Blame It on Paris. Jennifer Greene
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don’t think you mentioned that today yet, no.”
A breeze fluttered in the dark room, chilling her overheated skin when he flipped her on top of him. They weren’t joined yet, but she could feel how it was going to be. Scary. Delicious. “You get a thrill on roller-coaster rides?” she murmured.
“Nope. But I’m going to get a thrill when I ride you. You ready?” He raised an arm, fumbled in the bedside drawer.
“Condom?” she asked. And got the first serious tone from him she’d heard in hours.
“You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
“Hey, don’t insult me.”
A flash of a smile in the dark. And that was it…the last time she had a coherent thought.
A zillion sensations bombarded her senses. The sterling shadows on the wall, the profile of him riding her, the strength and bold, primal sexuality of him. How she felt…beguiled…spun into a whispery web of touch and taste and need. The texture of their skin, shiny as wet varnish, silky with sweat. Her lungs gasping for breath. The howl of a siren outside. A flash of lights inside, deep inside her, when this crazy, lofty, silver-sharp climax took her over, took her under.
When it was over, he fell back, pulling her half on top of him as if refusing to be separated even for an instant. She lay there, slaked, eyes closed, still trying to catch her breath. She felt him pulling up the covers, the stroke of his hand on her back, the cuff of his knuckle when he tucked the sheet around her neck, sealing all the airholes. He murmured something silly and throaty and low, like, “Who knew?”
As if he never expected she’d be such a red-hot mama.
Before dropping off to sleep, she remembered thinking, Damn, I was. I really was.
At least with him.
SWEET, WARM RAIN DRIZZLED down the windows. Horns and sirens heralded the new day below. A child’s laughter echoed from the street. Beneath the feather comforter, she couldn’t remember feeling snuggled so safely, so securely. Her cheek seemed embedded in Will’s shoulder. Her arm was loosely, possessively, draped around his bare waist. His chest hair nuzzled her very warm, very bare breasts.
But none of those things were what woke her up.
Guilt woke her up.
Huge, sharp, ear-drumming, shame-sucking heaps of guilt.
Silent as sin, she inched out from under the covers—praying not to wake Will—and then tiptoed, shivering, into the hall. Her two suitcases and carryon were still lying in a jumble by the front door, but right then, she only had one thing on her mind and it wasn’t remotely her stuff.
Grabbing a towel from the bathroom to cover herself, she hustled into the living room, grabbed the telephone and found a spot to sit upon the carpet behind the couch.
She dialed Jason.
The phone rang.
And rang.
And then rang some more.
She hated using Will’s phone, partly because she’d have yet another bill to clock up on Will’s balance sheet, and partly because it just seemed the height of wrong. But without her purse or her cell phone or any of her phone cards, there was no other choice. And this call wouldn’t wait another minute. Another second.
But there was no answer, even after seven rings. She hung up, bit her lip, then dialed the number all over again.
It was seven hours earlier in South Bend. That meant it was somewhere around two in the morning there. Heaven knows, she didn’t want to wake Jason up, but she needed to reach him. Now. And at this hour, he simply had to be in their new apartment, asleep.
Where else would he be on an early Saturday morning? Even if he’d gone out with the guys, he’d have been home hours before this.
On the ninth ring, she clicked off again, frustrated and anxious, but she just couldn’t quit. Surely he was just sleeping hard. Sooner or later he’d hear the ring.
She started punching in the numbers again until she suddenly noted a tousled blond head peering at her from over the couch. “I don’t know if the customs have changed in America, but over here, we’re allowed to sit in a regular chair to make a call,” Will said, his voice thick from sleep. She could hear his amusement.
“I was trying not to make noise. I didn’t want to wake you up. I was just calling…” She almost said my mother, but the lie stuck in her throat. She’d committed enough sins in the past twenty-four hours. She couldn’t add another one to the mound. She sighed. “My fiancé.”
Will’s eyes narrowed as if he were sighting in a rifle. “I thought I recognized that strange expression on your face. Guilt. Which is completely wasted, Kelly. Whoever that guy is, you were never going to marry him.” in America “I was. I was.”
“See? You said it in the past tense. You already know he wasn’t remotely right for you.”
If she wasn’t a lady—and if she wasn’t struggling with both hands and a phone to keep covered by the towel—she’d have smacked him. “But I thought he was right. Last week.”
“Can’t help that,” Will said heartlessly.
“Even two days ago I thought he was!”
“Can’t help that, either. Good thing you found out, though, huh? Before you got tied up with a guy who was totally wrong for you?” His face disappeared from sight. “I’m headed in the kitchen to make some coffee, so you’re welcome to the shower first. By the time you’re done, I should have some scrambled eggs ready. That is, assuming you’re not still hiding behind the couch.”
“I am not hiding.”
A few minutes later, when she was locked in his bathroom, standing under the shower, which was more a sultry trickle than the exuberant water pressure she was used to in the U.S., she was still feeling defensive.
By the time she’d rinsed out the shampoo, though, her mood had metamorphosed from defensive to morose. Truth was, she would have liked to hide behind Will’s couch indefinitely. At least for a few weeks. She didn’t know what was happening to her. It was totally impossible that she’d cheated on Jason. It was even more impossible that she’d just made love with a stranger.
More confounding yet, something in her heart, deep down, kept beating the quiet, sure pulse that something about Will was right. Really right. In a way that nothing had ever been this right in her life before.
By the time she’d stepped out of the shower and was pulling on fresh clothes…fresh, wrinkled clothes, straight from the suitcase…she was thinking herself into circles.
Maybe Will wasn’t right. Maybe, instead, a massive flaw in her character had just shown up. Maybe somewhere deep inside her, she’d always been a cheater. A piker. A moral-less slut. And the potential had just never shown up before now.
God. It was enough to send a girl into a deep depression.
WHEN KELLY WALKED into the kitchen, Will took one look at her expression and mentally sighed. She looked adorable. For a woman with no boobs or butt, she gave off an amazing amount of feminine-ismo—the girl version of machismo. She was just so pure female, from the arch of her shoulders, to the way she walked, to the way she tilted her head. But she’d opted to wear a summer skirt and top, and the pale top was noticeably buttoned to the neck, the denim skirt noticeably oversize. She wasn’t in any hurry to look at him, either.
Last night they’d rocked the walls. Will couldn’t remember more stupendous sex. Yeah, she’d started out shy, but that had been fun to coax out of her. Once her engine was started, she was high performance all the way, knew what worked for her and let him work damn hard to give it to her. Talk about delicious.
Not that he wasn’t a major fan of sex before—and any sex was better than none—but the good stuff just never happened