The Red Diary Page 12

  Yesterday Carolyn had told her that maybe, for once in her life, she should forget about meaning and think about fun. Her body, her physical needs. God knew she ached for him, ached for the release she somehow understood only he could give her. And yet, how mud would it devastate her to forsake what she believed in, to let sex be nothing more than a physical act, nothing that mattered when it was over? How could she pin it herself to do it? How could she risk herself that way? She pulled in her breath upon realizing that, in light of all the uncertainty surrounding Nick, simply saying yes to her desires would take as much strength as it might take another woman to say no--because it was so contrary to all she believed in, all she thought sacred between man and woman. Saying yes was not the easy answer, but the difficult one. Saying yes was not giving in; it was putting herself out there, taking a dare, being bolder than she'd probably ever been in her life. She wanted Nick Armstrong with every ounce of her being, and breaking all the promises she'd ever made to herself suddenly seemed as easy as ... letting go of the towel.

  It dropped in a heap at her feet, but Nick's eyes never left hers.

  Her lips trembled as fear and wild anticipation filled her.

  Nick reached for her free hand. lifting it to his mouth.

  He kissed her palm, then slowly lowered it to the front of his jeans. The touch jolted her God. he was so hard, so ready, and it was all for her.

  "Kiss me," she whispered desperately.

  Both his hands cupped her face as he delivered a firm, passionate kiss, his tongue plunging past her lips, the kiss engulfing her. She unthinkingly caressed him through his jeans, then heard him moan into her mouth.

  Releasing a sigh that let her know she affected him as much as he affected her, Nick scooped her naked body up into his arms and turned toward the door. Freeing one hand to open it, he pushed it wide and carried her inside.

  This is happening, she thought, really happening. And I'm letting it. Anticipation blended with relief, the end of the suspense. The three days she'd known him had felt more like three years. She would finally have him.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck as he walked, she pulled him down into another feverish kiss. It seemed no time to be timid or go slow. One kiss dissolved into another until Nick had crossed the family room to get them into a white leather chair so that she straddled him.

  Dropping the rose to a table next to them, she sought something to say, some way to make this seem like more than it was, but came up empty. She yearned for it to be more than sex, even now, even still, but it just wasn't.

  He seemed to read her mind. "Don't say anything. Just let go."

  His work-roughened hands roamed her body, and when they reached her rear, urged her up onto her knees. She rose for him, watching as he kissed her breasts, then she arched her back and lifted her arms above her head to give him better access. Prince's "Little Red Corvette" echoed from the speakers, low and potent, telling her she was much too fast, that all this was much too fast, but reason and decision were far past mattering now.

  While one of Nick's hands cupped the breast he suckled, the other 'snaked around the back of her thigh, his fingers burying themselves between her legs. She jerked and cried out, stunned at the initial intrusion, but as he slid two fingers in and out of her, she got caught up in the sensations and began to move on them.

  "Oh God, Nick," she panted, just to hear herself say his name. It was all she had of him, all she really knew of him. It was the only connection she could make with him.

  "Shhhh, babe," he murmured against her breast, then blew on her nipple, making her pull in her breath.

  Sinking down into his lap, she thrust her hands into his hair and dragged him into a hard kiss. His fingers, inside her, had maddened her, and she wanted to go further, faster now. Every pore of her body tingled with excitement and she found herself writhing against the front of his jeans, hungry to bond with that incredibly hard part of him. He pushed back, moved with her, his hands on her bottom, pulling her against him, as they continued exchanging rough kisses. He bit her lip once, making her squeal, then she bit his and held on longer.

  "That hurt," he muttered.

  She leaned to whisper in his ear. "But it felt good, too."

  "Yeah," he breathed.

  She raked her teeth down his earlobe. "I want you, Nick," she rasped. fully embracing what was happening now. There was no other way.

  "Unzip me."

  Her breath grew raspy as she moved her hands to the front of his blue jeans. She struggled to undo the button, then slid the zipper briskly down; he burst free of the confinement just above her hand, the tip of his erection peeking from the top of his gray briefs.

  "Don't stop there," he whispered low, panting just as she was.

  Their eyes met, and she bit her lip, gathering the last ounce of courage she had. She dropped her gaze and watched the fingers of both her hands curl around the edge of his underwear to pull it down.

  The strangled sound she heard was her breath leaving her. He was magnificently large and beautiful. She should have been frightened because she'd never been with a man who looked like this when aroused, but in stead she only wanted him more than she had before "Oh God, Nick. I-"

  "No," he whispered. "Don't talk."

  She wanted to touch him there, but couldn't quit bring herself to do it. So instead she pushed his shirt over his chest and ran her hands over his hard nipple, his muscled stomach. And as she slid her palms lower she let them pass down onto his abdomen, but never let them stray to the rock hard column in the center, instead running her hands to either side. As her lips trembled, as the passion inside he mounted still more, she thought of her fantasy and reached beside them for the rose. Taking the stem care fully between her fingers, she lowered the bloom to the base of his penis. She felt him tense. heard him pull in his breath. She, pulled hers in, too. Then she slowly grazed the soft petals up his length until she reached the tip, where she used the rose to sweep away the dot of moisture there.

  When he trembled and closed his eyes, she knew the power she'd only dared dream she might ever feel with him. And when he opened them back up, wearing the, most feral look she'd ever seen, she didn't want to stall anymore, either.

  Nick took the rose and tossed it aside to the Carpet. Then, planting his hands on her butt, he lifted her to him letting the tip of his erection jut barely into her waiting flesh--yet he paused just short of entry, as if giving he the opportunity to change her mind.

  Not a chance, not possible. She shook her head and whispered. "Don't make me wait."

  She placed her palms on his shoulders and stared into those dark, dangerous eyes. He pressed her hips, pushed her down onto him. She cried out at the quick burst of pain-it had been too long since her last sex-but the deep pleasure, the fullness of having him inside her, overrode any discomfort in a heartbeat.

  She wanted to whisper his name, whisper crazy things like, "I love you," because that was what she did when she made love to a man. But this wasn't making love, she had to keep reminding herself. This was just sex, and it was about nothing but physical sensation, how it felt. And it felt incredible and hot and powerful, so that's what she tried to focus on. She stayed blissfully aware of his size as he thrust up into her. She could feel how wet she was, could hear it. It was a raw reminder of what they were doing, but she kept gazing into Nick's eyes and simply let herself feel everything, every hot, sexy, dirty part of it.

  It didn't take long before she sensed herself climbing, rising higher and higher on a mountain of heat and pleasure and need. And then things slowed-she hungrily met Nick's eyes as she moved on him in tight, deliberate circles that worked everything inside her just the right way. Oh, yes.

  "Oh God," she said as the climax began. She had reached the peak of the mountain and now tumbled hard and fast and furious down the other side without an ounce of control. "Oh God, Nick ... Oh God." She let go of the world for a moment and let the harsh pleasure consume her, pound through her.

>   And then it was over, leaving her drained and relieved but all too aware of what had just happened, what she'd just done. The orgasm had ended, yet the feelings it left in her were only the beginning.

  It was impossible-she should have known that! It was impossible for her to have sex with someone without feeling that enormous, unbreakable connection, and that's what she felt now for Nick, that quickly. In the few heartbeats it had taken her to come, she had fallen-not just down the mountain, but also for him.

  The need was more than physical now; even if it didn't make any sense, it just was. She bent to rest her head on his shoulder and prayed she wouldn't cry. He ran his hands over her back and breathed, "You're so beautiful." She let that fuel her, let it be enough to get her through this.

  "I wanna make you come, too." The tiny whisper left her unplanned, near his ear, and his entire body shuddered beneath her.

  "Oh, baby," he breathed hotly, pulling in his breath.

  "Oh, baby-yeah." Then he shuddered once more, pressing her hips down hard, and she felt him emptying inside her. And she thought, Oh God, we didn't use a condom! while in the same moment thinking, I'm glad we didn't because I feel him so much.

  When she drew back, he lifted his large hands to her face, kissed her intensely, then stared at her hard. She thought the frozen moment of stillness might never end, and she almost never wanted it to. He was making her feel beautiful again.

  Yet finally he lowered his hands to her waist to gently lift her off him. She rose awkwardly to her feet, wondering what came next and suddenly feeling more self conscious about her nudity than she had since his arrival.

  Nick stood, pulling up his briefs, zipping his pants.

  Then he silently walked over to where he'd tossed the rose, stooping to pick it up. Returning, he held it out.

  She accepted it once more, but pricked her thumb on a thorn, crying, "Oh!" before finding a better place to hold the stem. "Careful," he whispered. Their eyes met and for the first time she thought she saw something in them other than heat. Something like sadness, desperation, worry something she couldn't understand.

  "Nick, I-"

  "Shhh." He lifted one finger gently to her lips.

  Then he turned toward the back door, and walked out. He left her there, without another kiss, without another word, with nothing to hold on to but a rose that, before tonight, had only been imaginary.

  Chapter Eight

  Lauren's hands shook as she reached for a bud vase in an overhead cabinet, as she turned on the faucet to fill it, as she lowered the rose into the narrow opening, cupping the bloom in one hand, using the other to guide the stem.

  She'd shaken as she'd showered, and she'd shaken as she'd dressed, forgoing her terry robe for a pair of full length satin pajamas. She needed clothes, around her, cocooning her. She wanted to be covered now, wanted to forget all about her body and the way he'd touched it, the way he'd made her feel.

  She'd considered throwing the rose into the garbage.

  After all, it was more than a little rumpled now, and the gesture of giving it seemed greatly overridden by the way Nick had walked out on her. And yet, being the rose from her fantasy, she hadn't quite been able to discard it. If she did, she might somehow convince herself it had never existed, that she'd imagined his bringing it-a pale pink rose. Shaking her head at the wonder of it, she carried the vase to the mantel, squeezing it between a pillar candle and a brass bookend in the shape of a cat.

  Not quite sure how to resume normal life at the moment, she stepped back, her eyes still on the flower, until she lowered herself to the leather sofa that matched the chair where they'd just had sex. She glanced at the chair, almost disbelieving. And truly, she might not have believed it if she didn't have the rose as evidence. She might have convinced herself it was all a hot, wild dream. A fantasy like the ones in her journal.

  Letting out a forlorn sigh, she thought, What was I going to do tonight? Oh yes, curl up with the cat and a book. But she'd have no hope of focusing on a book now, and the cat was currently AWOL; she hadn't seen Izzy since Nick had shown up. Well, looked like there was no chance of simply going on. simply acting normal. She' d finally quit shaking, but her chest ached with a searing intensity she knew well from the past-heartbreak. She shut her eyes, but it wasn't enough to block a tear from rolling down her cheek.

  It had been one thing to understand that having sex with him would be a terrible mistake because her heart would get involved, because she'd feel that horrible emotional pull she'd feared last night, and because she'd know, in his eyes, they'd shared nothing but sex. Yet it had never occurred to her-never even once-that he'd just leave, that he wouldn't at least hold her for a little while, that they wouldn't at least talk afterward.

  "But what the hell did you expect?" she muttered aloud, angry at her own sugary-sweet attitudes. Monet and roses aside, she'd known the kind of man he was, she'd known better than to expect the tenderness and closeness she craved-that was why she'd stopped last night at the beach. Yet now she'd knowingly traded that tenderness for sex, for the act, for an orgasm, for the sensation of having him inside her. Clearly, she'd forgotten how bad it hurt when you shared that and it was over and the man was gone.

  Nick swung the Jeep into the driveway and climbed the steps to his place quickly. He hadn't exactly wanted to leave her, but something inside had made him do it. He'd had a plan-a plan to prove himself worthy of her-but he'd never bothered devising an end to the plan. And when that part had come, he'd been unable to forget he still wasn't really good enough for her, in her mind anyway. To her, he was just a house painter, a nobody, and he especially wouldn't be good enough for her if she knew who he really was. So as she'd stood gazing up at him, her eyes as warm and velvety as the night sky, he'd felt the bitter old man inside him take hold, then he'd left.

  Stepping into the quiet condo, he didn't bother turning on any lights. He simply went to the empty second bedroom-the room he planned to make into an office if he ever got around to it-and stared out the windows that bowed around one wall to look out over the dark ocean. The same windows lined the wall in his own bedroom, but he came into this room sometimes seeking solitude. He liked the barrenness of it, the starkness of the empty walls and the smooth, bare hardwood beneath his boots. In here, the view was the only thing that mattered; it gave the feeling that if you stepped through the window, you could walk on the water and keep going forever. It was a moving. living canvas. a Monet come to life.

  He ran a hand back through his hair. every side of him tense. The question rumbled through him again. Why the hell had he left?

  And then a horrible answer bit at him.

  Had he done it to hurt her? The same way she'd hurt him by calling him nobody?

  Maybe that was why he'd kept telling her not to talk.

  The emotion edging her soft voice had made it seem ... more real, made her seem more real, not just the Barbie doll daughter of the man who'd ruined his family. Suddenly, he hadn't wanted to hear her say his name, hadn't wanted to let himself believe even for a second he was anything more to her than a nobody. As long as he remained nobody to Lauren Ash, her feelings didn't have to concern him. But if that changed, if he didn't believe that any longer ... things got a hell of a lot more complicated than they already were.

  Because another question lingered in his mind, and he couldn't block it out. If he'd wanted to hurt her, was it only because she'd called him "nobody"? Or was it also because of their fathers, the past? What happened between their families wasn't her fault, but had he somehow wanted to hurt her in return for the Ashes hurting the Armstrong's?

  He clenched his fists in frustration and wished he could see more than the occasional streak of light crossing the water; he wanted something to distract him from this confusion, something to relax him. What was the problem here anyway? Why was he so goddarmned tense? What more had he wanted than to seduce her?

  He'd gotten what he'd craved from the moment they'd met, and it had been spectacul
ar. He wished it had lasted longer, but when she'd come, when he'd seen that sweet ecstasy wash over her face, take over her body, it had pushed him too far. And when she'd whispered in his ear that she wanted to make him come, too-she had.

  Still, even having told him last night she wanted meaningful sex, she wouldn't have wanted it with him. not if she knew who he was. Besides, was he expected to believe she wanted to form a long, lasting relationship with a house painter? Nope, wouldn't happen. Not in a million years. Hell, he'd had every reason to leave, every reason to treat it like what it was: casual sex.

  He let out a long sigh. Ah, shit.

  Maybe he wanted it to feel more like some kind of justice, more like you-wound-me-and-I-wound-you back, but it didn't satisfy him in that way. Why did his every move with this woman leave him filled with remorse?

  On impulse, he went to the empty room's closet, pushing the sliding door aside and pulling a chain that lit up the inside. He kept spare paint in here, cans of odd colors that had been opened on a job but not all used.

  His eyes fell on a small container of sea-foam pinka Florida favorite, the same color he was covering up on Lauren's house-and beneath it a larger can of ecru toffee. They were the wrong kinds of paint, but he could probably make them work. Leaving the room, he headed for his bedroom closet, flipping lights on along the way. Reaching to the top shelf, he pushed past high school yearbooks and a box of old pictures to find an ancient set of paintbrushes his mother had given him for his eleventh birthday. He'd acted like he thought it was a boring gift at the time-all his friends had been there for cake and ice cream and he'd had a reputation to maintain -but he'd secretly liked them, and used them. Damn things were now, though, they might fall apart as soon as he touched them.