Lust

She crawled into bed beside him.

“Your turn,” she whispered, and began unbuttoning his jeans.

A warm heat flushed through him and he felt his lost passion returning-and along with it, his doubt.

“Kaia,” he said softly, allowing her to pull his T-shirt over his head, to kiss her way across his bare chest as his hands, as if of their own accord, massaged the soft contours of her body. “Kaia, I’m not sure we should…”

“Shh,” she whispered, stopping him with a kiss. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

And off went the boxers.

Chapter 12

The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. As the voice mail kicked in again, Adam hung up in disgust. He’d left too many messages, and his voice was beginning to take on a distinct tinge of desperation. But where was she?

(Screening your calls, his inner voice whispered. He ignored it.)

He needed to talk to her, needed to see her-and for what? He didn’t even know. When he’d woken up this morning, the whole thing, the foggy memory of their bodies wrapped together, of their feverish wrestling, thrusting, caressing, moaning-it had all seemed like a dream.

But it had happened.

And it could never happen again-except that there was nothing he wanted more than to see her, to touch her, to feel her hands all over him.

Guilt burned through him every time he thought about what he’d done, and he thought about it constantly. And maybe the pain of guilt was worth it.

He decided to go outside, shoot some hoops, burn off some nervous energy. His mother had yet to return home from her own escapades the night before, and the house was too empty, too quiet. He didn’t want to face anyone else-not now that he had a secret that was weighing down on him so heavily. Besides, normal human interaction might bring him back down to Earth, penetrate the haze that seemed to lay over him, that gave every moment a heightened clarity, every sensation a powerful charge. He felt different, somehow, and he wasn’t ready to share the feeling-or to lose it. He didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, though-well, more than anything, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts and his fantasies, but that seemed too dangerous. Because the more he thought, the more he wanted.

He changed into a ratty T-shirt and some running shorts, grabbed the ball out of the garage, and jogged over to the driveway. It was a blisteringly hot day, the heat billowing up in waves from the black concrete. Good. Maybe he could sweat out this disease that Kaia had infected him with, this bottomless craving for her body, for the feel of her skin against him. He needed to stop thinking about her, to stop thinking at all, to just focus on the feeling of his muscles straining in exertion, his feet pounding the ground, his hands on the ball, sending it flying toward the basket. He would lose himself in the moment.

He brought the phone outside with him, though. Just in case.

Adam didn’t know how long he was out there, dribbling, racing back and forth across the length of the driveway, trying to force himself into an oblivion of exhaustion. It almost worked. Finally he stopped, out of breath and every muscle screaming. He bent forward, letting his arms dangle freely toward the ground, then straightened up and dumped a bottle of water over his head.

And there was the phone, lying on the ground, taunting him with its silence. He wrestled with himself, then slammed the ball into the pavement in frustration. It bounced with a resounding thud; Adam scooped it up with one hand-with the other he picked up the phone. He flipped it open, just in case he’d been so in the zone that he’d missed a call. But he hadn’t.

And then, as he shuffled up the walkway toward his front door, it rang in his hands. Startled, Adam fumbled it for a moment, almost dropped it-dropped the ball instead-and finally flipped it open to check the caller ID.

Beth.

She’d been calling all weekend.

He flipped the phone shut again, ignoring the tension creeping through his body. For now, at least, what was there to say?

The phone rang and rang, but Harper didn’t even bother to see who it was, much less consider answering it.

It would be Miranda, of course, as it had been the last twenty times, calling to see where she’d disappeared to, wondering what had happened Friday night. Harper’s mouth twisted into a sour grin-maybe Miranda was imagining her and Adam holed away in the bedroom together, an isolated lovers’ tryst. Right.

The first few calls, she’d raced to the phone, expecting it to be Adam, begging for forgiveness. Not that she would have answered, she reminded herself-but there would have been a certain satisfaction in listening to his voice on the machine, groveling for mercy.

Saturday had passed, and most of Sunday-and the call had never come.

She would like to think that he was in his bedroom even now, staring out the window at her house, too racked with guilt to call her, too afraid of what her response might be. Agonizing over whether he’d thrown away a twelve-year friendship for a one-night stand.

Somehow, she doubted it.

She knew all she had to do was pick up the phone and Miranda would appear, complete with the requisite care package of trashy chick flicks and a bottle of Absolut. Miranda had a secret stash hidden in an old suitcase under her bed for moments just like this. She could easily have slipped a couple of bottles out of the house and spent the weekend over at Harper’s, under the guise of keeping Harper company while her parents were out of town. She knew she should have called Miranda at some point, regardless, as the two of them had arranged to meet at the Cedar Creek Motel earlier that day to supervise the team of sophomores that Harper had suckered into cleaning the place. (They’d been sworn to secrecy about the location but offered admittance to the party- if their Lysol and vacuuming efforts were deemed up to snuff.) Too bad. Miranda would just have to take care of it alone or leave the sophomores to fend for themselves. She’d be pissed off, but Harper knew she would understand-there were plenty of extenuating circumstances.

And Harper just wanted to be alone. Her mother had dragged her father off for a weekend of “antiquing”-both he and Harper knew this was code for “digging through unwanted, flea-infested crap at roadside junk sales,” but neither had much desire to puncture Amanda Grace’s illusions. Harper’s mother spent her time in a world of her own making, one that was infinitely richer, more elegant, more high society, more appropriate than the dirty present, in which the Grace family, once lords of the manor, now struggled to keep their heads above water.

But Harper was trapped in the harsh reality of the present: an empty house, empty hours to fill. As the phone began to ring again, Harper moaned and pulled one of the couch pillows over her head to drown out the noise. She’d been self-medicating with vodka and cookie dough, but forty-eight hours of that had only left her with a persistent thudding headache and periodic waves of nausea. In a few hours she would crawl into bed, hide under the covers, and pass out, trying not to think about waking up Monday morning and facing the world.

Struggle with a smile, she thought. It was her mother’s cardinal rule. Do whatever you need to do-but never let them see you cry.

Kaia shut off her phone.

She was sick of seeing Adam’s name pop up on the caller ID what seemed like every five minutes-and face it, it’s not like anyone else would be trying to call.

She shuffled down to the kitchen to snag another pint of Ben and Jerry’s. When she’d arrived in town a few weeks ago, the refrigerator and freezer had been completely empty, the sparkling stainless steel kitchen with its state-of-the-art appliances virtually unused. Typical bachelor pad. Even though the bachelor in question was a fifty- two-year-old defense contractor with two ex-wives and a seventeen-year-old daughter. Kaia didn’t know what her father had been eating-it’s not like there were a lot of takeout options in town, and she somehow didn’t see Keith Sellers pulling his BMW sedan into the Nifty Fifties lot on a regular basis.

Since she’d arrived, she’d had the cook stock up on her favorite foods-at least the ones that could be purchased