His Private Nurse (13 page)

“I'll get that tea,” she said, pushing up to a sitting position again.

“Good idea,” he replied with a wry smile. “I find I'm even more in need of relaxation now.”

She didn't have to look at the bulge in his shorts to know what he was talking about, but she did anyway, compelled by something stronger than common sense. Then, blushing, she rose and hurried from the room, wondering if she had the nerve to do what she was contemplating.

With Royce no longer close enough to command her senses, butterflies began to gather in her stomach and chest, their tiny wings beating madly. He couldn't really feel about her as she'd thought he did. He didn't really want her. She wasn't the sort to drive men wild with passion.

Her shoulder brushed a tin candle sconce on the wall. Disgustedly she watched it tumble to the floor with a noisy clatter. How many times had she already walked safely past the darn thing? As she bent to pick it up, she heard Royce's warm chuckle from the other room, and
she smiled in spite of herself. Only he could do this to her. Only Royce.

Confident again, she replaced the sconce. The butterflies flitted away, taking any doubts with them. Tonight, she decided, she was going to begin fashioning her own life as she wanted. Let Pamela Lawler and her goofy brothers do their worst. Only one person had the power to drive Merrily Gage away, and only then with outright rejection. Concern for her well-being was not going to be enough. If Royce didn't want her, he was going to have to say so, bluntly, and until he did, she simply would not believe it.

Standing tall, she walked all the way to the kitchen without another single mishap.

R
oyce shifted sideways and placed the empty mug on the coaster. Then, fidgeting around and tugging with his one good hand, he managed to divest himself of his gym shorts, which he kicked to the floor. The sheets felt marvelous against his bare skin—he'd never been comfortable sleeping in clothes—but he knew that part of his sense of well-being had to do with Merrily's tea and with Merrily herself. Settling back on the pillows, he took a moment to savor this relative tranquility.

Merrily had delivered his tea with a soft smile some twenty minutes earlier, then disappeared. She hadn't bade him good-night, but he assumed that she had gone back to bed, which was probably just as well, all things considered. The way she had kissed him earlier had sorely tried his willpower. It had been all he could do not to pull her onto the bed and roll her beneath him. Even with his arm in a cast and his leg immobilized, she somehow made
him feel well and whole again, fully capable of doing all the things he dreamed about with her. Something of that feeling lingered still.

Thankfully, he'd regained control of his unruly body while she'd been off making his tea, and with a full mug of the stuff now ingested, he felt relaxed and at ease. Some pain remained, of course, but it was minor, and yes, his problems continued unabated, but for the moment they simply hovered on the edges of this rare contentment. He would worry about them later. For now all he wanted to do was relax. But with relaxation came thoughts of Merrily.

For some moments he mused on all that she had done for him, all that she had come to mean to him. Merrily was blessed normalcy. With her, he was his best self. Finding her was almost worth falling down a flight of stairs. God knew that she had enriched his life in countless ways. Surely that was providential. When he was at his most helpless, he'd found someone he could trust, even if she did on occasion smash his good sense to dust with nothing more than an innocent parting of those delectable lips.

She made him forget, sometimes for whole hours, what his life had become. With Merrily he could almost be content, even laid up like this. She always seemed to be busy—Mercedes, his part-time housekeeper, had complained that it was hardly worth her effort to come out these days, as Merrily seldom left more for her to do than the floors and his laundry—but she was
there,
and somehow that made him glad.

He was keeping pretty well occupied himself these days, doing as much business as he could by telephone, relying on Mark to ferry papers and plans back and forth and take care of on-site inspections. His home office had
never been in better shape. Organized to a T, he could now immediately lay his hand on any invoice, work order, contract, inspection certificate or floor plan in the place. The girls back at headquarters, who had once dubbed this place The Black Hole, marveled that they could now request a specific item and actually receive it in a timely fashion. He had Merrily to thank for that, too. He shuddered to think what life would be like without her, and yet he had no choice but to let her go.

He should have sent her away as soon as he'd realized how deeply he could care for her. Now he wasn't sure he had the strength, and yet he couldn't allow her to stay once his excuse for keeping her near was gone. Pamela would go after her then in a big way. But he wouldn't think of Pamela again tonight. Tomorrow he'd have another talk with Merrily, make sure she understood what was at stake and how untenable her position here was. Tonight he was going to rest content with the knowledge that she slept just down the hall. With that thought he reached across and snapped off the bedside lamp.

He was snuggling down into his pillow when the door to his bedroom swung open once more, and Merrily swept inside. He lifted his head, catching sight of something filmy that flipped out behind her as she moved out of the light, but then she closed the door again, plunging them into near total darkness. He shoved up onto his elbow, bewildered.

“Merrily? What is it?”

She said nothing, but he heard her soft footsteps moving across the floor. Then she bumped into the corner of the bed. “Ow!”

Completely confused, he reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. Merrily stood at the foot of his bed rubbing her bare shin with one hand. She immediately
straightened, and a bolt of pure lust shot through Royce. The baggy, knit nightshirt that she had worn earlier and seemed to prefer had been traded for a somewhat prim but nevertheless telling knee-length gown of soft pink nylon with a white lace inset at the throat. Though not of a particularly seductive design, the garment proved sheer enough to reveal the shadows at the juncture of her thighs and beneath her breasts. The weightless fabric clung to her body with maddening exactitude, delineating her gentle curves. Moreover, she had brushed out her ponytail, allowing her long, thick hair to flow down her back unencumbered. The combination of that feminine gown and that hair made his mouth go dry.

She glanced down at herself self-consciously, and the play of her fingers against the silky fabric demonstrated her nervousness. Her voice gone husky and low, she mumbled apologetically, “It's the best I can do at the moment.”

The best she could do. He straightened the arm that supported him, pushing up to its full length, his weight levered against the heel of his hand, and simply stared. Nothing of the child he had once thought her remained. What quickened his blood and sent it rushing through his veins was the wholly desirable woman now standing before him, ripe for loving, for possessing and being possessed. By him. Confirming that assessment, she shyly lifted the hem of her nightgown above her knees and crawled onto the bed.

As if he needed it in words, he asked in a rasping voice little more than a whisper, “Darlin', what are you doing?”

For a moment she said nothing, her gaze trained on the bedcovers, but then she lifted her chin, looked him
straight in the eye and announced, “I'm going to make love to you.”

His heart lurched inside his chest hard enough to break a rib, but even as that portion of his body hidden below the covers rose to attention, he managed to make a protest of sorts. “Merrily, you don't know what you're doing.”

“Just because I haven't done it before doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing,” she argued, and, sitting back on her heels, she lifted the gown and pulled it off over her head. He nearly swallowed his tongue.

Hers was a neat, compact body of toned muscle, smooth skin and delicious curves. Small, firm breasts just made for his hands stood at proud attention atop her tapering rib cage, nipples peaked as if ready for his mouth. The slight dip of her waist and the gentle flare of her hips called to him, leading his gaze downward to the triangle of rich brown hair at the apex of her thighs. The naturalness of her beauty, the pureness of it, amazed him. She was as unlike Pamela, with her purchased, calculated looks, as it was possible for two human creatures of the same sex to be. And no other man had ever touched her in any meaningful way. He knew that with humbling certainty.

“Sweetheart, I don't deserve this.”

“I do,” she said. Pitching forward onto her hands and knees, she began to crawl languidly toward him until, reaching across him, she bracketed him with her arms, her hands planted against the mattress. Bringing her face close to his, she whispered, “I want this, Royce. Please don't try to send me away.”

As if he could. No more than he could stop his hand from lifting to settle in the dip of her waist and slide upward along her satiny skin until it reached the fullness of her breast. “Ah, angel, I've wanted this for so long,
but I'm in no shape to do justice by you. I simply can't do a proper job of it.”

“You don't have to do a thing,” she promised him, leaning into his hand and nuzzling her nose against his. “Just lie there and leave it to me.” She lowered her body to his, not yet giving him her full weight, such as it was. Her hand skimmed across his chest.

“It's not fair, darlin',” he told her raggedly. “You deserve so much more than I can give you.”

“I don't see it that way, Royce. All I see is the first man I've ever wanted to make love with.”

“Merrily,” he whispered, his suspicions confirmed, “you don't know what I'd give to be worthy of that gift.”

“Hush,” she told him, sliding her body against his.

A groan of sheer pleasure rippled up out of his throat. Then he caught his breath as she pushed the covers to the tops of his legs. Her hand skimmed over him, trembling slightly, and it was as if the tremor passed to him, every nerve quivering first with anticipation and then delight. When her hand ventured past his navel, his whole spine curled, bringing him up off the bed. The sound he made when her hand closed around him would have been embarrassing if he'd been able to feel anything other than sublime pleasure. Though at first untutored, she became expert in about ten seconds and reduced him to a mass of mindless sensation in less than thirty.

Somewhat belatedly, he became aware that she was kissing him, and suddenly his concentration split between what her hand was doing and the sweet cavern of her mouth. That delicious little tongue tormented him, slipping and sliding, much as her hand did, eluding his attempts to capture it. He rammed his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head and holding her steady as
he sucked it between his teeth, then dominated it with his own tongue.

When she shifted fully atop him, straddling his hips, he instinctively moved his hand to her breast again, kneading and plucking until she purred and stretched like a cat, breaking the kiss. He brought her closer again with his right arm across the small of her back and ducked his head to close his mouth around her left nipple. In short order, he had her panting and writhing. He shifted to the other breast, and when he slid his hand lower, his fingers finding the wet, slick core of her, she threw back her head, thrusting her hips with increasing urgency. With the fingertips of his right hand, he flicked the moist nipple of the first breast while rhythmically probing her core with his left, but just when he was sure that he could bring her to climax in this fashion, she reared back, sitting on his thighs. Gasping, her beautiful breasts heaving with every breath, she actually frowned down at him.

“I told you to be still and let me do it.”

Laughter erupted in a short, sharp bark. “Yes, nurse.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her delectable mouth. “That's better.” With the slitted eyes of a siren and the devil's own smile, she reached down a hand and grasped him. Once more he came up off the bed, thrusting upward into her fist. His head was still reeling from that lovely turn of events when she rose up on her knees, positioned herself and pushed down.

Tight, wet heat slowly encased him. Encountering some resistance, she bounced slightly, and his eyes crossed. That delightful maneuver didn't bring her all the way to her final destination, however, so she wriggled her hips and locked his lungs in the process. Another bounce took her all the way home and effectively blinded him, stars exploding inside his head. By the time his vision cleared,
he realized that she was sitting atop him, neatly impaled and as still as a statue.

He managed to get enough oxygen into his lungs to gasp, “Did that hurt you?”

Her eyebrows lifted in an incredulous look. “Hurt me?” A self-satisfied smile curled her mouth. “Just the opposite.”

He closed his eyes in relief. Then, quite deliberately, she flexed her interior muscles. Inhaling sharply, he clamped his left hand around the nape of her neck and pressed down while thrusting his hips upward at the same moment.

“Ah,” she said, and that small sound of enjoyment induced him to repeat the motion. “Oh.” After the third such exercise, she pitched forward and began rocking back and forth on her knees.

“Yes,” he hissed, encouraging her. “Oh, yes.”

She moved again, more quickly, then slower, like a first-time dancer learning the steps. An indistinct desire to aid her had him twisting and thrusting at odds with her. Then he lifted his left knee so that her neatly rounded bottom bounced against his thigh as she moved, and they at last found that natural rhythm as old as time. Within minutes they were both panting like marathoners on the last mile of a day-long run, and ecstasy began to roll through him in languid waves.

Weeks of pain and worry peeled away like the layers of an onion, leaving the vulnerable core of him exposed and free. For the first time in a long, long while, he did not have to watch every word, calculate every move, constantly weigh the consequences. With Merrily he was free to be himself, to be in the moment, to own his own emotions and express them. With Merrily, he was the man he wanted to be, should have been, perhaps even could be
yet if the rest of the world would just go away and let them love each other.

He wasn't foolish enough to believe that would actually happen; nevertheless, everything suddenly crystallized. He was free, right now, to love as he wanted, as he could, and because of that freedom, this moment was no longer about him. This was for Merrily. She deserved to be loved and loved well, and for however long he could manage it, that was exactly what he was going to do. He had little enough with which to work, handicapped as he was, but what he had he would give her unreservedly.

Filled with purpose, he carefully reined in his galloping body, tamped down the swelling fulfillment. With only her pleasure in mind, he slid his good hand down her body, stroking and pressing even as he experimented with the angle, length and pace of his upward thrust until he found a combination that made her gasp and rear up, throwing back her head. Locking his gaze on her face, he set about showing her just how much of a woman she was and giving her every reason to celebrate that fact.

Her first climax was as much a revelation to him as it must have been to her. She embraced the growing cataclysm with an obvious sense of wonder and such eagerness that it very nearly put paid to all his best intentions. When at last the maelstrom took her, she was sitting upright astride him, her back bowed, head bent back so far that the top of her head brushed his kneecap, her up-tilted breasts cupped in her own hands, long hair flowing down her back and over his legs. He held himself up off the bed, as deep inside her as he could go, and kept her dangling there on the lip of the universe with the rhythmic motion of his fingers until tears rolled from her eyes and her shudders became so violent that they were almost painful for him. Finally she could take no more and
pushed his hand away. Bringing her knees up, she began to rock herself like a lost child seeking comfort, arms crossed over her chest.