Valentine's Child by Nancy Bush

course, there was, in the end, nothing to do but let the explosion happen. It was their fate; written in the stars. So she waited for him and he eventually came.
    His entourage came with him, a steady stream of fans and groupies and parents and teachers and administrators all wanting to tell J.J. how great he was. But he quickly eluded them and finally they were alone. He must’ve read her mind because they talked very little. She climbed into the passenger seat of his car, let him drive to a secluded lane that abutted Beckett property, made no protest as he held her hand and led her through the back gate and along a private path that approached the Beckett tree house from the rear. Silently, she followed him up the ladder to a clean, cozy room complete with a huge canvas hammock stretched from a post on one side to a metal ring screwed into the opposite wall, next to a real, paned window. Thick, wool plaid blankets were stacked in a pile, and he grabbed one and spread it over the hammock.
    Sherry’s heart beat fast. She watched him light an oil hurricane lamp, tuck it onto a corner shelf and turn the wick low.
    Shadows played on his face. He was all angles and serious intensity. He loomed over her, his palm caressing her face. She closed her eyes and a sigh escaped her lips. Finally, finally, the moment was here. The moment was right.
    When he kissed her, there was passion heating beneath his searching lips and Sherry answered in kind. Looking back, she marveled at how quickly they’d fallen into a tangled heap on the softly swaying hammock. There’d been no laughter, just urgency.
    Their lovemaking had been quick and glorious, her brief moment of pain lost beneath the wonder of it all. She could still see the burnished light moving on his shoulders, the muscles working so smoothly they appeared to be oiled, the curve of his hip, the power of his thighs. She could feel his hardness, his hands exploring her anxiously, his body pumping rhythmically. His groans of ecstasy were burned into her memory. And the taste of him — oh, God — his slightly salty flesh and sweet tongue were a delight she wanted to experience again and again.
    Goose bumps broke out on her flesh at the memory. Lips trembling, she took another gulp of her mocha, heat rising in her cheeks. No wonder she never reflected. Not only was it painful, it was embarrassing. How long had it been since she’d really thought about J.J. like this? Had she ever?
    Blinking, Sherry was stunned to realize that she hadn’t let herself think about J.J. Beckett since she’d run away from Oceantides. In all these years she’d never examined the reasons she and he had collided and crashed with the force of two freight trains. She focused on her pain, her anger, and her responsibility, but not once had she really let herself revel in those passionate moments in J.J.’s strong arms.
    “Hell,” she muttered now, aware of her rapidly beating heart and uneven breathing. The man still had way too much power over her. And he didn’t even know it.
    If she were smart, she would remember that her introduction to lovemaking had merely been all set up ahead of time. J.J. had clearly hung that hammock for one reason and one reason only. And if she were smarter yet, she would remember that she couldn’t have been his first guest there. But had she thought about that while J.J. pressed her willing flesh beneath his weight?
    No. On that magical night her conscience slumbered and love blinded her. Blinded her and turned her deaf, as well. But not mute. Oh, no… she couldn’t be that lucky. No. Instead, Sherry Sterling spent those hours whispering over and over again how much she loved him, aware that he wasn’t repeating the pledge but unwilling to believe it was because he only wanted to score again — just like he’d been scoring all evening on the football field.
    Rah, rah, rah.
    Pinching the bridge of her nose, Sherry wanted to groan aloud at how stupid she’d been.