* * *
Parker’s bed was a monstrosity. It was narrow by king-sized standards, but what it lacked in width, it made up for in height. The headboard was tall and carved, the wood aged to a saddle-brown patina that reflected the glow from his reading lamp on the nightstand.
The bed was standing on an area rug that looked like an authentic Aubusson. The overhead fan was like those Maris had seen before only in movies. A brass pole was suspended horizontally six feet below the tall ceiling. At each end of the pole was an axle that idly turned a set of papyrus blades.
There were no draperies on the three tall windows, only louvered shutters, which were painted white to tastefully contrast with the caramel-colored walls and dark hardwood floor. One wall accommodated a massive chifforobe that was crowned with carvings that matched those on the apex of the headboard. Apparently it held all his clothing because there was no closet built into the room.
The TV and VCR, housed in a cabinet on the wall opposite the bed, were the room’s only nods toward modernity—other than the wheelchair parked in front of the nightstand. There was no other apparatus one would assume to find in the bedroom of a disabled person, but she wasn’t too surprised. She’d seen him lift himself into and out of the Gator.
Parker was bare-chested, propped against the headboard reading, when Maris slipped through the door. He slowly lowered the book to his lap. “Hello. Are you lost?”
She laughed nervously, a bit breathlessly. “Nice try, but I think I was expected.”
“I hoped. I even said my prayers.”
“Then it’s all right if I come in?”
“Are you joking?”
“I thought maybe… will Mike—”
“Not if you lock the door.”
Since coming into the room, she’d kept her hands behind her. Feeling for the doorknob at the small of her back, she depressed the lock button to guarantee their privacy. Keeping her hands behind her back, she approached the bed.
The polished floor planks felt cool against the bare soles of her feet. Her short nightgown was no weightier than air against her skin, and judging from the intensity with which Parker was watching her as she moved toward him, he had noticed that it wasn’t very substantial.
She brought her hands from behind her back. “I brought you presents. Two, to be exact.”
The first was a standard drinking glass that belonged to the wet bar in the guest house. She extended it to him. He took the glass from her and held it up, looked at it for a few seconds, then laughed when he saw the winking phosphorescent lights inside. “Lightning bugs.”
“I caught them myself,” she said proudly. “I saw them through the guest house window while I was dressing for dinner and chased out after them.”
She’d sealed them inside the glass by stretching a piece of plastic wrap over the top, then puncturing it to ensure the fireflies a longer life.
When he looked up at her, his eyes shone with feeling. “It’s a great present. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Shall I?” She took them back and set them on the nightstand.
“What’s the other?” He indicated the book she was now hugging to her chest. “Are you going to read me a bedtime story?”
“Sort of.”
“I wondered why you were wearing your glasses.”
“I took my contacts out.” Nodding toward the empty side of his bed, she asked, “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
She rounded the end of the bed and crawled onto it, then folded her legs beneath her and sat back on her heels, facing him. “You’re already reading a bedtime story.”
He closed the book lying in his lap and set it on the nightstand. “I’d rather hear yours.” She turned the book toward him so he could see the title stamped in gold into the green cloth cover. “Grass Widow,” he read, smiling.
“A novel by my favorite author.”
“What, him?”
“There’s no call for false modesty.”
“But you’ve got high standards, Ms. Matherly. You’re a hard sell. What do you like about this novel?”
His use of her maiden name didn’t escape her, but she didn’t interrupt their game by acknowledging it. She opened the book. “Well, in particular, I like the scene where Deck Cayton, the handsome, sexy, roguish, but engaging hero, uses a card game to obtain information from the bimbo.”
“Frenchy.”
“Whatever. It’s a provocative and involving scene.”
“The fans certainly thought so. Critics, too.”
She pursed her lips and frowned. “However—”
“Uh-oh. Here it comes.”
“The scene has raised a few points.”
“Typical editor,” he said under his breath. “For every compliment there’s a criticism.”
“Look, Mr. Evans, if you don’t value my points—”
“No, no. I do value them, those raised points of yours.” His eyes dropped to her breasts. “I’ll take them like a man.” He placed one hand behind his head and gave her a smug grin. “That was a metaphor.”
“I got it,” she said dryly. “Shall I proceed?”
“Please. Give me a for-instance.”
“Uh…” She dragged her eyes away from the furry hollow of his armpit. “For instance, the language is very descriptive.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be?”
“Yes, but in this passage it’s—”
“Explicit?”
“To the extreme.”
“Why’s that bad?”
“I didn’t say it was bad. My problem is with its accuracy.”
“Accuracy.”
“Right. I’m not sure that the, uh, mating positions you’ve described are anatomically possible. For human beings, I mean.”
He snuffled a laugh, then stroked his chin somberly. “I see. Could you be more specific?”
“There are several examples. So what I thought,” she said, pausing to clear her throat, as she opened to the marked page, “is that we could act it out and see if these… configurations… are doable.”
“That’s what you thought?” he drawled sexily.
“Yes, that’s what I thought.”
He remained very still for several moments, gazing at her. Then slowly he removed his hand from behind his head. “As I recall, our handsome, sexy, roguish, but engaging hero begins by placing his hand on Frenchy’s thigh. It’s a comforting gesture. Nothing more. He wants to reassure her that he poses no threat.”
He placed his hand on her thigh just above her bent knee and squeezed it lightly. Through the baby-blue silk of her nightgown, she felt the heat and strength of all five fingers individually.
“Debatable,” she murmured. “The part about him posing no threat, but we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“In exchange for that gesture of kindness, and despite the fact that Deck had drawn the low card, Frenchy tells him that at the time of the murder, she had heard a noise coming from the alley.”
“Which caused her to look out her bedroom window. That’s when she saw…” Needlessly Maris referred to the printed page. “The man in the red baseball cap running from the neighboring building.”
“A valuable piece of information,” Parker said. “Especially since Frenchy can describe the cap right down to the logo embroidered on it. Our hero thanks her with a kiss.”
Parker removed her eyeglasses and framed her face between his hands. His thumbs stroked her cheekbones while his eyes touched on every feature. He followed their path with his lips. When he reached her mouth, he kissed it softly, sensually.
Maris struggled to keep her response down to a low moan of arousal.
When he pulled back, he whispered, “She tastes incredible.”
“It doesn’t say that.”
“It doesn’t? It should. He’s compelled to go back for more.”
“Frenchy doesn’t resist.”
He kept the kisses gentle. They teased and tantalized and left her wanting. It was several minutes before they separated, and by then Maris felt drugged. A delicious lassitude had afflicted her limbs. Even so, she had enough presence of mind to continue the game.
Needlessly, she reached for her glasses and fumbled trying to get them on correctly. “Never mind.” She dropped them alongside the book. “I know what comes next. Frenchy, that lucky girl, draws the high card again.”
“Cayton’s pretty damn lucky himself. He gets to grant her a sexual favor.”
“But he’s uncomfortable with their position, so he pulls her astride his lap.”
Parker curved his hands around her waist. She came up on her knees and straddled him. “If I’m remembering correctly, Cayton kisses her ears, her throat, her…”
But Parker was way ahead of her. He had, after all, written the scene and knew the sequence. The straps of her nightgown had been lowered before she was completely settled on him. Her breasts lay cupped in his hands, his thumbs brushing her nipples. And now he was taking one into his mouth and sucking it lustily, pressing it hard between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
Shamelessly she folded her arms around his head, holding it fast. Whimpering wordless sounds, she kissed the crown of his head, his temple, anyplace that she could reach without dislodging him, because she didn’t want him to stop.
Her sex softened and swelled, opening like a piece of fruit that had been ripened beyond its ability to contain itself. Parker reached between her thighs and when he touched her, she shuddered involuntarily. Her body closed wetly around his fingers.
“Go ahead,” he urged. “You know what you want to do.”
His name staggered out on an uneven breath.
“Go ahead, Maris.”
She began to move, rocking her hips against his hand, forcing his fingers deeper into her, responding to his subtle stroking until she was in the throes of an orgasm.
Or so she thought.
Until he slid beneath her and simultaneously lifted her up higher, supporting her hips with his strong hands and drawing her to his mouth. She gave a harsh, dry gasp of pure shock, but it was soon expelled as a low, keening sigh of incredible pleasure.
She flattened her palms against the headboard, and when that became insufficient support, she leaned into it, resting her cheek against the cool wood while giving herself over to the mastery of his tongue.
His flexing fingers embedded themselves in her flesh. His hair was soft against her lower belly, the stubble on his cheeks pleasantly scratchy against her inner thighs.
She became lost in the sensations. Utterly lost. Her mind and body were governed by sensual impulses to the exclusion of all else. She surrendered herself to the primal rhythms pulsing through her.
Numerous times she strained toward orgasm, but he would quieten her efforts with the softest of kisses and the sweetest of words before wickedly coaxing her to the brink again. When he did let her come, it was shattering. The last tether on consciousness was clipped and she soared, lost touch, spun in delirium.
Coherence returned gradually. Languorously. A feather drifting down.
Her skin was damp, her chest flushed, her nipples taut and red. Her heart was pounding and each beat echoed inside her head. She rested against the headboard until her breathing had slowed. When she finally opened her eyes, she realized they were wet with tears.
She lowered herself to sprawl on Parker’s torso like a shipwreck victim washed ashore. Her nightgown was wadded around her waist. Her hair clung to her cheeks and neck in damp strands. Parker smoothed his hands down her back, over her hips. They settled on her ass. He squeezed it gently and made her smile.
His heart was beating hard and strong directly into her ear. Each time she inhaled, her nose was tickled by chest hair. She had an up-close view of his nipple, which was flat until she touched it, then it beaded up hard against her fingertip and she felt his quick intake of breath. Between their bellies, she could feel his erection.
“Give me a moment,” she said weakly.
Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Several minutes passed. She soaked up the intimacy, realizing how bloody fabulous it was to be a woman in such intimate contact with a man. No, not a man. She’d had a man. She loved being intimate with this man. Until now, she hadn’t known there could be such a vast difference between two members of the same sex, of the same species.
“You deviated from the book,” she whispered.
“Did I? My memory’s a little foggy.”
“There was nothing like that in the book. Nothing that even comes close. In any book.”
She raised her head and looked at him, inched up and softly kissed his lips, then slipped her tongue into his mouth and rubbed the tip of his. As the kiss intensified, she seductively ground her pelvis against his erection.
He broke from their kiss and angled his head back until it was buried in his pillow. His skin appeared to be stretched tightly over the bones of his face. His hands were gripping her hips hard in an effort to keep her still.
“What?” she asked innocently.
“That’s not in the book, either.”
“Oh, sorry. Let’s see what comes next.” Without changing their position, she awkwardly reached for her glasses and slipped them on, then opened the book and pretended to read silently. “Oh, yes, I remember now. He takes her hand and guides it to…”
“His cock.”
“That’s what it says.”
Coming off him slowly, she resumed her original place beside him. She straightened her nightgown and was about to replace the straps on her shoulders, when Parker gave his head a negative shake. Maris pulled the gown off over her head. For a few seconds she held it against her chest, then tossed it toward the foot of the bed. Parker took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring slightly.
He ran his hand over her breasts, down her rib cage and belly, and combed his fingertips through her damp pubic hair before returning to her breast. He lightly pinched the nipple between his fingers and watched it harden.
She laid her hand on his stomach. The hair grew laterally toward a silky strip that took a downward turn at his navel. Her eyes tracked it; her hand followed it beneath the sheet.
But Parker reached down and stopped it. “This is where the fantasy ends, Maris.”
Her gaze swung up to his. His expression was set and hard. He wasn’t kidding. In a matter of moments, he had physically withdrawn and taken a giant step backward emotionally. “I don’t understand.”
“This isn’t fiction.”
“I’m glad it’s not.”
“This is reality.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have a clue,” he said harshly. “You pull that sheet back and you’ll get a jolt of reality you never bargained for.”
She took a quick glance at his legs beneath the covering of the sheet. Smiling softly, she shook her head. “Do you think I care about your scars?”
“I think you will, yeah.”
“You’re wrong.” She gazed into his face, and, near tears, said, “Parker, you can’t possibly comprehend what you’ve done for me. No, listen, please,” she said when he was about to interrupt. “I may only have the courage to say this once.”
She removed her glasses, rubbed her eyes, moistened her lips, smiled ruefully. “I’ve never played sex games like this before. I’ve only read about this kind of play. I thought it only occurred in books. What you said the other night on the beach, while crude, was correct. With Noah, I never felt free to express myself sexually. What happened between us just now? Would have been unthinkable to me a few weeks ago.
“That was totally out of character with the woman who entered Terry’s Bar and Grill looking for you. I didn’t know until now what I’ve been missing. I’ve been craving that kind of passion. Sensual meltdown. Absolute and unapologetic sexual abandon. You gave me that. But it’s incomplete. It won’t mean anything unless we share it. Let me share it,” she finished huskily. “Please.”
He continued to stare at her, but his expression was no longer tense and set. In fact, he looked more vulnerable than she would have believed possible. “I’m not pretty, Maris.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Tentatively, she leaned toward him. He didn’t stop her. She began at his neck and kissed her way down. Her lips whisked across his skin, her tongue licked it softly. Her mouth wetly covered his nipple and he hissed a profanity and sank his fingers into her hair.
She pressed another openmouthed kiss just below his navel as she pushed the sheet down below his hips. He groaned her name when she encircled his penis with her hand. It throbbed with life and vitality. She stroked it slowly, varying the tension of her fingers as she worked her way up. She rubbed her thumb across the tip, smearing a pearly bead of semen that had leaked from it.
“Isn’t this how Frenchy got her nickname?” she asked in a voice unintentionally smoky.
“Maris…” Her name vaporized on his lips when she bent over him.
She reveled in the musky taste and scent. She loved feeling the quickening in his belly, hearing his hoarse exclamations of arousal, experiencing the feel of him inside her mouth.
His grip on her hair tightened, not enough to hurt, only enough to let her know it was time to switch positions. She bridged him with her thighs and remained poised above him while he took his penis in his own hand and rubbed the smooth head against her, baiting her desire until she had to have him inside her. Then she sank down, sheathing him slowly, her body stretching to take all of him.
He took several rapid breaths and as he exhaled, he whispered, “Wait.”
So she remained still. He slid his hands up and down her thighs. His thumbs met in the mesh of their public hair and stroked her V until her head fell back against her shoulders and she moaned his name.
Only then did he angle his hips up, encouraging her to ride him. She did, changing tempos and angles, holding still when he indicated that’s what he wished her to do to protract the pleasure. During those pauses, she used the walls of her body to milk him; his eyes would darken, he would swear lavishly, then he would nudge her into motion again.
Leaning down, she guided his head to her breast. He rubbed his rough cheek against it, then his closed lips, before caressing her nipple with his tongue. Lightly and rapidly. Until she called his name and pressed her hips deeply into his belly, securing him inside her.
He pulled her down onto his chest and they came together. As he pulsed inside her, he splayed one hand over her bottom, and cupped the back of her head with the other, and, holding her possessively with both, kissed her mouth. They couldn’t get close enough, deep enough, into each other far enough to satisfy the passion.
When it finally waned, she stretched out on top of him. She could feel the rugged terrain of his scarred legs beneath hers. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t, think about that now. She had scars, too. Less visible than his, but there nonetheless. Later, there would be time and opportunity to ask questions and to listen and to sympathize, and then to return their previous unhappiness to the past where it belonged.
Right now she wanted nothing to intrude on the present. She wanted to bask in the knowledge that she had pleased Parker well. She hated Noah Reed for all the times he had rejected her overtures, making her feel awkward and undesired, and then if he did respond for making her feel somehow insufficient.
But she didn’t waste this precious time thinking about him, either. The thought of him was fleeting, like a twinge in one’s side, that’s painful only for an instant before it disappears.
Instead she concentrated on the wonderful pressure of Parker still nestling inside her. She kept her thighs tightly closed, her belly pressed firmly against his to maximize the closeness.
Moving only her lips, she kissed his throat. “The end?”
Several moments elapsed before he replied. “Not quite, Maris.”
But she had already fallen asleep.