More Than Words
Page 33
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I turned quickly when I heard the shower shut off, my heartbeat accelerating as Callen came out, a towel wrapped around his narrow hips and water still glistening on his skin. Oh. I’d kissed him, slept in the same bed with him, felt the intimacy of his arousal through our clothes, but I hadn’t yet seen him naked—or nearly—and his male beauty made me feel weak in the knees.
He smiled, grabbing his overnight bag and placing it on the bureau. “It’s all yours. The shower’s small, but the water pressure’s great. I think I feel human again.”
I laughed softly. “Good. I’ll just”—I pointed to the bathroom, grabbing my own overnight bag—“see you when you get back, then.”
“Yeah, maybe they have food downstairs. Madame Leclaire was wearing an apron, wasn’t she?”
“I think so. But there’s also a restaurant across the street.” I pointed to the window. “I can see it from here, and it looks open.”
“Okay, great. Enjoy your shower.”
I nodded and closed the bathroom door behind me, exhaling. What was this sudden awkwardness between us, this hesitation? This strange sense of intimacy that made me feel breathless and nervous? Was it only the close quarters creating this feeling?
I peeled off my damp, muddy clothing and left it in a heap on the floor next to Callen’s. Maybe we could wash it in the shower later and hang it to dry. Or maybe Madame Leclaire had a washing machine she’d let us use.
The shower’s warm spray was incredible, and I groaned in pleasure as I soaped my hair and watched the muddy water run clear. The inn’s shampoo and shower gel was scented like roses, and I smiled. When I remembered this weekend, it would forever be scented with the fragrance of roses. And it would always bring to mind a mud-caked Callen.
After lathering my body and my hair several times, I finally felt squeaky clean and emerged from the shower, wrapping my body in one of the soft, thick towels. There was a blow-dryer under the sink, and I used it to dry my hair.
I riffled through my bag, looking at the jeans and the one dinner dress I’d packed. My eyes finally landed on the long, white cotton nightgown. I bit at my lip. It might be a little early for pj’s, but the thought of putting on another pair of jeans made me cringe, and clearly I couldn’t put on a formal dress to eat a takeout dinner in our hotel room. Callen had already seen me in nothing other than his long T-shirt. Would he really care if I wore my nightgown? It wasn’t like it was sexy, so he would know I wasn’t trying to send some “take me now” message. In fact, if anything, this was the opposite of sexy. Frankie made fun of my nightgowns, but I liked the feel of the soft cotton from head to toe. Callen would understand my need to be comfortable. Settled, I pulled the nightgown over my head, sighing as the material caressed my skin like a hug.
I opened the bathroom door cautiously, unsure if Callen was back yet, but the room was empty. Sinking into the upholstered chair, I noticed a magazine rack next to the window that held a few French magazines and a couple of paperbacks. I picked up one of the paperbacks—from the cover it appeared to be a cozy mystery—and began reading the first few paragraphs. I attempted to focus on the story, but my mind strayed and my eyes were pulled to the rain-streaked pane of glass.
My thoughts wandered to the girl whose name I still didn’t know and Captain Durand, the “horse’s arse.” I smiled, thinking of their kiss, wondering if love found a way, even in the midst of a military camp in a war-torn country, as a girl hid her identity and a man faced battle. My fervent hope was that it did, that if anything could thrive under those conditions, it was love. I wanted to believe that love was the rarest of all flowers: it delighted in the sunshine but did not require it to grow and flourish.
My thoughts turned to Callen and the memory of him riding unsteadily on a bike that had looked both too small for him and too large as he wobbled and careened toward me on the garden path. And then the expression on his face when he’d finally gotten the hang of it: cautious joy, the same expression he seemed to adopt when anything brought him happiness. As if he wanted to embrace the elation of the moment, but was too afraid to fully do so. I wondered if he even realized that he always held a part of himself back. And I wondered what it would take to finally see him surrender completely to the happiness of any one moment. Or whether he even could. I imagined that if he found a way, the resulting music would be stunning.
I glanced at the tiny bed, my body flushing with warmth at the thought of lying there with Callen, our bodies pressed against each other’s, his heat surrounding me throughout the night. If the girl whose writings I was translating was teaching me anything, it was that our stories were so fleeting, left rarely on paper for others to read and learn from, and more often only in the hearts of those we were brave enough to love. We had one chance, one life, and then it was gone. Live fiercely and without regret. I had no assurances from Callen about anything except the temporary nature of … us. But what would happen if I didn’t put limits on what occurred between Callen and me this weekend? What would happen if I simply let my body and heart lead the way, without overthinking, without letting fear guide me? Not because I wasn’t scared of the consequences, but because life was short and moments were small windows of opportunity that might never, ever come again.
I had the strange sense that fate had been leading us to this attic room on a rain-swept day in France. I knew it didn’t make sense, that it might even be my imaginative mind creating fantasies, yet the feeling persisted.
The truth was, Callen had always been my prince, and I realized now that no one since had ever measured up. Perhaps it wasn’t as I told him after all. It wasn’t that I hadn’t found anyone who tempted me to get that involved. Perhaps I simply hadn’t allowed anyone into my heart—or body—because my prince already resided there.
And for tonight at least, he was mine.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CALLEN
The door opened on a quiet creak, and I paused as I caught sight of Jessie curled up in the chair by the window, the light of the lowering sun soft and muted through the gauzy curtain. She raised her head, and our eyes met. I pushed the door closed behind me, the sight of her tugging at my insides in some way I wasn’t sure how to define.
I set the brown paper bags on the table by the door. “Sandwiches,” I said, my voice sounding strained, as if there were something caught in my throat. “Madame Leclaire said we could order food to our room next time if we want.”
She smiled. “Sounds perfect.” She continued to study me, an expression on her face I was unfamiliar with, and I wanted to ask her what she was thinking. But for some reason, I also wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
My eyes moved down her body, and I realized that what I had first assumed was a blanket was really a nightgown. A really long nightgown with lots and lots of fabric. There wasn’t one inch of skin showing anywhere. I’d never seen anything quite like it. “That looks”—I raised one brow—“warm.”
She laughed, biting her lip and glancing down at herself. When she looked back at me, her smile was sweetly demure, and it made my heart speed up in my chest. God, she’s beautiful. She pulled her feet out from under her, balancing her heels on the edge of the chair, and for a moment the only thing showing were her ten pink toes. I’d never once, in all my life, noticed a woman’s toes, and suddenly the sight of Jessie’s peeking out from beneath her nightgown seemed incredibly intimate. I swallowed as she placed her feet on the floor and rose slowly. As she stood before the window that way, the pale golden light behind her, I could see the outline of her naked body beneath the white fabric, the shadow of her areolas and the V between her legs. My breath hitched. I had teased her a moment before, but I suddenly realized how overrated lingerie was. I’d never seen anything as erotic as Jessie standing in a white cotton nightgown with the last glimmer of daylight behind her, unknowingly revealing all her secrets. I swelled and hardened, feeling achy and full, my mouth suddenly dry.
I felt as stripped as this small, plain room. There was nothing fancy here. I hadn’t been able to give Jessie the biggest or the best. Without the cover of my wealth, of the things I could provide with the money I’d earned, the finery, the luxuries, I was just … me, standing before her without any pretense—or at least none that I could manage in that moment. Right then I was just the same kid she’d come upon in the boxcar that day so long ago. Since then I’d hidden behind so many things, gotten lost in the lifestyle I’d chosen, felt like I was all smoke and mirrors for so, so long. Looking at Jessie in front of me now, the beautiful woman staring at me with such honesty in her eyes, I felt overwhelmed with possibility, with the hope that she saw me and liked what she saw. Maybe—God, maybe—she’d even find a way to accept the things I was so terrified to let anyone know. “Jessie,” I breathed, the word a plea, a question, a prayer.
He smiled, grabbing his overnight bag and placing it on the bureau. “It’s all yours. The shower’s small, but the water pressure’s great. I think I feel human again.”
I laughed softly. “Good. I’ll just”—I pointed to the bathroom, grabbing my own overnight bag—“see you when you get back, then.”
“Yeah, maybe they have food downstairs. Madame Leclaire was wearing an apron, wasn’t she?”
“I think so. But there’s also a restaurant across the street.” I pointed to the window. “I can see it from here, and it looks open.”
“Okay, great. Enjoy your shower.”
I nodded and closed the bathroom door behind me, exhaling. What was this sudden awkwardness between us, this hesitation? This strange sense of intimacy that made me feel breathless and nervous? Was it only the close quarters creating this feeling?
I peeled off my damp, muddy clothing and left it in a heap on the floor next to Callen’s. Maybe we could wash it in the shower later and hang it to dry. Or maybe Madame Leclaire had a washing machine she’d let us use.
The shower’s warm spray was incredible, and I groaned in pleasure as I soaped my hair and watched the muddy water run clear. The inn’s shampoo and shower gel was scented like roses, and I smiled. When I remembered this weekend, it would forever be scented with the fragrance of roses. And it would always bring to mind a mud-caked Callen.
After lathering my body and my hair several times, I finally felt squeaky clean and emerged from the shower, wrapping my body in one of the soft, thick towels. There was a blow-dryer under the sink, and I used it to dry my hair.
I riffled through my bag, looking at the jeans and the one dinner dress I’d packed. My eyes finally landed on the long, white cotton nightgown. I bit at my lip. It might be a little early for pj’s, but the thought of putting on another pair of jeans made me cringe, and clearly I couldn’t put on a formal dress to eat a takeout dinner in our hotel room. Callen had already seen me in nothing other than his long T-shirt. Would he really care if I wore my nightgown? It wasn’t like it was sexy, so he would know I wasn’t trying to send some “take me now” message. In fact, if anything, this was the opposite of sexy. Frankie made fun of my nightgowns, but I liked the feel of the soft cotton from head to toe. Callen would understand my need to be comfortable. Settled, I pulled the nightgown over my head, sighing as the material caressed my skin like a hug.
I opened the bathroom door cautiously, unsure if Callen was back yet, but the room was empty. Sinking into the upholstered chair, I noticed a magazine rack next to the window that held a few French magazines and a couple of paperbacks. I picked up one of the paperbacks—from the cover it appeared to be a cozy mystery—and began reading the first few paragraphs. I attempted to focus on the story, but my mind strayed and my eyes were pulled to the rain-streaked pane of glass.
My thoughts wandered to the girl whose name I still didn’t know and Captain Durand, the “horse’s arse.” I smiled, thinking of their kiss, wondering if love found a way, even in the midst of a military camp in a war-torn country, as a girl hid her identity and a man faced battle. My fervent hope was that it did, that if anything could thrive under those conditions, it was love. I wanted to believe that love was the rarest of all flowers: it delighted in the sunshine but did not require it to grow and flourish.
My thoughts turned to Callen and the memory of him riding unsteadily on a bike that had looked both too small for him and too large as he wobbled and careened toward me on the garden path. And then the expression on his face when he’d finally gotten the hang of it: cautious joy, the same expression he seemed to adopt when anything brought him happiness. As if he wanted to embrace the elation of the moment, but was too afraid to fully do so. I wondered if he even realized that he always held a part of himself back. And I wondered what it would take to finally see him surrender completely to the happiness of any one moment. Or whether he even could. I imagined that if he found a way, the resulting music would be stunning.
I glanced at the tiny bed, my body flushing with warmth at the thought of lying there with Callen, our bodies pressed against each other’s, his heat surrounding me throughout the night. If the girl whose writings I was translating was teaching me anything, it was that our stories were so fleeting, left rarely on paper for others to read and learn from, and more often only in the hearts of those we were brave enough to love. We had one chance, one life, and then it was gone. Live fiercely and without regret. I had no assurances from Callen about anything except the temporary nature of … us. But what would happen if I didn’t put limits on what occurred between Callen and me this weekend? What would happen if I simply let my body and heart lead the way, without overthinking, without letting fear guide me? Not because I wasn’t scared of the consequences, but because life was short and moments were small windows of opportunity that might never, ever come again.
I had the strange sense that fate had been leading us to this attic room on a rain-swept day in France. I knew it didn’t make sense, that it might even be my imaginative mind creating fantasies, yet the feeling persisted.
The truth was, Callen had always been my prince, and I realized now that no one since had ever measured up. Perhaps it wasn’t as I told him after all. It wasn’t that I hadn’t found anyone who tempted me to get that involved. Perhaps I simply hadn’t allowed anyone into my heart—or body—because my prince already resided there.
And for tonight at least, he was mine.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CALLEN
The door opened on a quiet creak, and I paused as I caught sight of Jessie curled up in the chair by the window, the light of the lowering sun soft and muted through the gauzy curtain. She raised her head, and our eyes met. I pushed the door closed behind me, the sight of her tugging at my insides in some way I wasn’t sure how to define.
I set the brown paper bags on the table by the door. “Sandwiches,” I said, my voice sounding strained, as if there were something caught in my throat. “Madame Leclaire said we could order food to our room next time if we want.”
She smiled. “Sounds perfect.” She continued to study me, an expression on her face I was unfamiliar with, and I wanted to ask her what she was thinking. But for some reason, I also wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
My eyes moved down her body, and I realized that what I had first assumed was a blanket was really a nightgown. A really long nightgown with lots and lots of fabric. There wasn’t one inch of skin showing anywhere. I’d never seen anything quite like it. “That looks”—I raised one brow—“warm.”
She laughed, biting her lip and glancing down at herself. When she looked back at me, her smile was sweetly demure, and it made my heart speed up in my chest. God, she’s beautiful. She pulled her feet out from under her, balancing her heels on the edge of the chair, and for a moment the only thing showing were her ten pink toes. I’d never once, in all my life, noticed a woman’s toes, and suddenly the sight of Jessie’s peeking out from beneath her nightgown seemed incredibly intimate. I swallowed as she placed her feet on the floor and rose slowly. As she stood before the window that way, the pale golden light behind her, I could see the outline of her naked body beneath the white fabric, the shadow of her areolas and the V between her legs. My breath hitched. I had teased her a moment before, but I suddenly realized how overrated lingerie was. I’d never seen anything as erotic as Jessie standing in a white cotton nightgown with the last glimmer of daylight behind her, unknowingly revealing all her secrets. I swelled and hardened, feeling achy and full, my mouth suddenly dry.
I felt as stripped as this small, plain room. There was nothing fancy here. I hadn’t been able to give Jessie the biggest or the best. Without the cover of my wealth, of the things I could provide with the money I’d earned, the finery, the luxuries, I was just … me, standing before her without any pretense—or at least none that I could manage in that moment. Right then I was just the same kid she’d come upon in the boxcar that day so long ago. Since then I’d hidden behind so many things, gotten lost in the lifestyle I’d chosen, felt like I was all smoke and mirrors for so, so long. Looking at Jessie in front of me now, the beautiful woman staring at me with such honesty in her eyes, I felt overwhelmed with possibility, with the hope that she saw me and liked what she saw. Maybe—God, maybe—she’d even find a way to accept the things I was so terrified to let anyone know. “Jessie,” I breathed, the word a plea, a question, a prayer.
