Abduction (34 page)

“Don’t be embarrassed. You’re charming when you talk so earnestly and enthusiastically. People rarely do.”

He gave her a reassuring smile that warmed and calmed her, but he sensed she no longer wanted to talk about herself.

“So, now it’s your turn to give me the third degree.”

She smiled, but remained quiet. He guessed why. He had been so protective of his privacy, it had been a source of so much painful conflict, she could not bring herself to ask a question.

“I suppose I haven’t really been fostering your inquisitive nature where I’m concerned, have I?”

She smiled softly, saying nothing.

“It’s incredible, in a way that’s maybe impossible for you to imagine, how I find myself wanting to tell you about myself. I truly cannot remember when I last wanted to talk to someone the way I do with you. With you I feel like you don’t want anything from me except me. If that makes sense.”

“Yes.”

She was touched, but she did not know what to say. She was still incredulous that Vaughn had taken an interest in her. The idea that he was seeking, offering, emotional intimacy in addition to a physical intimacy was surprising to her. He saw her unease.

“Don’t worry, I’m not about to confess that I tortured puppies as a boy, or that I’m secretly a member of the Moral Majority.”

He had made her smile.

“All right. Since you bring up your childhood, when you were a boy, what did you think you’d be when you grew up?”

Her question was carefully calculated to avoid his hot buttons.

“When I was small, I thought I’d be a doctor, like my dad. But from the time I was nine or ten, I thought I would be an artist. A painter.” 303

“Really? You painted?”

“I still do.”

“What sort of painting?”

“Abstracts, mostly in oil.”

“You don’t paint at the cabin?”

“Some. But the urban environment is sort of my inspiration. And painting is my way of relaxing. I don’t need it so much when I’m here.” He chuckled a little.

“What?”

“You see, I’ve already told you something about myself that nobody else knows.

Except Ali, my ex.”

“None of your friends know you paint?”

“No. It’s a private thing, something I do for myself. It’s cathartic.”

“Is making music cathartic?”

“On a certain level, maybe. But I rarely write music on my own. It’s almost always a collaborative thing, so that’s very different from what I get out of painting. And I seldom write music just for the sake of the music itself. I used to, before we became so successful. Somehow that took something away from it for me. I think that’s part of the reason I keep my painting a secret. Once you start creating something with the expectation of sharing it with the world, whether a commercial public or even your own friends, it changes how you feel about what you’re doing, it affects the decisions you make. With painting I never ask myself what anyone else would think about it. It’s utterly and completely mine.”

Devan thought of her writing. With her erotica, she always wrote it with a promise of privacy. And afterward she always published what she had written, anonymously, online. She was good at persuading herself, over and over, and believing her own false promise again and again, that no one but she would ever see what strange scenes she had conjured up in her mind, and this way she kept her writing honest, uninhibited. As open as she was closed. As dangerous as she was safe. She wondered if she would ever be able to write that away again, after Conrad had traced her writings to her.

Thinking all of this she simply smiled at Vaughn and quietly told him that she understood what he meant.

“Devan? May I ask you something? Something very personal?”

“Yes.?”

“Why have you never slept with a man?”

This question took her by surprise. She had never explained the answer to anyone. She had only a vague understanding of it herself.

"Don't answer me, if you don't want. I don't mean to be nosy." He laughed at himself. "Or I do. I just…want to know you better, understand you."

"It's all right."

She smiled, embarrassed.

"I mean, you are…well, you're only nineteen…"

Only nineteen. He couldn't help wishing she were older.

"It's not that it's strange, being inexperienced at your age. Not at all. But you've made choices…I was just wondering what was behind them."

“You read what I wrote in my journal.”

She thought of her fantasies, of her confession that the idea of dating and the world of normal relationships bored her—repelled her, almost. She was embarrassed to speak of it.

“Yes.”

“I suppose I’m just strange. I’ve never been attracted to the guys I’ve known, never really dated. My sex life has always been mental rather than corporeal.” He reached over, took her hand in his. He twined and untwined his fingers in hers as he spoke.

“So you’re…really as inexperienced as you told Conrad you were?” She looked down and nodded shyly.

“I mean, I was then.”

He felt a stab of guilt.

“I know I'm weird.”

“You mustn’t think I’m judging you.”

“What does that look mean, then?”

“I’m sorry, I was just thinking about something.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not thinking anything bad about you.”

Now he was flustered, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s none of my business.”

“What?”

“I didn’t mean to bring it up. I have no business asking. I just find myself wondering if something happened to you, when you were younger.” 306

“Oh.”

She laughed a soft little laugh. Her hurt feelings were unhurt.

“You mean, maybe I was molested as a kid or something, and that’s why I've been writing volumes of porn while living like a nun?” He looked at her with quiet understanding.

“No, nothing like that ever happened to me. No illicit touches from uncles or mother’s boyfriends or neighbors.”

He smiled very sweetly.

“I’m glad.”

“Yes, my perversity is perfectly organic.”

“I don’t think you’re perverse.”

“No?”

“No.”

She thought to herself that someday, maybe, she would tell him things about herself. Maybe let him read something of hers. And then they would see.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“Yes.”

“You wrote that normal sex didn’t interest you.”

God, she was pretty when she blushed.

“But when I kiss you, you seem excited.”

His line of questioning was embarrassing her, and the embarrassment was tantalizing. The heat in her belly, in her face, was fueled further by Vaughn's intent, penetrating gaze.

“Yes.”

“Because I frighten you?”

“No,” she blurted instinctively, then forced herself to be more honest with him.

“Or, partly, yes. But that’s less and less of it. I know you’ll…you'd never hurt me. I know you’ve come to feel tenderly for me.”

She looked down shyly as she said this, unable to meet his eyes. There was something, still, that aroused her fear when he held her. Not that she didn't trust him. It was, she reasoned, like a child being tickled by a grown-up. Or like lover being bound by lover. Even in the presence of trust there is a giddy fear that comes of knowing that really, control has been surrendered. Or taken. Of knowing that in the next second one may cry out, ‘please, no,’ and that cry might go unheeded. And in that second the illusion of safety will be obliterated.

He smiled at her shyness.

“I don’t mean to interrogate you. I’m just nervous with you, after all that’s happened. After all that Conrad did to you. All that I’ve done to you.”

“I know.”

“I’m a little in awe, actually, that you let me touch you, much less…” He had begun to say “make love to you,” but he realized how presumptuous that was. She had not invited him to sleep with her. At least not in so many words. He was an ass for even suspecting that that was where things were slowly headed.

“I know that I’m not supposed to be able to forgive you for the way you treated me that first day, or for what happened yesterday…”

The image of him coming on her belly strobed though her mind, sending a surge of excitement through her stomach and groin.

“…but, honestly, in a strange way it all makes me feel closer to you.” She noted his look of uncomfortable surprise.

“I know how perverted I sound. I probably shouldn’t tell you these things. I must sound like…some kind of freak."

“No, Dev.”

Worried that more words of reassurance would have sounded perfunctory, he leaned over and drew her to him, kissing her warmly, deeply. Sealing that kiss with a tender, more innocent kiss of affection before letting her go.

She smiled, reassured by his kiss that she hadn't freaked him out.

“I’m glad too," she went on quietly, "because if all that hadn’t happened yesterday I would never have read your journal, or shown you mine. I know you probably still wish I didn’t know those things about you, but I’m glad I do. That makes me feel closer to you, too. Like, in a way, you’re the only one who knows who I really am.”

Later, as they walked back, talking, he took her hand in his. Just this innocent touch was thrilling to her. Every moment they were not in contact she hoped he would touch her, and now that they were holding hands she longed for him to embrace her, to kiss her, to…every instant a new image of the ways he might touch her, kiss her appeared and momentarily filled her head.

When, some time later, he paused and pulled her to him, and kissed her, she was astonished, yet again, at the power of the feelings, physical and emotional, the 309

tender caress of his mouth evoked in her. She felt almost as if she would cry, as if her body were melting into a rivulet of hot tears. Her response, so strong, so earnest, excited him, made him feel vital. When their kiss ended and they looked at each other, each was met with an expression of hopeful happiness.

When they got back they ate dinner, or lunch—whatever meal it is one eats when they've only been up for four or five hours, but it's already getting dark. They read, and talked and cuddled, and later took turns showering, and when Devan emerged, her wet hair in two neat braids behind her ears, Vaughn had lit a fire and poured them two glasses of wine. Seeing the inviting bed of pillows and cushions beside the hearth Devan blushed, because it looked such the cliché love nest.

"I know," Vaughn said with an embarrassed grin as he handed her a glass, "I feel a little like a teenager showing his date the waterbed in the back of the van. I just thought it would be nice to be able to lounge together by the fire. And I don't know about you, but I think I still have an imprint on my ass from the hours we put in on the couch recently.

She was charmed just about out of her mind that he actually seemed nervous with her. Almost as nervous as she was with him. They sat on the cloud of cushions he'd arranged, leaning back against the sofa, sipping their wine, sometimes talking, sometimes exchanging little touches, innocent kisses, and now and then drifting into easy, contemplative silences that were strangely comfortable for two people so new to each other.

When they finished their wine they set their glasses aside and settled down into the relaxing warmth of the fire and the little nest of pillows. Just lying there next to him 310

her whole body was hot, her blood thrumming pleasantly through her. The way he was looking at her sent a ripple of nervous excitement into her stomach. He took her in his arms, kissing her warmly. They were still new to each other, she learning the sensations and the art of kissing, he learning the taste, the smell, the feel of her under his mouth.

They vacillated between tenderness, ardor, and playfulness. Lying side by side at first, he turned onto his back, pulling her astride him, wanting to feel that kind of closeness but not wanting to startle her as he had that night when he had lain on top of her. She felt awkward, nervous, controlling their kiss more now that she was atop him. It was she who began and ended each kiss, who made it light or deep. She buried her fingers in his soft hair, he ran his hands over her back, from her neck and shoulders, down into the dip of her arched back, lightly over the luscious curve of her bottom.

Sensing their excitement swelling beyond the limits of his self-restraint, Vaughn pressed his mouth to her cheek. She heard his breath gust in rapid bursts near her ear.

She lay her head on his heaving chest, felt and heard the gung-gung, gung-gung of his heart. As strange and new as the kisses and caresses were, this closeness was even less familiar. Embraces, physical affection, the tender attention of a man was novel to her. She felt safe. Happy.

She slipped down, onto the nest of pillows. Lying on her side, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm holding her close against him, she watched her hand rise and fall with the dip and swell of his belly as he breathed in and out. Through his shirt she felt the heat of him. She breathed in his scent, feeling in herself a pleasant, almost physical reaction to the faint aroma of his freshly laundered shirt, the almond of the shower soap, and his own warm scent. Looking down she noticed the hem of his t-shirt was just 311

starting to come undone, a crinkly little thread zigzagging above the black cotton.

Absentmindedly she fingered the thread, pulling it lightly, just to the point where all the tiny kinks came straight, then letting it contract again. Her pinky brushed against the bare skin of his stomach where his shirt had ridden up a few inches. She gazed down, fascinated by this narrow expanse of his vulnerable flesh, pale and smooth, soft looking now, with him lying on his back, relaxed, though she'd seen before how lean and muscular he was. She wanted to feel that soft skin, and lightly let her fingertips run along the edge of his shirt, watching as they traced the curve of side and belly, as they trailed over the faint line of dark hair around his navel. Her fingers made the return trip against the waistband of his sweats, feeling the little hill of hip bone, then the dip, his hot, smooth skin, the texture, again, of that faint line of hair, then back to the soft, warm flesh. She liked this intimacy, this closeness. Lightly, she pressed her open hand to his belly, made a gentle circle with her hand, amazed at how…vulnerable, how alive he felt to her hand. Then she snatched her hand back, feeling a hot blush scald her face.