“Ah…so now you’re getting it. What did you really expect, Garret? You were young and wild and all the girls wanted you. You had everything and I had…” She waved her arms uselessly in the air. “I guess I had this.”
“I didn’t know,” he said quietly. She still looked cynical and sad, and he didn’t like seeing that expression on her soft face. He tried to step forward, but the look she gave him clearly halted the action. “Suzanne…”
She walked away from him, pattering down the steps and towards the soft embrace of her roses, while he looked on helplessly. Just when he was about to follow anyway, she turned.
“Don’t say anything, all right, Garret? I don’t want to hear any lines. I don’t want you to make up platitudes on my account. You never meant any promises, and I really was just a fool.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, staring out at the velvety outlines of her roses by night. The porch light cast her profile into a soft mix of shadow and light, emphasizing her high, rounded cheeks and the delicate curve of her neck. In a flowing crimson skirt and off-white poet’s shirt, she looked unbearably lovely. And suddenly, he was struck by the image of her at sixteen, her hair long and fine, her shoulders thin and hunched. Nothing of that awkward girl remained, but her face had struck him even then.
He thought it might haunt him now.
He walked down the steps. “It must have been hard back then,” he said at last. She still wouldn’t turn and face him. “I don’t think I used to appreciate my parents at all,” he continued on casually, making a fist at his side to resist touching her. “We all grew up in such a…happy home, I guess. Our parents were always there for us. We just took them for granted. You didn’t have any of that.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Do you think about your mother much?”
Suzanne stilled, and he could feel uncertainty grip her. He reached out very slowly and laid one hand upon her shoulder.
“Suzanne?”
“I planted the first rosebush when she entered the hospital,” she said suddenly, the words so soft he had to lean forward to hear them. “We’d tried before to get her into treatment, but she’d never go. Then she started hallucinating. I think sometimes she thought she was with our father. I was never sure. She never said much except that he’d died and left her alone. But then she was hallucinating he was alive, and it scared her enough to enter.
“I planted the first bush and told her she could watch it bloom when she came home.”
She turned and looked at him, her eyes calm while his own throat felt tight. Slowly, she closed her hand over his on her shoulder.
“I never knew what to feel about her. She was never much of a mother, and yet she was the only mother I ever had. Rachel and I were so embarrassed by her. And there were days I hated her so much for needing the alcohol more than she ever needed us. But…but I think I really did want her to see the roses.”
He nodded, his black eyes searching her own gold-flecked depths. “She kept drinking?”
Suzanne shook her head. “No. She died. Her liver failed, her kidneys collapsed. I buried her next to my father. I imagine she’s happy with that. But then, she never said enough to be sure.”
“I’m sorry,” he said simply, the words feeling woefully inadequate.
As if she knew that, she cocked her head and looked at him with eyes that were suddenly sad. “Why, Garret? Because you got away from all that? Because you got to travel like you’d always wanted to travel, because you got to do all the things you’d wanted to do?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not that. But maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at the bus stop. I don’t know. I never meant to hurt you.”
Suzanne took a deep breath and focused on the stars overhead. She could feel his hand, large, warm and strong beneath her own. And she wanted to take just one more step, until she could lean her cheek on his shoulder and feel his arms wrap tightly around her. So many nights, so many years ago, she’d dreamed of falling into his arms. Now he was here, and the tears were simply memories.
She’d grown up, and learned how to stand on her own two feet. But that didn’t seem to matter. She wanted him anyway, and the longing scared her.
“I’m not sixteen anymore,” she said at last. She looked at him through lowered lashes and shrugged. “I suppose you’re not eighteen anymore, either.”
He smiled, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. “No, I suppose not. But then, I wasn’t good for much at eighteen.”
She gave him a small smile. “You could beat up old Tank.”
“Yeah, I could beat up Nemeth.”
Suzanne laughed, then squeezed his hand and slowly took it off her shoulder. She brushed her skirt, picking at unseen lint and glanced back up at the lush July night. “I really should be going to bed.”
“It’s not that late.”
“It is if you get up at five in the morning.”
He shook his head. “You should be the one in the military.”
“Being a kindergarten teacher is close enough.”
“I bet you’re good at it,” he said softly.
She shrugged, still fidgeting with her skirt. “I try.”
“I still remember you leading Rachel to and from school. You were the only one who could ever make her stop crying.”
“She was my sister.”
“Still. You really tried for her. You really tried to make things better.”
“And we saw what that accomplished.” Suzanne buried her hands in her pockets, and hated herself for the sudden weakness washing through her. She wanted his hand on her shoulder again. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and pretend that maybe she was sixteen and maybe he had come back.
If I close my eyes, can it just be once upon a time?
She turned toward the door, feeling her hands start to tremble.
If I close my eyes, can you just hold me forever?
“Suzanne?”
She half rotated, not able to see his face through the burning in her eyes. She felt his hands on her shoulders, the soft whisper of his breath as he drifted near.
“Don’t go.”
His lips brushed her forehead, teasing the corner of her eye. And all of a sudden, her hands were clutching his shoulders, her lips seeking his own with the flood of longing that made her pulse race and tightened her throat. His mouth slanted across her own and she welcomed him in, feasting on his lips, demanding his taste.
He brought her against him hard, and she wrapped her arms around his neck in response.
“Make love to me.” Her voice was urgent; she didn’t care. She pressed herself against him shamelessly, feeling his hardening length through the thin folds of her skirt. She rotated her hips suggestively and heard him groan. “I want you, Garret. Please.”
“Sweetheart, you couldn’t stop me if you tried.” He swung her up into his arms, sweeping back up the porch steps and into the house before either of them could regain sanity. He could feel her trembling against his chest, her hands tight and demanding around his neck. The desire to touch her, the need to possess her, was so strong it scared him.
He barely made it to his room before she was sliding down his body while he was reaching for her blouse. They shed their clothes quickly, needing them gone so bare skin could press against bare skin. His tongue dueled with her own, drawing out faint gasps of hunger while her nails raked down his arms. The sensitive nubs of her breasts rubbed against his darkly furred chest, her smooth leg sliding up and down his muscled thigh.
He had just enough presence of mind left to find and use a condom, then he surrendered once more to the generous promise of her arms. He curved his large hands down her back, sliding back up the front to trace her lush, heavy breasts. She felt warm and full in his hands; he couldn’t stop from bending down and claiming the first nipple with his mouth. He drew it in delicately, rolling it with his tongue while her hands tangled in his hair. He licked the nub, and she pressed him closer. He grazed it exquisitely, and she moaned her need.
He raised his head with knowing eyes and suddenly found himself pushed backward onto the bed. She didn’t give him a chance to recover but climbed on top to kiss him passionately. Her legs tangled with his own, her hips pressed intimately next to his rigid length while her tongue traced his lips and flickered inside experimentally. He caught her head with his hands and, in slow, leisurely motions, stroked her mouth with his tongue.
Just as her body turned liquid, he shifted her over until her legs straddled his waist, pressing her against his rigid, demanding length. For one moment, she stilled.
Slowly, he stroked her back with his hand and looked at her with burning eyes. “It’ll be better this time, Suzanne. Trust me.”
For her reply, she bent down and kissed him deeply.
He went more slowly, wanting it to be good. He wanted to watch her eyes turn that iridescent gold. He wanted to see her skin flush and her neck arch with passion. He wanted his name on her lips, hushed and breathless. Slowly, with spinetingling control, he rotated his hips against her. Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes darkened. He moved again, and felt her hands grip his shoulders.
“Like that, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Just concentrate on the feel.”
She arched back helplessly as he moved, her own hips restless against him. She felt achy and heavy, hungry and needy. She could feel his burning length so close, pressing against her, rubbing against her. She at once wanted him just to take her, but also to prolong the moment. She shuddered, leaning back and moving against him.
He cupped her breasts with his hands, rolling her nipples as he continued to rotate his hips. She gasped, and her eyes turned molten gold. He bit his lip at the effort for control, and at that moment, nothing meant more to him than watching her satisfaction.
He brought one hand down and found her warm, moist folds with his index finger. She cried out, her eyes closing and her hands squeezing his shoulders. He rubbed her again, watching her body bow while his teeth bit into his lower lip.
“Please, sweetheart,” he whispered thickly. “For me.”
He pressed his hand against her and watched her explode. Her whole body shuddered, the passion washing through her like a giant crest that crashed into his own burning need. Before the last wave had passed, he thrust into her, plunging deep and low as. her name was wrenched like a plea from his lips.
She collapsed onto his chest, and he held her tight as they shuddered through the storm.
For a long, long time, he simply stroked the long, tangled mass of her hair and listened to her breathing return to normal.
“I told you I could do better,” he breathed against the top of her head. Against his chest, he could feel her lips curve into a smile.
“Of course,” she said sleepily as her eyes drifted shut. “I always knew it would be you,” she murmured as she drifted away. “Somehow, it would be you.”
S
uzanne awoke with the hazy sensation of sleeping next to a furnace. Hot and uncomfortable, she made a feeble effort to push away from the heat, only to discover it was rock solid and included a heartbeat. Her eyes popped open and she discovered herself half-sprawled across Garret’s chest.
For a long moment, she didn’t breathe. Then very slowly, she exhaled.
He didn’t move, and from her position she could see the even rise and fall of his flat stomach. Realizing he was still asleep, she allowed herself another breath. Then, moving carefully, she. brought up a hand and cleared the rest of her hair from her eyes.
So this was waking up with a man.
She imagined it was nicer during the winter, when the air was nippy and you could huddle close. Right now, the room’s air conditioner was turned too low to combat the July heat, leaving her sticky and warm. Lying as she was, her right arm had fallen asleep wedged between them, she could feel a slight dampness against her hip.
Her cheeks abruptly turned red as she figured out what the moisture was: the infamous wet spot on the sheets. She’d heard other women whispering about these things.
She shifted slightly, not sure what to do, when suddenly, Garret moved next to her. With a sleepy mumble, he turned toward her, pillowing her head on his shoulder while his other arm curled around her hip. He sighed, muttered something and fell back asleep with his arms around her.
In spite of herself, she felt her eyes sting. She could hear his heartbeat, loud and strong, and his legs felt muscular and tantalizing tangled with her own. After all the years of simply waking up and getting out of bed, this felt right. She brought up one hand and lightly touched his cheek. Twenty-four hours of beard rasped against her fingertips and brought a smile to her lips. Very slowly, she slid her hand down his arm.
He’d definitely regained some of his weight. Running her hand down farther, she found filled-in strength versus the gaunt outline of before. He probably had another fifteen pounds to go.
Lightly, she traced the puckered path of the burn scar down his arm and found herself frowning. He’d fought fires in Sarajevo, he thought. It would explain so much. But what had he been doing there away from his team? And why did he get shot in D.C.?
The surge of protectiveness gripping her caught her off guard, and she found herself automatically snuggling closer to him. She liked her head on his arm. She liked the way he moved to accommodate her and she liked the way he wrapped his arm around her and held her close.
She gripped his shoulder firmly and willed the feeling to pass. He wasn’t hers. Just the moment was hers, and she’d sworn she would be content with that. She stroked his arm and shifted more comfortably in his embrace.
This time, she tested out the thick matting of hair on his chest. It felt springy and rough, a unique texture she decided she liked. She followed the line of hair down and felt his stomach abruptly contract. Her hand stilled, and all at once she became aware of burning heat just inches from her palm.
The early-morning erection, a normal biological function, one corner of her mind registered—she’d read of these things. The rest of her flushed crimson all the way to her toes.