One More Chance Page 12

  Discontented, she stared at the selection of CDs and tapes and records, finally choosing one of the oldest recordings on the racks. She punched a few buttons, turned down the lights and curled up on a corner of the couch, nursing her glass of wine. The heartbreakingly bluesy sound of Billie Holiday surrounded her.

  And she thought of Ben.

  Ben. She groaned. Over and over, she replayed their encounter from the beginning, goose bumps prickling her arms at the erotic images flickering behind her closed eyelids. She longed for him, ached for him—damned him for forcing her to confront her own frustrations.

  Why doesn't he call?

  She jumped to her feet and prowled across the room, Billie's raw lament goading her. She remembered Ben's hands on her breast, Ben's lips on her throat, and the way she'd felt…

  Damn him! She had changed, whether he believed her or not. She knew what counted and what didn't. It's just that sometimes she found it hard to remember under the stress of the moment.

  But that's all right, she reassured herself. I'm alive, and while I am, there's a chance to make everything right.

  She'd smell the damned roses or know the reason why!

  She stopped stock-still, the empty wineglass in her hand. She wanted a cigarette. No use looking for one, though. She'd turned the house inside out in that same futile search at least five times since her release from the hospital. Each time Ben had provided the moral support she needed to resist temptation.

  This time Ben was more tempting than the temptation, so she couldn't look for strength there. Ben, always Ben…she shivered and hugged her arms across her chest, remembering the way his hands stroked her, the way her body melted into his.

  All those years, and she'd never really looked at him…at those blue eyes, so alert and intelligent, the high wide cheakbones and strong, masculine jaw that so enthralled her now.

  She had always rather approved of the slight cleft in his chin, but now she thought also of the deeply chiseled lines framing his mouth. And the mouth itself, with lips that looked so hard but felt so soft, especially when they parted and she could feel the flick of his tongue against her flesh…

  She shuddered and opened her eyes. She couldn't believe what she was feeling—she was standing alone in the middle of her own home, drinking wine and hallucinating and getting hotter and hotter.

  Her glass was empty. She could drink more wine and most likely get quietly and completely soused, or she could… go to the store, buy a pack of cigarettes and smoke the damned things.

  She grabbed a scarf and left the wineglass on the wet bar on her way out.

  She walked into the all-night grocery store, straight to the tobacco section and right on past. Up one aisle and down the other she marched with determined stride, until finally she found what she sought, between the sanitary napkins and the paper plates.

  She had never dreamed there were so many different kinds and brands of condoms in the entire world. She swallowed hard and clenched her jaw until it ached. She resisted the guilty urge to glance around, certain that if she did, she'd see someone she knew. Some things it was better not to know.

  What the hell? One kind was probably as good as the next. She grabbed the nearest box—a variety pack, for heaven's sake. Variety is the spice of life, she reminded herself, hope springing eternal.

  She picked up a box of tissues and a roll of trash bags as she headed for the checkout counter, just to keep her variety pack from rattling around on the conveyer belt all by its lonesome.

  Ben heard the sound of the car's engine and walked out of the barn to watch the Mercedes draw to a stop> Juliana climbed out and paused beside the car, looking at the house.

  He called her name softly and it seemed to hover in the hushed night air. She turned, her motions jerky. For a moment they stared at each other across the moonlit expanse and then they were running, into each other's arms.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'm sorry, Ben. I've been an idiot—"

  "Shh—it's all right. You're here now." He kissed her upturned face, his hands roaming freely over her back and sides. In the silvery moonlight, he saw her eyelids drift closed.

  She turned her face toward him blindly and he kissed her, at last giving free rein to all the pent-up longing. His hands, made clumsy by haste, tightened on her waist and dragged her body hard against his. His tongue probed aggressively, then plunged inside her mouth in one swift joining thrust.

  He slid his hands up over her ribs, beneath the too-big chambray shirt. She pressed closer, adjusting her hips to his, and his body tightened in response.

  He jerked his head back, breathing hard. By the light of a full moon and a million stars, he looked down at her.

  Her fingers dug into his shoulders. "What is it? Ben, we don't have to stop. I brought… condoms."

  He felt a silly grin stretch his lips; even now, she found it difficult to say the word. But there was one more hurdle to clear. "Are you sure this is okay, Juli? I mean, what we're about to do?"

  She stroked his jaw with fingers that trembled. One corner of her soft mouth curved up. "What is it we're about to do, Ben?" Her warm voice teased him. "There's a name for it, as I'm sure you know."

  "There are a lot of names for it, but the variation I have in mind is called making love." His voice felt like a growl ripped from somewhere deep within his chest. If he were a lion, he thought, he'd be roaring.

  To Juliana, he was a lion, a great tawny beast who could devour her or fill her with joy on a whim. She felt vulnerable and exposed, but also excited and eager. To her amazement, she found she trusted him enough to violate one of her cardinal rules—enough to take a chance.

  "You haven't answered me, Juli. You haven't been out of the hospital all that long. Are there any medical reasons we shouldn't—" his voice dropped to velvet depths "—make love?"

  She caught her breath. "No."

  "Did you ask the doctor? Specifically?" He pulled her into his arms, settling his chin over the top of her head.

  "Of course not." She found breathing increasingly difficult. "I never expected the situation to arise. Besides, it was my brain they operated on, not my—"

  He let out a whoop of laughter. "Your what?"

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. "Never mind that. The doctor said I could get married. I figure that included clearance for the honeymoon."

  "Married!" He went very still. After a moment, his chest shook with suppressed laughter. "Uh-oh, you know about the great engagement hoax."

  "Yes." She could barely speak as he slowly slid one hand down to cover her hip, his fingers kneading gently. He kissed her ear, then tickled it with his tongue until she gasped and clung to him.

  His voice sounded warmly intimate. "And you forgive me for lying?"

  She groaned. "What do you think?"

  "I think it's time we continued this discussion elsewhere." He swung her around toward the house and clamped her to his side with one arm. "Let's go inside."

  "O-okay."

  He must have heard something in that single word because he stopped and pulled her fully into his arms again. "What is it, baby?" His smoky voice cajoled her to answer.

  "Nothing," she denied too quickly. She buried her face in the crook of his neck.

  "Don't hold out on me." He kissed the top of her head, nuzzling the short silky hair.

  "No, really. I just feel incredibly stupid admitting… admitting that—"

  After a moment's silence, he said gently, "You're embarrassed, right?"

  Her cheeks burned. "How did you guess?"

  His arms tightened around her. "I didn't guess. I feel the same way."

  "You're kidding!" Nervous laughter bubbled in her throat and she choked it back. "What's wrong with us, Ben? At our age… and we've known each other practically all our lives."

  "Nothing's wrong with us." He stroked the side of her face. "Sure, we go back a long way, but that has nothing to do with it. It's much simpler—you're a one-man woman and I'm a one-woman man. We
don't take a roll in the hay lightly."

  "I was beginning to think I was a no-man woman," she admitted wryly, to cover up the thrill of pleasure his words gave her.

  "I am about to put that fear to rest forever." He grabbed her hand and whirled away from the house, tugging her along. "Speaking of a roll in the hay—"

  "Where are we going?" She broke into a reluctant trot in the effort to keep pace.

  "I'm making it easier."

  "But—"

  "No buts. Trust me. Didn't you ever fantasize about making love in a hayloft?"

  "Sure—when I was about sixteen!" Laughing and breathless, she allowed him to pull her inside the inky interior of the barn. With a minimum of groping and miscues, he guided her to the ladder leading to the hayloft, set her feet upon it and gave her a pat, which more closely resembled a caress, on the bottom.

  Excited and intrigued, she scrambled up. He followed and at the top, caught her in his arms.

  "I sleep up here sometimes," he explained, turning her in his embrace so she could see silver moonlight spilling through the open loft doors at each end. "And this isn't hay, its straw. You'd have to be a masochist to sleep on hay."

  "I might be willing to try, if that's the only way I could…" She choked on the words.

  "Say it." His hands massaged her arms, raising goose flesh. "Say anything you want."

  She drew in a shaky breath. "If that's the only way I could have you, Ben. The way I feel right now, I could lie on a bed of spikes or walk barefoot through hot coals. I don't know what's happening to me."

  She clutched the hem of the too-big shirt and drew it smoothly over her head and tossed it aside, without bothering with a single button. "All I know is that I'm mad for you."

  He reached around behind her and unsnapped her bra. He kissed the curve of her shoulder while he slipped the straps from her shoulders and let the whole fall to the floor. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the waistband of her slacks, and then she was naked and eager for him.

  Sighing with pleasure, she pressed her breasts against him, rubbing her nipples into the smoothly muscled expanse of his bare chest. His hands on her shoulder blades traced erotic circles, making her arch against him.

  She tugged impatiently at the snap of his jeans. "Come on. What are you waiting for?"

  His low, languid laughter skittered along her nerve endings. "You're a greedy little thing, once you make up your mind."

  "I know."

  She ran her hands up and down his rib cage with reckless abandon, only his quickened breathing betraying his excitement. But she knew. Her palms skimmed across his chest; her fingertips flicked over his flat nipples and she heard the quick hiss of his breath.

  "Juli." Her name was a guttural moan on his lips.

  He scooped her up in his arms and strode to one end of the hayloft. Bending, he deposited her on a pile of straw covered with blankets… quilts—she didn't take time to make the distinction. She just lay there and watched him throw off his clothing.

  Moonlight made him a work of art, gilding a body honed down to magnificent essentials. No fat showed on belly or flanks, and his smooth, well-defined muscles flexed with his hurried movements. She stared at the denseness of his man's body, and all the passion she had denied so vehemently surged up into her throat, strong enough to choke her.

  In exquisite anticipation, she lifted her arms to him, tinder awaiting his match.

  Ben stood over the pallet, gazing down at the woman who had somehow managed to make him feel whole again. Juliana, of all people—who said life wasn't funny?

  He dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels, his hands resting on his bare thighs. He just wanted to look at her for a moment, savor the gifts she brought him.

  "W-what is it, Ben?"

  He could hear her teeth chatter around the words, and not from cold, he realized. He reached out to touch the gentle curve of her hip and she caught her breath. "You're beautiful," he said thickly. "I always thought so."

  "Did you?"

  He heard the pleasure in her voice. He slid his hand up over her rib cage and covered her breast, gently squeezing. She drew in her breath in a little gasp, but didn't move. In the silvery light, he saw her lick her lips.

  He bent to her mouth and she rose to meet him, tangling her hands in his hair to pull him closer. Kiss for kiss she matched him, her mouth hot and wet and sweet with passion.

  He could barely control his craving for her; he wanted to take her quickly and ruthlessly. He'd meant it when he called himself a one-woman man. His commitments, once made, were strong.

  He parted her thighs and covered the springy curling hair at the base of her belly with his palm. With mounting urgency, he moved his hand in a subtle rhythm, rubbing and coaxing her. She responded perfectly as if they'd done this a thousand times, and his fingers began to delve more deeply into the torrid heat of her.

  He felt her response build, first in a soft gasp lost in his mouth, then in the tightening of her muscles. She clutched at his shoulders, nails biting with sharp-sweet pain into his skin.

  "Now," she whispered raggedly, her arms suddenly urging him up. "Please!"

  He turned away for the instant needed to prepare and then he rolled over her, his knees between her parted legs and his hands above her shoulders. Shuddering, he looked down at her. Her eyes were closed and her head strained back on her slender throat. Her breath came in urgent little gasps and her entire body trembled.

  For an instant he held himself poised there. Her eyes opened unexpectedly, dark pools in her strained face, and she reached for him.

  He entered her with a single lightning stroke. Slick and ready, she yielded to him, rising to meet the joining thrust. Her strangled cry urged him on.

  His new hardness moved inside her and she moaned a little. Rotating her hips, she wrapped her legs high and tight around his torso.

  Gasping, he tried to control the pace. Sheathed as he was in her fiery depths, he felt himself nearing the edge too soon. Tension gathered and built in his straining muscles with every fierce stroke.

  She clawed at his shoulders, bucking her hips beneath his. Consciously or not, her tight hot sheath convulsed around his hard length and he jackknifed, control stripped away in an instant. She urged him on with soft cries of passion and he responded, his powerful strokes ramming into her enveloping softness with increasing force.

  She writhed beneath him, her murmured endearments inciting him to penetrate to the very limit of his ability to give—and hers to receive. He felt her first tiny contraction begin, begin and grow into deep, deep convulsions that consumed her entire body. She cried out, a strangled wail that ended on a note so intense it might have been agony but wasn't.

  That did it—he arched above her, his head flung back at the final stroke. Somehow her ecstasy was his and they were one. Exploding into the release he had initiated, he pitched forward into the maelstrom.

  They lay side by side on the pallet on the straw, their breathing almost, but not quite, returned to normal. She turned her head to the side to smile at him. He looked like she felt—limp, exhausted… and replete.

  She rolled over and snuggled closer to his side. The movement put her on some kind of lump. She shifted and reached beneath her to smooth away the obstruction and realized she'd found the box of condoms. Smiling, she rubbed a hand across his broad chest. His skin felt warm and silky beneath her palm.

  "Are you cold?" His husky voice startled her.

  "No. Oh, no."

  He hauled her more snugly against his side. "You shivered."

  "But not from cold." She kissed his shoulder, wishing she knew how to tell him how she felt. "I can't believe what just happened," she said finally. "To me, of all people!"

  His hand stroked her short hair. "Yeah. The tough cookie just crumbled."

  "The not-so-tough cookie, as it turns out." She bit her lip. "Ben, do you realize that if I hadn't nearly died, we wouldn't be here like this?"

  He grew very still.
"You can't be sure. We might have found each other, somehow."

  She knew that wasn't true, and she didn't think he believed it, either. There was no way she'd have let herself open up to him, had it not been through necessity. It had taken a catastrophic illness to tear down her carefully constructed defenses.

  And his feelings toward her hadn't exactly been friendly at the start, either. They wanted different things. He wanted to keep his land, she wanted to be instrumental in its sale.

  As he'd said, life was completely at the mercy of "ifs," she thought. If she hadn't gotten sick… if he hadn't saved her life… if, if, if.

  She flexed her body into his and sighed. There'd be plenty of time for introspection later on. At the moment, she felt wonderful, adrift on a soft cloud of sensual satisfaction more complete than any she could have conjured up.

  Elaborately casual, she rubbed her hand down his chest, over his navel and lower. He tensed, but not in displeasure, and she knew he was trying to ignore the tugging of her fingers as they walked their way closer to danger.

  Her fingers settled over the core of him, velvet stretched over resurgent flesh that bloomed beneath her touch. Warming to her task, she was completely unprepared for the brush of something furry and alive against the soles of her feet.

  She screamed and bolted up, her hand tightening convulsively around his most sensitive appendage.

  "Take it easy!" he roared, his own hand flying to cover hers. "You trying to make me a soprano?"

  "Good lord, no!" She loosened her hold on him, realizing that Freeloader was the intruder. "It's that damned cat!" Her heart raced in the aftermath of panic. The kitten purred from somewhere deep in the shadows, no longer a threat. She shivered and turned contritely back toward Ben. "Did I hurt you?"

  Ostensibly to make amends, she began to stroke him softly, but not soothingly. She felt his instant response. With a strangled groan, he fell back on the blanket and submitted to her determined fingers.