Night Jasmine (18 page)

A frenzy of passion took them. Aimee fumbled with the snap of his jeans, with the zipper. He dragged her with him toward the porch swing. He bumped into the swing, his beer can went flying, striking the gallery floor and rolling, the sound high and sharp in the darkness.

Hunter sank onto the porch swing. “Come here, Slick.”

He held out his hands. Without hesitation, she caught them, her breath coming in short, frantic pants. She laced her fingers with his and climbed onto him. The chains groaned, the chair creaked; she threw her head back as he thrust into her.

The first regret registered; Aimee forced it from her mind. For now, for tonight, she would forget about the past and the future. For this moment, they were without a history.

She grabbed the back of the chair and one of the chains, anchoring herself to him. Anchoring herself to the real world as passion spun her to the ozone and beyond. Hunter thrust again; the chair dipped crazily. He thrust again; she gripped the chain tighter and thrust back.

She caught his mouth, nipping at his lips, murmuring endearments she knew she shouldn't. Endearments he was not yet ready to hear.

The chair screamed a protest; Hunter caught her hips. With a cry of pleasure, Aimee collapsed against him. For long moments, the chair rocked, slowing as their hearts did. The squeak of the chains easing as their frantic breathing eased. Finally, save for the rustle of the breeze and the sounds of the night, all was still, quiet.

Aimee buried her face into the curve of Hunter's neck. What had she done? How could she have forgotten the lesson of the past? How could she have forgotten the pain?

He had offered her nothing. And wouldn't, she knew. He had nothing to give.

Hunter moved his hands over her back, up to her shoulders and neck, moving his fingers in gentle circles. “Regrets already?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to look at him. “No.”

With gentle fingers, Hunter turned her face to his. He looked deeply into her eyes. “Liar.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth despite the ache inside her. “How come you've always been able to read my mind but I've never been able to read yours?”

He rubbed his nose against hers. “Not your mind, love. Your body.” He moved his hands back to her shoulders and kneaded. “You went from liquid to cement in a matter of seconds.” He laughed softly. “Stop that.”

“Yes, Doctor.” She rubbed her cheek against his hair, doing as he asked, allowing her worries to slip away from her. “Look,” she whispered, reaching around him and plucking a cluster of star-shaped blossoms from the brush at the edge of the gallery. “Jasmine.” She held it to her nose, breathing deeply.
“No wonder the scent's so potent here.”

“No wonder,” Hunter repeated.

She held it to her nose once more, growing dizzy on the flower's perfume, wishing she could somehow freeze this moment in time.

But the moment passed, and Hunter eased her off his lap and began to readjust his clothing. Aimee watched him, hurt. His instant retreat told her more than any words could, and she felt it like a slap. Turning away from him, she quickly covered herself, too.

“I should go in,” she said, working to sound casual.

“Go in?” Hunter repeated, meeting her eyes, smiling wickedly at her. “I don't think so.” He hauled her back onto him. “You're coming with me.”

She looked at him in surprise. “I am?”

“You are.”

She arched her eyebrows, hurt forgotten. “And if I refuse?”

“You won't.”

“Overconfident, arrogant—”

“Hold on, Slick.” Hunter stood and slipped his arms underneath her legs and lifted her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled her face into his hair. Quietly, he carried her across the gallery and down the steps.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“To my bed. Where you belong.”

“Mmm.” She smiled. “You sounded like a chauvinist barbarian just now. In fact, for the last few minutes.”

“I'm doing my best.”

She shook her head, her smile broadening. “I have legs, you know. And feet. Why don't you save your energy and let me walk?”

He laughed. “And blow my barbarian image. No way.”

So Aimee let him carry her. And when they reached his room, his bed, she let him toss her on it and stand over her like a conquering hero.

“What now?” she whispered, already knowing.

“What do you think?”

His naughty grin sent delicious tremors up her spine. She held out her arms. “Come here, Hunter.”

Chapter Nine

T
his time they savored. They kissed each other slowly…long drugging exchanges that left them both breathless. They touched and explored, they took the time to murmur approval, pleasure, need.

Hunter peeled away the halter dress, exploring each secret place he uncovered, delighting in her softness, her warmth. In the things that were all woman, but uniquely Aimee: the mole just south of her bikini line, the silky-soft ticklish spot behind her knee, the sound she made when he kissed that spot—and others.

Aimee, too, explored. She ran her hands over the planes of his body, the angles so different from her own curves. She reveled in those ways in which he was different, mysterious and male. And in the things that made him Hunter: the scent of his skin after lovemaking, rich and musky; the feel of his crisp hair against the sensitive flesh of her palm, the way his breathing deepened to a rasp at the height of arousal.

She remembered it all. Everything. Every texture and taste, the exact place and way to touch him and steal his breath. And she delighted in doing just that, feeling a sense of power in it. Feeling womanly and beautiful. As she hadn't felt in a long time.

And never with any other man.

Hunter murmured her name as she used her mouth and tongue to excite him. She smiled. In this way they had no secrets, had nothing to hide from one another. In the bedroom they had always been perfectly matched.

Hunter brought her lips back up to his, then rolled her onto her back. She wrapped her fingers in his hair as he pleasured her with his mouth, loving her breasts, the nip of her waist, her flat abdomen, moving even lower. Aimee arched, the breath shuddering past her lips, waves of pleasure crashing over her.

She tightened her fingers in his hair, clutching at him. Their lovemaking was the same as before, she realized. Yet different. Different because there was a desperation between them now. She felt it in the tautness of his muscles, in the crackle of nervous energy that hadn't existed back then. She felt it in her own breathlessness. Her own fear.

He'd hurt her. Three and half years ago she wouldn't have believed that possible. Now she knew better. Now she knew just how badly he could hurt her.

But with the fear came longing. A longing enriched by denial. An emotional resonance like never before.

With a sound of urgency, Hunter parted her thighs and entered her. Aimee wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding on to him more tightly than she ever had before. This act, she thought dazedly, meant something. Contained in it was the essence of life. Of immortality. It wasn't for strangers or mere acquaintances. It wasn't to be taken lightly.

She was a grown-up now, she realized. A woman making love with the only man who had ever made her happy. The only man she'd ever truly wanted.

And the one man who could shatter her into a million pieces.

Hunter whispered heated hungry words against her mouth, and the ability to think became an impossibility. All was sensation, perfect but fleeting. Both panted, catching one another's cries of pleasure, their bodies growing slick with sweat, unbearably hot with the act of love.

Hunter pressed her deeper into the mattress; she curled herself tighter around him. Taking her mouth, he claimed her. And she claimed him.

And then it was over. The breeze tumbled through the window, stinging their damp flesh. Aimee shivered, and Hunter released her long enough to pull the quilt from the foot of the bed and cover them.

“Warm enough?” he asked as she snuggled against him.

“Mmm-hmm.” She smiled sleepily and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Perfect.”

“I'm glad.” He brushed at her damp hair. “Are you going to stay the night?”

The question struck her oddly. She tipped her head back and searched his gaze, telling herself she was being oversensitive, but bothered anyway. “Do you want me to?”

“How can you ask?”

How could she not? she wanted to shout. She was afraid. She hadn't a clue what the light of morning would bring for them.

But she kept those things to herself. “I
am
asking, Hunter. Do you want me to stay?”

“Yes,” he murmured, drawing her mouth to his. “I do.”

“Then I will,” she whispered, sadness stealing over her. It was ending already, and it had just begun.

Aimee looked away, tears pricking the back of her eyes. She simultaneously cursed them and prayed they wouldn't spill over.

“Hey…” Hunter frowned and tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes once more. A soft smile tugged at his mouth. “So serious. What's going on in there?”

Aimee ignored his question, asking one of her own instead. “Did you ever think the crazy girl you knew in California would become such a serious-minded woman?”

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers, one after the other. “I always took you seriously, Aimee.”

“I know.” And she did. Never once had she felt he didn't respect and admire her or her work. Something quite different had destroyed their relationship. “But…do you think I've changed?”

This time it was he who looked away in thought. When he met her eyes once more, his were soft with memories. “When I saw you again for the first time, I felt guilt and regret at the way you'd changed. I mourned for the reckless and carefree girl I'd known. I wondered where she'd gone. I wondered what part I'd played in her disappearance.”

The tears pricked again, and she blinked furiously. Against them, against the hurt welling inside her. She inched her chin up a fraction, waiting for his next words.

“But now,” he murmured, propping himself on an elbow and gazing down at her, “I no longer yearn for the `old Aimee.' Now, I can't imagine you any way but the way you are. You've grown, you've matured. Some of the blush has been erased by experience. But it's been replaced by a richness, a depth that wasn't there before.”

The tears in her eyes welled and brimmed over. He caught one with his index finger. It trembled there a moment before rolling off and being absorbed by the bedding. “Experience has changed you. That's part of living. To regret, to go back, is to deny life.” He smiled sadly. “Time marches on.”

* * *

Time marches on.
Those words had tumbled around her head all night, interfering with her sleep, her dreams. And now, as the cool light of dawn stole across the bed, they were still on her mind.

Time. Aimee gazed at Hunter while he slept. What would today bring? she wondered. Love everlasting? Despair? Regrets? And if they made it through this day, what of tomorrow and the day after that?

She loved him, more deeply than she ever had—because she understood now the transitory nature of happiness, of life. Oliver had begun to love him, too. They could be happy together. They could be a family.

If Hunter wanted them. Enough to let go of the family he had once had. And lost.

Aimee propped herself on an elbow and studied him, moving her gaze over his strong jaw, the subtle cleft in his chin, the tiny lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. He looked younger in sleep. Without the ghosts that often clouded his eyes and expression.

She reached out and touched his cheek, rough with his morning beard. What was it about this man, with his secrets and his pain, that called to her so deeply? Why, after all the time that had passed, and all the ways he had hurt her, hadn't she been able to let him go? He'd always been able to touch her in places and ways that no other man had been able to.

She wished it weren't so. She wished she could change. But wishing, like dreaming, was a childish waste of time and energy.

Aimee brushed her fingers through his hair, noticing for the first time a hint of gray in the golden strands. Hunter moaned and stirred, and she quickly withdrew her hand. She wasn't ready to face him. She wasn't yet prepared to do what she had to do.

Ask him his feelings. Tell him hers. Ask him if there was a chance for them.

Aimee squeezed her eyes shut. She needed a few more minutes to compose herself. To gather her thoughts. Her courage.

She wasn't yet ready for honesty. Not his. Not her own.

Outside the window a mourning dove cooed. Slipping out of bed, Aimee wrapped the old quilt around her and crossed to the window. The day beyond was bright and dewy, full of hope, of promise. If only she felt the same way.

“You look so sad.”

Aimee turned. Hunter gazed at her, his blue eyes unclouded by sleep. How long had he been awake? she wondered. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe it's the new day,” she murmured, turning back to the window.

Hunter sat up and shifted his own gaze to the window and the light beyond. “You never used to dislike the dawn.”

“It's not the dawn. It's the tomorrow.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “It's early. I didn't mean to wake you.”

“You didn't. I always wake about this time. It's like I have an alarm clock inside.” He made a sound that was at once bitter and resigned, and crumpled the sheet in his fist. “Perverse, because
I
do hate the dawn.”

Surprised, Aimee turned fully back to him. He'd caught her off guard. This was something she hadn't known, hadn't suspected. “But, when we lived together…sometimes you would still be in bed when I awakened.”