to keep it. I promise you it won’t be too painful. It will meet all your terms, Sue. All pleasure. No risk. No repercussions.”
She flushed, well aware of what he wanted. Oral sex. He wanted her to take him into her mouth, and her hands, and make him come. Back when they first made love, at only eighteen, he’d begged her to. He’d told her that all girls did it. All men wanted it.
But she’d been afraid, afraid that she wouldn’t know how, that she wouldn’t be good enough, that she’d try and try, humiliating herself, only to fail.
She’d been such a prissy lover, she knew that now. Such a tame little Puritan. Only in the back of the car, only with their clothes on, only on the bottom, only in the dark.
She’d been so naive, in fact, that when she stumbled on Trent and Missy Snowdon in the abandoned playground that rainy midnight, sitting together on the swing, she had no idea what was happening.
She hadn’t been able to see him all day. Her grandfather had company and he required her to be on hostess duty. Trent, of course, hadn’t been invited. By late night, she knew that Trent probably wasn’t expecting her to show up at the playground, where they sometimes met. But she sneaked out anyhow, hoping against hope that he might have gone there, too, just in case. Surely he wanted to see her as much as she wanted to see him.
The sound reached her first, the grind of metal against metal as someone pumped the swing rhythmically back and forth. She heard throaty laughter, and other noises that were harder to identify.
She peered toward the swing set, off in a corner. Rain diamonds winked as moonlight caught on the metal legs and the thick, glistening rod of the frame. She saw the groaning swing move back and forth, never going very high, two sets of hands gripping the wet chains, slipping, gripping again.
At first she thought they were just playing. Doubled up, with Missy in Trent’s lap, the way children might do just for the crazy fun of flying backward. Limbs tangled, hair flying, sharing the thrill.
Shock made her stupid. She worried, like an idiot, whether the chains were strong enough to hold them both, with Trent so tall, so much heavier than any child.
But then Missy’s groans turned to soft screams, and the swing’s rhythm became jerky, spasming as Trent’s heels dug into the ground, finding traction to push harder, thrust faster, finding his own orgasm there in the rain.
And then, finally, far, far too late, Susannah understood. Understood that he had needed more than an uptight little prude.
That she wasn’t enough for him.
That the world as she knew it was over.
She wondered why the memory still hurt so much, when she’d hardly thought of that night in years.
Was it because she was finally old enough to see what an idiot she’d been to run away that night, scalded, to nurse her wounds in private and concoct a revenge plot as stupid as flirting with Paul? She knew now that she should have charged right up to that swing set and overturned the cheating bastard headfirst into the dirt. Even if she’d scratched Missy Snowdon’s eyes out, that would have been a more mature way to handle it. It couldn’t have saved their relationship, but it might have saved Paul’s life.
Or maybe the memory felt so fresh and raw again because she realized that she owed Trent. She had made a deal with him, and he’d kept his part of the bargain. After all these years, she was going to have to live up to her part of their agreement and let him touch her again…something he hadn’t done since that night.
“All right,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll give you what you want. But only because I know you, and I know that if you don’t get what you need here, you’ll go looking for it somewhere else.”
He didn’t answer. He just sat there, waiting, as if he didn’t care what her reasons were. The king, waiting for his subject to perform.
She felt something harden inside her. She crossed the marble floor in five steps. He still sat in the chair, with his leg stretched out at that odd angle. She took a breath, then, holding the arms of his chair for stability, she sank to her knees in front of him.
“I’ll do it, because I won’t be a laughingstock for you again.”
He smiled oddly. “And because you promised this would be a real marriage? Because you used that promise to get me to marry you? Because you wouldn’t want to be a liar and a fraud?”
She tilted her head up and met his gaze without flinching. “You’re right. I made this deal, and I have to live with it. But I want you to know that I hate you. I hate you for not being man enough to set me free.”
He tilted his head an inch to one side, though otherwise he didn’t move a muscle. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hate me, then.”
She nodded, understanding that there was to be no reprieve. She reached out, forcing her hands not to tremble, and carefully unbuckled his belt. She felt him watching her, but she didn’t raise her eyes to his face again.
She unbuttoned the top of his jeans, and as her hands grazed the denim she felt the heat rising from him. She sensed the swollen bulk of his penis under the cloth. Instinctively, she cupped it with her palm, as a sudden tactile memory burned through her.
She had thought this would be strange, after all these years, after all the anger. But though their hearts had grown apart, grown bitter, their bodies were still the same. This was still Trent, her Trent. She knew him. She knew what he felt like, the shape and warmth and musky smell of him.
He pulsed under her hand. He needed this. She remembered how he had always looked as he first thrust into her, an agony of tension and heat, as if his body was on fire, and only she could put out the flames. It had thrilled her, but it had scared her, too, because she sensed a power she couldn’t control.
She slid the zipper down one millimeter at a time, knowing that the pressure was dragging along the length of him like a slow torture. When it was fully open, she pulled back the edges of the denim, slid her hand under the cotton boxers, and took the hard fullness of him into her hand.
He groaned. He throbbed once under her fingers, and she was shocked to realize that something hot and deep inside her was throbbing, too.
She wanted this. For the first time in her life she desperately wanted to feel this velvet steel against her teeth, her tongue. Her mouth curved, instinctively knowing what to do.
She bent her head. But then, out of nowhere, his hands were against her hair.
“What?” His voice was hoarse. “No foreplay?”
She drew a jagged breath. She looked up at him, feeling slightly dazed. Frustration coursed through her. She was ready. He was ready.
“What do you mean, foreplay?”
He rose to his feet in one graceful motion, his hands urging her up along with him. Before she could orient herself, he held her buttocks and lifted her onto the table.
“I mean this,” he said. He slid his hand under her nightshirt and eased off the panties she wore beneath.
He tossed the bit of silk onto the floor and then returned to her, running his rough hands up the length of her thighs. Her knees fell apart, as if they were marionette legs controlled by invisible strings. He went without hesitation to the aching, moist spot he knew so well, and with perfect confidence began to stroke, and press and circle.
She grabbed his shoulders, weak and suddenly dizzy. His fingers were hot, and she was hot, and it felt wonderful and dangerous. It took her breath away.
“Trent,” she said, though the word sounded as if it came out on a choke.
He gazed down at her. She wondered whether she looked as dazed as she felt. He smiled cryptically, and then he bent his head and kissed her on her lips. The touch was sweet and lingering, a strange contrast to the hot domination of his fingers.
“It’s all right, Susannah,” he whispered.