Precedent for Passion

by Amber Cross

  “But you wanted to live in the city?”

  Body suddenly tensing against hers, he took a big swallow of wine. “No. I wanted to live here, but the divorce put the kibosh on those plans.”

  “Why?”

  His raised eyebrows implied she understood but was pretending to be obtuse. “C’mon, Abby, you were in the courtroom that day. My ex-wife shredded my reputation. I was a bank manager. That meant you had to live a conservative lifestyle, especially in the country, so people would trust you with their money. No way could I recover from the rumors that spread after that day.”

  She hadn’t realized he lost so much.

  “But what she said about you…” Abby faltered. “It was, I mean, it wasn’t like you were abusive, or a lecher or something.”

  “You can’t even get the words out,” he teased, and she was glad to see the lines around his eyes relax. “She said I was a sex fiend and couldn’t live without it. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but she also said I was into BDSM, which no one talked about back then. Only she exaggerated it grossly. Which is normal for her.”

  “You mean you’re not into BDSM?”

  “Do I like the idea of seeing a woman tied, whipped, clamped, and plugged?” He seemed to ponder the idea before rolling onto his side, facing her. “Nope.” His smile proved he hadn’t considered the lifestyle even for a minute. “Just good, old-fashioned kinky sex. With maybe a little tying once in a while. Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Disappointment? If what just happened is disappointment, then go ahead and break my heart. My only complaint is that you seem content with just one round.”

  Blue eyes gleaming, he took her wineglass from her fingers and set it once more on the nightstand. The movement brought his torso into contact with hers, and even through the tangle of covers her nipples peaked.

  “You enjoyed playing with me a few minutes ago, didn’t you?” He dipped a finger into his wineglass, dropping the red pearl of liquid onto the slope of her upper breast. “Thought I wasn’t paying attention or maybe that I wasn’t interested?”

  With his tongue he followed the wine where it trickled a slow path over her skin.

  Excitement rose inside her. When he set his drink on the nightstand and slid down in the bed so the comforter slipped to her waist, her breathing grew erratic.

  Cupping one breast in his hand, he circled her nipple with his thumb. “I left marks on you.”

  She didn’t understand.

  “With my beard. Here”—he stroked the side of her breast—“and on your thighs.”

  “It’s okay.” Just don’t stop.

  “No, it’s not.” With a wicked smile he curled his tongue around one hard nipple. Warm and wet and so good her heels dug into the mattress as her whole body clenched with need. “Let me kiss it and make it better.”

  ****

  The next time she woke, he was staring at the painting on the ceiling again, but instead of a glass of wine he had a cup of coffee in his hand, which he must have made at his condo because she didn’t own any. His feet and chest were bare, but jeans covered his lower body.

  “Good morning.” He smiled, and even after a night of marathon sex she wanted more of him.

  Her voice was husky with that need when she returned his greeting. “Good morning to you.”

  Raising his eyebrows, he offered to share the cup with her. She took a sip, returned it, and when he lifted his arm in invitation, snuggled against his side with her hand on his bare chest. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and returned his attention to the painting.

  “My father’s work,” she explained.

  “It’s powerful.”

  “Hmmm. You might leave the Bahamas, but they never leave you.”

  “Is that a saying there?”

  “No. Just mine.”

  Twisting, she reached behind her for a photo on the nightstand and held it out for him to see. A tall, spare man with caramel skin and a mop of dark brown curls had his arm around her grandmother, younger than she was in the living room picture, a colorful turban wrapped around her head. Abby was on his other side, dressed in black cap and gown and beaming proudly for the photographer. “Law school graduation day,” she said. Every time she looked at the picture she experienced the same sense of accomplishment she had then.

  “Did you always want to be a lawyer?”

  “No. I always liked logic, though, and of course I loved language. Latin helps a lot.”

  He looked at the photo for a long moment. “What about your mom?”

  Putting that picture back, she took another one from the nightstand. A woman with hair too shockingly red to be fake stood on a sidewalk holding a picket sign. Her expression was as severe as her clothing was functional.

  “She’s not exactly the life of the party,” Abby said ruefully.

  He grinned. “I’m not going to touch that statement.”

  “I was lucky, having my grandmothers and David’s mother, Flo, in my life to counter her severity. Mom cares about me, really, but she is always on a mission. Always fighting for some cause.”

  He made a noncommittal sound that encouraged her to continue.

  “When I was little, she liked men as long as they were starving artists, social dissidents, or unappreciated writers.”

  “She doesn’t like men?”

  “Hates them. The more successful they are, the more she holds them responsible for all the world’s evils.”

  Replacing the photo for another one, she said, “You know two of my brothers.” David stood behind her in the shot, his chin resting on top of her head. Towering over both of them was Romney, holding two fingers up, bunny-ear style. All three were grinning like children. In the background a cerulean sky met an endless expanse of blue-green sea. “We were at my grandparents’ house.” She loved that picture. Every time she saw it she could hear the honking horns on narrow streets, smell the sea breeze rifling through the palm fronds, and taste the fresh fruit laced with hot air.

  The final photograph from the nightstand was a skinny boy with curly, red-brown hair and a freckled face, sticking his tongue out for the photographer while poking a finger in each of his ears. “This is Hume, ten years ago. He’s not fond of having his picture taken.”

  “Your mother’s son?” At her nod, he said, “But she hates men?”

  “I know.” One of life’s more ironic twists. “Artificial insemination.”

  When she twisted to return the photograph, he put aside his coffee and slid his hand beneath the covers to stroke her belly, her hips. Abby wanted to purr. His touch was light but sure, and she didn’t think she would ever tire of it.

  After a kiss that was much too short for her liking, he asked, “What time do you swim today?”

  “Usually at eight.”

  He peered over her shoulder at the bedside clock, and she followed his gaze. Seven twenty-five. “Is that clock right or several hours and minutes off?”

  “It’s accurate.” But she didn’t care about her swim today. She wanted to burrow beneath the covers, stroke and kiss every inch of him, again, and not come up until February. Maybe even March.

  “I’ve got to get Colin and Darcy.”

  There it was. Reality had been intruding ever since she woke, and it didn’t bite as the saying went. It sucked.

  Her thoughts must have been transmitting to him, because he squeezed her lightly and kissed her briefly on the lips to get her attention. “How about meeting us at the Town Line Diner for breakfast when you’re done?”

  Just like that he restored her equilibrium. “I’d love to.”

  ****

  Glen hated letting go of her warm, soft curves to step out into the cold of winter and drive over snow-covered roads to Jason and Sara’s house. Everything about it felt wrong. Like the sun sparkling on the snowbanks wasn’t as bright as it would be if she were with him. Like the puffs of fog he produced every time he breathed in the car’s defrosting interior were wasted because she wasn’t ther
e to add her own to the atmosphere. He imagined the two of them steaming up the windows the way they had in the parking lot of the Chinese restaurant two weeks ago.

  Was it only two weeks ago?

  The sex had been phenomenal. He could live on a steady diet of her lovemaking and never want for any other form of sustenance. But as strong as the physical attraction was between them, there was something even stronger, and it grew with every conversation, every encounter. It was far more dangerous to him than fierce attraction because he had trusted his instincts once and been so wrong. He resisted even putting a name to what he felt for Abby in case he was wrong again.

  Jason didn’t share his reservations.

  “You can thank me any time,” he said when Glen was sitting at the dining room table with him, waiting for the kids to get their outerwear on.

  “Come again?”

  “For the introduction. Or maybe you need to thank Sara. After all, she’s the one who placed you together at the reception.”

  From where she was bent over putting Cortland on his leash, she peered at the two of them through silky auburn bangs. “I told you so.”

  “You told who what?” Glen asked.

  “I told him you and the judge would hit it off.”

  “Both brilliant,” Colin observed.

  “Successful.” This from Sara.

  “Left handed,” Darcy added. “And single.”

  “Those characteristics don’t necessarily lead to an attraction, though.” Glen didn’t know why he was arguing with them; maybe because he didn’t want to be manipulated.

  “When one of you is six and a half feet tall and the other one is less than five feet tall, one lean and narrow, the other pleasantly round? Of course there will be an attraction.”

  It sounded much more clinical than what he was feeling, but Sara was right.

  “Don’t argue with the woman.” Jason scraped back his chair and took his coat from a peg by the door. “Remember, she’s pregnant.”

  “Besides, she’s right,” Colin added. “When are you seeing her again?”

  “We’re meeting her for breakfast at Aunt Linda’s place after she goes swimming.”

  “You’re going to the Town Line Diner?” Sara’s blue-green eyes reflected childlike excitement.

  Jason interpreted her reaction for him. “She’s got a thing for your sister’s eggs Benedict lately.”

  “You want to join us?” Glen wasn’t sure why he extended the invitation or if he even wanted to, but it was already out and he couldn’t take it back. He was afraid they might pick this conversation up where they left off but with Abby, and he didn’t want her made uncomfortable. He was also jealous of his limited time with her and hated to share her with anyone else.

  “We’d love to.”

  An hour later he was seated at the end of one of his sister’s long tables when Abby came through the door on a gust of cold air, snow lying like crystals on her thick chestnut hair, golden cheeks glowing with remnants of her workout. He rose from his chair and crossed to the entry before he even realized he was going to. He couldn’t be in the same room with her and not want to be closer still.

  Her gray-green eyes sparkled at his approach. She looked at him the way Sara looked at the diner’s menu. With the same hungry anticipation.

  The sight of her sent a spike of lust through his blood stream.

  “Hi.”

  Just the one word, but in her voice it was like someone flipped a switch inside him. Crushing her to him, he bent his head to kiss her lush mouth. His tongue delved inside the warm recess, inviting her to join him, and she kissed him back, but only briefly before her hands at his chest exerted just enough pressure to keep him from extending the embrace.

  When he backed up, her color was high and her breathing uneven. “My reputation,” she explained.

  Of course. A small-town lawyer and judge. In a public place. In a town where some people already suspected him of being overly sexed.

  What was he thinking? The truth was he could hardly think at all around her.

  Then he didn’t have to, because she noticed Jason and Sara sitting with the kids, and while they exchanged greetings he was able to get himself under control. At least until he took a seat beside her on the long wooden bench, where their thighs touched, and the scent of her shampoo drifted up to him every time she shifted to take a sip of cinnamon herbal tea. Then he was as witless as a teenaged boy experiencing his first infatuation. He ate but never tasted his food. He participated in the conversation and had no idea what it was about. The image of a white-tailed deer in rut kept flashing through his mind, but a stag probably had more control than he did at the moment.

  “Man, have you got it bad,” Jason murmured when they finished the meal and were standing in the entryway putting their coats on.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  ****

  “Carol of the Bells” began playing just as Abby finished cleaning beneath her kitchen sink. It had been at least two years since she saw the inside of that cabinet, and it was everything she expected it to be. Dirty, damp, and full of things she must have thought she would use but never had plus a few cleaning products that had expired when they were shoved to the back with each new purchase. Hearing the doorbell gave her the perfect excuse to quit the project. She closed the cabinet and tossed her rubber gloves onto the trash bag full of unwanted or undesirable items before going to see who it was.

  Glen’s bearded chin showed up in her peephole. She couldn’t yank the door open soon enough, and she cursed the locks on it for what little delay there was.

  “I thought you were gone to New York,” she said breathlessly. Not even caring if it sounded like she was excited to see him again so soon.

  “Forgot something.”

  He shouldered his way into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. Abby’s insides quivered when he dropped his hands to her hips and turned until her back was against the entry panel. His coat was open, but he didn’t even remove it. Just pushed his body against hers and slid his hands beneath the hem of her shirt.

  She couldn’t keep a smile from bursting free. “And you think you’ll find it there?”

  “Here.” He pushed her bra up until the bottom strap reached her underarms, palming her breasts with cold hands. Ripples of sensation raced across her nerve endings, making her legs weak. But when one hand slipped beneath the waistband of her pull-on lounge pants and delved inside her panties, she went up on her toes. Her knees locked. She grasped his shoulders to keep her balance even though she wasn’t in danger of falling.

  A cold finger slid inside her, and she bit the tendon at the side of his neck, her whole body clenching.

  “Take me,” he growled.

  “Is that a question?” She laughed, because he added a second finger to the first and began a sensual assault of advance and retreat that was quickly turning her into a mindless ball of need.

  “I’m not asking.”

  She almost came at the sound of his deep, authoritative voice.

  His free hand fumbled in his coat pocket for something before the garment fell to the floor. He pressed his thumb against her clit, and she pulled away from the pressure at the same time that he unzipped his jeans. Throbbing, pulsating against him, she didn’t know if she could even wait for him to rip the condom wrapper open with his teeth. So when he stepped away from her and broke all contact, she cried out at the loss.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not done,” he assured her, sheathing himself with the condom then reaching for her hips again. “But we’re going into the living room.”

  We are?

  They were. Guiding her to the end of the cordovan leather sofa, he bent her over the arm until her torso fell across the cushions and her bottom was in the air. Yes! Her buttocks twitched in anticipation. And then he was there, pulling her pants and panties off and replacing them with his warm, hard thighs.

  “Do you like this position?” His breath was warm where her neck and sh
oulder met.

  “I don’t know, but I’m willing to find out.”

  With a half laugh, half groan he pushed inside her. One hand held her hips in place while the other played with her nipple, and she bucked against him.

  “Too much?”

  She gasped for breath, barely managing to reply, “If you stop now I might have to kill you.”

  “You sweet talker.”

  Then they ceased to speak at all, using their bodies to silently communicate with one another. He pushed hard and fast, and she reveled in it. Clenched her fists against the sofa and ground her cheek against the leather while she gasped for breath. Any attempt to rise was futile. Either he pushed her back down or she lost the intense feeling the position provided. She didn’t want anything to interfere with the orgasm they were rushing to. Harder. Faster. It was a mantra in her head. Their height difference didn’t matter like this. He could be five feet taller than she was instead of one and a half. Harder. Faster. Yes! She was so close. Sweat pooled on her lower back and her hair tangled around her face. Scrambling with her left hand, she reached between them and stroked herself once. Her whole body convulsed. Almost coming out of her, he swore and clamped his hand around her middle to hold her to him. She touched herself again, but this time she stroked him as he retreated, and his legs began to shake.

  “You’re killing me.”

  Good. She didn’t want to be the only one dying slowly here. She stroked herself and him one more time.

  He jerked back, bringing her halfway off the couch with him. His thighs went rigid, and he pumped in and out of her, his breathing choppy at her ear, his arm like a vise around her middle. She grasped the base of his erection, and he bit the nape of her neck. They both exploded.

  It was wild and powerful, and the aftershocks continued until they collapsed against the sofa, doing their best to find a new rhythm for breathing. Her bra cut into the skin at the top of her breasts. His shirt had rolled halfway up his torso, his jeans twisted around his ankles.