All They Need(60)
“Okay. I’ll see you later, Mel.” Frustration was rich in his voice but she didn’t blame him. Why would she? She’d led him on then pushed him away and now she was kicking him out of her house.
Mel shut the door behind him and allowed herself one small moment of weakness as she leaned her forehead against the cool wood. Then she straightened and walked to her bedroom. The sight of her bed made her lip curl. If she wasn’t such a head case, she might have been on that bed with Flynn right now, having what had been shaping up to be some of the best sex of her life.
Angry and embarrassed and deeply sad, she stripped off and walked into the en suite to wash away the day’s labors. She stepped beneath the shower and washed herself with a businesslike thoroughness. It was impossible to ignore the sensitivity of her breasts and the sense of heavy fullness between her legs, however.
She’d wanted Flynn. Very badly.
She closed her eyes as she remembered the thick length of his erection in her hand, reexperiencing the rush of longing and lust and need. If he hadn’t said anything…
But he had, and the bad old stuff had reared its ugly head.
She turned off the water and stepped out. She dried herself briskly, almost roughly, before walking naked into her bedroom. She was crossing to her chest of drawers when she caught sight of her reflection in the free-standing mirror in the corner.
She stilled, then slowly turned to face herself.
She lifted her hands and covered her breasts, pressing them tightly against her body. Once, Owen had told her that her breasts made him believe in the divine—and yet in the final months of their marriage, he’d told her to lose weight, claiming her curves made even expensive clothes look tacky and cheap.
He’d also told her that she had no idea how to dress or act modestly and that if she couldn’t “behave like a lady” he’d have to start attending social functions on his own.
He’d accused her of humiliating him with his peers and colleagues with her overfriendly manner and kept a constant, censorious eye on her whenever they were out together.
And yet he’d never stopped wanting her once they were alone. The moment they were safely behind their bedroom door, he’d always turned to her with desire. It had confused her for so long, the disparity between what he said and what he did—and she’d hated herself for wanting him in return, for clinging to the last good, functioning, life-affirming thing between them because she’d seen it as evidence that their marriage wasn’t beyond repair.
Then things had deteriorated even further and he’d started to run her down in the bedroom, too. By that time she’d been so punch-drunk from years of criticism and disapproval that it had taken the night of the Hollands’ party and the ugliness of Owen’s anger afterward to awaken her to the fact that her marriage was over.
Well and truly.
Not long after that she’d walked out altogether. The smartest thing she’d ever done in her life.
She turned away from the mirror and crossed to her bed. Last night’s pajamas were under the pillow and she pulled them on and climbed beneath the covers. She was tired, but instead of turning off the light she lay frowning at the ceiling, her body as rigid as a board.
She’d ruined things with Flynn. All these weeks they’d been dancing around one another, an invisible question hanging between them. Would they, wouldn’t they? She’d answered the question tonight, unequivocally. No. A resounding, screwed-up, messy no.
She wouldn’t see him as much now. Against the odds they’d become friends, but tonight would change all that. Sex always did—even if it was only half-assed, abortive sex that didn’t quite come off.
No more drop-in visits. No more gardening sessions. No more laughter.
If only she’d met him seven years ago. If only—
She closed her eyes. Then she reached out and switched off the bedside lamp.
“If onlys” were a pointless waste of time. She was who she was, and he was who he was, and she had ruined things. Nothing was going to change that.
SUMMERLEA WAS COLD and dark when Flynn let himself in. He turned on the lights in the living room and built a fire. There was a bottle of shiraz he hadn’t quite finished from the previous week and he poured himself a glass and sat to one side of the hearth, waiting for the fire to start throwing out some heat.
He had no idea what had happened with Mel tonight. Not a single clue. One minute she’d been insatiable, tearing at his clothes, so hot she’d almost blown his mind—and the next she’d been pushing him away, her body tense, her face pale.