The Forgotten Room(107)

“Whatever they may have suffered, whatever wrongs they may have done each other, we’re here now. All of this”—John’s gesture encompassed the pile of sketches, the tattered chaise longue, the bright sunshine dappling the sheepskin rug—“it brought me to you. And you to me.”

There was a dark power in his words, an unmistakable invitation that made Lucy’s collar suddenly feel too tight, the fine linen of her blouse heavy against her heated skin.

This, she realized. This was what her mother had felt for Harry Pratt. This irresistible pull. The longing for skin on skin, here, in this quiet room, where the sounds of the city were dull and dim far below, alone in the dusty sunshine, rainbows sparkling around them, the room encasing them like a jewel box.

“What would they say to see us here?” Lucy’s voice sounded rusty to her ears.

There was only a foot of space between them, so little space. All it would take would be one step, one movement.

“They would most likely tell us to use our time more wisely than they did,” said John raggedly.

But he made no move toward her, just gazed and gazed, with a look of almost painful longing on his face.

“It’s at times like this,” he said softly, “that I wish I had inherited my father’s talent. I would give anything to be able to draw you, there on the hearthrug, like that.”

“Like this?” Feeling bold, Lucy undid one of the buttons on her blouse.

John drew in a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes riveted to her fingers on the button. “Just like that.”

“And this?” Lucy felt a surge of power as she undid another button and watched him swallow hard, his hands clenched at his sides.

“Lucy.” John spoke with difficulty. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. “Lucy, I don’t—”

“Want to take advantage of me?”

John nodded, wordlessly.

It was strangely easy to take that step, to bridge the distance between them. Lucy cradled his chin in her hands, feeling the unfamiliar prickle of stubble against her palms, breathing in the smell of soap and leather, good clean smells, John smells.

“I love you,” Lucy said quietly. “I never thought I’d say it, but it’s true. I can’t imagine loving anyone as I love you. I—”

Whatever else she might have said was lost, as, with a low sound deep in his throat, John’s arms clamped tight around her, his lips closing over hers with a fervent passion that said more than words just how he felt.

“I love you,” he whispered against her ear, her cheek, her jaw. “I love you, I love you.”

The world spun dizzily around her, all time reduced to that small, square room, to the space between John’s arms, to the feel of his lips on her neck, her breast, his hands in her hair, the muscles in his back moving beneath her palms as she wrenched his shirt free of his trousers, slid her hands up in the space beneath the fabric, skin to skin at last, marveling in the new sensations, the feel of him, the closeness of him. Hers. He was hers and she was his, forever and ever and ever. Lucy knew it as surely as she knew her name, knew the goodness of him, the rightness of what they were doing, a generation delayed.

Whatever her mother and Harry Pratt had lost, she and John had gained, and she would hold on to it, Lucy thought fiercely, digging her fingers into John’s back, the pressure of his chest against hers driving the ruby pendant against her breast.

Her blouse fell from her shoulders, her skirt slithered to the floor, leaving only her slip, silky against her legs.

“Lucy,” John breathed against her ear, and Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck, determined never to let him go.

Her hip bumped the Chinese chest and papers fluttered to the floor around them like so much confetti: Harry Pratt’s letter; her mother with the ruby pendant and little else; the Pinkerton report, all meaningless now, just so much paper.

“Lucy. Lucy.” It took Lucy a moment to realize that John’s tone had changed. He pulled away from her, his breath coming hard. “Before we go any further—there’s something you should know.”

His hair was disarranged, his color high, his shirt half-undone, revealing a tanned chest covered with dark hair. He looked, thought Lucy giddily, like a man who had been thoroughly ravished.

“If it’s the birds and the bees, Sissy Romich told me all about that in junior high.” Lucy put a hand to his chest, feeling his muscles contract beneath her touch, tracing her way up until she could feel the beating of his heart. Daringly, she said, “I could use some help with the practical application, though. I haven’t—that is—”

John touched a finger gently to her cheek. “I know,” he said, and took a step back, away from her.

“But that doesn’t matter. Why wait when—well, you know?” Lucy met his eyes frankly as she said it, even though she could feel herself blushing. Lucy Young, known as the girl who wouldn’t. But with John, it felt right. Fumbling for the right words, Lucy rested her hands against his chest. “We’re going to be together forever. What’s a week more or less? If there are, well, um, consequences . . . well, it won’t be that much time for people to count on their fingers.”

John pressed his eyes shut, as though he were in pain. “There’s something else you need to know—Lucy, when I asked you to come to Charleston with me—well, there’s a complication.”