his chest. She poured the oil between his male breasts, yet her hands were trembling; a little too much liquid dribbled from the bottle. Her palm glided the oil over his flesh, her body rising up to reach his shoulders, down again to cover his ribs. There was a faint smile on her lips, an acknowledgment of that rhythm, and her trembling ceased. It was her turn to watch him, to see the fire glow on his heated skin, to feel his hips shudder in tension beneath her, to watch his eyes change from a soft, sensual green to the glow of emerald on fire.

  “Cap the bottle, Loren.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not done,” she whispered. “I may never be done. Do you think you could die from wanting, Buck? Because that’s how I feel.”

  She heard a long, low guttural sound in his throat. The bottle was taken from her hands, capped, tossed somewhere. He drew her down on top of him, and she felt for the first time the full length of his flesh against hers, the delicious slippery sheen of oil creating the most sensual heat between them. His lips seized hers, and long arms swept over her flesh. She felt like water flowing over him. She felt like Eve, her lustrous flesh offered like sin. She felt desire as she had never known desire, as if she could be consumed by it, as if there could be no end to the feel of his flesh on hers, as if she were caught up in magic, a dark, sweet, fierce magic… And she felt the force of him inside her, that filling up of empty space as if she’d been hollow without him, hollow and empty for those thousand years before she’d met him.

  She murmured his name over and over. Every muscle suddenly tightened and then released in a long, low slide of unbelievable power. It happened again, yet still Buck strained for control, whispering loving words to her, encouraging her abandonment, his lips teasingly soft and then hungrily demanding, his hands tenderly caressing and then roughly possessive. She heard his low cry at the same time she felt yet another burst of ecstasy and then another.

  A short time later, she was cradled next to him, his hands still stroking her back. Behind them the fire had died down to a huge bed of red-gold coals that radiated warmth and the softness of shadows. His fingers tilted up her chin, and he kissed her yet again.

  “It’s never been like that for me before, Loren,” he murmured. “Can’t you understand why I can’t let you go?”

  “It’s you, Buck. You’re the lover,” she whispered. “Every time you make love to me…” She didn’t know how to say it, but there was a sudden glistening of tears in her eyes.

  The buzzing of the alarm was a revolting intrusion in the darkness. Loren’s eyes blinked open, startled. She felt Buck shift next to her to turn off the maddening sound.

  “What’s wrong? What time is it?”

  Buck’s voice was groggy. “Four.”

  He shifted to sit on the side of the bed, shaking his head as if to force his body to awaken. Evidently it worked, for he turned back to her alert, aware and half smiling. “You’ve had two hours’ sleep, lady. Time to get on the move.”

  “You’re crazy,” she said.

  “Up.”

  From the fireside, they had moved to the shower, and from the shower to the big sunken tub and still another round of lovemaking. It was past two before they’d slept. Loren watched with disbelieving eyes as Buck pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, then reached over to swat her bottom sharply.

  “Up. We’ve only got a few hours left. And we’re in a hurry.”

  “We are?” she repeated vaguely.

  “We are.”

  She pulled on the jeans and green top she was frankly sick of and stood patiently while Buck brought the brush over and made a masculine effort at restoring order to her hair. She started laughing when they brushed their teeth together in the bathroom. “You wouldn’t like to fill me in—?”

  “No. Not particularly.”

  “I had a feeling that was going to be too much to expect.”

  Yawning, she trailed after him to the car. It was still black outside, the quietest time of the night. Single streetlights beaconed on dew-drenched grass; spring flowers released their most potent perfume in these predawn hours. She snuggled next to him in the car, and he drove down past the oldest part of Detroit, past Grand Circus Park, past the city’s Renaissance Center. Only a few cars ventured in either direction; even the Motor City was tired at four in the morning. When he parked, she still had no idea what he had in mind, but she was fully awake by now, curious beyond toleration and totally enchanted with the mystical outing.

  She understood, a few minutes later. “We’re actually going to walk it?” she said incredulously. “I didn’t even know you could.”

  The Ambassador Bridge stretched the miles between the United States and Canada, a tall, graceful structure over the Detroit River. Huge freighters rested in the water below as they started to walk across, Buck’s arm firmly around her, her cheek still snuggled to his chest. A single car passed next to them, and then there was no one. She had the strange illusion that the bridge was theirs, that they owned the city because they claimed it as theirs for that short crazy time.

  He didn’t stop until they’d reached the center of the bridge, and then he turned her around, drew her back against his chest and threaded his arms around her waist. She could feel her breath almost stop as she looked back to the city’s skyline. The fresh, crisp scent of that early, early morning blended with the look of moonlight diamonds on water, and the skyscrapers were all lit up. The night lights reflected on the water, mirroring back a second fairy-tale metropolis of gentle motion and color.

  Slowly, that changed. Slowly, black turned to charcoal, then to rose. The sun came up from the east, casting a rosy glow like a magical blanket on a Sunday morning city still sleeping. Buck suddenly turned her to him, entwining, his fingers in her hair as he kissed her roughly, hungrily. “Ask me,” he said vibrantly. “Now, Loren.”

  She finally knew what he wanted. She couldn’t have said why. Perhaps it was the sudden rough pressure of his mouth, as if he could force her into submission. More than that it was the tender love in his eyes, for something he wanted to share with her. A hint of all the things he wanted to share with her.

 
; “Dammit. You haven’t played fair from the moment I met you,” she whispered up to him.

  His lips claimed hers again. “Ask me.”

  “All right then. Marry me, Buck!” Her tone was helpless, almost angry. She just couldn’t seem to fight him any longer. In some part of her mind, she knew there were rational things, important things, that hadn’t been settled, not for her. But in another part of her mind, there was that magic of his, the magic she felt whenever she was with him, a magic she knew she couldn’t live without…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday evenings had always been hectic for Loren. Hair, clothes, nails, facial, leg shaving, and last, a long, scented bath: all her female puttering had always been crowded into those last hours before another work week began.

  This Sunday, though, she had barely stepped into the bath before she was stepping out of it, wrapping herself in a white terry-cloth robe and padding barefoot down the hall to knock on Gramps’s bedroom door. He glanced up from his book when she came in. He loved to read spy novels, and his look was a little impatient.

  “I only want a minute, Gramps,” she assured him, and then shoved her hands into the deep pockets of the robe and took a breath. “You didn’t say anything downstairs about Buck. Angela and Rayburn were vocal enough, but…”

  Gramps marked the spot in his book with his finger and just looked at her. “He’s a fine man, Loren. I never thought you’d have the sense to pick a man like him. I thought you’d find a good-looking boy you could regularly push around, and knowing you, I thought he’d be dirt-poor.” There was a spark of teasing in Bill Shephard’s voice, yet she knew he was serious. “Buck certainly doesn’t have to fear that he’s getting a gold digger, now does he?” he added ironically. “Angela often talks of the short time she remembers when the family fortunes were still flying high. You haven’t a single good memory from those times, do you, Loren?”

  She hesitated. “I remember the house filled with people. Dad’s laughter, and that special perfume Mother wore…”

  Gramps put the book aside. “You were too sensitive as a child,” he said thoughtfully. “Somehow you always had the idea that your parents would love you more, give you more of themselves, if they weren’t so frantically caught up in their social world. I used to watch you, being hurt. Time and again. I used to watch you, and I used to think that you had to toughen up, Loren, because no one could survive life who was that vulnerable.”

  “Gramps…” Loren swept an absent hand through her hair. She’d come in with a clear plan for discussion, which seemed suddenly confused. “I grew up a long time ago. None of that matters anymore.”

  “I hope it doesn’t. I’ve been worrying that it still does. The way you put us first, Angela and myself, over anything to do with your own life, as if your intention was to right things from a long time ago. It’s long past time you learned the art of selfishness, too, Loren. Have you ever read Ayn Rand?”

  She smiled suddenly. “A long time ago.” She perched on the edge of his bed, shaking her head scoldingly at him. “We’re digressing. I want to talk to you about Buck. I want to know how you feel, what you’d like to do, Gramps. If Angela and I both marry—”

  William Shephard groped up from the bedroom chair and stood up, walking to the window. He looked like a very frail old man with gentle blue eyes. “That’s what I mean. Stop thinking of us, Loren. I’ll cope, or perhaps I should say Rayburn and I will cope together. You’re really asking about my Fridays, and the answer is—I don’t know.” He sighed. “I’m an old man, and in many ways I feel my life was really over a long time ago. You’re the one who counts now—”

  “That’s just not true,” Loren said swiftly, her expression brimming with compassion.

  “It is. And forgive me for saying this, but it isn’t Angela’s grandchildren I want to see, it’s yours.” His soft blue eyes focused directly on hers. “That man adores you, Loren. It’s over, the stress. You’ll have financial security, children, laughter. You’ll be protected, and you’ll be spoiled. You’ve never been spoiled.” He sat down and picked up his book again. “He’s perfect for you. Apart from which, I don’t approve of your going out and not showing up again until the middle of the next morning,” he finished gruffly.

  “Now, Gramps,” she chided his bent head wryly, “you just told me what a good quality selfishness is. And I have to say I couldn’t care less what anyone thought of what time I came in in the morning.”

  Her grandfather glared impatiently at her. “That’s one of the reasons I know he’s perfect for you. Now get out of here, granddaughter. James Bond just got into Russia…”

  Perfect for you.

  Loren shoved the van into Drive and set out on that rainy Monday for work. The first day of May was sheer cats and dogs. Rain sloshed on the windshield, and the wipers were already working full speed.

  She hadn’t slept well, for no particular reason. She had told all of them about Buck, and the consensus was unanimous: Buck was perfect for her. Total approval. And her family’s feelings mattered to her…though not, perhaps, as much as she’d always thought they did. She was so in love with Buck that she couldn’t think straight. During the hours apart from him, she suffered something like withdrawal pains. He was passionate, generous, bull-headed, a little arrogant, whipcord smart, sensitive, domineering and he had a sense of humor. Some of that made her furious. All of it she loved.

  She braked for a red light and opened a window. The defroster was having a tough time competing with the rainy fog on the windshield. Involuntarily, she shivered a little. It wasn’t that cold, but it was damp. Her raincoat covered only a lightweight short-sleeved jersey dress. She felt a little like crying and couldn’t have said why. All she had to do was think of Buck and their time in the boat and their lovemaking and the look in his eyes on the bridge, and she could not regret her yes.

  The light changed, and she pushed gradually on the accelerator. Bad driver or no, she crawled in weather like this. Maybe it was just the rain affecting her mood, she thought fleetingly. Maybe it was that before she met him so many people needed her. Her life had been one long race to survive the onslaught of burdens, and she had built up a crazy kind of pride in her ability to cope. It had been so hard for her, and Buck had only to wave his little finger…There was Rayburn for Gramps. Angela’s rebellious impulsiveness was tempered the moment Buck talked to her. Suddenly, she had the help in the house she’d so badly needed.

  She had no way to match his gifts. She had only herself to give him. Almost fretfully she tried to understand her own brooding mood, so unlike her. It was just…everything she’d worked so hard for suddenly seemed inconsequential, as if all her efforts were for nothing, as if she wasn’t the capable, reasonably successful lady she’d thought she was…but a failure. For not being able to help the people she loved on her own, for not even being able to help herself. All Buck had had to do was walk in…

  Oh, stop it, she told herself wearily. Just stop thinking. For one thing, you were firefighting all the time; you never had the chance to get above the conflagration of troubles to just breathe. And for another, you’re ungrateful, and that’s disgustingly petty. And for yet another, you know better than to try to think when you haven’t slept well. Your head is mush. It’s just not the time.

  Having avoided the slippery expressways because of the rain, she turned off on still another side road, now only minutes from work. The rolling residential street was narrow and lined with soaking oaks and maples. It was like driving through a tunnel in the downpour. She slowed still further, noting the speedometer at twenty-five when a car honked in exasperation behind her. The speed limit was thirty-five. “Sorry, buster,” she muttered. “Just be grateful you’re not behind me in a snowstorm. I get out and walk the van in that kind of weather.”

  She rounded the crest of a hill, noting a little bright yellow car coming in from a side street. She was almost at the bottom of the valley when the little VW, instead of braking at the stop sign, ac
celerated through it. Frantically, Loren wrenched at the steering wheel, knowing with an instantaneous sense of horror that she was going to hit the car. Skidding tires shrieked in her ears, and she heard the crunch of metal on metal even as the crash shuddered through her body; her forehead jolted forward to collide with something hard on that tender skin, then snapped back.

  It was over in seconds. For a short time afterward, Loren was paralyzed in total shock. With violently trembling hands and her heart in her throat, she wrenched open the door, climbed out of the van and with stricken eyes saw the battered, crumpled-in side of the VW. A woman’s head was leaned back against the driver’s seat, eyes closed, and Loren could hear the faint sound of a baby crying.

  “Oh, my God…” Her own emotions were buried. She stumbled over to the little car, pounded frantically on the window and then tried to open the bashed-in door. It wouldn’t give, but the woman inside…her eyes fluttered open, her face all white, her expression dazed.

  “I saw the whole thing! Are you all right?” Through rain-soaked lashes, Loren glanced back to see a man in a navy blue sweater approaching her from one of the nearby houses. There was no time to answer; she was already whipping around to the other side of the car to open the passenger door. In a second she could see the baby was still strapped into its protective car seat, screaming its head off. The mother, a youngish blonde, could not have been whiter if she’d painted on a ghost mask; her fingers were moving in slow motion up to her mouth.

  Loren reached in to grasp her hand. “Are you hurt? The baby seems fine, but she’s…”

  “I…she’s all right. That’s what I…Julie was crying. And I was trying to hurry home. She’s wet, and she always cries when she wets her diaper. I…”

  For just an instant, Loren felt like screaming, just as the baby was. If the woman had just looked, even if she hadn’t stopped for the stop sign; if she’d just been going a few miles an hour slower…