Jennifer Greene - Can’t Say No

Thunder exploded in the night, and Bree instinctively curled closer to Hart’s warm body. The clock next to her ticked past three. Raindrops gushed down the windowpanes; swords of lightning dueled in the darkness outside.

She couldn’t sleep.

The pillows were on the floor. They’d slid there hours before; the satin sheets were just as slippery as Hart had said. Beneath her, the bed cradled the two of them in a cocoon of warmth and softness, and every once in a while she could see the reflection of lightning on the full-length mirror by the bed.

She kept staring at that mirror, seeing images in it that weren’t there. Images of Hart poised over her, his body dark gold and damp, the rhythm of his limbs as he made love to her. Her own image, with her throat arched back, her breasts raised brazenly for his touch; the image of a stranger, a beautifully sensual woman with slumberous eyes and a sleek, proud body, who twined around her mate with all the primitive desire of an Eve.

She’d never meant to look in the mirror, any more than she’d meant to enjoy the satin sheets. She’d felt somewhat inhibited at first, her tension sparked by Hart’s disturbing words. Only he’d stripped off her clothes and never given her the chance to think, and these…sensations…had just kept coming. And it wasn’t the sensuality of satin that set it off; it was the sensuality of the man. Hart, so fiercely passionate, teasing her and whispering and coaxing…

So beautiful. Whenever he touched her she felt so incredibly beautiful, and she wanted to say, This really isn’t me, you know, Hart. It just happens when I’m with you…

A warm palm suddenly slid under her arm, over her ribs and behind her, very sneakily, making her smile in the darkness. “Still not sleepy?” Hart scolded groggily. “Not nightmares, though, Bree?”

“Not nightmares at all,” she affirmed, and snuggled closer.

“We’ve lost our pillows.”

She chuckled softly. “You warned me about the satin sheets.”

His palm made slow concentric circles on her spine, and only gradually moved up to sift through her hair. “The lady liked the satin sheets,” he said with satisfaction. “She also liked the mirror.”

“She never looked.”

“Oh, yes, she did.” Even in the darkness, she could see the crooked smile on his lips as he leaned up on one elbow. His eyes were luminous, and suddenly there was no smile. “You trust me, Bree, did you know that?”

She parted her lips, but said nothing.

“Trust isn’t a measure of how long and how well you’ve known someone. It’s an instinct. You could have kicked me out of the cabin that first time, Bree. You could have stopped me from making love to you with a single word. Several times I made you very, very angry, but your trust was still there. We didn’t have sex, honey-we didn’t even make love.” He bent over to kiss her forehead, then her lips. “We touched the stars. A woman doesn’t give that way unless there’s a very special trust.”

“I never said I didn’t trust you,” she countered softly.

“You didn’t have to.” His thumb rubbed the edge of her bottom lip. “I want to know about your nightmares,” he said quietly. “I want to know about the haunted look that sometimes comes into your eyes. I want to know what happened that was so terrible you couldn’t talk about it. Can you trust out loud yet, Bree?”

She didn’t answer. There was a foolish lump in her throat, and her eyes blurred with the faintest glistening of tears. She couldn’t tell him about Gram; she couldn’t tell anyone about Gram, but she felt like shouting that she’d given him more than she’d given any other man. Wasn’t it enough?

He wanted too much; from the beginning he’d wanted too much. And even if she could have told him about Gram…she had to draw a line somewhere. She’d never shared her feelings easily; with Hart she felt more vulnerable than she’d ever felt before, and Hart’s nature was so clearly to capture and claim and possess…but when he moved on? When she had to go back to being “just Bree” again? “Dammit, what do you want from me?” she said.

“Watch,” he answered. His eyes gleamed down at her for just a moment before the magic started again. He seduced, with lips and tongue and the stroke of his hands. Not again, she was so sure it couldn’t happen again, but layers of civilized inhibitions seemed to peel off in that velvet darkness; the sheer power of woman rose up in her like a devilish fire.

Thunder crashed outside; wind whipped leaves against the windows. The darkness held mystery. Hart’s eyes refused to close, holding hers, even as his hands molded her breasts, slid down the warm flesh of her stomach and cupped that core of mysterious yearning within her.

Almost against her will, her own hands grew bolder. Her legs wound around him; she rubbed against him, and her lips started a ceaseless whispered trail everywhere she could reach, on his shoulders and arms, on his throat and chest, up to his lips. Such a terrible, restless heat; her body was very warm, yet the sheets were cool beneath her, cool and slippery.

“Now,” she murmured. “Please, now, Hart…” What was he waiting for?

“You want me inside you?”

“Yes.”

“Then show me,” he whispered. “Show me, Bree.” Languidly, he shifted both of them, until she was no longer beneath him but on top. “Make love to me.” He raised his head to reclaim her swollen mouth; the kiss was fierce, and his hands glided down the length of her in urgent encouragement.

Still, she felt swamped by a terrible feeling of inadequacy. She would die before she failed Hart as a lover. “I haven’t…” she whispered awkwardly.

“Show me what you want, Bree. It’s so easy. So easy to love, honey. Just reach out…”

Go after what you want. It was what he’d always said; something she’d always found so terribly hard to do, and she’d never been assertive in loving. He refused to understand how difficult it was for her. Instead, he kept murmuring encouragements she could barely hear, promising her wonderful, terrible things, and with long, soothing strokes he coaxed her body to perch over his, until she could no longer stand the long, torturous teasing. She took him inside her, trembling like a leaf, feeling the first promised rush of release as her thighs enfolded him, the hollow of her filled.

As a reward, Hart leaned forward to softly lap at her breasts, his hands cradling her hips. She went still then, content to have him take over again, but he whispered, “I’m right here with you. Go with the fire, Bree-don’t you dare stop now.”

He kept saying her name and his hands were everywhere, on her hips, on her breasts, and she started the ancient rhythm because…she had to. Because Hart’s whole body vibrated with need and because there was something incredibly exciting in watching him take fire when she moved, when she tightened her limbs just so, when he made it so very clear that she was doing everything…right.

A once-shy Bree turned exultant, bold, learning how to please him, testing the rhythms that made his eyes darken and his hips tense and his hands move restlessly over her flesh. His body was hers, for this hour. He belonged to her, and that was a heady, sweet power, purely feminine, deliciously exhilarating. She was loving him, not being loved, and for that instant it was utterly, totally enough in itself. Then, in the lushness of giving, her thighs suddenly tightened around him and her spine arched back and a sweet shower of silver flooded everywhere, within, without, all over.

Moments later, Hart tugged her down to collapse against him. His breathing was still rough, as was hers; their bodies were damp and warm. “You asked me,” he murmured, “what I wanted from you, Bree. Just that, love. For you to see, for you to shout it, that you’re a beautiful, passionate woman, capable of unbelievable giving, strong enough to demand what she wants in her life as well. Look at you,” he whispered.