I like this man. Once you break through his cool reserve, he’s . . . engaging. Intelligent. Even fascinating. He may be guarded, but it’s possible to get past his gates. I’ve only just begun learning who Jonah is, besides my ultimate sexual partner; now I realize I want to find out everything there is to know.
Finally the shops begin to close, and Jonah drives me the short distance home. We don’t speak. I suspect Jonah’s mind is full of many of the same questions now rushing through my mind about what happens with us later. Can two people so sensually connected by a very specific fantasy have any other kind of sex? Am I ready to find out? Strange though it seems after everything Jonah and I have done, making love as ourselves—not playing any roles—feels far more intimate, and even more scary.
But when Jonah walks to me to the door, he stops. “Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.
“Not on the first date.” At my surprise, he smiles that fierce, knowing grin that turns me to jelly. “What kind of man do you think I am?”
I squeeze his hand. “You’re right. Wouldn’t want to rush things.”
“Wouldn’t be proper,” Jonah murmurs as he draws me closer. Two of his fingers trace along the side of my face, painting my skin with the warmth of his touch.
“We couldn’t have that.”
“Absolutely not.”
“But what about kissing?” I tilt my face up toward his. “Do you kiss on the first date?”
“Not usually.” Jonah pulls me into his arms. “But sometimes I make an exception.”
He nuzzles my cheek, my chin. Tilts my head back slightly so he can brush his lips against my throat. I breathe out—a sigh that makes him tighten his embrace. My fingers stroke the back of his head, his short hair soft against my palms. Then I trace his neck and the broad planes of his back. I could worship this man’s body for hours. The powerful muscles I feel beneath my hands make him seem like he was created to give pleasure, or pain. Maybe both.
When Jonah’s mouth meets mine, his touch is feather-soft. My entire body reacts—flushing warm, getting wet, wanting more. I part my lips, and he kisses me again. Only the tips of our tongues touch, but it’s enough to make me reel.
But then he pulls away, his arms slipping to my sides, and I know he’s about to go. That’s all? I want to smack him. I want to kiss him again. And yet this is perfect. For our first date, we’re leaving each other wanting more.
Jonah’s voice is husky. “I enjoyed tonight.”
“Same here.”
“We can do this again sometime?”
“Sometime soon.”
He smiles, leans forward, and gently kisses my cheek. “Good night, Vivienne.”
“Good night.”
I don’t shut my door until he’s started his car. Once I’ve closed and locked it, I literally slide down to the floor. My laughter sounds giddy. What was erotic fascination has become infatuation—and I love it.
How long has it been since I felt this kind of elation after a date?
Never. Not unless you count the one kiss from that Barcelonan exchange student. This is about a thousand times better.
I’m still beaming when I lie down in bed and turn out the light. It feels like I could even smile in my sleep.
? ? ?
My subconscious has other ideas.
Someone’s knocking on the door. “I’m tired,” I moan. “I don’t want to come down for breakfast.”
The knocking continues. Gets harder and louder. It turns into pounding.
“Jonah?” I sit upright, unsurprised to find myself back in my childhood room. My bedspread is trimmed with eyelet lace. The stuffed lamb I loved as a baby, Woolly Bully, still sits on a bookshelf, ratty and gray and yet adorable. “What are you doing here?”
The next slam against the door makes the wall shake, and I hear someone roar, “Let me in!”
That wasn’t Jonah.
I scramble out of bed. In my haste I trip myself up in my own sheets and fall on the floor, so I try to crawl to the closet. If I hide in the closet he won’t find me—
The door breaks, pieces flying against the wall. I scoot to the back of my closet, hanging clothes swinging against my shoulders and head, thinking, please no please no please—
“You can’t hide from me,” Anthony says as he comes toward me. His fist closes around my wrist, and by now I’m screaming, but no one can hear. Nobody ever hears. “Come on. Get on the bed. Be a good girl.”
“I won’t,” I shriek. “I won’t—”
Then I’m awake, in my own bed, gasping for breath. I realize I woke myself up screaming in my sleep.
Twenty-one
After that nightmare, sleep doesn’t come easy. I give up around six A.M. If I have to be awake this early, I might as well get in some more studio time.
Carmen texts me around eight, supposedly just to see what’s up—but I know she wants to hear about my night with Jonah. I’m reluctant to explain, for a few reasons, but I’ve admitted he’s in my life. Besides, if I can talk Carmen into swinging by the studio to chat, I might be able to persuade her to pick up coffee on the way.