Love, Suburban Style (20 page)

She laughs nervously and lifts her hand to shove her hair from her face. “No, I just… I’m good. Thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

She catches him watching her move her arm and remembers that she’s barely dressed. He seems to have noticed that, too.

“I’m positive. I’d better not drink anymore,” she says hastily.

“Why not?” He looks pointedly at her and slides an inch closer on the couch. “Afraid you might do something reckless?”

Startled by his provocative question, she realizes that he might be startled as well.

He follows it up with a slightly nervous-sounding, “I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay. You were right.”

Now it’s her turn to feel as though someone is putting a barrage of dauntless words into her mouth.

“I could definitely swerve into reckless territory tonight if I’m not careful. It’s been a stressful week…”

“And…?” It sounds as though he’s holding his breath.

“And I just…”

“What?”

“Don’t trust myself.”

“Then I shouldn’t trust you either.”

She smiles. “Probably not.”

“So you’re going to hurl yourself at me and beg me to let you have your way with me?”

“Probably not,” she repeats lightly, and he feigns a little-boy pout.

“Then again,” she adds, tossing him a coquettish up-and-down glance, “you never know.”

“Really?” He sounds… hopeful. Intrigued.

Yet she senses the wariness in him that she feels herself.

He’s afraid too. And her own reservations are lost in a flood of captivated concern for his emotional well-being.

“So hurling and begging might occur?” He says it teasingly, but they’re both aware that they’re venturing into uncharted territory.

For a moment, they just stare at each other.

Then, all at once, Sam leans in and captures her mouth, swiftly, sweetly, with his own.

When he pulls back, she sighs. “Now I’m not sure of anything at all.”

“You’re not the only one.”

“I swore we wouldn’t do this tonight, Sam. Or ever again.”

“So did I.”

She wants to ask why.

But before she can, he reaches out and runs his hand down her bare upper arm. She gasps as a shock sends a current surging through her bloodstream…

But that’s impossible,
she reminds herself. Static electricity doesn’t occur when you touch someone on a humid summer night.

Yet that’s exactly what it felt like when his fingertips made contact with her skin.

Rather than removing his grasp, Sam tightens it. Then, with his other hand, he brushes a curtain of hair gently away from her face.

“There. Now I can see you,” he murmurs, his eyes fastened on hers.

She knows somehow that she couldn’t break the connection if she tried. Not that she’s going to.

Magnetic force, electrical force…

An incredible stream of energy seems to be sizzling between them.

Sam leans closer, and she closes her eyes, waiting for his kiss.

All coherent thought flies from her head as his lips make contact again.

More magnetic, electrical energy.

She leans back against the couch cushions, taking him with her. He’s cupping her face in his hands, holding her fast, kissing her more deeply when she opens her mouth willingly.

He groans deep in his throat, and the sound sends a hot surge of need to ooze and pool within her.

This is really happening.

It isn’t some adolescent fantasy fueled by an unrequited crush.

This is real.

And we should stop.

There are so many reasons not to do this…

But right now, she can’t remember any of them. She doesn’t want to.

So don’t think.

Just feel.

You can think all you want, later.

But you might never get to feel this way again.

Sam’s face is against her neck as he nuzzles a moist, molten trail past her collarbone. She can feel the rough texture of his stubble and the silken stroke of his lips. Then he shifts his weight, and she can feel much more than that.

She can feel it lower, below her neck… below her waist.

Rigid angles meet pliant curves, and she hears his sharp intake of breath as she settles herself against him.

“Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

“Yes,” she says simply, and her fingertips wander beneath his T-shirt, where at last she is able to touch him the way she used to dream about.

Running her fingertips over impressive planes of warm, hard muscle, she feels his lips resume their heated journey, dipping into the hollow beneath her shoulder blade.

He lingers there, but not for long, lifting his head briefly as he pushes aside the thin strap of her top, slipping it down over her shoulder.

Meg shudders when she feels his wet mouth on her bare breast, and again when his tongue teases its taut, puckering peak.

She wriggles against him, aching to be closer. He groans at the intimate contact, lifts his head, kisses her again, long and hard.

Dragging his mouth from hers, he asks raggedly, “Do we need to stop? Because if we do, we should… now.”

Yes, she comprehends as the fog of passion lifts slightly. This is the point of no return.

Do we need to stop?

Her head is swimming. She can barely remember her name.

Astor Hudson? Meg Addams?

Who am I?

What do I want?

Do we need to stop?

Too many questions.

Sam’s blue eyes are probing hers for an answer to just one.

“No,” she says, “we don’t need to stop. Unless…”

“What?” He’s gone from visibly elated to deflated in the space of the split second it took her to utter that word.

“Unless…?” She gestures helplessly overhead.

“Unless… the ceiling caves in on us?”

Still panting from the exertion, a laugh—more of a giggle, really—escapes her as she shakes her head. “No, I meant, what if one of them comes downstairs?”

“Oh. The kids. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here.”

She watches him leave the room, scarcely able to believe where she is and what she’s doing.

Rather, about to do.

Should I?

She knows the answer to that.

Then why is she ignoring it? Why has she allowed herself to cast aside everything—her resolution, her better judgment, her decorum, just so—

She hears a jingle and catches Rover lifting his head to glance over at her from his spot on the rug.

Is it her imagination, or does he seem to disapprove?

Who cares what the dog thinks? She turns away from Rover’s reproachful gaze.

Who cares what anyone thinks?

Who cares about
shoulds
?

Meg’s life since motherhood has been riddled with them; it’s time to let go of all that for once.

For once? Until her big New Year’s epiphany, she was heedless of shoulds when it came to men.

Well, everyone’s allowed to lapse from time to time. So she’s going to put it all aside.

Just for tonight. Just for a little while, even.

What’s wrong with indulging in a wanton romp she’s anticipated her whole life? Especially if she allows no expectations about what will come of it.

Nothing will come of it,
she reminds herself, even as a pang of misgiving slips in.

Why can’t anything come of it?

Why can’t she allow herself to imagine that she and Sam are somehow meant to be? That after all these years, they might fall in—

No! Don’t even think that word!

She hears footsteps creaking overhead; Sam is coming back down the stairs. Quickly.
He’s almost running,
she notes, and her body feels charged again; tingling with anticipation.

He reappears in the doorway, pauses, and snaps his fingers. “Rover. Come here.”

The dog gets to his feet obediently and trots over without casting a backward glance at Meg. Still, she senses smugness, almost as though he’s silently telling her,
See? He’s calling me, not you.

Yes, I do see that.

Has Sam changed his mind?

Is he taking Rover out or something? Is dog walking the Sam Rooney equivalent of a cold shower?

Rover crosses the threshold into the hall.

Sam disappears with him.

Meg is riddled with doubt.

She should probably just go home.

No shoulds, remember?

Anyway, there are ghosts over there. She doesn’t want to venture back alone in the middle of the night.

You’ll have to go sooner or later, though. That, or sell the place and move.

But where would she go?

And how could she leave Sam?

Huh? Leave Sam?

Sam should have nothing to do with whatever she decides is best for herself and for Cosette. Nothing whatsoever.

She hears footsteps and he’s back. There he is, a grown man, exuding teenaged-boy anticipation and vulnerability when he looks at her.

Meg’s misgivings evaporate like the figure she spotted at the foot of the stairway next door.

“Where’s Rover?” she asks him.

“Having a snack in the kitchen.”

“He was hungry?”

“He’s always hungry. That comes in handy whenever I need him to be somewhere other than where I am.”

“Oh.” She smiles, relieved.

Standing on his tiptoes, Sam runs his fingers along the top of the molding above the French door.

“Where…? There. Got it.”

Meg sees that he’s holding a key.

He swiftly locks the door and turns to her wearing a smug grin. “Where were we?”

“You were right here.” She can’t help smiling, either, as she pats the couch beside her. “Did you check…?”

“Upstairs? Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse. And believe me, we do have them.”

She shrugs. “Most old houses do.”

“You’re one of those hearty beer-drinking girls who’s not afraid of mice, then?”

“Not of mice. Just bees,” she admits, as he settles beside her again.

“And ghosts.”

“I thought you said there was no such thing.”

“What I say doesn’t matter. If you think they exist, then they do for you. And you’re allowed to be afraid of them.”

“Gee, thanks.” She snuggles a little closer as he settles his arm around her and pulls her closer. “So… what are
you
afraid of?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.” She strokes his cheek, giddy that she can actually do that, after all these years.

That, and more.

“Okay,” he admits, “I am afraid of two things.”

“What are they?”

“Something happening to one of my kids.”

“That’s universal. Isn’t everyone?”

“Probably.”

But not like I am.

That blatant message is clear to read in his eyes.

His wife was killed. No wonder he worries about losing his children.

Oh, Sam.

She encircles his neck with her arms, wishing she could take the pain away.

“What else?” she asks gently.

“What else, what?”

“What’s the other thing you’re afraid of?”

His voice is hushed as he says, “This.”

He grazes his lips against her lips, her throat, her shoulder, whisper-soft.

“Then… do you not want to?”

“No. I
do
want to.” He shifts her in his arms so that she’s lying down, and he’s stretched out alongside her, the length of his body pressing the length of hers. “I want to so much that it scares me.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m scared, too.”

“So that’s three things, total?” he asks, chuckling quietly, tracing her cheek with his fingertip.

“Hmm?” She lets her own hands wander beneath his shirt again, back to warm skin and muscles.

“Bees, ghosts, and making love?”

“Not in general,” she amends, trying to maintain the playful tone as her heart skips and starts at the mere phrase
making love.
“Just with you. With you, I’m terrified.”

“Should I be honored, or offended?”

“Honored. Definitely.”

“Well, you know what they say, don’t you?”

“What do they say?”

“That the only way to conquer your fear is to face it head-on.”

With that, he kisses her deeply. A fierce longing soars within her, and she presses herself urgently into his embrace.

The pace quickens, an unmistakable prelude to lovemaking.

Tongues duet in an age-old dance; hands roam; limbs intertwine.

Clothing is cast away; with it go lingering reservations and shoulds and fears and logic.

Now there is nothing but moist, heated kisses and warm, slippery skin and ripples of pleasure.

At last, Sam, breathing hard, gasps, “Wait a second.” He leans over to fumble around for his discarded shorts.

Panting, rubbing her sweat-dampened hair back from her forehead, she watches him retrieve the square foil packet he got when he went upstairs. The sight of it fills her with capricious expectation.

Sam sees her watching and glances a question at her. She nods the answer, too overcome to speak. She feels as if she dipped a toe into a refreshing stream and was suddenly caught up in a raging current, swept toward the brink of a waterfall, with no going back even if she wanted to…

And I don’t want to.

Within moments, he’s sheathed and poised above her, looking into her eyes again.

“Okay?” he asks in a hoarse whisper.

She nods, unable to speak.

Their eyes lock as he grazes the aching core of her that yearns for fulfillment. She reacts as if maddeningly tickled by a feather. Her hips lift, seeking him, and with a groan, he enters her at last.

Never before has it been like this for her. Never before has it felt this right.

She whispers his name in wonder, scarcely able to grasp that this is really happening, that she’s here, now, with him.

She’s a delicate instrument coaxed to a new range by a masterful musician, and nothing could ever be better than this. Sam plays her with notes sweet and tender, then bold and deep, ultimately crescendoing to an exquisite and pure climax. Every nerve ending in her body seems to erupt in dazzling sensation.