Tempted (13 page)

Her lips tasted of tears.

She was holding her breath, and perhaps he was holding his, too. He waited for panic, but it never came and he let himself breathe. Let himself feel her. Taste her.

And slowly, carefully she did the same. Her lips softened. Her breath eased out and then in again. He felt the current of it against his face.

The urge was there to open his mouth. To taste her more deeply. But he pulled away from the kiss.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“You kissed me back,” he whispered.

Both things felt like minor miracles. And both things felt like enough in and of themselves. They did not need more or to be examined or pressed.

He got up off his knees beside her bed and slowly pulled his hand from hers.

“Would you like me to open the window a little?” he asked, because it was warm in here and because it smelled so crisp outside.

“Yes,” she said, and she slowly sat up, pulling her wrapper around her body, the blankets up higher on her legs.

He cracked the window, letting in a curl of winter, and she reached for her coffee with fingers that only shook a little.

“Did you eat all the bacon?” she asked.

“No, would you like some?”

She nodded.

As if it were nothing of consequence, he gave her bacon and bread slathered with at least an inch of the jam she loved.

She licked a drip of the jam off the crust of the bread.

His gut tightened, awareness and affection creating something new in his body.

“Messy,” she said, slipping her jammy thumb in her mouth.

Yes
, he thought.
We are
.

The next day she came downstairs at dawn and found a pot full of coffee and Steven outside her kitchen window, shoveling hay onto her rose beds.

I am lonely, she thought, watching him. I am lonely for Steven and he’s still here.

It was specific and it was like a needle to her heart. Sharp and precise.

Her life for all of its pleasures, would be darker when he left.

Tears burned in her eyes.

That man
, she thought, and quickly bundled up and headed out to help him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his cheeks pink from the cold. “You should be resting.”

“I'm plenty rested, Steven. I'm bored. What are you doing?”

“Well, the snow is coming so I thought I'd get these gardens put to bed.”

“You've done so much, Steven,” she said, bitten by guilt and something else. Something deep and strange.

That kiss still rattled through her.

In so many ways she was grateful that Steven's kiss had not been her first, so she had something to compare it to. So she could not take for granted the way it had made her feel. That vague interest, that slight desire inspired by Dr. Madison's kiss had been obliterated.

Her body was still not quite sure what to make of itself after Steven's kiss.

She'd stared up at her ceiling for a very long time last night, cataloging all the ways her body felt. Extrapolating those feelings along some kind of imaginary line to a conclusion she'd only heard the girls at Delilah's talk about.

But a conclusion she was suddenly vibrantly interested in.

“Snow's coming,” Steven said. “I'm just doing what needs to be done.”

He buried the pitchfork—where had that come from?—into the hay bale in the center of her garden and heaped more hay over her roses and bulbs. Her vegetable garden on the other side had been picked clean and looked naked in the sunlight.

Naked in the sunlight.

Good lord, her mind was not her own.

“Have you gotten any sleep?” she asked, tugging on her work gloves. He had circles under his eyes.

“Enough,” he said with a brief glance in her direction.

Elizabeth, had told her earlier that Steven had been refilling all the kerosene lamps. And had refit the smokestack on the stove.

He hadn't slept at all.

The back door rattled in the wind. “You need that door fixed,” he said.

“It always does that when the wind comes out of the west.”

“I'll take a look at it,” he said.

“I was thinking about building a porch back here,” she said. “Like the one on your cabin.” She held that out between them like an olive branch. A reminder of all that they knew about each other.

“I can do that,” he said, not responding at all to her overture.

“You don't have to. There is plenty of—”

“I want to,” he said.

“Then I guess I'll let you,” she said.

He shoveled more hay onto her garden, and she watched him feeling useless and on edge. “Why are we arguing?” she asked.

He sighed. “I don't know.”

I do
, she thought. Or she had her suspicions.

Last night she’d realized what was wrong with his experiment at Delilah's. Or at least she hoped she'd figured it out. It would be a relief to have it be so simple.

But simplicity was deceiving, she knew that. And she also had to get him to agree.

Which wasn't at all simple.

“I'm sorry,” he said at the same time she said, “Did you mean what you said?”

“Go ahead,” he said. “What were you saying?”

“No, you—”

“Anne!” He was exasperated by their politeness.

“Do...you really have th..those kinds of feelings for me?” she stammered.

He nodded.

“Sexual...feelings.”

“Yes.”

“Then ...I think you performed the wrong experiment!” she cried, her breath a plume of smoke in the air in front of her. “If the hypothesis is that you can’t bear to be touched by me, you won’t get the proper results from your experiment by letting another woman touch you.”

“Anne, this is not scientific.”

“Of course it is. Everything is, at its core. The proper experiment is letting me touch you. That will give you the right results.”

Finally, he turned to her. Her calm and quiet caregiver of the last few days was gone. Returned was the stone-faced man who held himself so distant.

“Fine,” he said. “Here.”

He held out his hand between them.

“Oh, stop,” she said. “We’re not three years old.”

He stood there rather mutinously, like the three-year-old she accused him of being.

“I propose a different experiment,” she whispered, tucking her hands in fists so she wouldn't grab him. “I won’t touch you. But you can touch me.”

He blinked at her, silent.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” she asked. “You break a lamp?”

“Anne—” His breath shuddered, and she could see his interest. The widening of his eyes, the flush on his cheeks that had nothing to do with cold.

“I want to try,” she said.

He looked down at the garden, those hibernating roots, for a very long time.

“Say something,” she whispered. “Steven, please.”

“It may not go the way you expect,” he told her.

“I have no expectations.”

That was lie. That was a terrible lie. She had all kinds of expectations, but she couldn't scare him away.

He was in the process of doing that all on his own.

“Go upstairs,” he said.

“What? No! I’m not tired. I want—”

“Go upstairs,” he murmured, smiling at her. “Wait for me.”

“Wait…?” she breathed, her eyebrows slowly lifting.

“For me.”

O
kay
, she thought, pacing the small room.
Okay. I’m waiting
. She shifted the chair back to its spot in front of the fire. She snapped the sheets back into place over her bed, running her hands over the pillows.
Should I be lying down while I wait?

She stood up, her hand at her chest. Should she take off her clothes? That…that wasn’t what he meant? Was it?

Laughter, incredulous and strained, sputtered out of her and she clapped a hand over her mouth.
What
, she wondered,
am I doing?

“Anne?”

She squealed and jumped, bumping sideways into the bed. Nearly falling over.

He’d cleaned up; his face was pink and freshly shaved. His hair was damp, the blond a darker brown at the wet tips.

“Hello,” she said with a too-wide, too-bright smile. As if they were discussing goats again.

This is what happens when you never flirt at parties. When you linger on the edges, staring at the fringe of the rug. You get stupid when you see a man’s damp neck. His forearms revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt
.

“Hello.” He closed the door behind them, and the room was suddenly so much smaller. And the air… where did all the air go? “You seem nervous.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m nervous, too. Do you want to laugh at me?”

There wasn’t anything funny about him right now. Nothing funny about this room. Or her. The way her heart was pounding against her ribs.

“No,” she said. She pressed her hand against the buttons of her shirt, the soft skin of her stomach. But then he reached out and touched her hand, his fingertips against her knuckles. Slowly he gathered her hand into his. Linking their fingers together. The skin between his fingers was soft. Warm. And she liked it. Loved it.

“Are you okay?” she asked, half of her pleasure preoccupied by worrying about his discomfort.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said.

“It feels… better to worry about you a little, is that strange?”

“I think that’s what you do, Anne.” He smiled at her. “That’s who you are.”

Her blood was humming in her veins, she felt wild and nervous. She felt like she was glowing. Like her hair was about to stand on end. He reached out and touched her hair, patting it down.

“It’s a mess," she breathed. Turning her head to the side.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured. “I’ve always felt fondly toward your hair.”

“Stop.”

“You don’t believe me?”

I want to. I want to believe you but I haven't been prepared for these compliments. My soul rejects them out of habit.

His fingers touched her face.

His thumb touched the corner of her lip.

All her nerves changed—they turned on themselves, revealing something else. Something…hungry.

His thumb was calloused and he ran it over her lip again, a fuller touch. A wider touch. From the corner, across the top to the other corner. Her heart was pounding. She was sucking in breaths. His eyes were watching his thumb and her mouth, and she was watching him.

“I'd like to kiss you,” he said.

“Yes.” It was a breath. A whisper. Yes. Yes. To everything. To all of it. Whatever he wanted, she would be agreeable to.

He stepped in closer, then reeled her in with their linked hands. Until the very edges of their clothes touched. That was all—the buttons of her shirt, the loose edge of his vest became acquainted.

Slowly, he bent. She held her breath, anguished and afire. And then his dry lips touched hers, and she felt keenly aware of his breath against her cheek, the smell of shaving soap clinging to his skin. The fullness of his lips. Her hands clenched against his, a spasm she couldn’t quite control.

His did the same, and for a moment she felt him about to push her away. His indecision was obvious, and she didn't know what to do.

Stop
, she thought.
This is too difficult. Too painful
.

But then, all at once, the moment was over and the kiss was no longer awkward. They were no longer strangers. This was Steven. Her friend. He did not step closer, and neither did she, but his lips relaxed against hers and moved. He tilted his head, seeking a deeper connection. He opened his mouth, and the wet touch of his tongue against her lips made her jump back.

“That’s…odd.”

“That’s how it’s done. You don’t like it?”

“The ah… evidence was inconclusive.”

His smile was so lovely. “Let’s try it again.”

This time when he kissed her, she was ready. His tongue touched the corner of her lips and she opened her mouth to him. There was deeper contact, her mouth opened wider and her tongue touched his. She held her breath, absorbing every sensation. Tasting him. Him.

She liked it. Quite a bit.

She leaned into him and he froze. The kiss stopped.

As quick as she could, she pulled away from him, stepped back. The kiss over. ‘I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s me.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

I do
, he thought.
I want to stop
.

The shaking under his skin felt like the entire earth moving, and he wanted it to stop.

I’m scared.

I’m scared that I’ll fail.

I’m scared that I won’t.

She stepped back, and he could see her face, the sweetness, the opening to wonder—it was closing down. She was closing down. Fierce Annie.

“I don’t want to stop either,” he said.

“You…”
You’re lying
. That’s what she was about to say. And he was.

He reached for her again. He put his hand to her waist, feeling the tension and heat of her.
It's okay
, he told himself.
It's Anne. My friend
.

When he pulled her toward him, she came, but only so far. There was an inch between them, and she clenched her hands in fists so she wouldn’t touch him again.

“I won’t… I won’t touch you again.” Was that right? Was that what he needed? Was that what she needed?

“Okay,” he said, accepting her terms.

He was being torn apart.

“Kiss me,” she breathed.

Yes
, he thought.
Tell me. Lead me
.

He kissed her until she was breathless. Until they were both panting into each other’s mouth, until the tension pulled and tightened inside of him to a point he could hardly stand.

She was moaning, pressing hard against that distance between them. But never crossing it.

He could feel the press of her body in that inch. The ghost of it against him. He could imagine her curves, the lithe muscles. But it was only their lips, and his hand at her waist, that touched.

Do it
, he told himself, though he was scared. And being scared made him angry.