Virgil’s whole body tensed when Peyton came to his door. “Go away,” he snapped.
“That’s it?” she said.
Yes…. No. God, he liked her and he hated her. Or maybe it was what she stood for that he both liked and hated. He barely knew her, and yet she represented everything he couldn’t have and everything he wanted all at once.
He should keep his hands to himself. That was the one course of action where he couldn’t go wrong. So he gritted his teeth and clung to his control. “Yes.”
He heard the weight of her footsteps as she left. Then his stomach knotted and his hands curled into fists because he wanted to hit something, something that would send enough pain through him to crush the physical longing.
Pulling the pillow over his head, he ordered himself to let her go.
Fifteen minutes later he got out of bed and descended the narrow stairs leading to her room. “Peyton?” he called when he reached her door.
It took her a moment to answer. He got the impression that she couldn’t decide whether or not she owed him that much. “What?”
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say; he sure as hell couldn’t explain his actions or his emotions.
She opened the door. The look on her face accused him of hurting her even though he had no idea how he’d managed to do that. Maybe it was her pride he’d damaged. He supposed a woman like her wasn’t used to being turned down.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
She must’ve believed he was sincere because her pained expression dissolved and she began toying nervously with the bottom of her T-shirt.
Once he allowed his gaze to fall lower than her face, he realized that the sweatpants she’d worn earlier were gone. Bare legs extended to bare feet, the sight of which sent a fresh charge of testosterone through him.
“I don’t know how to help you,” she whispered.
“Maybe I don’t want you to help me.”
“Then what do you want?”
For her to see him as an ordinary man. To desire him as an ordinary man.
“Take off your clothes.” His voice sounded so raspy he almost didn’t recognize it. He felt so much more than lust, but whatever else he craved was like an itch he could never scratch. He figured he could be happy with pure sex. Being able to make love to a woman, a woman like Peyton, was far more than he’d expected before returning to prison, wasn’t it? So why had he tried so hard to resist?
She stood, seemingly transfixed. Would she refuse? He’d made his request a command because part of him hoped she would. That she’d save him, since he couldn’t save himself. The other part felt as if he’d die a little if she shut him down….
“Why do you have to tempt people, challenge them, into not giving you what you want?” she asked.
His chest burned; he wasn’t sure why. “This isn’t a psychoanalysis session. Are you going to f**k me or not?”
“No. Forget it. Just get out of here.” She started to turn away, but she didn’t close the door and he clasped her elbow.
“Don’t say no,” he murmured, but he didn’t hold on to her very long. He didn’t want her to feel forced.
She stared at him as if she understood why he’d been crude, as if she was just as lost as he was. Then she lifted her T-shirt over her head and let it drop to the floor.
The sight of her in nothing but a pair of sheer lace panties hit him harder than any physical blow he’d ever sustained. He stepped back and gulped for breath, dared not move toward her for fear she was just another dream that would dissipate into thin air if he tried to touch her.
“Virgil?” She sounded uncertain of his reaction, or lack of reaction.
His throat so dry he couldn’t speak, he raised a hand to tentatively cup her breast. The weight and feel of her resting in his palm shot to his brain like a snort of heroin. It’d been at least ten years since he’d wasted any brain cells on drugs, but it was a feeling he’d never forgotten.
Half expecting her to stop him, he caught his breath. He’d had so much practice being disappointed in life he didn’t truly believe she’d give him what he wanted. Bringing him here, teasing him with her nakedness, could be some sort of test, to see if he’d resort to force if she suddenly changed her mind. He’d heard of C.O.s who did that. Some got off on the danger of such games. But he had no desire to force Peyton or any other woman. It was her cooperation and participation he desired.
She didn’t know that, of course. But she didn’t refuse. Her lips parted and her eyes slid closed as his thumb brushed lightly over one tantalizing nipple.
When he began to shake, he tried to pull away so she wouldn’t notice. His reaction embarrassed him. But she covered his hands and held them in place. “It’s okay,” she promised. “No matter what happens, it’s okay.”
He hadn’t told her he’d been with only one girl, way back when he was a teenager, but he had told her he’d been eighteen when he went to prison and hadn’t had sex since then. He wondered if Peyton found it ironic that a man who’d seen and done so much was almost completely uninitiated in physical pleasure. Maybe. Regardless, she didn’t seem worried that he’d disappoint her.
Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his, kissing him softly, sweetly—and that was all it took. With a growl, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed, where he bent over her so he could use his mouth as much as his hands.
Making love to Peyton made Virgil feel as if he’d spent all those years in prison waiting for this one moment. He didn’t want it to end, especially too soon, which was why he didn’t remove his pajama bottoms when he removed her panties. It was Peyton who eventually peeled them off. Then there was nothing to stop them, and the drive to consummate became both frenzied and desperate.
“I want to feel you inside me,” she whispered when he still held back.
He wanted the same thing. More than he’d ever wanted anything. But just in case all those tests they’d given him before releasing him from prison had somehow been wrong, and he’d picked up HIV or something else from all the fighting, he didn’t want to expose her. Neither did he want to run the risk of getting her pregnant. That couldn’t be good for her life or her career, for a lot of reasons, including the fact that it would provide proof, should Wallace care to make any accusations, that they’d been together.
Pulling ragged gulps of air into his lungs, he rested his forehead against hers. “Do you have a condom?”