A Winter's Rose (14 page)

She tossed the rose on the bed. “Where's Chloe?” she whispered, flattening her hands against his chest and leaning into him.

Jackson drew in a shuddering breath. “Home. A neighbor's looking in on her. The answering machine's on at Baysafe.” He searched her gaze. “Why?”

Bentley smiled wickedly and moved her hands to the waistband of his denims, then jerked his shirt free. “Just making sure you wouldn't have to rush.” Slowly, deliberately, she slipped one button through its hole, then another. “It would be a shame to wait so long for something only to hurry through it.”

Jackson linked his arms loosely around her, his heart beating heavily against the wall of his chest. “Are you sure you know what you're doing?”

Not answering, she pushed the shirt from his shoulders, then pressed her mouth to his chest, tasting, then nipping. He tasted and smelled like a man, of fresh air and sweat. Intoxicated on both, she tasted him again. And again.

He was hard beneath her hands, muscular and fit. The hair on his chest was blond, and crisp against her fingers. Liking the sensation, she tunneled her fingers through the hazing of fur.

Jackson caught her hands, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked again, his voice thick with arousal, tight with control.

“No,” she whispered. “I'm not. I'm afraid I'm going to have to feel my way.”

In her gaze Jackson read desire and laughter. And vulnerability. The combination tugged at him more than it should have, more than he should have allowed it to.

Some things were beyond his control.

Even as he called himself a fool, Jackson eased her shirt from her slacks, and began working the tiny pearl buttons through their loops. “`Feel your way,'” he murmured. “I like the sound of that.”

“Feel free to follow my example.”

“I think I will.” The last button released, Jackson slipped the silky shirt off her shoulders. It slithered to the floor, a shimmering puddle at their feet.

For long moments Jackson gazed at her. Her skin was as white as fresh cream and as flawless. But warm. And yielding. Jackson trailed his fingers lightly across her collarbone and down the sides of her breasts. Beneath his touch her flesh quivered and goose bumps raced after his fingers. He lowered his mouth to her shoulder, tasting her. “You're perfection.”

She tipped her head, making a sound of pleasure deep in her throat. “I don't want to be perfect. Perfect is lonely.”

“Not today, it's not.” Jackson traveled, tasting and teasing, to the vulnerable curve between her neck and shoulder, then to her breasts. “You're the most beautiful, the most exciting woman I've ever known. And I've never wanted anyone more.”

Bentley shuddered and arched her back, closing her fingers around his shoulders, holding on for dear life. Through the sheer lace of her bra, he caught the hard peak of one breast, sucking, nipping, then moved on to the other. Her flesh strained against the lacy fabric, as if begging for his touch, and she moaned as he unfastened the garment and tossed it aside.

The breeze from the open window was cold against her fevered flesh, and Bentley caught Jackson's hands. “Come,” she whispered, lacing his fingers with hers and leading him to the bed.

Antique white iron, delicately scrolled and draped in filmy muslin, the bed was one of the few things she owned. After her divorce she'd seen it in a magazine and had fallen in love with it. She was glad that this first time with Jackson would be on this bed, on this sea of white, in this place that had no memories.

The slate would never be so clean, so pure, again. Today the memories began.

Bentley stopped beside the bed and, not taking her eyes from Jackson's, she unfastened his jeans and pushed them over his hips. He stepped out of them, then slipped her slacks off. Lacing their fingers again, she drew him onto the bed.

Jackson caught his breath at the sweetness of her offering. This woman turned him upside down and inside out, jumbled his senses and left him aching and out of breath. She had from the first. Only now, he was done fighting. Only now, that fact didn't frighten him. In an odd way, he trusted her now.

Pressing her against the mattress, Jackson caught her mouth, diving deeply into her. She met his assault with her own, twining her tongue with his, her fingers in his hair. She strained against him, he against her. She arched and sighed as he stroked, then returned the favor, delighting in his sounds of pleasure. Moments ago the breeze had felt cold, now it hadn't even the power to chill.

She moved against him, against his arousal. “Jackson,” she murmured. “Jackson…”

He tore his mouth away from hers, the act almost painful. “Wait…Bentley…sweetheart, I need…” Groaning, he caught her mouth again. A moment later he wrenched himself away and rolled to the side of the bed. Reaching over the side for his jeans, he fumbled with the denims, then his wallet.

He swore and fumbled again.
It couldn't be. But it was—or, more to the point—wasn't.

Jackson rolled onto the bed and threw his arm over his eyes.
How could he have been so stupid? How could he have started this without making sure he had protection?
Breathing deeply, he struggled to contain his desire.

“Jackson?” Bentley whispered, her voice trembling. She laid a hand on his heaving chest. Her eyes filled with tears when he flinched. “What's wrong? Did I do something…wrong?”

He lifted his arm, just enough to see her eyes. He tried to smile. And failed. “Not you. Me. I didn't bring…anything. I didn't expect…so I didn't check…”

Jackson groaned again and pulled himself into a sitting position. He dragged his hands through his hair. “Since Victoria,” he said, not trusting himself to look at Bentley, “I have never gone without protection. Never.” He did look at her then. “Chloe wasn't planned.”

“I know.” Bentley saw shock in his eyes, followed by dismay and guilt. She touched his arm, hoping to soften the blow of her words. “Chloe told me. She overheard Victoria talking about it one day.”

Jackson swore again, this time viciously. “I never wanted her to know that. I never wanted her to think that she wasn't wanted.”

In that moment Bentley knew the sin Jackson punished himself for—the circumstances of Chloe's birth. Sitting up, she wrapped her arms around his waist and fitted herself to his back. She couldn't tell him that was exactly what Chloe thought, not now, anyway. It would hurt him more than she could bear.

“I've messed this up,” he murmured, bringing her hands to his mouth, then extricating himself from her arms. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't go.”

“I can't stay,” he said, his voice thick with regret. “I can't take the chance, and I can't not touch you.”

He moved to climb off the bed. Bentley caught his hand. “I can't conceive, Jackson.”

He stopped and met her eyes. “What?”

She drew in a deep breath, fighting the tears that threatened, feeling exposed and ridiculous and alarmingly lacking. “You don't have to worry about getting me pregnant. I'm…barren.”

She said the last flatly, or tried to, but Jackson heard the whisper of grief beneath the matter-of-fact words and tone. He reached down and cupped her face with gentle fingers. “I'm sorry.”

Bentley covered his hand with her own and tipped her face into the caress. “I spent a good bit of my short marriage trying to get pregnant, thinking a baby would make things okay between me and David.
Stupid, I know.” She tried to laugh; she choked on the sound instead. “And I thought a baby would make me whole.”

“Ah, Bentley…” Jackson eased her into his arms, against his chest. “I don't know what to say.”

“Don't say anything.” Beneath her cheek his heart beat sure but not quite steadily. She slipped her arms around him and stroked his back, fingers of desire beginning to lick at her again. She wanted this man as she'd never wanted before. Enough to lay her soul bare. “The fertility clinic was a wrenching and humiliating experience. I hated it, every moment.” She tilted her head, meeting his eyes. “I had blood tests almost monthly. And I haven't been with anyone since my marriage.”

Jackson's heart turned over and he lowered his mouth to hers. He brushed his lips against hers, nuzzling them open, dipping his tongue inside to taste hers. “I wasn't worried about that.”

She slid her hands up to cup his neck. “But you're not foolhardy, either. You're not a reckless man.”

“No?” Jackson lifted his eyebrows, amused and charmed. “When I'm with you I feel quite reckless. When I'm with you, all I can think of is the unmentionable and delicious things I want to do to your body.
It scares me senseless.”

Bentley laughed and pulled him down to the mattress. “Show me, Jackson. Show me just how reckless you can be.”

So he did. Recklessly, he explored her body. Daringly, he tasted and caressed. With his hands and mouth he showed her until she writhed beneath him, until she called his name and begged him to end the exquisite torture.

But still he held himself back. So Bentley showed him how reckless
she
could be, exciting and arousing him, bringing him to a point where he had no more control.

He rolled her onto her back. The single rose she'd tossed on the bed was crushed beneath her shoulder, and for one moment the scent was almost overpowering. At that precise instant, he slipped into her, and the sweetness of the flower intermingled with the sweetness of sensation. And possession. He was hers. She loved him. It had never been so good—so special—before. The future would take care of itself.

Bentley wrapped her legs around his, moving her hips in time with his until frenzy took them both. As they reached the peak and crested it, Bentley called out his name. He caught it with his kiss, murmuring his own words of passion and pleasure.

For a long time they lay twined together as their flesh cooled and breathing evened. Totally relaxed, Bentley let herself float, thinking of nothing in particular, clueing in to sensations rather than thoughts.

Jackson shifted his weight, smiling as she murmured a protest. “I'll crush you,” he said, drawing her to his side.

“Mmm.” She pressed her mouth to his chest, tasting the salt of his sweat, their passion. “But what a way to go.”

Jackson laughed and tangled his fingers in her soft curls, brushing them away from her face. “Bentley…tell me about your marriage. Tell me about…David.”

Bentley stiffened, unpleasant memories flooding her mind, memories of moments like these with her husband. But ones without the softness, without the trust. She snuggled closer to Jackson's side, forcing those memories aside, focusing instead on this moment. “What do you want to know?”

Jackson heard the pain in her voice, felt the change in her at his question, and he kicked himself for it. “Never mind. It's none of my business.”

Bentley laced their fingers. “No…actually, I think I'd like to talk about it.” She tipped her head and met his eyes. “Nobody else knows the truth. They just think they do.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I didn't care what people thought,” she said simply. “I only cared about escaping.”

Her words slammed into him, taking his breath and his peace of mind. David had hurt her. Badly. Unnaturally. Jackson forced himself to stay relaxed, to continue to gently stroke her hair when all his instincts had him wanting to howl with rage.

“I married David because I wanted to please my parents,” she began softly. “I told myself I loved him. I didn't. I couldn't. The David I thought I knew didn't exist.”

Bentley heard the bitterness in her voice and despised it. Someday, she vowed, it wouldn't matter any more. It wouldn't hurt any more.

“David was quite a catch,” she continued. “Rich, successful. A family name as old and respected as my mother's. I sometimes think Mama was more excited about having David in the family than having me for a daughter.”

Jackson kissed her. “I can't imagine that. You're quite a catch yourself.”

She smiled, pleased with his words, but shook her head in denial of them. “It's true. Mama went slumming when she married Daddy.
New money,
” Bentley whispered in a mimicry of her mother. “Problem was, the Bartons didn't have any money. So she married Daddy for his bank balance and he married her for her name and social connections.”

“True love,” Jackson said, not bothering to hide his contempt. “So, what happened to your fairy tale?”

“Mine was a nightmare in disguise.” She laughed without humor. “How clichéd that sounds. But it didn't feel that way. It felt…unique. Extraordinary.”

Unable to lie still, unable to feign calm any longer, Bentley sat up, bringing the sheet with her. She clutched it to her breasts and stared at the patterns of sunlight on the wall. “I didn't think it possible that other people lived that way. It was incomprehensible to me.”

Jackson watched her, his every muscle quivering with the effort of control. “What did he do to you?”

“David had a streak of cruelty in him. In public he was charming. The loving and devoted husband, the gallant gentleman. But in private…he did his best to destroy me.”

Jackson sucked in a sharp, angry breath, wishing there was something he could do with the violence raging in him, some place he could put it. He flexed his fingers. “If I ever get my hands on him, I'll—”

“Don't.” Bentley covered Jackson's clenched hand with her own. “He didn't hit me,” she said softly. “Not with his fists, anyway. Although by the end of our marriage, I was practically begging him to. If
I'd had physical evidence of his abuse, I would have known it wasn't
me,
I would have known I wasn't going crazy. And maybe if I'd had bruises I would have left sooner. Maybe I would have had the guts to tell the world what a creep he really was.