by Tiffany Snow
Then he turned around as he dragged the shirt over his head and I was treated to a six-pack carved abdomen, clear definition of his obliques, and a dark trail of hair that went from his navel down to disappear under the waistband of his jeans.
I was staring. Still.
Forcing my gaze away from Clark’s Man of Steel body that the thin fabric couldn’t adequately conceal, I stepped inside and shut the door behind me. Then I was immediately faced with another seating quandary.
“I was just having a glass of wine. Can I get you one, too?” he asked.
Absolutely. “Yes, please.” This had to be a record for alcoholic beverages I’d consumed in a week.
“How was work?” he asked, pouring another glass half-full of garnet-colored wine. I watched him with too much interest.
“Same stuff, different day,” I said vaguely. “You?”
“Not bad. It’s always difficult, starting a new position. I expect I’ll feel more comfortable in a few weeks.” He handed me my wine.
Keep your eyes above his neck. Keep your eyes above his neck. I repeated the mantra inside my head.
And that exhausted my ability to chitchat. “Mia said you stopped by?”
“I did.” He sat on his couch, stretching one arm along the back. “Come sit down. You look like you’ve had a long day.”
Gee, thanks. That was right up there with You look tired and Are you sick?
I gingerly sat on the couch as well, careful to leave eighteen inches of space between us.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, frowning. His blue eyes studied me. “You look really pale.”
Pale was my normal color, but I could well imagine that the panic I’d endured still showed in my eyes.
“Um, I was almost carjacked,” I said, deciding to go with a half truth. “He had a gun and . . . it was terrifying.”
“Oh my God, China.” He set down his wine and leaned forward, taking my hands in his. “Your hands are like ice. Did you go to the cops? What happened?”
“It was outside my friend’s house,” I explained. “He got in the backseat. But someone was out walking their dog and scared him off, I guess. It didn’t last long, thank God.” A lot of fibs there but at least I could tell someone I’d been traumatized tonight, and it wasn’t like I wanted to tell Mia and make her worry.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Totally. I mean, I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.” Not that he’d promised he wouldn’t . . . eventually. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my suddenly blurred vision. Taking off my glasses, I rubbed my eyes.
Clark cursed softly under his breath, then drew me toward him, scooting me closer like I weighed nothing before wrapping his arms around me.
“Shh, it’s okay. I’m so sorry that happened to you.” His voice, low and soothing in my ear, made me lose my battle with the tears and they spilled out, trailing down my cheeks to drip onto Clark’s chest.
His arms felt amazing around me. I’d never felt anything like it. Strong and warm, holding me close. I could smell soap from his skin and feel the rasp of his whiskers against my hair as he tucked my head under his chin.
I didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. I wasn’t dumb enough to think moments like this came along every day, and I catalogued everything my senses could take in. As for my emotions . . . well, logic was taking a backseat right now to my being a girl.
“Is there anything I can do?” Clark asked. I shook my head, which had the added benefit of rubbing my cheek against his chest. I wanted to purr like a cat, but he’d probably look at me funny.
We stayed like that for a few minutes—I was loath to move, though internally I was tracking the time, wondering when it went from the Acceptable/Comforting phase to the Awkward-She-Won’t-Get-Off-Me phase. Was it three minutes? Five? Longer?
Five minutes came and went with neither of us moving apart. His hand was rubbing soothingly up and down my back, then it slowed, going from soothing to . . . something else. My breath sped up and the guy with the gun was a distant memory.
Clark moved his hand to my hair, pushing his fingers into the thick strands, up to my scalp, then down, combing through the mass as it lay in loose waves down my back. He repeated the motion over and over, slow and unhurried.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I touch him back? Was this sexual? Or just a friendly hug? I was willing to bet it wasn’t the latter, but didn’t want to just assume. What if I was wrong? What if I touched him and that was the wrong thing to do? I’d be mortified.
The question was solved for me when he tugged on my hair, pulling my head back. Our eyes met and I was transfixed. He was looking at me the way I’d only read about in books, and it took my breath away.
I wanted him to kiss me again and, as if he’d read my thoughts, he lowered his head until our lips met.
This kiss was no less thrilling than the first one had been, though my surprise was substantially less. I kissed him back with perhaps too much enthusiasm, but he didn’t seem to mind.
He suddenly pulled back. “I’m sorry. You’ve had a rough night and I’m sure this is the last thing you want right now.”
“Actually, I find it quite . . .” Arousing. Exciting. “. . . soothing,” which sounded less enthusiastic than I’d intended, but his lips twitched and he started kissing me again so who cares if I found the exact right word or not?
My fingers were itching to touch him and I twisted around so I could put my palms flat against his chest. His skin was warm, the muscles beneath were hard, and every thought flew out of my head.
His tongue stroked mine as I learned the curves and lines of his chest and shoulders, then I felt him tugging the button-up I wore down my arms. Next thing I knew, he was pulling the hem of my T-shirt up and over my head, leaving me in just my bra and jeans. There was a moment of so glad I wore my gray and pink lace push up, then a hit of cold reality.
Clark was kissing my neck, his hands tugging at my hips until I was on my knees, straddling him. It didn’t look like he was going to stop anytime soon so . . . was I ready to do this?
Being my age and a virgin was a real pain in the ass. I felt ridiculous, for one. And two, if it didn’t happen now, then when? Not everyone got married, so no sense holding out for that fairy tale. It might never happen. And frankly, there were a lot worse guys I could be having my first time with—at least Clark was nice and really attractive, plus he seemed to like me a lot, with an added bonus of me really liking him.
I didn’t have to worry about birth control. In a fit of optimism, I’d gotten an IUD a couple of years ago and it was good for five years. Most women my age were probably on the pill, but I didn’t like taking pills. Then there was the whole “safe sex” thing to consider, but I was sure Clark probably had condoms lying around somewhere.
So . . . decision made. Full steam ahead. Which was easier said than done because as soon as I’d flipped the switch from Possibility to Certainty inside my head, nerves struck.
Clark’s hand moved up my back to my bra strap and quicker than I could do it myself, it was unsnapped. I had just processed the slide of elastic down my arms before his hands were cupping my breasts, his thumbs brushing the tips and sending a shiver through me.
My heart was beating so fast, it felt like it would burst from my chest any moment. His hands were touching me, his lips were kissing their way down my neck, and I could feel the hard length of him pressing between my thighs.
My bra was gone and he pulled me closer, until my breasts touched his chest. His skin against mine was the most amazing thing I’d ever felt. He was warm and hard against my softness, his arms around me made me feel protected—like our bodies were made to fit into each other in just this way.
Then his hands moved to the button on my jeans and I went stiff and rigid in his arms.
I couldn’t help it. I was excited but scared, too. This was all new to me and moving so fast . . . maybe this wasn’t the right decision? Should I decide something l
ike this in the heat of the moment? But maybe this was the only “moment” I’d get and what if I let it pass me by?
“What’s wrong?” Clark whispered against my shoulder. His warm breath fanned across my skin. “Do you not want to do this? We can stop.”
“No,” I blurted. “I mean, no. Don’t stop. I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.”
“What are you nervous about, sweetheart?” The low murmur of his voice in my ear made my eyes slide shut. Butterflies still danced in my stomach, but it felt like they were migrating south.
“Mmmm . . .” My thoughts were jumbled the more he touched me. He’d stopped trying to undo the button on my jeans and he’d moved his hand between my legs, rubbing me through the denim. I struggled to form a coherent sentence. “I’ve just never—” His hand moved over a certain spot and I gasped.
“Never what?” he asked, his lips trailing from my collarbone down the slope of my breast. “Never had sex on the second date?” He chuckled lightly. His mouth fastened over my nipple and I pried my eyes open, looking down at the sight of his head, so dark against my pale skin. I slid my fingers into his hair, holding him to me.
It was indescribable, how he was making me feel. I felt wanton, sexy, desirable. Gone was the awkward China with two left feet and a knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. In her place was a woman somehow sexy enough for a man like Clark to want. It was like being given the best Christmas present ever.
Clark pulled back slightly, his tongue caressing me in such a way that made my hands close into fists in his hair and my eyes slam shut. Wow. He was really good at this. I’d definitely made the right decision.
“Never what?” he repeated.
It took me a second to remember what I’d said. “Never had sex before,” I murmured. I pressed a little on his head, hoping he’d get the hint and do that thing with his tongue again. That wasn’t rude, was it? He’d seemed to like it, too, so surely that was okay.
And apparently I could still say the wrong thing at the wrong time because you would’ve thought I’d told him I was really a man in disguise. He sat upright, his eyes widening for a split second in surprise.
“You’re joking,” he said.
Ouch. I forced a laugh, feeling acutely exposed in more than one way. Instinct made me cross my arms over my breasts.
“Um, nope, not joking,” I said with a tentative smile. “I . . . didn’t think it would make that big of a difference. Does it?” In all my romance novels, the hero liked it when the heroine was a virgin. But Clark didn’t look as though he liked it. Not even a little bit. I swallowed, bitter disappointment and embarrassment curdling in my gut.
“Um, yeah, China,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t think—”
I scrambled off his lap before he could finish, my face burning, and snatched up my T-shirt. I yanked it over my head and shoved my arms through the holes.
“China, wait a second—”
“I’ve gotta go,” I said, cutting him off. Shirt, bra, glasses—check, check, and . . . check. I avoided looking at him. I was mortified and close to tears, which I really didn’t want him to see. I’d had plenty of embarrassing moments in my life, but this took the cake. This was why I chose computers as my primary companion. People didn’t work out so well.
“China—”
“Catch you later.” And I was out the door. Five seconds later, I was walking into my house, praying Mia was asleep already.
The house was dark and the television was on mute. I saw Mia’s huddled form underneath blankets on the couch and the telltale sound of light snoring. I breathed out a sigh of relief.
Tiptoeing past her, I made it to my bedroom and shut the door. Now that I had the privacy to cry, I found I couldn’t. The shock of Clark’s reaction had worn off, leaving only cynicism in its place. As usual, I hadn’t been able to predict someone’s reaction accurately. And it had hurt me, in a very private and personal way.
Chalk it up to live and learn, I thought bitterly. My gaze caught my reflection in the mirror and I paused, looking more closely.
My T-shirt was on backward.
Of course it was.
I left for work earlier than usual the next morning, detouring by Cysnet first. No one was in yet except the one person I thought would be and who I’d come to see.
“Come in,” Jackson called out when I knocked on his door. He glanced up when I entered. “On your way to Wyndemere?” he asked as I took a chair in front of his desk.
I nodded. “Yeah, but I needed to come by and tell you something first.” Even though I’d been told not to.
He frowned and relaxed back in his chair. “What is it?”
Taking a deep breath, I answered. “A man was in my car last night. He had a gun. He threatened me.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, one fisted hand resting on the desk. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. He just told me I had to make sure to deliver the software. That Tom had been having second thoughts about delivering it and that . . .” I hesitated. “That was why he was dead.” I winced, hoping what I’d said hadn’t been completely insensitive.
His fist tightened and the look in his eyes made me shrink a little in my chair, though I knew he wasn’t angry with me.
“Should we go to the police?” I asked.
Jackson shook his head. “If they got to Tom, we’d be dead by morning. The police would take your statement and that’s all they could do. No crime was committed. Did you even see his face?”
I shook my head. “Then what do I do?” I swallowed the lump that had jumped into my throat. “I don’t want to be the next one who ‘commits suicide.’” I used air quotes for that. “The police even examined the scene and they’re positive it wasn’t foul play, which means whoever killed him is really good.”
“Just finish the software then,” he said. “Go, do your job, and be careful.”
I looked at him. “I feel less than reassured as to my safety.”
Jackson rested his arms on the desk and leaned forward. “I understand. I’ll tell my security people what happened. They can look into it and be more aware. You’ll be okay.”
Stiffening, I said, “I know that. It’s just . . .” then faltered. I had to look away from his penetrating gaze, glancing toward the window. Only then did I realize my fingers were gripping the arms of the chair.
“It’s just what?”
I couldn’t look at him and my words were barely audible. “It’s just that . . . I’m scared.”
He took something from his drawer and stood. Rounding the desk, he crouched down in front of me so we were eye to eye. Prying my fingers from the armrest, he opened my hand and placed a gun in my palm.
“Take this. Keep it on you at all times.”
I stared, wide-eyed. “I . . . I can’t take that.”
“Of course you can,” he said, standing. “I just gave it to you.”
“But that’s against the law.”
“Giving you a weapon?”
“And I have no training or license to carry . . .” I babbled on, still staring at the foreign object I was holding. “Here. Take it back.” I thrust it toward him.
“Christ, China,” he said, pushing my hand so the muzzle wasn’t pointed in his direction. “I take it you don’t know how to use this.”
I gave a vigorous shake of my head. “They scare me.”
He sighed, which I interpreted as either frustration or impatience. Neither reaction was positive for me.
“All right then. Let’s go.” He grabbed his keys from the corner of his desk, then took the gun from me. He headed for the door. I jumped up and scrambled to follow.
“Where are we going?”
“To teach you how to use this.”
I just had to ask.
The gun shop he took me to reminded me of the one and only shop I’d been inside back in Omaha. My dad had taken me with him one time on an errand for bullets. The noise from the range in
back was as loud as that other store had been, the smell of gunpowder hanging heavy in the air.
It didn’t take long for Jackson to get two targets, a box of bullets, and two sets of goggles and earmuffs. We were assigned a booth number and he led me into the back.
No one was on either side of our assigned booth and I watched as Jackson clipped the targets and sent them down the line. Glancing up, he beckoned me.
“Ready for your first lesson?”
No. “Yes.”
“Parts of a handgun. Muzzle. Grip. Safety. Trigger. Barrel. Slide. Sight. Magazine. Magazine release. Hammer.” He pointed to the various parts and I memorized them.
“First, make sure the safety is on, then eject the magazine. Like this.” He showed me. It popped out of the bottom, then he pushed it back in. “You try.”
It took four tries and hurt my fingers, but I finally got the magazine out. Jackson just watched, making me feel inadequate.
“Time to load the bullets.” He showed me that, too.
“Kind of like a Pez dispenser,” I observed. He paused, looking at me. “What?”
His lips twitched but he said nothing. We were standing so close, I could smell that damn cologne again, even over the gunpowder.
The magazine was loaded, then he pushed it inside the grip again. He put on his goggles and I followed suit, then the earmuffs, keeping one ear slightly uncovered so we could hear each other.
“This is a semiautomatic, which means it’ll load the next bullet for you each time you pull the trigger. But you do need to load the first bullet. To do that, you rack the slide. Like this.” He did that move I’d seen action heroes do a thousand times in the movies, the sound much more frightening in real life.
“Hold it like this, hand firmly around the grip, resting in the cup of your left hand. Never point it at something unless you want to shoot it. Switch off the safety, aim, squeeze the trigger.”
He did all these things, pointing the gun down the range toward the target. His body was absolutely still as he aimed, then I jumped about a foot when he fired.
“It’s really loud,” I blurted.
Jackson glanced around at me, a smirk curving his lips. “Yes, China. It’s loud. Now come here.”
