Going to Extremes. Dawn Atkins
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had saved him and helped so many of his clients, then it was worth every bit of awkward embarrassment.
In his practice, he specialized in overcoming self-defeating patterns, and he found it extremely rewarding. He’d developed checklists that allowed his clients to analyze the sources of immoderation in their lives, along with willpower boosters and self-control builders—tools with which to reshape their behavior in more positive directions.
Grateful clients had urged him to write a book, and over the past two years he’d done so. He’d been honored when first an agent, then a top publisher had seen the value of his work. Publishing The Magic of Moderation was an opportunity to reach more people with his ideas. Fame made him uncomfortable, but it was a means to an important end.
Then he’d learned about Kathleen and the world had shuddered to a stop for a while. He knew about her work, had even bought her first book, but seeing her was the last thing he’d expected. Or wanted.
The e-mail exchange had been too impersonal and brief. He had to see her, get the first meeting over without witnesses. They were adults, of course, and college was a decade ago, but their relationship had reverberated through his life and he wasn’t sure how normally he could act around her.
Again his heart sped up and his breathing went shallow. Get a grip. There was no reason to expect the worst. In fact, the trip might be healing for them both. He could apologize for his immature behavior, how out of control he’d been and the abrupt way he’d broken it off. They could acknowledge the power of what they’d shared, experience closure and, perhaps, end up friends.
He straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair—God, he was primping—and stepped out into the hall.
Her room—a named suite, actually—was unnervingly next door. He saw that a waiter was attempting to drag a cart with an ice bucket of champagne into the room. Champagne had been her favorite liquor, he recalled—not easy to afford on a student budget, but she’d managed. Some things are worth the sacrifice, she’d say. He smiled at the memory. To this day, the bubbly liquid made him think of her.
These days, he rarely drank, and never champagne, which gave him an instant headache. Or it had since Kathleen—a psychosomatic reaction no doubt.
Dan held the door for the waiter, stepped in after him and found himself in a large sitting room, dotted with huge arrangements of exotic flowers. He could hear water running. Kathleen was in the shower. She loved water.
“It’s Dan,” he called out, not wanting to startle her.
“Be right out,” she called back, not sounding surprised. Maybe she’d expected him to drop in.
The waiter handed him the bill, which he signed, distracted by the complex scents that filled the room—creams, perfumes, powders, candles and mists. So Kathleen. He searched for her smell underneath all the commercial fragrances. He’d liked that scent best.
The waiter departed and he waited for Kathleen by the champagne. Condensation dribbled down the silver bucket like the sweat sliding down his body inside his shirt.
This was a familiar situation. In the old days, he’d spent lots of time waiting for Kathleen.
Waiting heightens the intensity, she used to say about sex. All true, of course. She would slow down, pull away, make him wait until he was nothing but pounding lust, his focus narrowed to her breasts, her mouth, her moans, her softness, being inside her…all the way. Around her, he was as shaky and enthralled as a kid on his first time.
An erection threatened. Over a memory, for God’s sake! Relax. Settle down, he coached himself, squeezing his eyes tight. Focus on what matters.
Which was his book—and figuring out how he and Kathleen would approach this tour. He was a professional therapist, dammit, but he felt like Tom Hanks in Big—a thirteen-year-old abruptly swimming in an adult’s baggy suit and grown-up life.
“Dan!”
He jerked open his eyes and saw Kathleen—naked, dripping and shocked. Embarrassment shot across her face, but she banished that with a sharp smile. She’d always pushed through awkward moments with bravado. She gave a light laugh that squeaked at the end, betraying her distress.
Heat and ice washed through him at the sight of her body, just as she’d appeared in so many guilty dreams. He turned away quickly, but he’d caught it all—her round, high breasts, pink nipples and that triangle of hair, golden against her pale skin. At least his mortification had iced down his erection. With his back turned, he explained himself. “I came in with the waiter. I called, but you must not have heard me. I’ll let you get dressed.” He started for the door.
“Don’t go. It’s fine.” She had the same husky voice—a whiskey voice in the vernacular of detective novels—and it warmed him like a quick shot. “I thought you were my agent JJ. I just popped out for my robe.”
He stayed with his back to her while a suitcase zipper scraped, a clasp rattled and fabric rustled.
“There. All covered, Dan,” she said, sounding amused.
He turned and found her wrapped in a black silk robe that clung to her breasts and ended high on her thighs. She was a voluptuous woman with a figure that rivaled Marilyn Monroe’s, except she was taller. She was a presence, a gathering of female energy that drew male eyes wherever she went.
He had the familiar impulse to touch—her skin, her silk-covered breasts, her shiny golden hair, loosely swept up on her head. Completely insane, of course. But the way he felt about Kathleen had never made much sense.
“I just wanted to touch…base…before we officially got together.” He felt himself redden.
“Good idea,” she said, her eyes restless on his face, then gone. That wasn’t like her. She’d always contemplated him carefully, soaking up every detail, every reaction.
He held out his hand to shake—as stupid as that seemed.
“Oh, please.” She lunged forward and threw her arms around him. But she held her body away from his and kissed the air beside his cheek—a gesture for show.
He was relieved. And stupidly disappointed.
She moved to a sofa thick with overstuffed pillows and patted a spot beside her. “Let’s talk. We’ve got time before JJ gets here. She’s always late. Just like me.” She laughed nervously again, which made him want to say something reassuring.
“You look the same. Beautiful as ever.”
“You look good, too. Losing the glasses was a good decision.”
“Thanks. They got in my way.” He was preoccupied with trying not to look at the curve of one breast visible through a gap in her robe. She had great breasts. A firm handful with nipples that had tightened into plump knots whenever he touched them. She’d loved him to spend time there. He’d loved it, too. What was not to love?
He moved his gaze, only to have it sink to the dark space between her legs, where the hem of her robe separated. Control yourself, man. “Why don’t you get dressed? I can wait.”
“No, no. I’ve got time,” she said, “Unless I’m making you uncomfortable…?” She was acting cool, sliding a red-painted nail along the edge of her robe, but the finger trembled and her breath was shaky and she still wouldn’t quite meet his gaze.
“If you’re fine, I’m fine,” he said, determined to manage his reactions. Her toenails matched her fingernails, he noted inanely, watching as she curled her toes around the edge of the table’s glass.
“How about some champagne? I was going to drink it with JJ, but she won’t mind if we get started. This is a kind of celebration, after all. The first time we’ve seen each other in, what, ten years?” She jerked the champagne bottle brusquely from the bucket, spilling ice on the floor, betraying her nervousness. This was new, too. Above all else, Kathleen had always been confident.
With her so jittery,