Return To Me. Shannon McKenna
up front with the women he slept with that commitment was not part of the deal. He tried to make it up to them by satisfying them sexually. That, at least, was something he could be generous with. It was an art, to please a woman in bed, and he’d dedicated himself to it with all of his considerable intensity.
But a woman like El would never be satisfied until a man was on his knees in front of her, promising her the moon.
Dealing with what had happened to Gus was going to hurt like hell. It wouldn’t be right to use El to comfort and distract himself knowing he was just going to leave again. He’d wronged her that way once already, and she was still pissed about it.
Women like her weren’t for men like him. Guaranteed disaster.
Ironic. It made him laugh, but the sound was dry and bitter. He was so out of place in this prim room. This was a room for old-fashioned, well-bred, proper sex. Not that he’d ever actually had any sex like that, but his dirty mind was up to anything. Four-poster bed, fine linen sheets, big puffy pillows, classy woman? He could see it.
He’d be on top of her, of course. Missionary position. Lights off, moonlight streaming through the window. Their bodies would be discreetly draped by the quilt as he moved inside her. Embracing her tenderly. Gazing respectfully into her eyes. Dignified, proper, decorous.
Whoops. Oh, man. The joke was on him. His dick was so hard, he had to roll onto his side to give it some space. He knew exactly how her slender body would feel naked beneath him, taking him inside her, deep and slick and yielding. He would kiss her as he fucked her, deep, hungry kisses. He would suckle her breasts while she struggled towards pleasure against his body. Giving herself to him, like she had that night years ago when he’d tasted how wild her girlish passion could be.
So much for respectful, well-bred sex. His fantasy went right off the rails, and before he knew it, the pillows got knocked off the bed, the fancy quilt flung to the floor, the sheets torn off the mattress. Lights flipped on so he could see every pink and gold detail, so he could run his tongue over her smooth skin, lick up every salty bead of sweat.
He wanted to turn her body every which way till he figured out what made her shudder and sob with pleasure. He wanted to put it to her deep and hard. Ride her all the way to the end of the line.
He was sliding his hands into his jeans to give himself some relief when something small and round rolled off the pillow, hit the top of his head and lodged itself in the crook of his neck. He fished it out and started to laugh. A chocolate, wrapped in gold foil. Trust El to bonk him over the head with a chocolate the minute he started getting ideas.
He unwrapped it. Bittersweet, dark as midnight, like the kind Gus used to love. He sat up, stuck the chocolate in his mouth and buried his face in his hands. El’s face glowed a hazy gold on the insides of his closed eyes as the taste of rich chocolate lingered in his mouth.
You know you’re just hurting yourself, Simon.
Talk about famous last words.
Chapter 3
So Simon had been all over the world. Yay for him. Ellen felt very provincial. Domestic, garden-variety, boring. She’d never had a real adventure in her life. She had no tales to tell.
The thought was supremely depressing.
And Simon was in one of her bathrooms at this moment. Naked in the shower. Soapsuds running down his body. She wanted to turn herself into vapor, slide under his bathroom door and watch him shave.
The thought made her face go hotter and damper than it already was. She was disgusted with herself. Ranting at him like a fishwife. For years, she’d pictured meeting him again, but not dressed in cut-offs and a limp, sweaty blouse. Not with her hair all frizzy, clinging to her sweaty neck and forehead. Frowsy, frumpy. Mystery quotient, less than zero.
She was gratified to see a large pot of coffee already perking in the kitchen, sending its heady fragrance into the room. She was filling the creamers with half and half when Missy let out an agonized squeak.
“There’s broken cups behind the drainboard! They weren’t broken when I washed up the cups this morning, I swear they weren’t!”
Ellen hastened to reassure her. “No, Missy, that was my fault. I broke them earlier and forgot to clean them up. Why don’t you carry the coffee tray into the dining room while I take care of it?”
Missy seized the tray and scurried out, her face pathetically relieved. Ellen gazed after her and sighed. Missy had been working for her for over a month, but she was as skittish as the day she started.
Ellen was sympathetic of the girl’s anxiety. She of all people knew how it felt to be speechless and shy, but it bugged her today. Everything bugged her. She had to calm down before Brad came to get her. They were supposed to pick out her ring this afternoon.
Her fiancé. All of a sudden, that sounded so strange and far from her. Her stomach cramped painfully.
Engagement jitters, she told herself. Marriage was a huge step. It was normal to be nervous. It would be stupid not to be.
When she’d accepted Brad’s proposal, she’d accepted reality over fantasy. About time, too. Smoky passion in the flowers belonged to the fantasies of the past. Brad was the real, concrete future.
Concrete. Yes. That was the perfect metaphor for Brad. Solid for sure, but such a heavy, inflexible material to work with.
Simon was startled to find the room completely full of people. There was an elderly guy with a bow tie and striped suspenders. A sunburned, athletic-looking couple, tenderly feeding each other bites of buttered scone. A harried lady, who had to be the mother of the two boys of about eight and ten who were chasing each other around the table. A middle-aged man with gingery hair. El presided over everything, gracefully pouring coffee into delicate porcelain cups. Baskets of pastry steamed on the table, breathing out a buttery, mouth-watering scent.
The old guy’s eyes lit up when he saw Simon. “Hey, it’s the motorcycle man! You all have to check out that BMW he’s got!”
“Coffee, tea, iced coffee, iced tea or lemonade?” El asked him.
Simon’s heart sank when he saw those fragile teacups. “Got any Styrofoam?”
Her lips twitched. “These aren’t Great-grandmother Kent’s teacups. These I bought for ten bucks apiece at the Hood River Antique Show. If you break one, I’ll just bill you.”
“Great,” he said, relieved. “Coffee, then.”
“Everybody, this is Simon Riley, who just checked into the tower room. Simon, this is Phil Endicott, Lionel Hempstead, Mary Ann Phillips and her two boys Alex and Boyd. Down at the end are Chuck and Suzie Simms, our honeymooners.” El passed a basket of pastries to him and pushed a lazy Susan loaded with butter, honey, and jam after it.
“Do you really have a motorcycle?” Boyd asked, wide-eyed.
“Sure do.” Simon slathered butter on a scone. He took a big bite and almost moaned. Wow. Oh, yeah.
“Will you give us a ride on it?” Alex chimed in.
“Alex, that’s rude!” his mother protested.
“It’s OK,” Simon offered. He broke off a corner of scone and heaped it with two different kinds of jam. “I’d be glad to.”
The boys shrieked with delight, but the horror on Mary Ann’s face dismayed him. Shit. Score: LaRue, one. Simon, zero.
Phil Endicott hastened to cover the awkward pause. “So, uh…what line of work are you in?”
“Photojournalist,” Simon said.
Phil’s eyes widened. “Oh really? How did you get into that?”
He’d answered that question often enough to anticipate it. “I just answered a want ad. A documentary filmmaker needed an assistant who was willing to travel. He taught me the trade.”
“Been