The two other times they’d been together were good. This was phenomenal.
This would never be matched by anyone, anywhere, anytime. She wasn’t given to exaggeration, so she believed her own prophecy.
She wrapped her arms around him as he sprawled over her, taking off some of his weight with his elbows, but mostly lying on her like a warm, heavy quilt.
“That was quick,” he said, his mouth near her ear.
“And good.”
“And good,” he agreed, rolling to his side, keeping her in his arms.
She snuggled close, savored the way he stroked her hair. The pent-up tension dissipated. He felt like home.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Want to sleep?”
“Hmm.” She burrowed closer.
“Let’s get undressed first.”
She left her eyes closed as he unbuttoned her dress and slipped it off her. She didn’t even have the energy to watch him undress. He pulled a quilt over them, wrapped her in his arms, ran his hands up and down her back, then over her rear, along her thighs. When he gently stroked her breasts, she wriggled.
“Relax,” he whispered as her nipples puckered. “I just want to touch you. Go to sleep.”
She laughed drowsily. “Sure.”
He propped himself on an elbow, continuing his exploration. She opened her eyes.
“Spend the night, Scarlet.”
“Okay.”
His hand stilled for a moment, then journeyed on. A while later, his generosity accepted and enjoyed, she fell asleep in his arms.
He could get used to this, John decided, sitting next to Scarlet. They’d dozed for half an hour, showered together, then decided to have ice cream by candlelight in the kitchen. She was dressed in his robe. He’d pulled on boxers and a T-shirt.
“I would’ve guessed you didn’t even own a T-shirt,” she said, spoon in hand. Candlelight flickered across her face. “You look younger.”
“Since when is twenty-nine old?” “Since you dress like you’re fifty.” “I do?” He set down his bowl. “In what way?” “Your suits are boring. And your shirts. And your ties.” He felt too relaxed to take offense. “I think anything compared to your clothing probably seems boring.” “It’s an observation, not a comparison.” “I’ve never felt a need to keep up with the trends.” “You should. You’re supposed to be selling cutting edge, whether it’s products or people. You should look like it.”
He’d never considered that. “What should I do?”
Even though she didn’t rub her hands together, it seemed like she did. “Let me help you choose some new things.”
“Put myself in your hands?” The image that came to mind had nothing to do with clothes, but rather the lack of them.
She set down her bowl carefully then moved over to straddle his lap. He was learning just how complicated she was. He’d always expected her to be a sensual, sexual woman, although he’d based that opinion on her reputation more than anything tangible. But he saw shyness at times, too, which surprised him.
This wasn’t one of those moments. When it came to sex, she was bold and demanding, but not domineering. A partner in every sense.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked, planting little kisses all along his jaw. “You’re so serious.”
“Everything that should be at attention is at attention,” he countered, with a smile. He had no interest in starting a conversation at the moment.
She dragged her fingers down his cheeks. “I don’t get to see these dimples often enough.”
“When a clock is ticking on a relationship, there’s not much to laugh at.” He surprised himself admitting such a thing out loud.
She kissed him, tenderly, chastely. “Let’s go to bed.”
They blew out the candles, set their bowls in the sink, turned out the lights. In his bedroom they got naked, slipped under the covers and held each other close.
“This is just about sex, John,” she said finally. “We can’t have more than that.”
“I know.”
After they made love, she fell asleep. He studied his ceiling for hours, as if the answers to his problems might be written there.
All he saw was that it looked very much as if an Elliott woman would break his heart, after all.
In the morning, her head on a pillow next to John’s, Scarlet watched him sleep, his hair mussed, his beard shadowy. She’d slept until nine, not waking once. She couldn’t remember a night when she’d slept so well.
Her eyes stung. Anything in life she’d wanted badly enough, she’d gotten, had worked hard enough to get. But no matter what she did in this relationship, she couldn’t win.
Betray. Her grandfather’s word echoed in her mind.
She eased out of bed, donned John’s robe and headed to the kitchen. She hunted for coffee and filters, then fixed a whole pot, not knowing how much he drank in the morning, or if he drank it at all.
At the front door she looked out the peephole to make sure the coast was clear, then grabbed the Sunday Times from the hallway. She finished up the dishes from the night before and checked out his refrigerator for possible breakfast food, finding eggs, cheese and English muffins.
At about ten o’clock she heard water run in the bathroom. Curled up on the sofa, she was enjoying her second cup of coffee and the Times travel section. A few minutes later he emerged, unshaven but with his hair combed. He’d put on the T-shirt and boxers from the night before. She’d been afraid he would come out in khakis and a preppy sweater or something, dressed for the day.
He stopped in the doorway. A slow smile came over him. “Good morning. How’d you sleep?”
“On my side, mostly.”
His smile widened.
“I slept really well,” she said, moving her legs so that he could sit beside her, facing her. “And you?”
She offered her mug. He took it, then leaned over and kissed her, deeper than a peck but not an invitation to more. He sipped from the mug, resting his hand on her thigh, rubbing it through the fabric.
“I slept great, thanks. So, what do you usually do on Sundays?”
“If I’m at The Tides I go to church with Gram and Granddad. If I’m in town, I’m pretty lazy. Read the paper. Go for a walk. Have a late breakfast somewhere. Do some sketching and sewing. How about you?” There was so much she had yet to discover about him. She knew his body. She knew his scent, his touch, his laugh. But nothing about his routines, his likes and dislikes. His passions.
“I don’t think any two Sundays are the same for me. I play racquetball sometimes, or golf, depending on the season. Visit my parents sometimes. Work at home or even in the office occasionally. Go for a drive. Would you like to go for a drive?”
She wished she could say yes. “Probably not a good idea, John.”
His hesitation was barely noticeable. “Right. Well, breakfast, then. I’m pretty sure I have the makings for omelets.”
“Do you cook?”
“A little. You?”
“Salads and eggs. And I reheat brilliantly.”
“Took a master course