One Good Turn by Judith Arnold Page B

her hands so he could gather her in his arms. He wrapped them around her slim waist, then slid one hand up her back and beneath her hair to the nape of her neck. His tongue explored the tender flesh of her lips, the edges of her teeth, the dark sweetness beyond, moving in thorough, unhurried thrusts that sent fresh jolts of sensation through her flesh. Her thighs grew tense, her hips throbbed, her breasts burned at the luscious pressure of his chest against hers as he pulled her more intimately to himself.
    Her hands had cramped into fists, and she willfully unfurled them and lifted them to touch him. Through his shirt she felt the bones and sinews of his shoulders, the supple muscles of his upper back. He angled his head slightly and his tongue moved deeper, absorbing her breath and melting her soul. She ached everywhere, ached for Luke, ached so much she couldn’t suppress the small, agonized cry that tore free from her throat.
    Pulling back from her, he sucked in a ragged breath. She buried her face in the warm hollow of his throat, too embarrassed to face him. What a hypocrite she was, giving him that prim little speech about sex and love and how slow she tended to be about such things, and then dissolving into a seething mass of uncontrolled passion in the wake of one kiss.
    His fingers twirled through her hair. She listened to his erratic respiration, to the frenetic drumming of his heart against his ribs. Several minutes elapsed, and then he spoke in a rough, breathless whisper: “Jenny?”
    “Yes.”
    Gently he urged her away from him, gripping her shoulders and holding her steady so he could look at her. She imagined she must look ravished—flushed and glassy-eyed, wanton and disheveled. His enchanting smile as examined her proved it.
    “That was incredible,” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “Whose turn is it to apologize?”
    She managed a feeble smile of her own. “Mine, I think.”
    “Then we’re even?”
    “I suppose.”
    He brought one hand forward to her cheek. His fingers caressed her with such excruciating tenderness she let out a sigh. “My sentiments exactly,” he murmured. He traced the edge of her chin with his thumb, then let his hand drop. “I’d better leave.”
    “All right.”
    He took a step backward, and another, his eyes remaining on her. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, at last pivoting on his heel and striding down the block to where he’d parked his car when he’d come for her earlier that evening.
    “Good night,” she whispered after him. The taste of his lips lingered on hers; the heat of his kiss continued to grip her body even after she watched him unlock the silver BMW, settle himself behind the wheel, rev the engine and maneuver out of the parking space. Not until he’d driven down the block and out of sight did she find the fortitude to go inside.
    A small, neat pile of her things sat on the floor in front of the closed door to the bedroom she and Sybil shared: her pillow, her nightgown, her hairbrush and the dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice she was rereading in preparation for her senior honor’s thesis on Jane Austen. Jenny understood what the pile meant.
    “Do you want to borrow my sleeping bag?” Fran asked.
    Jenny spun around to see her solemn, bespectacled apartment-mate standing in the doorway of the other bedroom. She glanced down at the articles Sybil had left for her, then accepted Fran’s offer with a smile. “She put out my pillow but no blanket.”
    “The couch is kind of uncomfortable.”
    “If it’s that bad I’ll use the floor.”
    Fran shrugged. “Sybil, Kate and I went to a H.U.D. party. All the guys Kate and I met there were dorks, but the guy Sybil brought back was pretty foxy-looking. Not that looks are everything, but he wasn’t bad. How was your date with Luke?”
    “It was...very nice,” Jenny said vaguely, following Fran into the bedroom and taking the down-filled sleeping bag Fran pulled out of the closet. She wasn’t in any