Long Summer Nights (4 page)

“I’m assuming you’re not a reporter. What is your job?”

He waited a long time before replying. But eventually he met her eyes casually. Too casually. “Writer.”

“Journalist?” she asked, not because she believed he was, but merely to see him dump all over the profession again. There was much to be gleaned from a person’s prejudices.

“Fiction. Not so different.”

A writer?
Sure, there was something bohemian about him, but he seemed a little more intense than the unambitious dreamers who sat alone in their cave, waiting for the muse to come down and strike them with brilliance. No, this man would beat his muse senseless before he depended on someone else for his words.

He belonged somewhere else. Like Brooklyn, for instance.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “Why aren’t you out among the teeming masses, mingling with the great unwashed dregs of humanity, obsessed with the eight million stories in the naked city?”

“Do you have to keep bringing up naked?”

He looked so upset at the idea of weakness, so worried that he was actually afflicted with something as common as lust, that Jenn wanted to shout childishly, “Naked, naked, naked,” or perhaps, less childishly, to rip off her T-shirt and see what he’d do. Prudently she abstained from both and changed the subject.

“You’re here to write? No, strike that. I still don’t get
you. How you can stay here without going bonkers? Don’t you want to know what’s happening in the world?”

“Are people still getting robbed, are hurricanes still blowing, is the country still poised on the edge of ruin?”

Okay, he had a point, but it amazed her that anyone could stay so unplugged from the events of the world, the personalities, the happenings that affected them all. He didn’t seem as though he’d be disinterested in the world. Maybe he didn’t want to think that way, but she’d seen him watching her phone, she watched him at the inn earlier.

“But it’s news,” she protested, speaking out in defense of the American media institution. How could anyone ignore…everything?

“It’s not news. It’s old. Old as history, old as time.”

“Old as sex,” she contributed, noting the blush, pleased at his response.

“You promised,” he protested. It was halfhearted, and his eyes warmed with lust and want, watching her the same way he watched everything else. Not liking it, not comfortable, but unable to stop.

“I didn’t promise. You assumed,” she answered, flirting dangerously, because she
didn’t
want him to stop. She liked the want in his eyes, the way it made her heart pump with courage instead of fear. She liked the powerful heat in her blood.

Suddenly he was very close, a whisper’s breath away. His legs were nearly brushing hers, the muscles in his arms tense with frustration. All she had to do was move one inch…

“Woman, you are the gate of Hell, the temptress of the forbidden tree. You are the first deserter of the divine law.” The words were low and raw and she’d never felt so completely aroused in her life.

“Cecil, again?” she whispered, inching closer.

“No, Tertullian.” His eyes met hers, fogged with desire.
For her.

“Anytime,” she whispered, feeling the curling tension inside her, the budded nipples straining against her T-shirt, begging for attention.

His astute gaze rested on her T-shirt, and his mouth strained as well, causing her nipples to harden in a completely Pavlovian manner.

“I should go,” he announced, moving away from her, and she told herself she was glad. Relieved, even.

“The work is calling,” she rationalized, trying to keep her mind focused on important things like her future career in journalism, instead of the length and width of his sexual prowess.

“Yes,” he agreed, but he still wasn’t leaving, and he showed very little intent of going so, and she could feel the panic growing inside her, in direct proportion to the needy urge to lean in a little closer, ease into that completely planned yet seemingly arbitrary moment when two lips collide.

Do not fall for this, she reminded herself. Ignore the sexy man with trouble simmering in his eyes. He wanted sex, his body nearly hummed from it, and unlike the twenty-four-year-old drummer with a passion for cartoons, this one would give her a night full of screaming orgasms, and then break her heart, most likely at the same time because he seemed to be that talented.

“Who are you?” she asked, thinking that if he was going to break her heart, she wanted to know his name.

“Aaron.”

“Aaron who?”

“Smith.”

“Really?” she drawled, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

“It’s actually Jenkins-Smith, but that seemed pretentious, so I just use Aaron Smith.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Smith. I’m Jennifer Dade, and from now on, I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

It was a desperate hint that
she
wasn’t in his way, that he was sitting on
her
rock, and if he truly wanted all that solitude and privacy that he kept blustering about, then he’d have to act a little less…stimulated. Not that she was complaining. Much.

“I should go,” he repeated, but he moved closer, and his eyes were on her mouth, and Jenn felt herself go hot, then cold. “Normally I like to ignore everyone else. It makes my life much more comfortable.”

“Why can’t you ignore me?” she asked, because she needed him to. She did not need this, but she couldn’t ignore it. She couldn’t ignore him.

He brushed a gentle finger across her brows. “You look at me with those busy eyes, always digging for your version of the truth, but grasping for the first clichéd insights into the psyche because it’s easy and it makes your deadline, and it doesn’t matter that there isn’t always some three-point paragraph that explains who we are. You think there’s always an answer, always a reason, but sometimes people are simply the way they are.”

It was not what she wanted to hear, not what she had hoped to hear, and all those roiling emotions finally erupted. “And that’s why you can’t ignore me, because you just can’t? The Twinkie defense? I had to be me. I was born to be bad. No, there’s always a reason. You just don’t want to tell me.”

She thought he was going to leave. Thought she’d finally done it. Finally chased him away, but instead he looked with all the wretched want in his eyes. All the lonely hun
ger, combined with the same painful recklessness that she felt in herself.

“I wrote about you. This afternoon, I came home and spewed out reams of pages about someone with your face, your eyes, your hair.”

“How did it end?” she asked, breathlessly tempted by the drama of it.

“You threw yourself in front of a train.”

“Why?”

“You are the mariner’s albatross, Ahab’s white whale, the magnificent obsession. In the end, there was no alternative. You had to die,” he said, sounding miserable and baffled.

But then his fingers reached out, touched her hand, such a small gesture, such a telling gestured. Sometimes sex was scratching an itch, and sometimes sex was the very human need to touch someone. All the phones, all the gadgets, all the machines in the world that mimicked human contact, and yet nothing came close to the absoluteness of sex.

“You like me, don’t you?” she asked, twining her fingers through his, locking them there.

“I don’t want to like you,” he admitted. “You’re very happy and sure of yourself and you like machines without souls.”

“I don’t want to like you either,” she admitted, as well.

“But you do?” he asked. His eyes met hers, uncertain and unhappy and still hoping that she would say yes.

“Women don’t like men like you,” she said because she knew that unhappily hopeful was bad. Very, very bad. It spoke of vulnerabilities, and wounds, and manly suffering that had plagued women for thousands of years.

“What sort of man is that?”

If he were any other man, she’d have thought he was fishing, needing a stroke to his ego, but he didn’t have those
insecurities. Tragically like every other woman before her, she was falling for it in spades. “You want some three-point analysis that sums you up in fifty words or less?”

“Yes.”

She chose the less dangerous answer. “You’re brilliant and hurt and your writing draws you into humanity, but humanity repels you at the same time, and you can’t reconcile those two aspects and it frustrates you.”

“Do you know what frustrates me?” he asked.

“What?”

“How badly I want to kiss you. I hate your mouth. I love your mouth. When you talk all that blather, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Why don’t you kiss me?”

“Because it won’t stop.”

“I know,” she said with a smile.

Then his lips covered hers, and she could feel the frustration in his mouth, his tongue, in the way his fingers anchored her face.

Her blood started to simmer and heat, and the feel of his tongue inside her mouth, and its furious demands, was the very best sort of pain. His hands fumbled, pulling her closer, her breasts to his torso, and her fingers tangled in the dark silk of his hair. Her phone, her prized phone, fell uselessly away, and once again Jenn was swept up in the very things that were bad.

Oh, but this. How could it be bad? He was whispering to her, using words that were neither pretty nor poetic, but the unfocused rasp in his voice, the hard pressure of his touch was hitting the spot right between her thighs.

Her shirt was open, and his mouth was on the thin silk of bra, licking and sucking, and telling her how tempting she was. The hungry pull was like shocks of electricity direct to her chest, and she heard her own moan. Impatiently he
shoved the fabric aside, touching her, his mouth on her nipple once again, and Jenn was glad for the cover of darkness, for the cloud of the moon.

Mistakes I Made on Summer Vacation, Part VI. The One with the Great…

She reached for his fly, stroked him through the thick denim fabric. She knew there would be a Part VII, VIII and IX to the movie.

He thrust into her hand, and the movement was so marvelously wicked, so raw. Then he pulled at her own zipper, restless fingers sliding low between her panties, lower still. One finger flicked at her, long, insistent and aiming to please, and she stopped worrying, stopped thinking, focused on the pleasure.

The stars watched as he turned her, pulled her back against him, and she lay on him, his body cushioning her from the rock. His erection prodded her against her ass, and she wiggled against it, against him, but he stilled her, because apparently Mr. Wilderness Adventure had other ideas.

Soon she realized what they were.

His hands brushed her shirt off to the side, pulled at her bra until it hung off to one side, and then he slid her jeans low on her hips, and all her pertinent parts were exposed to the air. While his mouth nuzzled her neck, his hands roamed over her like an explorer and she was his map.

Once again his finger thrust inside her, plunging deep, slick with her desire. Her pelvis tilted up into his hand, and her ass rode against him, and it was exquisite.

“You see the sky,” he whispered low in her ear, “the moon, the stars.”

She opened her eyes, blinked the world into focus and whimpered a yes.

“You don’t need a phone for this,” he said, pushing into
her once again, and she wanted to laugh, but it was too hard to breathe, too talk, to do anything but ride with his hand.

Back and forth his busy finger slid over her slit, finding her clit, stroking there, circling there, her body weeping with delight. She bucked against him, feeling the hard ridge at her ass, and he moaned, but she was pinned against him, his hands keeping her down, and the hard torture continued.

He seemed to like watching her squirm, liked to hear her whine and complain. Part sadist, that’s what he was, because his hand was destroying her. His movements were faster, and she could feel him grinding against her ass, which only infuriated her, but all she could think of was chasing the high, chasing the feeling, chasing the stars.

She closed her eyes, her body arching, and her hips tilted up, and he laughed at her, and she wanted to make him pay, but not right now.

Right now, she only wanted to…

Come.

There. Instantly her breathing resumed, and her body fell against him, sated and sleepy, and she wanted more. She wanted him inside her. She wanted this.

Morning-after regrets be damned. Hell, great sex would probably inspire her to write a better story. Snag the Pulitzer. Show Little Lizette exactly how it was done.

With ethics. With integrity. With the feel of a hard man thrusting inside her.

Happily she turned, attacked his mouth with all the excitement building inside her.

But then he pulled back. The man who was going to help her secure her job pulled away. Bastard.

She was furious that he was able to stop. That he had
the discipline, the ability. And once again, she was left to find her focus.

Angry at him, at herself, at the way her jeans were unzipped, and her shirt was half torn, she stood and picked up her phone, because frankly, at the moment, she preferred it.

“I have a job. It’s very important to me, and it depends on me pulling a rabbit out of a hat, and I don’t even know if I can do it, but I have to try. If you sidetrack me, I will spend the next two weeks flat on my back, screaming my lungs out in orgasmic ecstasy. I don’t need that. I have to spend the my time searching out whatever godforsaken newsworthy truths abound in these hills. I will not do this.”

“You’re right,” he agreed easily, much more than she wanted. His eyes were shadowed in the dark, and she wished she could see them, wished she could see whether this was truth or a lie.

Not that she cared.

“I know I’m right. Now go,” she told him because this was her rock. This was her place. He didn’t want the stars or the night. He wanted his mangy cabin in the woods, so he could have it. But right now, he was going to have to prove to her that he could leave her. That he could leave the promise of sex, the promise of the human touch that she wanted to badly.

Slowly he got to his feet, the moon casting him in silver, and he shoved an unsteady hand through his hair. At that moment, she thought she had him. She thought he would admit defeat because he kept staring at her mouth, at her face, and his normally aloof eyes were still fogged with desire, and it was the most romantic thing she’d ever seen.