Total Rush (14 page)

“Let me finish.”

Sean dipped his head, acquiescent.

“You made me feel dumb, Sean. Of course I wasn't going to mention it! Not the first time I met them! But it does make me wonder . . .” She hesitated.

Sean pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “What?”

“If it embarrasses you in some way.”

“Of course it doesn't,” he scoffed.

“Because eventually they're going to find out.”

“I know that. But not yet.” There was mild panic in his voice.

“When?” she asked softly, running a finger up and down his bare shoulder.

“When it's time.” He drew her into a more intimate embrace. “Enough talking.” He pressed his lips to hers.

“Trying to hush me up with kisses, huh?” Gemma teased.

“You object?”

Gemma laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. She assumed Sean was strong, but she wasn't prepared for him to lift her with one arm and throw her over his shoulder like some modern-day caveman.

“What are you doing?” she cried, watching the sliding glass doors recede as he carried her to the bed. As swiftly as he'd picked her up, that's how delicately he put her down, the nubby chenille of the bedspread a soft shock against her skin. Then he was on her, skin sliding against burning skin, lips demanding and hard as he greedily pressed his mouth to her throat. Gemma moaned as the twin torments of heat and desire coiled themselves around the two of them, binding them. She couldn't tell where Sean left and she began. There was only this moment, this outpouring of need that seemed unstoppable.

Sean lifted his head just enough to look into her eyes. “Kiss me,” he demanded.

Breathless, Gemma did as she was told, powerless to do anything else. She lifted her head off the bed slightly and, gripping his head in her hands, pulled his face down to hers and held it there, one second, two seconds, three, their lips almost touching but not quite, their heated breath mingling. Unable to take it any longer, Sean gave a guttural groan and pressed his mouth to hers, raw and desperate. The taste of him, Gemma thought dizzily, was like wine, like divinity. She clutched him close, afraid that if she loosened her grip, he would turn to an apparition and disappear into the night without a trace. She wanted every nerve in her body to register that this was a real, solid, flesh-and-blood man who was pressing into her with all his might. A real, solid man who wanted her.

Two pulses were fluttering wildly within her now: the one at the base of her throat, throbbing like a trapped, quivering bird, and the one pounding between her legs. Squirming in desperation beneath him, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and tugged. The motion seemed to inflame Sean: Without a sound he rose up and tore the briefs from his hips before crashing back down onto her, his hard-on burning against her. Gemma wondered if he could tell how badly she wanted him as she pressed herself urgently against him. She would not be complete until he had filled her. She would not rest until they spoke the same blazing language of the soul.

Ravenous.
That was the word that sprang to Gemma's mind as Sean's mouth raced over her upper torso, tongue pausing to tease at her nipples through the cotton of her T-shirt. Thought ceased, veering into pure sensation.
Hot, wet, burning, yes
—Gemma's overloaded mind could barely form the words.
Rough, hard, shocking, please.
She knew she should be patient, knew how it all would end and that it would be good, so damn good, but she couldn't help herself. The conflagration burning within her was out of control. She needed relief now.

Sean knew. Gemma sensed he was just waiting for her to give him a signal. And so, too overcome to speak, she dragged her nails across his back. She lapped at him like a cat. Sean reared up and, in a move both unexpected and thrilling, roughly parted her legs, plunging his fingers deep within her. The room reverberated with the sound of Gemma's shocked screams, so loud they drowned out the background music of the surf. His pacing perfect, the thumb of his free hand caressed her sex, coaxing her to delirium while his nimble fingers dipped and played. Trembling, eager, she let herself plunge into the shuddering abyss, knowing that Sean would be there to catch her when she broke free of the bounds of earth. She was tumbling, flying, eternal. She was perfectly, absolutely his.

Weak, she opened her eyes, whispering her thanks. Smiling, Sean kissed her sweating forehead before gently withdrawing his hand. Gemma knew what was going to happen next; she craved it, body already retensing in anticipation. She swooned as his fingers grasped her hips tightly in preparation. And then he was inside her, burning, moving, demanding, each punch of his hips against hers an invitation.
Come . . . with . . . me.
Gemma's heart danced madly in her chest. Come with him? Gladly. Tightening herself around him, she answered his invitation.

He loved that. Loved it. Gemma could tell by the frenzy of his body, his driving need pushing both of them farther and farther up the bed. Reaching up, she curled her fingers around the wooden spindles of the headboard, bracing herself. And then it came: the breaking of the dam as he poured himself into her, breathing her name.
Gemma. Gemma. Gemma.
Was it possible to get drunk on the sound of one's own name? If so, then she was plastered, she was destroyed, she would never, never move again. Above her, Sean's body still quivered in the aftermath of their fierce union. Gemma slowly lowered her hands from the headboard and wrapped them around Sean's back. They were both limp, wrecked.

And more satisfied than words could ever express.

 

 

Afterward, lying in
Sean's arms, Gemma realized that bed was where they communicated best. It was just the two of them, reading each other perfectly. No crossed wires, no fears on her part about what she might be getting herself into, no fears on his about what she believed. They simply were.

Lifting her head from Sean's chest, she looked at him. “You awake?” she whispered.

“Uh-huh.” The arm he had clasped around her tickled her shoulder. “What's up?” he asked drowsily.

“Nothing.” She put her head down to rest again on his chest.
Except I'm falling in love with you.

The realization scared her since she had no idea if he felt the same. He obviously felt something—he'd taken her to meet his family and had just made voracious love to her. But was it
love?
Were men and women speaking of the same emotion when they used that word? A shaft of moonlight dissected the bed with its diagonal glow. Outside, Gemma could hear the wind coming off the ocean, buffeting the sliding glass doors, which trembled slightly in their tracks.

“I think there's going to be a storm,” she murmured.

“Mmm.” Sean drew her closer. “Go to sleep now.”

Gemma snuggled close to him, enjoying every second as their legs twined together beneath the tangle of covers. She sighed, planting a series of tiny kisses on his chest before closing her eyes.

Everything was going to be all right.

“Where were you
this weekend?” Michael asked as he strolled through the door of the Golden Bough.

“Away,” Gemma answered with a secretive smile, moving over to make room for him behind the counter.

“With Sean?”

“Sean who?” Gemma asked as she put on a Clannad CD.

“I know all about you and Firefighter Joe.”

“You told him I liked bagpipes, didn't you?”

Michael's face lit up. “Did I do good?”

“Very good.”

“Of course, I could have told him the truth.”

“What's that?”

“That your idea of a good time is dissecting old episodes of ‘Charmed,' but I held back.”

“I appreciate that, Mikey. Truly.”

“Anything for my favorite cousin. Did you have a good time?”

“Yes.” Gemma slid back onto her stool. “We were in Long Beach. A friend of Sean's owns an apartment there and he lets Sean use it sometimes.”

“Sweet.”

“It was.”

“You really like this guy?”

“I do, but . . .”

Michael scowled. “But what?”

Gemma stared down at her lap. “I don't know. The whole firefighter thing makes me nervous.”

“What, the fact he could burn to a crisp on any given day?”

Gemma jerked her head up, shocked.

“That
is
what's got you spooked, right?”

“Kinda,” Gemma mumbled. “That and some other things. I'm not so sure we fit, you know?”

“Gee, why not?” Michael replied sarcastically. “Just because you're an Italian witch who runs an occult shop and he's a fireman who thinks a dive like O'Toole's is a good place for a first date? Sounds like you two have a ton in common to me.”

Gemma cocked her head appraisingly. “I'm trying to remember: Were you always an ass, or did you gradually become one over time?”

“Came out of the womb with ASS stamped across my forehead,
cara.
Sorry.” He leaned back to turn the music down a notch. “My advice? Just go with the flow and see what happens.”

Gemma couldn't resist a smirk. “You mean the way you did with Theresa, Mr. Read My Tarot Cards or I'll Die?”

Michael colored. “That was different. That was fate.”

Gemma burst out laughing. “Oh, I see. And this isn't. Michael Dante, the grand vizier of romantic relationships.”

“I'm just saying,” Michael huffed.

“I know what you're saying, and I appreciate it.”

“Is he good to you?”

The way he said it, with the barest hint of a threat as if he were Gemma's older, protective brother, brought a smile to her face. “He's wonderful, Michael. Don't worry.”

Michael rubbed her back. “You're my favorite cousin, Gem. Of course I worry.”

“Don't. I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not so sure Nonna can.” He looked pained. “That's why I'm here.”

Gemma felt a wave of anxiety. “What's going on?”

“A couple of weeks ago, Anthony and Angie took Nonna to church at her usual time. Angie decided to stay. She told Ant that ten minutes into Mass, Nonna got up and started wandering around. At first Angie thought she just couldn't remember where the bathroom was. But when she went to get her, Nonna didn't seem to know where she was, or who Angie was, for that matter.”

Gemma tensed.

“Then, on Thursday night, Nonna ran a bath for herself and left the taps on. The tub overflowed, and water started dripping through the ceiling.”

Gemma wound her fingers together tightly.

“You should see the water damage. When the ceiling started leaking, Nonna panicked and called me. By the time I got there, the ceiling was starting to bow. I turned off the taps, and cut a hole in the kitchen ceiling so that it wouldn't collapse. You wouldn't believe the friggin' deluge. I said, ‘Nonna, what the hell were you thinking?' I swear to God, Gem, she looked like a scared little kid who was afraid of getting in trouble. ‘I don't remember turning the water on,' she said.”

“Shit.” A million thoughts ran through Gemma's mind, none of them positive.

Michael's gaze was quizzical. “Has she seemed forgetful with you? Different? Absentminded?”

“She has seemed forgetful. But it could just be old age.”

“It could be,” said Michael, not sounding convinced.

A sense of foreboding seemed to swirl through the store, oppressive and heavy. Gemma could barely look at Michael without her chest beginning to constrict. “You're afraid it's more serious, aren't you?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Michael looked up, eyes misty.

Gemma clutched at hope. “It could be a million things, Mikey. Drug interactions. Lots of old people go to different doctors and they don't tell one what the other has prescribed.”

“It's not her drugs. I took her to the doctor and I brought the list of her prescriptions with me. None of them interact.”

“Maybe we should get her to a specialist?”

“We are.” Michael was grim. “Theresa's getting the names and numbers of top gerontologists in the city. Once she does, we'll make some appointments.”

“That could take months.”

“Not if your husband plays for the Blades and can get the doctor rink-side tickets to a home game,” Michael explained matter-of-factly.

Gemma reached out, squeezing Michael's shoulder. “We'll figure this out. You know we will.” Her mind continued racing to come up with explanations for her grandmother's memory lapses. Hardening of the arteries. Lack of sleep. Lots of old people had trouble sleeping. Maybe Nonna wasn't sleeping and that's why she was forgetful.

“Depending on what the doctors say, we'll have a family meeting and figure out what to do.”

“Who's taking her to the doctor?”

Michael glanced away. “Your mother and Aunt Millie.”

“What?” Gemma squawked.

“She's their mother, Gemma.”

“One of us should go, too. You or me or Ant or Angie or Theresa. Don't you think?”

Michael looked troubled. “They'll think we think they're incompetent if we suggest it.”

“They are incompetent!” Gemma cried. She could just picture it: her mother tapping her foot impatiently, barely listening to what the doctor said because she was dying to get out of there and make it home in time for
Oprah,
while beside her, Millie the Sicilian chimney twitched with nicotine withdrawal.