Take Me All the Way (18 page)

“Wow,” she said, biting her lower lip as she gazed on him with pure affection. Because he was somehow making things that were hard for her . . . so much easier.

His mouth quirked into a sexy grin. “That's what I like to hear.”

The trill of laughter that left her sounded utterly girlish, even to her own ears. “Isn't it amazing?” she mused aloud.

“Isn't what amazing?” he asked, flirtatious grin still in place.

“That the human body can do that? That we're wired that way.”

Now he was the one to chuckle. “I never thought about it that way, but yeah, I guess it is.”

She shook her head lightly, compelled to make him understand what she meant. “I'm just usually . . . a practical person. I view life through that kind of lens.”

“I kinda already knew that about you, Mary,” he said on a wink.

“And this is just reminding me that . . . sometimes throwing practicality out the window is a perfectly good idea.”

His grin widened. “Sometimes it's the downright smart thing to do.” Only . . . then his gaze darkened when she'd least expected it. “But not all the time.”

“What's wrong?” she asked.
Please don't let him be changing his mind.
She was in this now, all the way.
God, please let him be, too.

“I can't freaking believe this, honey, but . . . I don't have a condom. And I'm betting you don't either.”

Her eyes went wide. She hadn't even thought about that. It had been a million years, after all, since she'd even had sex. And thank God he wasn't pulling back on this thing between them, but . . . this was bad in a whole different way. “No,” she whispered. “I don't.”

They lay in silence a moment, both absorbing this new reality.

Only then, she remembered. “But I'm taking birth control.”

He blinked. “Why? I mean, it's none of my business, but you said it had been a long time . . .”

“For other female reasons,” she explained, keeping it simple.

Jeremy met her gaze. “So then, how long is a long time? Since you last . . . ?”

Okay, she was still a little embarrassed by that. “Years,” she said, keeping that simple, too. “Long enough that, well, I know I'm . . . safe.”

“It's been a few years for me, too, and I got a clean bill of health before I was discharged from the Marines.”

“So . . .” she said, considering the situation.

“So . . .” he repeated—but he finished the thought. “We might be the two luckiest people on earth right now—because we don't really
need
a condom.”

The idea made Tamra laugh. Since that did make her feel extremely fortunate. And excited. Enough that she kissed him, hard. It was like . . . a whole new surrender. To everything. With Jeremy.

“I want you.” The words spilled from her lips without thought. Or regret. Or any trepidation now.

In response, Jeremy pressed his hand over hers, where it rested flat against his chest—and he slid it
downward, over his stomach, past his belt buckle, and onto the rock solid column behind his zipper.

Tamra gasped as her desire flared. The space between her thighs felt empty, aching to be filled. Her whole body pulsed with the beat of her heart as she let her fingers close gentle but firm over the stone-like bulge beneath her touch. And like before, she didn't even ponder her words, just spoke her heart. “Don't make me wait. Not another second. I've waited too long already.”

A deep groan echoed from Jeremy's throat as their gazes locked.

But then he broke the stare to start undoing his pants.

Tamra kissed him some more as he worked the belt and button and zipper—and when he lifted slightly to push them over his hips, she instinctively parted her legs and shifted her body, pulling his weight onto her.

Oh God, his erection rested against that softest part of her, and one more unplanned word echoed from her lips. “Please.”

She didn't have to ask again. Planting his hands on her bare hips under her dress, Jeremy thrust his way firmly inside her.

. . . she always said that what happened almost at that moment was Magic.

Frances Hodgson Burnett,
The Secret Garden

A
FTER SO
very long, it was a jolt to her body to be entered that way—and tears nearly sprang to her eyes. But they weren't tears of pain—because a split-second past that initial discomfort came the soul-searing satisfaction of being filled by him.

The tears she held back were because this was how men and women were supposed to come together, what their bodies were made to do, and she was—at last—experiencing that. And to think she'd tried to push away her need for it, her natural desire. Attempting to deny it seemed so pointless now.

Of course, until now no one had come along to help her have this. And so she knew it was all unfolding as it was supposed to. She didn't know what would happen between her and Jeremy after this, but she knew in her soul that he was the man meant to unlock her desires, the man meant to make her open herself to romance again.

Jeremy peered down into the eyes of the woman beneath him. They were glassy, wet, but her lips were parted in passion.

And shit—she was so, so tight inside that he was afraid he'd hurt her at first. But now, as he began to move in her in slow, firm, deep thrusts, small whimpers of pleasure left her, fueling his desire.

God. Yes. Damn, was it possible he'd actually forgotten how good this felt?

Tamra wasn't his usual kind of woman. The truth was, she was right—in the past, he'd gone for the more typically pretty girls, the ones who'd once been cheerleaders and homecoming queens. Those girls usually knew how to be outgoing, how to flirt, how to
be
with a guy—and that made it easy.

But the further truth was—none of that had ever crossed his mind until she'd started pointing it out to him, telling him everything she thought was wrong with her. And he'd instantly realized that maybe he wanted her
because
she was different. He was finding his way in life to a whole new normal, and maybe wanting a different kind of woman than he ever had before was just one more part of it.

And she was a funny little thing in ways—in, out; up, down; stop, go. But all that mattered right now, in this moment, was that she hadn't stopped
this time
.

Not having a condom was a blessing in disguise. She was so wet, clearly so ready, and now he moved in and out of her snug warmth with smooth precision, each stroke echoing outward from his cock through the rest of his body.

“You're a beautiful woman, Tamra,” he breathed. He'd told her that before, but he needed her to know
it now. Needed her to feel that. One hand still gripped her hip, the other he'd lifted to brush the hair from her cheek, helping the moonlight illuminate her face.

And he'd nearly called her Mary—a nickname that had somehow stuck in his head because it fit her so well, because she
was
so contrary. But in this moment, none of that mattered. In this moment, she was Tamra.

She expelled a rough breath, and brought her hands to his face as well. She ran them over his cheeks, jaw, beard, like a blind person seeing someone through the use of their touch. “And you're a beautiful man,” she whispered. “I'm so glad you let me . . . see you.”

And he was, too. It had gotten too easy to hide behind overgrown hair, too easy to just quit taking care of himself. Seeing how he looked after his haircut had reminded him . . . of who he could be. He wasn't the old Jeremy Sheridan—clean-cut war hero—but he was . . . a better guy than the one who'd been hiding up at Whisper Falls. And now Tamra could see that, as well. “Me too, honey,” he told her. “Me too.”

Soon, though, there was no more room for words between them—there was only thrusting, driving deep within her, making her cry out, knowing the distinct pleasure of making her feel exactly how connected their bodies were right now.

Soon, there was only the wetness and the heat. There were only his fingers digging into her ass as hers clutched at his shoulders. There was only the garden, surrounding them, cocooning them in the lushness of the trees and flowers and big, waxy leaves of tropical foliage.

Soon there wasn't even room for thought, only sensation. His body pulsed with every hard plunge into her.
Her hot whimpers echoed in his ears. Blood drained from his face, rushing south, gathering between his legs as the fever she inspired in him mounted, nearing that point of no return.

And then, he reached it. And a few ragged words spilled from his mouth. “Aw. God. Now, honey.”

And his eyes fell shut, brilliant flashes of color exploding behind them as he came, like what you saw when you looked directly into the sun. He erupted inside her, driving hard, hard, hard, loving the way it made her cry out even as the climax threatened to consume him.

F
LETCHER
drove toward his cottage on Sea Shell Lane, same as any other time. Same as any other time except that a glance toward the passenger seat revealed that Kim was sitting beside him. It was like riding with a ghost, a ghost of happiness past. He kept looking to make sure, to confirm he wasn't imagining the whole thing.

“You look so different to me,” she said musingly, head tilted as she peered over at him. “When did you shave your beard off and cut your hair?”

“A few hours ago,” he answered stiffly. He didn't
mean
to be stiff—it just came out that way. He
felt
stiff. She was the woman he'd loved his whole adult life, and yet at the same time she was a stranger to him.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Really? Just a few hours? If I'd arrived yesterday, it still would have been there?”

His short nod came out equally as stiff.

“Timing is everything in life, isn't it?” she observed.

He swallowed back the urge to reply, but thought she'd just said a mouthful.

“You look really good, Fletch. Really good.” Then her voice went lower, her tone changing. “How are you? Are you doing okay?”

Funny, he'd been waiting four years to pour his heart out to this woman, four years waiting for her to care, but now he found himself wanting to keep his thoughts private, even from her. “I'm fine,” he said.

As he made the left turn onto Sea Shell Lane, he felt Kim looking at him, perhaps sensing the gravity in his words. But then she took in their surroundings. “Wow, you live here? It's like . . . a storybook. Or some old-fashioned postcard.”

I was hoping you'd like it.
It had been more than a place to wait for her, after all. He'd made a home here, all with the idea of it belonging to both of them one day. But that was one more thing he found himself not especially eager to reveal at the moment. So he said, “It's nice.”

“Right by the ocean, too,” she noticed aloud as they pulled in his driveway.

“Yeah.” He turned off the engine.

“So . . . you've been performing on the beach all this time? In this one spot? Waiting for me?”

Somehow, now, he was embarrassed to confirm that. The waiting part. So, still sitting in the car, he turned and looked at her. “Where have you been, Kim?”

Her eyes grew wider again, but her voice stayed calm. “Can we go inside to talk? Or maybe sit on your porch?” She pointed.

Yet suddenly Fletcher didn't want to share
any
of that with her,
any
of his home.
His
home. That
he'd
made here. He'd always planned on sharing it with
her—he'd
longed
to share it with her—but somehow, now, it wasn't that easy.
Nothing
was as easy as he'd expected it to be. “Here is fine for now,” he said.

She looked appropriately cowed as she softly replied, “Okay.” Then she paused, thought. “I've been . . . a lot of places. I spent some time on the California coast. And a few months on Cape Cod after that. I was in the Chesapeake area for a while. And for the last few months I've been at my mother's house in Iowa. Thinking about what I really want. And figuring out that it's still you.”

This next question was harder to ask. “Wh-why did you go?”

She bit her lip, looked nervous. Yeah, this was definitely the hard part, for both of them. “I . . . I need to be honest here, Fletcher, so I'll just tell you. I met someone. Here, on the beach, a few days before I left. I know it'll hurt to hear this, but . . . he made me feel new things, exciting things, and he made me question everything about where I was, what my life was about, what I wanted. He was leaving for L.A. and asked me to come. There was no time to think carefully. I wasn't completely sure about any of it—but I made the decision to go. And I hated hurting you—I hated it. But I believed we would both ultimately be better for it in the end.

“After all, if I wanted to leave, that meant it was best for you, too, right? How could we be happy if I stayed where I wasn't fulfilled?” She stopped, shook her head. “I'm not explaining this very well, but my feelings then were complicated.”

“And now?” he asked.

She met his gaze fully. “Now they're much simpler. I've gone on that journey. And the journey has ultimately led me . . . back to you. But now I want to be
here. Now I want to be your wife. Now I want our life together, just as it was—I want to see the world with you and meet new people with you and make what we had together even better. I'd reached a place of taking you for granted, Fletcher. But I won't do that again.”

Fletcher could barely wrap his mind around all she was saying. It answered some questions, but created so many more. Was he happier now, now that she'd come waltzing back into his world? He was happy to know she was alive and well—but beyond that, he wasn't sure.

“The L.A. guy.” He swallowed back the lump in his throat. He'd known that she was probably with someone, but having it verified still stung. “What happened to him?”

“We split up after a few months. He . . . wasn't a very good guy, it turned out.” She looked sad, like that wound hadn't yet healed. And that stung, too. Because he sensed all her wounds were about someone other than him.

“There were other guys?”

She gave a short nod. “But in the end, they meant nothing.”

“You mean in the end, they let you down.”

She confirmed it with another nod.

And he explained, “When someone lets you down, it means something—
they
meant something. Otherwise, you wouldn't have been let down.”

“Oh . . .” she said, clearly seeing his logic. “But . . . well, they meant nothing compared to you, Fletch.”

He pulled in his breath. Pretty words. He wanted to believe them. “This is a lot to take in,” he told her.

“I know.” She reached to cover his hand with hers where it rested near the gearshift between them.

Instinctively, he pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. “It's just . . . awfully soon for touching.” Even though he couldn't have imagined, even a few days ago, ever pulling away from her.

After a long, awkward moment of silence, the only sound that of crashing waves in the distance, she asked softly, “Who was that girl?”

Fletcher sighed and answered honestly. “She was the first woman to start making me think about someone other than you. But like you said, timing is everything.”

“Meaning . . . I came back in time?”

He didn't know how to answer.

And before he concocted a reply, she asked, “Do you still love me, Fletch? Do you still have a place in your heart for me? Can we start over? Let me make things right. Let me make it all better. I know I can, if you'll just let me.”

Fletcher could have said many things. He could have weighed many things. His heart hurt right now—far more than he'd have thought possible. When he'd envisioned Kim coming home, he'd expected only elation, pure bliss—and this was a far cry from that.

And yet . . . didn't he owe it to himself to keep believing?

He'd believed in this for so long, so long that he'd finally gotten what he wanted—so what sense would it make to turn his back on it now?

So he gave his wife one more simple reply. “Yes, Kim. The answer to all your questions is yes.”

“
S
O
what exactly is up with you, Mary?”

Tamra lay wrapped in Jeremy's arms in the ham
mock. They still wore most of their clothes, albeit in a disheveled fashion, but now curled up in a blanket she'd grabbed on her way back from a trip to the bathroom.

Her head rested on his chest, but the question made her lift it slightly and peer down at him. “Up with me?”

He was grinning. “What makes you so contrary?” he asked, adding a wink.

She relaxed against that muscular chest again, thinking through her reply. She could have denied it again, but she knew it was true—at least with him. And yesterday, she wouldn't have dreamed of getting into something so personal with him—but given how much she'd opened up to him already, somehow it felt safer now. And maybe she even wanted to. So he'd know she actually had a
reason
for being a little contrary.

“I told you once before that I was raised on a commune.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearly ready to listen.

“Until I was ten, I led a pretty normal life. I lived with my parents and big brother in a suburb of Peoria, Illinois in a three-bedroom ranch house in a typical subdivision where all the kids rode bikes up and down the street and the dads took pride in their lawns while the moms baked cookies and hosted Mary Kay makeup parties. And I had no idea how good I had it until that life was taken away from me.”

“What happened?”

She felt him looking at her but kept her eyes down, taking in the hair that sprinkled his chest, and her fingers, resting there, touching him. And she swallowed back the small lump that had risen to her throat.
Funny she still couldn't talk about this with ease—it was so long ago—but her feelings about it never really got easier; they only got pushed aside and replaced by better things. To talk about it was to go back there in a way, to relive it.