Kathleen Creighton - The Black Sheep’s Baby

“Devon-” He reached toward her.

She jerked away from him just as his fingers were closing on her arm. Her hands lost their grip, and the picture frame, with its collage of happy childhood memories, slipped from them and fell to the floor with a cracking, tinkling crash.

There was a gasp, a muffled oath; and for several heartbeats, deafening silence. Then Devon dropped to her knees, and her hands darted here and there in quick, jerky forays, snatching up shards of broken glass. She was saying, over and over in a horrified whisper, “Oh, God-I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean to do that-I’m sorry…”

Eric had frozen, partly in shock, partly in dread, all senses primed, ears cocked for the first sounds from down the hall-a door opening, his mom’s voice raised in question and alarm. When that failed to come, he didn’t question the miracle, just let himself breathe again as he sank to one knee beside Devon.

He didn’t know what to do first, reach for her, rescue the broken frame, or pull those unsteady hands away from the perils of broken glass. He didn’t know what to do, period. He’d never been in such turmoil. He’d never been more profoundly shaken, his heart pounding and his mouth dry, clammy with adrenaline.

But at the same time his emotions had never been calmer or more certain. In his heart, in his guts, in the deepest part of himself, he knew he wanted to hold and soothe her, that somehow he had to comfort and protect her. Seeing Devon like this, with her customary self-confidence shattered, the veneer of her composure and sophistication revealed for the sham it was…the intensity of his feelings for her all but overwhelmed him. Simple compassion, even protective tenderness couldn’t account for this. This was something much more powerful, something primitive, possessive, life-changing.

His heart knew it, his gut knew it, but his head, his logical mind, caught somewhere between the turmoil and the certainty, refused to call it by name. His head, his reason, still insisted on telling him all the reasons it was impossible.

“Devon-” he said, reaching for her as he had before.

And again when he touched her she jerked, but toward him this time, not away. Magnified by a film of tears, her eyes locked with his, and this time the question was a plea. “Why are you doing this?”

His hand, instead of closing gently around her arm, dropped to his knee. He tried to smile. “Definitely not to hurt you.”

“Oh, no?” Her voice was a thin, raspy whisper, as if she wanted to shout at him but was as conscious as he was of other ears just down the hall. “What, then?” She went back to grabbing up pieces of broken glass, her movements uncoordinated as she flung angry words at him over her shoulder. “I know what you want. You want me to tell you you’re right, that the lies Susan told you are true. That our parents-” She gasped and jerked her hand back. Clutching it with the other, she began to swear in a low and furious whimper.

He reached for her, swearing himself; he’d caught a glimpse of telltale crimson, though she tried to shield it from him with her body. “Let me see. How bad is it?” She was on her feet, now, and so was he. “Come on, Devon-dammit-”

She twisted out of his grasp, stubbornly determined to evade him. Just as stubbornly he caught her by the arms and turned her to him. Her eyes blazed at him, more golden now than green. “Leave me alone. It’s just a cut, for God’s sake.” She whispered it, desperate rather than angry. “I just need some tissue-” Her eyes darted past him in futile search.

He captured her hands in both of his and held them up so he could see the damage. A thin rivulet of blood spiraled down her left index finger in a candy cane design. His head spun; his heart thundered. “You need a bandage on that,” he said thickly, surprised at how calm he sounded. “Some antiseptic. There’s some in the bathroom.”

She tugged on her hands, trying again to pull away from him. “No-your parents-they’ll hear. Please. Just give me something to wrap it in. A handkerchief-anything.”

There was a plastic jar of baby wipe cloths on his nightstand, just out of reach. Afraid to let go of her, afraid she’d bolt if he did, he led her closer to the bed and holding her hands in one of his, reached to pluck several of the cloths from the jar. He wadded them around her bleeding finger, then folded it in and enfolded her hands in his. Held them close to him, close to his chest, close to his rapidly beating heart.

He didn’t know how to help her. Leave me alone, she’d begged him. He couldn’t do that, not until he’d given up all hope of ever getting from her what he so desperately needed. There was too much at stake-a little girl’s future, not to mention his own. But she knew that-most of it.

What he hadn’t anticipated, and what was complicating his life more than he’d thought possible, was that Devon’s future had come to matter to him, too. She mattered. And he honestly didn’t know whether forcing her to remember a nightmare past was going to help or hurt her in the long run. He thought it ought to help-like opening up a wound to allow it to heal. But what did he know about it, really? Sometimes, he knew, doctors might choose to leave a bullet or piece of shrapnel in someone because removing it would cause more damage than leaving it alone.

He didn’t want to hurt her, or leave her alone-that much he knew. He wanted what he couldn’t have. He wanted a miracle.

“Devon,” he whispered, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you’re willing to,” she said, staring at their clasped hands, “to keep Emily.”

He flinched inside but didn’t try to evade the truth. “Yes.” With eyes closed he bowed his head; his exhalation flowed like a caress over her fingers. “At first, believe me, it was just that simple. But it’s not anymore. It’s complicated. These past few days, Devon, I’ve come-dammit, I-”

She gave a cry, and her uninjured hand jerked from his grasp to press against his lips. Breathless and distraught, shaking her head rapidly, she whimpered, “No, no, no-” like a child denying the inevitable. “Don’t you say it. You can’t have feelings for me. You can’t. I can’t have feelings for you-”

“But you do,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

She couldn’t deny it, any more than he could. She didn’t try. He felt her go still, still as death. Her mouth seemed to blur. The vulnerability of it tore at his heart.

Then his mouth was soft on hers…she whimpered, and he felt her lips quiver. The kiss grew urgent, hungry, and she was sobbing, the salt-sweet taste of her tears on his tongue. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, crept up the back of his neck. Her fingers burrowed into his hair. She gasped-or did he? He folded her close and held her hard against him, fearing his pounding heart would unbalance them both.

“I want you to make love to me,” she whispered with her lips close to his ear. And she went on before he could answer. “I know it’s insane. I know it’s wrong. But I think I’ll go crazy if we don’t, just once.”

He nodded. “I agree with everything you said. And it terrifies me.” He gave a small, shaken laugh.

“I know. Me, too.”

I never thought I could feel this way, Devon thought. That nothing else matters so much, that there is nothing more important than making love with this man, here and now. No matter the consequences. No matter the cost. The rest of my life will just have to work itself out somehow.

She drew back from him, but only a little. She held his face between her hands, and even the wad of baby wipe cloths on her finger failed to distract her as she said earnestly, breathless with resolve, “It’s just this once…just for tonight. It has to be…”

“I know.”

She felt a shock pass through his body, like a small seismic quake, and he held her harder against him. Yes, this terrifies me, too, she thought.

“It’s all right if you don’t have a condom.” She whispered it, but her voice quivered with nervousness. “I think I can trust you. I know you can trust me. And I am on the pill.”

He pulled back a little to look at her, his whiskey eyes warm and wry, half wary, half amused. “Will you think badly of me if I tell you I have one?”

“Why would I think badly of you? For being prepared-”

“I don’t know, maybe you’d think I’m some sort of playboy-”

She laughed, and it felt warm and good deep down in her belly. “Eric, you’re the last man I’d mistake for a playboy.”

He laughed, too, a delicious quivering against her stomach. “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or not.”

“It is,” she said, and added dryly, “Trust me.” She lifted her face to him and he kissed her again, long and deeply this time. Exploring…inviting…promising. By the time he lifted his head again she was dizzy with longing, drunk with desire.

“Devon,” he said in a thickened voice, “you’re not going to change your mind again, are you?”

“No,” she whispered, “are you?”

He lowered his mouth to hers. And that was his only answer.

H e drew her to the bed and they sat together on its edge, hands clasped, like children about to embark on a wondrous and terrifying adventure. Her eyes were brilliant, like emeralds, like diamonds, never leaving his as she picked up the edge of her black turtleneck and slowly drew it up and off.

As each slender inch of her body revealed itself to him, his hands touched her there, and he felt the soft skin of her belly and ribcage roughen with goose bumps. Her bra was black lace, stark against the ivory of her skin…translucent, like the insides of some shells. Reverently, he cradled the warm weight of her breasts in his hands, bent to kiss the sweet cleft between, the shadowy blush of her nipples-inhaling the citrus scent of her skin and tasting fabric and woman as he made both of them warm and wet in his mouth, then cold and shivering to hardness when he left them. He felt her gasp, and her breathing grow sharp and shallow.