Those Weekends In New England

Chapter Fifteen

Uncertainty can be the music of fear.

He stared. And stared some more. And distractedly tried to think about what had been on his mind before he'd walked into his suite. Certainly not what he seemed to have conjured up before his eyes at this moment.

He was exhausted. He thought he had to sleep. He'd been sure he'd die without at least six solid slumber-filled hours. His body felt like he'd been run over by five moving vans. All at once. He'd convinced himself before he'd walked through that door that he wanted nothing more than a quick shower and a soft, yielding mattress beneath him. Nothing else.

Before he opened the door, that is, nothing else had been on his mind. Suddenly, seeing Hannah curled up in a pitiful little ball on his sofa, music floating softly around her and the coverlet from his bed haphazardly hiding only her feet, with the blanket falling to the floor from there, Denny was aware how much she was what he wanted. She was what he needed.

At first he didn't go to her. He just stared. He wondered, briefly, if maybe his fatigue was making him hallucinate. Was she a figment of his imagination? Was this a dream, brought to the surface because he missed her so?

No, she was real, even though the picture was too perfect to be true.

Curls were everywhere; over her eyes, one in her mouth, others strewn around her head in different directions. They were a glorious mess. Her lips, sweetly holding that one precious curl, were parted barely enough for Denny to glimpse the tip of her salmon-colored tongue. Her suit jacket was bunched up over a nearby chair, and her peach silk blouse, opened as far as the start of her gentle cleavage, showed the even rise and fall of her chest. Her matching skirt was hiked up way above her knees, exposing slender, stocking-covered thighs.

Denny took a deep breath and held it in until he thought he'd burst. He couldn't continue to stand here looking at her like this. It would be physically impossible to leave her alone if he stared much longer. He unconsciously let out a gush of air and went to his bedroom to change. Wearing only his robe and a pair of underwear, he returned to her side. He probably should've kept on his clothes, all things considered, but that much hadn't fully registered. It was little more than a hazy thought.

"Hannah?" He sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa, trying not to touch her. That proved to be a task he couldn't take on, and he ran a finger up and down the length of hair imprisoned between her lips. She didn't budge.

He couldn't go to bed without being positive nothing was immediately wrong with her. What was he talking about? Something had to be horribly wrong; otherwise, she wouldn't be here, like this. "Love, wake up."

She stretched and her hip brushed against his rear. Her fisted hands came up and wiped at her eyes before the lids inched opened. "Denny?"

"It's me, love." He caressed the crown of her head, fingering the gentle, silken coils, rubbing them between two fingers. Then he leaned over and gently kissed her forehead. "What're you doing here? Not that I don't like you showing up unannounced. Or any way, for that matter. But I'm surprised."

She stretched again and her breasts shoved upward, straining the shiny material of her blouse. Her thighs now pressed against Denny's backside and her every movement, no matter how slight, made his temperature rise. Fatigue and concern fought against a bittersweet, screaming physical demand to feel her moving under him.

Two slow, deep, agonized breaths. His fatigue, passion, and concern were losing the battle between what he should, and shouldn't, do with her.

She didn't seem to realize how tantalizing she was. Despite the excruciating urge to take her right there without preamble, Denny nearly enjoyed the pain. Half-awake, half-asleep, she was his now, and his alone. He'd never had such a privilege before.