Some Enchanted Season (27 page)

Wanting her back
 … The words repeated in his mind, sly, taunting echoes. Not
wanting her
, as in sex, as
in, in his bed, but
wanting her back
. As in … In his life?

The panic increased. No. Not only no, but hell, no. He wanted to have sex with her, but only because he’d been celibate for so long—because whatever else had gone wrong, the sex had always been great. But he didn’t want to be married to her, didn’t want to live in this tiny little town with her, argue with her, insult and be insulted by her. He wanted just sex … and maybe a few quiet meals. Evenings like this one. A holiday or two. A little teasing and laughing. A few hours to simply watch her and appreciate her. To come home to her and wake up with her and …

God help him, he was in trouble.

Chapter Eleven
 

A
fter the wagon ride and a few minutes warming themselves around the bonfire, Maggie and Ross had said their good-byes and headed home. She would have liked to stay a little longer—would have liked for the evening to never end—but it was cold and Ross had been patient enough.

Now it was late, the middle of the night, and she was alone in her bed. The snow still fell, but she was warm and cozy. She knew these facts, even though she was mostly asleep, just as she knew that the uneasiness creeping through her wasn’t real but merely the product of a dream. Knowing didn’t ease its effect though—didn’t stop her from shifting restlessly, from curling into a tight ball to protect herself from the dark, the fear, the hurt. She tried to wake herself, to deny the dream its power, but it trapped her now.

Such pain, such sorrow. Tears slid down her cheeks, wetting her pillow, as heartrending sobs escaped her throat. She’d never known such anguish and couldn’t bear it, couldn’t stand one second more. She had to leave, to escape, but it was inside her, part of her, destroying her. How could this happen? How could she survive it? She sobbed while the semi-aware part of her wondered dispassionately what
this
was.

The pain, already unbearable, grew, turning her sobs to helpless, hopeless whimpers, making her body tremble, her chest grow tight. Please, God, she moaned, please make it go away, and in answer to her prayers, strong hands burrowed under the covers to grasp her shoulders, to shake her awake, to drag her shuddering and heartbroken out of the dark. “It’s all right, Maggie,” he whispered. “Honey, it’s all right. Wake up. It’s just a dream.”

She forced one eye open, then the other, to see Ross bent over her. It was a dream, just as he’d said. She’d had them for month—vague scenes, vague emotions, unsettling but never memorable. Though there’d been nothing vague about the emotions this time, like all the others, it was just a dream.

She acknowledged that, drew a deep breath, then burst into tears.

He carried her to the rocker, slid his arms around her, and began a slow, rhythmic rocking. “It’s okay, Maggie,” he said quietly. “Go ahead and cry.”

Pressing her face against his shoulder, she cried until there were no tears left, until hiccups ricocheted through her, until she was exhausted and relieved and feeling halfway normal again. And the entire time he
held her, rocked her, stroked her hair. His touch was reassuring, incredibly comforting, and arousing. That last wasn’t his intention, she knew, but rather, her need. Her emptiness.

When she was still and quiet, when even the hiccups had disappeared, he spoke softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It was just a dream.”

“About the accident?”

She dried his shoulder where her tears had fallen and realized for the first time that his attire was on the skimpy side—a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. His skin underneath was warm and smooth, with a scent uniquely his that she remembered from their past. She was tempted to trail her fingers along his chest as she’d done hundreds of times before, but she settled for simply resting her cheek there again.

“Maggie? Did you dream about the accident?”

“I think so. Dr. Olivetti says patients with post-traumatic syndrome often dream about whatever caused their injury.” She gave the answer as casually, as matter-of-factly, as she could, but it wasn’t true. The pain in her dream had had nothing to do with broken bones or head trauma, and the fear hadn’t been of injury or death. No, this dream had been filled with hopelessness, despair, loss, heartbreak. Even now, safe in Ross’s arms, with the impact of the dream lessened by wakefulness, she could still feel the grief, so pure and raw and overwhelming. It frightened her that she’d once felt so lost, and equal parts of her wanted to know and wanted to never know why.

“Do you remember any of it?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, felt her throat swell and her lungs tighten, then quickly opened her eyes again and forced the feeling away. “No,” she said flatly. “I didn’t see anything. There were just feelings, and they’re gone.”

“I’m sorry. I know how much you want to remember.”

Not that. She hoped whatever had caused such torment remained lost forever. To know would mean living it again to some degree, and she couldn’t bear it.

They fell silent again. He continued to rock and to hold her, and she snuggled a little closer. On the wagon ride, she had enjoyed the closeness to him as much as the lights and the carols. To anyone who didn’t know better, they must have appeared no different from the other couples there—the happy ones, the ones in love, who’d gone home together, to bed together, and might even have made love together. In her head she’d known the appearance was deceiving, but in her heart she’d enjoyed the deception of intimacy just as she was starting to enjoy
this
intimacy.

She brushed her hair back—another deception—then, instead of returning it to her lap, she let her hand brush his chest, let them curl loosely as they came to rest at the waistband of his sweats. His muscles tightened, but he didn’t push her hand away. He didn’t dump her on her feet, say, Well, you’re all right now, and head for the safety of his own room. For that she was grateful.

“I meant to tell you thank-you last night,” she murmured.

“For what?” His voice was wary, tautly controlled.
So were his muscles. She could feel them tightening everyplace their bodies were in contact.

“Everything. Coming here. Doing these things with me—Thanksgiving, the parade, the tour. I would have a wonderful time regardless, but it’s better with you to share it.”

It took him a long time to respond—partly, she suspected, because he wasn’t comfortable with his response. “I’ve enjoyed it all. It’s been fun.”

“Never thought you’d say that, did you?” she teased.

“No. But it’s a nice break from real life.”

“I bet the people here would be indignant at the implication that their lives aren’t real.”

“I meant—”

She rubbed her cheek from side to side across his shoulder, stopping him mid-explanation. “I know what you meant.” That this wasn’t
his
real life. That, although he’d enjoyed it, it would never
be
his real life. That she should never for one moment think that he might ever find himself happy, contented, and willing to stay in Bethlehem.

She had always understood that. She regretted it, but she understood. If things were different, though, if he could stay … She allowed herself a moment for the fantasy of the two of them passing year after satisfying year in this house, surrounded by friends, raising a family, belonging to each other and to this place in a way they never had before. It would be every wish, every dream and hope she’d ever had, all wrapped up in one.

But things weren’t different. They would stick to their original plan. He would return to Buffalo and his life there, and she would remain in Bethlehem and
make a new life for herself. She would meet a man, fall in love, get married, and have his babies. Those were her goals. But instead of becoming easier to visualize as the time came nearer, they’d become more difficult. The only man she’d ever loved was Ross. The only babies she’d dreamed of having were his.

She couldn’t even imagine getting intimate with anyone else. Whenever she thought of making love, it was Ross’s hands, his kisses, his whispers, his body. She tried to picture herself with someone else, and the picture wouldn’t develop. She told herself that was natural. Once he was gone, things would change.

At that moment, in his arms, she didn’t believe herself.

A soft, regretful sigh shuddered through her, and he responded—shifted underneath her, sucked in his belly away from her fingers, started to swell against her hip. The instant she recognized his arousal for what it was, she was stunned. She’d known he could still arouse her with no more than a look or a simple touch, but it had never occurred to her that she might still possess the same power with him.

Then reality overruled feminine vanity. It was the middle of the night, a time when people were at their most vulnerable; she was sitting on his lap with practically nothing between them; and he’d gone as long as she had without physical satisfaction—since last year’s stay at the McBride Inn. Of course she could arouse him. Any living, breathing woman could.

She moved slightly, and he caught his breath. “I think—” he began.

“Don’t think. If you do, you’ll do the sensible thing
and go back to your room and whatever sleep we each get won’t be worth having.”

His right hand slid marginally across her arm in the tiniest of caresses. “This is foolish, Maggie.” His words sounded certain. His voice, strained like his body, didn’t.

“I know.” She moved, and her knuckles grazed his stomach, then she flattened her palm against him. In an instant the temperature of his skin switched from warm to feverish.

“It will only complicate things.”

“Or maybe simplify them. Do you want me?”

His laughter was short, coarse, as he slid one hand to her hip, held her close, and rubbed against her. “Hell, what do you think?”

“I want you too. And I can’t think of anything more natural than you and me having sex together.”

“Maggie—”

She slid off his lap and went to stand by the window. “I could convince you if I wanted. I know that. But it’s your decision, Ross. You can go back to your room, or you can stay here with me. You choose.”

He was motionless for a moment. Then he stood, and the thin light coming through the window showed just how aroused he was. The sight made her throat go dry, made swallowing impossible. Again, for a moment, he stood still, and she thought with regret that common sense was going to win out. He was going to shut himself in his room—to shut her out. Part of her hoped he did, for their own good. The rest of her would regret it.

Moving with slow, taut grace, he closed the distance
between them, maneuvered her with his body until the wall was at her back. He rested his palms against the wall on either side of her head, and he kissed her. It wasn’t the kiss she expected after so many long months—neither sweet nor gentle nor tentative nor shy. He didn’t coax or tease, didn’t play or manipulate, but claimed her mouth in a heated, hungry kiss, thrusting his tongue inside, demanding her own heat and hunger, accepting her pleasure.

Sliding his hands down, he cupped her bottom and lifted her, rubbing, rocking his hips against her in a rough caress that made her weak. She raised her hands to his body, touching his face, his throat where his pulse beat hard and fast, his muscled chest, his narrow hips. She’d been hungry for this, she realized in a haze of sensation—for touching, for touching
him
. More than her husband and only lover, he was the other part of her self, and she’d missed her hands on his body as much as she’d missed his on her own body.

They were halfway across the room before she realized the wall was no longer at her back. Beside the bed, he broke the kiss, panting for air, and pulled her nightshirt over her head, kicked his sweats away. She had only an instant’s concern for the scars before he lifted her onto the bed, followed her down, and slid inside her without delay. This first time would be fast, she knew, with just enough wicked pleasure to take the edge off their desire. But the next time … Ah, the next time would be slow, torturous, a test of endurance and power—how much could she bear, and once she’d borne all she could, how many times he
could make her plead for more. She
would
plead, and so would he, and the result would be soul-stealing.

He kissed her, teased her breasts, thrust into her fast, hard. He made her skin burn, her muscles quiver and twitch, drew from her body every need, every fantasy, and satisfied every one. He brought her to an orgasm so intense that it made her ache, then emptied himself into her with his own completion.

Then the
real
event started.

It had been so long, and she’d been so lonely. She’d missed this, had needed it—needed
him
. His kisses, lazy and hot and designed to make her weak. His caresses, all the right ways in all the right places. His mouth relentless on her breast, his hands tormenting between her thighs. It was all too sweet, too cruel, too much but never enough. She begged for relief, and he promised it but held back, pushing her harder, making her need fiercer, until neither could wait one second more.