Authors: Toni Blake
And then Anna reached an even more stirring part of the diary.
We lay on the blanket kissing beneath the sun, and to feel his body against mine gave me almost a sense of . . . drowning. But in a good way, if that makes any sense. And when his hands drifted onto my breasts, I didn’t move them. I couldn’t. God help me, I had longed for his touch there, and when it came, it felt like being touched everywhere.
When he unbuttoned my blouse, I let him. Neither of us spoke. I remember hearing grasshoppers chirping, and the song of a bird somewhere. I ached to give myself to him. And I have wondered and worried if that’s wrong, and I always come back to the same answer—following the heart God put inside me.
And so when he undid my blouse and then even my bra, I didn’t protest. I even—heavens above—found myself arching, somehow trying to push my breasts more thoroughly into his hands.
His touch made my whole body feel . . . liquid and melty, that’s the only way I can describe it. And when he kissed me there . . . I couldn’t have imagined such pleasure.
He told me he’d fallen in love with me. I confessed that I loved him, too.
And I would have denied him nothing in that moment, I’m quite sure—but he stopped there, telling me it was best, reminding me how young I am. I pointed out that I’m sixteen, and that his being eighteen doesn’t make him so awfully much older. He said he thought I was a young sixteen and he was an old eighteen.
Something in that stung, made me feel silly and naive. And I asked him what he was saying. Was he saying he loved me and then getting ready to break my heart all on one hot September day?
But then he said he just thought it was best to go slow, that he didn’t want me to do anything I might regret later. And it’s very good of him, I think, to care enough to show that sort of restraint. And yet . . . I fear I want him to be unable to show restraint. I want him to be mad with desire for me. Because then I would know we both feel exactly the same way, and after that . . . well, nothing could happen that I would ever regret.
Slipping the ribbon she’d been using as a bookmark in between the diary’s pages, Anna snapped the book shut. She could smell her casserole and knew it was probably ready, and she hadn’t even warned Duke to give him time to clean up. She’d been too swept up in Cathy’s first love. She knew those feelings, that desire. And she wondered desperately what would happen next, how Cathy’s love affair with her Robert would end up.
But at the same time, maybe she didn’t
want
to know. Because if Robert ended up breaking Cathy’s heart . . . well, she thought she was dealing very maturely and capably with her own broken heart at the moment, but if Cathy’s heart got broken on top of that, she feared it might just make her crumble to pieces and decide there was no such thing as real, lasting love and that she’d be afraid to ever risk her heart again.
But . . . maybe Robert won’t break her heart at all. Maybe they’ll find a way to be happy. Maybe Cathy’s father will come to accept him. Maybe I’ll discover they got married and lived for many happy years together in this house before he died and she ended up here alone.
But either way, Anna thought it seemed like high time to set the diary aside and go take her casserole out of the oven. Then she’d have another quiet meal with her heartbreaker, waiting to see what tomorrow would bring.
D
uke was almost sorry to find out the next morning that Anna wasn’t working at the bookstore today and didn’t have any plans. It was a Saturday and he’d figured she’d be gone for at least part of the day.
The truth was that she’d been a pretty big help lately. And that there were times he was finding it nicer to work with somebody than to work alone. Which told him that his self-imposed isolation wouldn’t last forever. Spending time with Anna, and then Lucky, as well as the one night out he’d had with them and Tessa, had shown him that maybe he really
was
starting to miss being with people. And maybe he didn’t want to be quite so invisible anymore. Maybe he was done with trying not to exist. It sure as hell hadn’t worked anyway.
But he also continued to value some alone time.
And more than that, the longer he was around Anna, and the nicer she was to him . . . the harder it got. Not to want her.
Well, he’d
never
stopped wanting her, but it was getting harder to push those hellaciously strong urges aside.
When he’d seen her with Tessa’s brother, it had been like a light bulb going on over his head:
You’re not right for her. You’re not good for her. You’d better realize that and stop with all the damn talking and sharing. In fact, you should get out now, before this gets any heavier.
He still wasn’t sure even now how the hell he’d ended up in such heavy places with her. Since when did he go baring his damn soul to people anyway?
You’d think living in the woods alone for a couple of months would have made you better at shutting the hell up and keeping stuff to yourself.
But damn, the fact was . . . he still wanted her. If he was honest with himself, he fucking ached for her. It was hard to work with her, even in silence, and not be agonizingly aware of her body. Her boobs filled out the little tank tops she wore all too well and it was no secret, to him or to her, that he’d had a thing for those short denim shorts from day one. He wondered if she had any idea that there were times when he was working with a hard-on, when he was hammering a nail but instead thinking how much he wanted to nail her to the new yellow siding or the newly repaired porch.
And he was beginning to wonder . . . if he didn’t let shit get heavy between them again, if they just kept it all light, and hot, about fun and sex, if they could get back to that.
Nah, would never work. Once you’ve gone there, you can’t back away from it.
But as he looked over at her where she stood painting the new porch rail, he wanted her so much that his fingers itched with yearning to touch her, and his cock twitched with the rough need to plunge back into her tight warmth. Damn, they were good together in bed. And on the couch. And on the stairs. And right now, if he could, he’d happily take her right here on the front porch in broad daylight.
But then he remembered—Tessa’s brother.
Maybe Anna had already fallen for
him
. Yeah, she’d seemed pretty broken up over Duke backing off with her, but she seemed a lot better with it all now, so maybe things with the war hero had really taken off. Maybe she’d want nothing to do with Duke if he made a move on her anyway.
“Since I Don’t Have You” by the Skylines echoed through the window—in recent days Anna had resumed playing the old records she’d found in the attic and he liked that it filled the quiet space between them. So it came as a surprise to him—probably as much as to her—when he suddenly decided not to be silent anymore.
“Heard you’re seeing Tessa’s brother.” He tossed a quick glance her way, but by the time she looked over, he’d returned his gaze to the paintbrush he swept back and forth over new wood already primed in white.
“Any reason I shouldn’t be?” she asked.
Feeling her pointed look, he just said, “No,” as casually as he could. Then he dipped his brush in the paint tray and smoothed more white paint onto the porch.
A few minutes passed—he didn’t know how long. The harmonizing voices of the El Dorados spilled through the window to his left. Then he heard himself ask her what he really wanted to know. “Is it serious? With that guy?”
Now it was she who kept her eyes on her work as she answered, her tone much more easygoing than before. Maybe even kind of . . . aloof. “I just met him.”
Yeah, well, you’d just met me, too, when things started up and they still seemed pretty damn serious—no matter what I said about it.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“No, actually,” she said, now seeming almost haughty about it. “At least not yet. Why?”
He gave his head a short shake, tried to sound unconcerned. “Just wondering.” But . . . shit—he was happy and sad at the same time. If she’d said it was serious, it would have made it a whole lot easier to just leave the idea—of being with her again—alone. Which sounded smart, and . . . safe. But at the same time, he couldn’t deny a sense of relief that she wasn’t head over heels with the dude.
But you still can’t make a move.
No matter how good she looks, no matter how good she’d feel.
No matter how much you still sense that weird electricity between the two of you that started this whole thing.
So he wouldn’t. He’d just put it out of his head and keep working on the house. And ignoring his urges as best he could.
Even if a mere glance just then tightened his groin.
It’s okay. Just keep working. You’ve done it all this time—just keep on doing it.
Anna bided her time, focused on her work, and then—eventually—dared sneak a surreptitious glance in Duke’s direction. What was with him and all the questions? It was one of the longest conversations they’d had since . . . since things were good between them. And the nerve of him to even ask! Seriously!
He dumps me and then interrogates me about seeing another guy? Who
did
that?
But maybe he’s glad—like relieved—that I’m seeing someone else. Maybe he just wants to make himself feel better, like he didn’t abandon me. Whatever. Jerk.
She looked back to her paintbrush, concentrated on covering a deep nick in the wood.
And then she let herself peek back over at him again. Who had told him about Jeremy? Lucky? Had to be.
And why did he have to look so hot, damn it? Why did he have to be so darn muscular? She’d personally never been much of a tattoo-loving girl, but somewhere along the way, the inked motorcycle on his arm had begun to appeal.
Vroom, vroom.
Crap. Stop lusting over what you can’t have and get back to work.
As Anna continued painting, she was almost angry at Duke for even starting that kind of discussion with her, for making her think he might care, for reminding her—even if not directly—that she and he had so recently had a closer relationship. But that they weren’t close anymore.
And right when she’d been doing so well, too. Or . . . sort of, anyway. Right when she’d come to appreciate just spending time with him, even if silently, but convincing herself there would never be any more than that. It wasn’t as if she’d ever quit wanting him, feeling that gut-deep tug between them, that powerful chemistry. But she’d at least managed to make some peace with it and accept that the good part—the amazing part—of their relationship was over.
Well, it is. Just get that through your head. He’s made it more than perfectly clear, after all.
And I wouldn’t want him now anyway. Not after the way he just pulled the rug out from under me emotionally. Chemistry or not.
Seeing that the paint tray resting on the porch between them was nearly empty, Anna lowered her brush to the edge, then stood to go get the paint can and refill it. She started past Duke—when his hand shot out to close firm around her ankle.
She flinched, going still. “What is it?” she asked, thinking something was wrong.
She peered down at his handsome face—just as his grip softened, and he grazed his work-roughened palm up her leg, over her knee, and onto her inner thigh.
She sucked in her breath, feeling the touch in her panties as she read the pure lust in his eyes.
Oh boy. Now she knew why he’d asked.
“I thought it was an aberration of my senses, a mad dream.”
Gaston Leroux,
The Phantom of the Opera
“D
uke,” she said, her voice coming out too whispery, and trying like hell not to feel what she felt, “what are you doing?”
“Touching you.” And oh God, those gray eyes of his had never looked warmer, or more seductive.
“But, um—” She stopped, swallowed.
Get hold of yourself. Push his hand away. Tell him he’s crazy if he thinks you’d let anything like that happen now.
Yet she couldn’t quite manage those things, it seemed. Maybe she’d forgotten exactly how good he had the power to make her feel. With just one little touch. And that, she was forced to remember, was nothing compared to the promises that touch held. “I thought we, um . . . didn’t do that anymore.”
“Touch?” he rasped.
And something in the mere word, combined with his hand still on her thigh, nearly buried her.
But be strong here.
“Yes, touch,” she said. “Or anything else. Like . . . kiss. Or have sex.”
Crap, it would really help if I stopped sounding so . . . breathy. Like a woman on the verge of being seduced. And it would help if I didn’t feel like one, either.
“It’s . . . it’s not fair to me,” she managed to say. “On again, off again—and you get to make all the decisions about that?”
“I . . . I guess I was thinking,” he began—and then his fingertips were moving, beginning to caress, and she was trying to hide how thready it suddenly turned her breath. “I was thinking we could maybe . . . do what we talked about in the beginning. Just . . . keep it light.”
She blew out a breath, the spot between her legs tingling wildly.
Part of her couldn’t believe this was happening, that it was even real. Talk about out of the blue. And another part of her was remembering what she’d just told herself, that there was no way she’d ever let anything more happen between them after the way he’d hurt her. Yet then there was this whole
other
part—and it was mostly the part that pulsed with desire. Need. Hunger. And
that
part . . . well, that part seemed willing to be swayed. Chemistry could be a very powerful thing.