Reaching First Page 11

  “Thank you,” she said. Two simple words, but they carried a boatload of meaning.

  “But now you have to tell me something.” His voice was low, determined, and she realized he’d been waiting to say that one sentence since he’d walked through the door. The air thickened between them.

  She forced herself to ask, “What?”

  “What was that guy’s problem today? Why does he call you Bluebell? And what the hell did you ever do to him?”

  Her belly swooped, a sickening cascade like an unexpected glimpse off the roof of a twenty-story building. For just a moment, she was back in her high-school cafeteria, listening to Caden taunt her in front of all his friends. She was poised there, embarrassed and afraid, teetering on the edge of every messed-up relationship she’d ever had, on the threshold of all the sex stuff that had twisted and doomed every relationship of her adult life.

  But she couldn’t blame those solely on Caden. Or her missionary parents. Or crotchety, conservative Aunt Minnie. She was responsible for the choices she had made.

  But was she nuts, because she wanted her first time to be with someone she loved? All the playing around, that was fun. It felt good. But it wasn’t important the way losing her virginity was.

  Just thinking the words made her feel old-fashioned. None of her girlfriends had these problems. She was a freak.

  And even now, she couldn’t explain herself to Tyler. Because she’d realized something when he stood there, facing down his demons and speaking the most difficult words he’d ever said. She’d discovered the truth: She loved him.

  She loved him, and she wanted him to be the one. She loved him, and she couldn’t risk freaking him out, couldn’t chance his walking out of her life forever. The only thing that mattered was taking him upstairs, bringing him into her bed. Getting past the Virgin Technicality forever.

  But he was still waiting for an answer about Caden, so she shrugged. “He was the high-school quarterback, and I was on the dance team. He asked me to prom—paid for tickets, and a limo, and dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town. And a hotel room after the dance. But I wouldn’t go to bed with him. And by Monday morning, half the guys in school were calling me Bluebell.”

  She saw Tyler translate the slur. Saw him register the confusion she’d felt, her long-ago pain. Saw—impossibly, unbelievably—a look in his eyes that might be the same as the one she felt for him. And that confirmed that she was finally making the right choice.

  She crossed the room and stood in front of him. She settled the palm of her hand over his heart, feeling the steady thump of his pulse through her fingertips, through her entire arm. “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what?” His voice was barely a growl. She felt the tension behind his words, sensed the way he was barely reining in his instincts.

  “For trying to protect me today. I can’t approve of the way you did it. If you’d swung at him, you’d be back in court, and all your community service would mean nothing.”

  “Not nothing,” he said. “It’s meant being with you.”

  His fingers closed over hers, and he brought her palm to his lips. She was trembling; he had to feel it. In fact, he grinned before he darted his tongue against the pulse point in her wrist.

  The touch sent shockwaves through her body. She needed to feel more of him, needed to have his lips on hers. She clutched him thirstily, tugging his shirt from his jeans.

  She was starving, and he was a buffet spread in front her. Her hands couldn’t get enough of his rock-hard abs. She flattened her palms against his belly as if she could absorb the essence of him, as if she could drink him through the surface of her skin.

  He hissed as she raked a fingernail down the hard line of his ribs. He grabbed for her wrists, laughing, playful, but she pulled her hands up, skimming his shirt over his head in a single motion.

  He was gorgeous, standing before her, his body sculpted in the dim light. His hair curled like he’d come to her through a storm; his eyes were pools of darkness that drank her in, consuming her even as they left her whole.

  She raised one finger to his biceps and traced the sharp line of his tribal tattoo. The jet-black points looked like thorns against his flawless skin; they ripped at him with all the hidden pain he’d carried for so many years. Her heart twisted at the thought of how alone he’d been for so very, very long.

  She bent her neck and kissed his tattoo. Tenderly. Lovingly. As if she could heal his heart by caressing his flesh.

  And he curled his fingers in her hair, gathering it close to her nape, tugging just enough to arch her neck back against his forearm. She felt exposed, naked, even though he hadn’t touched a stitch of her clothing.

  He ravished the hollow of her throat. She felt the searing heat of his lips. She jumped as he nipped her, immediately drowning the frisson of pain with the pressure of his tongue. The whirlwind of sensation twisted through her, turning her knees to water.

  But he was there for her. He was always there for her. Ready to fight a bully, ready to renovate a house. Whatever it took, Tyler would keep her safe.

  Her fingers moved like poetry, unfastening his belt and letting it fall to the floor. His buttons fell undone as if she’d charmed them open with some secret spell. She couldn’t say whether she tugged at his pants, at his boxers, or if he shed the clothes himself, but she caught her breath when she saw him standing before her—proud, completely naked, utterly unashamed.

  Because he’d already bared more than his body. He’d told her his greatest secret. He’d shared his most solemn truth with her, and after that, there could be no hiding behind fabric and social convention.

  In absolute silence, he reached for her. His fingers twitched open every button on her blouse. His palms slid the cloth over her shoulders, let it fall to the floor on top of his tangled jeans. He worked the tiny hooks on her bra and slipped the straps from her shoulders, sending it to join her shirt.

  She caught her breath when he worked the button on her pants. She held it, as he stripped away panties and jeans in a single, flawless motion, clearing her hips to puddle around her ankles.

  His mouth fell on hers as he dug his fingers into her sides. He was holding her, supporting her, throwing her a lifeline. She slipped a hand around to the back of his neck, and he took that as some sort of signal. He slanted his mouth across hers, found the perfect angle, drove deeper as he stole her breath, stole her last sense of right and wrong.

  His erection pressed between them, hard against her belly, demanding. She folded her free hand around his thickness and tightened her fingers as she slid down his shaft. Her touch made him even harder, even longer, and he growled deep in his throat. The sound vibrated against her lips, shuddered through her entire body, and she stroked him again, from base to tip, her grasp tight over his entire velvet length.

  He returned his kiss to the hollow of her throat, briefly this time, and then he traced a line with his tongue, tracking between her breasts, darting into her navel. On his knees, he nuzzled at the top of her thighs, sparking a thousand flares with a quick flicker of his tongue.

  She trembled on legs that had forgotten how to stand. She teetered on the balls of her feet, nearly falling, until she set her hands on his shoulders.

  Another flick of his tongue, another jolt from her clit. She moaned and might have tumbled forward, if she hadn’t clutched his hair with one hand.

  Even as he spread one palm across the small of her back, he reached with his other, digging into their pile of abandoned clothes. Through slitted eyes, she barely made out his fumbling with his jeans, his wallet. The same wallet where he’d stored the flyer she’d given him.

  She saw his fingers dart inside, and he came out with a single golden coin. No. No coin. A circlet of foil, a rubber more valuable than any pirate’s doubloon.

  He darted his tongue against her one more time, slipping past her button of pleasure to stroke her softest folds. She tightened her fingers in his hair, vaguely aware that she must be h
urting him, that she was holding on too tight, pulling too hard. She didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to fall.

  And he solved that problem. Standing, with his chest against hers, with his legs between hers, with the full length of his arousal pressed against her flesh, he guided her back to the couch. He eased her down on the pillows, shoving aside the lambs-wool throw she’d put there for decoration. He shifted her left leg, using one firm finger to track the long line from her ankle to the back of her knee, to her thigh.

  She arched to meet him. She needed to feel that finger, needed to shudder against him, against the palm of his hand as he cupped her.

  But no. She wanted more than his hands. She wanted him to fill her, to break her, to tear away the virginity she’d kept for this precise moment.

  “Tyler,” she moaned. “Now.”

  * * *

  He hadn’t thought it was possible for him to get any harder. But when he heard her say his name, hungry for him, desperate, he almost lost control. He barely had the presence of mind to rip open the foil square, to roll the rubber over his cock.

  He slipped one finger into her, a second. She was slick, ready. He shifted on the couch, poised his throbbing dick at her molten entrance. She bit down on her lip, arching her neck as she shifted her hips to cradle him even closer. He plunged home, sheathing himself in her heat.

  She cried out.

  Not the sound of a woman in pleasure. Not the sound of an eager partner, grateful for his size, begging him to use it.

  He was hurting her. And even as his reeling brain shouted out that warning, he recognized the truth. Her tightness. Her muscles clenched around him, not in pleasure, but in shock.

  “Em,” he said, barely whispering the words against her throat as she was pinned beneath him. “Is this your first time?”

  Her eyes were closed. In the dim light, he could just make out a glint of tears beneath her lids. Her teeth still caught her bottom lip, turning it nearly white in the darkness.

  She turned her face away and nodded.

  Christ. If he’d known… If she’d told him… He could have… He should have…

  Her pain was soaking into him, making him go soft. He started to pull out, to spare her more, but she caught her breath and said, “No! Don’t!” Her fingers burned where they’d tightened on his back. “Finish,” she whispered.

  She didn’t know what she was asking. He didn’t know if he could. He eased back, taking his weight on his left elbow, and she caught her breath hard. He knew he was hurting her more.

  He slipped his index finger into his mouth and wet it. Bending down to kiss her hard, he slipped his hand between their joined bodies. He flicked his slick finger against her clit, once, twice, a third time, matching the rhythm with his tongue against hers.

  She responded to the sensation of his mouth and his hands. The tension eased from her muscles; she seemed to let go of her pain. She shifted her hips, taking him deeper.

  The motion let him slip his thumb against her clit, and she moaned, not in pain, but in returning pleasure. He took his time then, restoring her excitement. He rocked against her, cupped her hard, pushing her ever closer to release. With finger and thumb and a cock that wasn’t completely sure it was up for the job, he brought her to the edge. One stroke. Another. A third, long and slow and firm.

  She came.

  Gasping, sighing, crying out, she collapsed around him. Her thighs released their tension like electric lines torn down in a hurricane. The sharp arch of her neck softened into a gentle curve. She called his name like she was searching for him in a storm, and her muscles clenched around his cock, tighter than he’d ever been gripped before.

  Her confession had almost unmanned him, but now he was harder than he’d ever been in his life. He fell back into the rhythm that had freed her, let himself pump to a thunderous climax of his own.

  But he couldn’t quiet the alarm in the back of his brain. He’d hurt her. Hurt her, because she hadn’t told him the truth. Hadn’t trusted him. And so, he’d hurt her.

  As soon as he was done, he rolled off her, taking care that the rubber stayed with him. In one movement, he scooped up his clothes and strode down the hall, into the bathroom a dozen feet from her office. The bathroom where he’d run electrical wiring a few weeks before. The bathroom where he’d double-checked the plumbing.

  He disposed of the condom before he turned on the light and stared at himself in the mirror. Jesus. He’d hurt her.

  Why the fuck hadn’t she told him?

  It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. She was embarrassed. Ashamed. She’d thought he wouldn’t stay there for her, wouldn’t stick around if he’d known. Christ. That was why she’d gotten drunk before. Liquor was the only way she’d been able to face what she was doing.

  But not one hour ago, he had trusted her. He had told her his own darkest secret. He’d said words out loud that he’d never told another living person—not a teammate, not a teacher, not even his parents or his brothers. He’d had faith in her. Dammit, he’d loved her.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. He had to get out of there. Now. Before he said something—something else—he could never take back. He tugged on his clothes, fastening his jeans in record time. He checked that his wallet was in his pocket. He squared his shoulders. And he walked down the hall like a man who had an appointment with the devil.

  “Tyler,” she called, as he walked past the room. She was sitting on the couch now. She’d pulled the blanket around her shoulders, covering herself.

  He froze, but he didn’t take a step toward her. “You could have told me,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.” And a distracted part of his mind told him she really was. But that didn’t matter. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.

  “You should have trusted me,” he said.

  “I couldn’t,” she said. “Not after… Not when other guys…”

  He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to think of her with any other man, even if he knew for a fact that he’d had more of her than anyone else in the world.

  I thought we had something special. He almost said it. The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue. But they sounded like something out of a movie, like something someone else should say, someone who was noble and strong and brave. At least someone who could read his goddamn lines from a goddamn script. Tyler wasn’t going to read anything, ever.

  “I trusted you,” he said instead. And then he repeated, “You should have trusted me.” He turned on his heel and let himself out the front door. Every step to his truck felt like walking on knives.

  CHAPTER 8

  Emily looked at her reflection in her bathroom mirror. Her wet hair was wrapped in a towel, and she’d tucked a bath sheet around her chest. Her nose was still sprinkled with the lightest freckles imaginable; her eyes were still green, her blond hair still framed her face with curls.

  Nothing was different. But everything had changed.

  Oh, she was a little sore. More than anything, her thighs ached where she’d clenched her muscles tight. Her lip was raw where she’d bitten it. But no one, looking at her, would know what she’d done. No one would think anything had happened.

  Except Tyler.

  Her decision not to tell him had been a lie. She’d taken away his choice. And now he wasn’t answering his phone.

  She’d left him three voice mail messages. Each was exactly the same: Tyler, I’m sorry. Call me so we can talk about this. I want to make things right.

  But that was the thing: she couldn’t do anything to make it right. All those stories she’d grown up with, all the weight she’d placed on her virginity, day after month after year. Once it was gone, it was gone. She would never regret that she’d chosen Tyler to be the one. But she’d never forgive herself for the way she’d used him.

  The phone rang, and she sprinted into the bedroom, grabbing the receiver before she could check Caller ID. “Tyler?”

  “Not exactly.�
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  “Anna!”

  “What’s going on, Em?”

  A jumble of emotion churned through her belly at the accusation in her best friend’s voice. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a story making its way around all the sports blogs, about you and Tyler. There are pictures of you two in a parking lot, and he looks pretty damned possessive. Lots of people are commenting, saying he shouldn’t be doing his community service with Minerva House.”

  Pictures? How the hell were there pictures?

  But even as she completed the sickening thought, she could see Caden and his buddies crowding the doorway at Callie’s Café. One of the guys must have had a cell phone. Must have gotten whatever electronic revenge he could…

  “Emily?” Anna pressed.

  “I—” But she didn’t know where to start. Not even with her best friend. Not even with the woman who was supposed to be the most sympathetic, the most supportive person in the world. “It’s complicated,” she said.

  “It seems pretty straightforward to me.” Anna sounded like she was chewing on a lemon peel. “God! Here’s a new link. Even the News & Observer is getting in on the game. Listen to this: ‘The witness, whose name is being withheld for fear of physical reprisal, offered multiple corroborating reports that Brock was seen with Holt at a Raleigh-area restaurant as recently as yesterday.’ Physical reprisal? What the hell?”

  “Caden,” Emily moaned.

  “Who the hell is Caden?”

  “Someone with an axe to grind. He saw Tyler and me eating lunch yesterday, and things got a little out of hand. Tyler thought he was threatening me. Words were exchanged.”

  “Please tell me it was only words! Tyler’s walking a tightrope, Emily! One false step and he’s done here!”

  As if Emily didn’t know that. She tried to swallow her acidic panic. “We left before it got any worse.”

  “I think you missed your target, Em. This is pretty much the worst possible.”

  No, it wasn’t. But she wasn’t going to say that to Anna. Instead, she offered up, “I’m sorry.”