“Ever?” I asked, bemused.
He shook his head. “I never wanted to take a chance on getting someone pregnant. I didn’t want the responsibility. I always swore if I did have kids, I wouldn’t leave them the way my dad did.”
“You’ve never had a girlfriend who went on birth control?”
“Even then, I always used a condom. I’ve never been a fan of the trust-the-woman method.”
Perhaps some women would have taken offense at that, but I understood all too well about trust issues. “That’s fine,” I said, leaning up to kiss his chin. “Let’s do it your way.”
Hardy didn’t move, however. He kept staring at me with those vivid eyes, and I felt something intimate and visceral flourish between us, a sense of connection I found more than a little alarming.
It felt as if all the rhythms of my body and his had been set to one invisible metronome.
“You gave me your trust,” he said. “Damned if I can’t do the same.”
I eased to my back, and my breath quickened, and so did his.
He undressed and pressed against me. He was gentle . . . so gentle . . . but I could feel the power and weight of him, and I tensed. He nudged more strongly until we both felt the snug, supple yielding, softness giving way to hardness. Me, taking him inside. Opening to him. The blue eyes turned drowsy, pleasure-clouded, his lashes throwing spiked shadows on his cheeks. He entered me by slow inches, giving me time to adjust, to span the heavy invasion. I turned my face against his arm, my cheek tucked against taut muscle.
When I’d taken all of him I could, Hardy coaxed me to lift my knees, spread them wider, and he gave me even more. So tight, wet, my body offering lubricious welcome. I saw the concern on his face being replaced by lust. I loved the way he stared at me, as if he wanted to eat me alive.
I wriggled, uncomfortable with all that fullness inside me, and Hardy shivered and gasped out a few words that sounded like, Oh God please don’t move Haven baby please . . .
“Feel good?” I whispered.
Hardy shook his head, struggling to breathe. His face was flushed as if with a high fever. “No?” I asked.
“Felt good a half hour ago,” he managed to say, his accent slurry-like he’d just done about ten tequila shots. “Fifteen minutes after that it was the greatest sex I’ve ever had, and right about now . . . I’m pretty sure I’m in the middle of a heart attack.”
Smiling, I pulled his head down to mine and whispered, “What happens after the heart attack?”
“Not sure.” His breath whistled through his teeth, and he dropped his head to the pillow beside mine. “Hell,” he said desperately, “I don’t know if I can hold on to this.”
I drew my hands over his sides, his back, the muscles coiled and strong beneath my fingertips. “Don’t hold back.”
He began a careful rhythm, rooting out pleasure from the intimate channel where we were joined. One of his thrusts stroked a sensitive place, deep and low, and at the same time his body pressed the front of mine at just the right angle. A zing of delight went through me. I jerked in surprise and dug my fingers into Hardy’s hips.
He lifted his head and smiled into my wide eyes. “Did I find a sweet spot?” he whispered, and did it again, and again, and to my everlasting embarrassment I couldn’t keep quiet, groans climbing in my throat until my hips shuddered against his.
This time the spasms weren’t as intense, but they were long and slow, pulling at the length of him until he came. He buried the pleasure sounds in my mouth, and kissed me, and kissed me, stopping only when we were both oxygen deprived and completely spent.
I was filled with an overpowering drowsiness after that. I dozed for a while, with his body still tucked inside mine, and I discovered that the sleep after good sex was almost better than the sex itself. I woke later with him hard inside me, not thrusting, just wedged deep, and his hands were wandering everywhere, stroking and massaging. I lay on my side, one leg hitched over his hip. I wanted, needed him to move, but he kept me impaled and still. I gripped his bicep, his shoulder, trying to pull him over me. He resisted, letting me wriggle like a worm on a hook.
“Hardy,” I muttered, sweating at the roots of my hair. “Please . . . ”
“Please what?” He licked at my upper lip, then the lower one.
I rocked against him and pulled my mouth free long enough to gasp, “You know.”
He pressed his mouth into my neck. I felt the curve of his smile. Yes, he knew. But he continued to hold me locked against him while I clenched over and over, pulling at the deep pulse of him. Finally he gave me a hint of a thrust, more a suggestion of movement than an actual rhythm. It was enough though. It tipped me past the flash point, inner muscles contracting to gather sensation, and I came in rough shivers. Hardy drove upward in one strong shove and held, filling me with lustrous heat.
He continued kissing me in the aftermath, his lips wandering sweetly while his fingertips coasted over my chin and cheeks and throat. After a while he pulled me out of bed and into the shower. Feeling drugged, I leaned on him as he washed me. His hands were gentle as he soaped and rinsed my body. Slippery, veiled in steam, I rested my cheek against the hard plane of his chest. He reached down and slipped two fingers inside me. I was sore and swollen, but it felt so good that I couldn’t help pushing my hips forward. I heard a low crooning sound in his throat, and his thumb swirled tenderly around my clit. With infinite skill, he eased me into another climax, while the hot water rained over me and his mouth ate at mine.
I barely remembered drying off and going back to bed, only that I was soon drifting to sleep with his solid presence beside me.
But some time later, I woke from a nightmare, my body alarmed by the awareness of a man sleeping nearby. I woke with a start, thinking for a moment that I was back with Nick, that I hadn’t escaped after all. There was movement beside me, a masculine weight, and I sucked in my breath sharply.
“Haven,” came a dark murmur. The sound calmed me. “Bad dream?” His voice was sleep softened and thick, like crushed velvet.
“Uh-huh.”
His palm stroked a circle on my chest to soothe my rocketing heartbeat.
I sighed, and quieted in his arms. His lips moved down to my breasts, kissing the tender, hardened tips. I put my arms around his head, his hair soft against my inner wrists. He worked his way down slowly. My knees bent, and I felt his hands grip my ankles like warm, living manacles. Even in the darkness, I saw the broad span of his shoulders and the outline of his head, anchored between my thighs. He lapped at me languidly, feeding off my pleasure, sending me into long, helpless shudders.
And when I fell asleep this time, there were no more dreams.
I knew I looked like hell when I went into work the next morning, with dark circles under my eyes and whisker burns on my throat. I didn’t care. I felt more at peace than I had in months. Years. Maybe ever.
I could still feel the imprint of Hardy’s body on mine, not to mention a trace of soreness that reminded me of all we’d done. And despite all the things I could and should have been worrying about, I decided to enjoy the simple human satisfaction of having been thoroughly made love to.
“Call in sick,” Hardy had whispered in the morning. “Spend the day in bed with me.”
“I can’t,” I had protested. “They need me at work.”
“I need you.”
That had made me grin. “You’ve had enough for now.”
Hardy had pulled me up on his chest and kissed me lustily. “I haven’t even gotten started,” he’d said. “In fact, I’ve been holding back on account of you being out of practice.”
We had finally agreed that we would both go to work, since it was Friday and we both had things that needed to be done. But at five-thirty that evening, the weekend would start.
Before Hardy had left that morning, I made him a five-egg omelet with cheese and spinach, a rasher of bacon, and three pieces of toast. He’d eaten every crumb. In response to my comment that he’d cleaned out the contents of my refrigerator, Hardy had replied that satisfying me took a lot of work, and a man had to keep his strength up.
Smiling, I went into my cubicle and opened my laptop. I reflected that I was in such a good mood, nothing could spoil it.
Then Vanessa appeared. “I’ve sent you some e-mails about the latest maintenance contracts,” she said without preamble.
“Good morning, Vanessa.”
“Print out the attachments and make copies. Have them on my desk in an hour.”
“Absolutely.” I watched as she turned to leave. “Wait, Vanessa. There’s something we need to discuss.”
She looked back at me, stunned by my crisp tone, not to mention the absence of the word “please.”
“Yes?” she asked with dangerous softness.
“I don’t want you giving out my personal information to people. So if anyone asks for my home address or home number, do not give it to them unless you’ve checked with me. I think from now on that should be standard office policy for everyone’s protection.”
Her eyes widened dramatically. “I was trying to do you a favor, Haven. Your ex-husband said he had some things he wanted to return to you. Evidently you left him in such a hurry, you forgot to pack everything.” Her voice turned soft, as if she were trying to explain something to a small child. “Don’t try to put me in the middle of your personal problems. That’s not professional.”
I swallowed hard, longing to inform her that I hadn’t left Nick, I’d been beaten up and thrown out. But one of Vanessa’s favorite tricks was to make accusations in her gentlest voice until I ended up saying things I hadn’t meant to say. I wasn’t going to fall for it anymore. And there were some things in my private life that were going to stay private.
“You didn’t do me a favor,” I said calmly. “Nick doesn’t have anything I want. And you’re not in the middle of anything, Vanessa.”
Vanessa shook her head and gave me a cool glance overlaid with pity. “He told me a few things. About how he’d been treated. He was very charming. A little sad, actually.”
I suppressed a bitter smile. How he’d been treated? That was what a narcissist did. He turned around and accused you of doing what he’d done, and he could be so convincing that you might even end up doubting yourself. I was sure Nick had told people that I’d treated him badly, that I’d walked out on him. But I couldn’t control what he said, or whether others believed him or not.
“He can be charming,” I allowed. “Every spider knows how to spin a web.”
“There are two sides to every story, Haven.” Condescension dripped from every syllable like rancid honey.
“Of course there are. But that doesn’t mean both sides are valid.” I probably should have shut my mouth right then. But I couldn’t keep from adding, “And some people are all bad, Vanessa. I wouldn’t wish Nick on any woman.” Even you, I thought privately.
“I never realized how naive you are,” my boss said. “I hope someday you learn to look at the world with a little more sophistication.”
“I’ll work on that,” I muttered, and swiveled in my chair until my back was facing her.
It was not a surprise when Nick called in the middle of the day. I had already figured he’d gotten my work number from Vanessa. But the sound of his voice still caused my stomach to turn over.
“How was your date last night?” Nick asked. “I bet there wasn’t much conversation going on after I left.”
“Don’t call me at work,” I replied shortly. “Or at home, for that matter.”
“There’s only one thing a woman wants from a gym rat like that,” Nick continued, “and it has nothing to do with talking.”
I smiled a little, enjoying the fact that my ex-husband was so intimidated by Hardy. “He’s not a gym rat,” I said. “He happens to be very intelligent. And a good listener — which is a nice change.”
Nick didn’t seem to notice that last comment. “You didn’t even go out. You stayed in the apartment and let him ball you all night, didn’t you?”
I wondered if Nick had watched my apartment. That gave me the creeps. “That’s not your business,” I said.
“I wish you’d have been half so willing to give it out while we were married. Put a wedding ring on you, and you turn frigid.”
Once that comment would have hurt. And I might have even believed that I was frigid. Now I knew better. And I knew Nick for exactly what he was, a narcissist who was incapable of caring about anyone but himself. I could never change him, or make him aware of his own flaws. Nick wanted what he wanted . . . he didn’t understand himself any better than a shark was aware of why it wanted to kill and eat. It just did.
“Well, think God you’re rid of me,” I said. “Do us both a favor and don’t call again, Nick.”
“What about your things? What about that bracelet from your aunt — ”
“If it means having to see you again,” I said, “it’s not worth it.”
“I’ll throw it in the fucking garbage,” he threatened. “I’ll pull it apart and — ”
“I’ve got work to do.” And I hung up on him, feeling triumphant and disgusted at the same time. I decided not to tell Hardy, or anyone, about the call from Nick. It would take little provocation for Hardy to track my ex-husband down and wipe him off the planet. And while I wouldn’t have minded having Nick gone for good, I wouldn’t be too crazy about visiting Hardy behind bars.
Over the next two weeks I learned a lot about Hardy. We spent every possible minute together, not by any plan or design. It was just that he had become the person I most wanted to be with. And the puzzling thing was, he seemed to feel the same way.
“It’s almost too easy,” I told Todd on the phone one night, while I was waiting for Hardy to come home from work. “There are no mind games. He calls when he says he’s going to. He shows up on time. He really listens to me. He’s sort of, well, perfect. It’s kind of worrisome.”
“No one’s perfect. You’re leaving something out. What is it? He must be hung like a cocktail weenie.”
“No. If anything, he’s too much the other way.” There was a pronounced silence. “Todd? Are you still there?”
“Yeah. I’m just trying to think of a good reason to continue our friendship.”
I grinned. “Jealousy is so unattractive, Todd.”