She let out a frustrated sigh and sat up, running her hands through her hair. It flowed through her fingers and down her back, and he wished he could bury his own hands in it, bury his face in the heavy locks and breathe her in. But he'd obviously upset her.
“I'm sorry, Fern. I shouldn't have done that.”
“Why?” she snapped, startling him enough that he winced. “Why are you sorry?”
“Because you're upset.”
“I'm upset because you pulled away! You're so careful. And it's frustrating!”
Ambrose was taken back by her honesty, and he smiled, instantly flattered. But the smile faded as he tried to explain himself.
“You're so small, Fern. Delicate. And all of this is new to you. I'm afraid I'm going to come on too strong. And if I break you or hurt you, I won't survive that, Fern. I won't survive it.” That thought was worse than walking away from her, and he shuddered inwardly. He wouldn't survive it. He had already hurt too many. Lost too many.
Fern knelt in front of him, and her chin wobbled and her eyes were wide with emotion. Her voice was adamant as she held his face between her hands, and when he tried to pull away so she wouldn't feel his scars, she hung on, forcing his gaze.
“Ambrose Young! I have waited my whole life for you to want me. If you don't hold me tight I won't believe you mean it, and that's worse than never being held at all. You’d better make me believe you mean it, Ambrose, or you will most definitely break me.”
“I don't want to hurt you, Fern,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Then don't,” she whispered back, trusting him. But there were lots of ways to cause pain. And Ambrose knew he was capable of hurting her in a thousand ways.
Ambrose stopped trying to pull his face away, surrendering to the way it felt to be touched. He hadn't allowed anyone to touch him for a long time. Her hands were small, like the rest of her, but the emotions they stirred in him were enormous, gigantic, all-consuming. She made him shake, made him quake inside, made him vibrate like the tracks under an on-coming train.
Her hands left his face and traveled down the sides of his neck. One side smooth, the other riddled with divots and scars and rippled where the skin had been damaged. She didn't pull away, but felt each mark, memorized each wound. And then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his neck, just below his jaw. And then again on the other side, on the side that bore no scars, letting him know that the kiss wasn't about sympathy, but desire. It was a caress. And his control broke.
She was on her back on the blanket, his big body pressing into hers, her face between his hands as his mouth took hers without finesse, without restraint, and without thought. He simply took. And she gave, opening for him, welcoming the slide of his tongue against hers, the grip of his hands on her face and in her hair and on her hips. He felt her hands slide beneath his shirt and tiptoe up his back and it felt so good he caught his breath, losing contact with her mouth for a heart-beat as his eyes fell closed and his head dropped to nuzzle the sweetness of her neck. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as if she too had lost control. She kissed his head, the way a mother soothes a child, and stroked the bare skin as he fought for control and lost once more, his hand sliding up to cradle her breast in his palm, his thumb caressing the full underside that made him long to pull her shirt over her head and see if she looked as good as she felt.
But she was a girl who had hardly been kissed, and she needed many more kisses, deserved many more. And so with regret, he slid his hand back to her waist. She arched against him and protested the loss sweetly with a sigh that made his blood boil and his heart knock against his ribs. So he kissed her again, communicating his own need. Her lips welcomed his, moving softly, seeking, savoring, and Ambrose Young felt himself slip and slide, falling helplessly–with very little resistance–in love with Fern Taylor.
“Look who's here!” Bailey crowed as he cruised through the sliding doors into the store. Rita followed behind him, her little son on her hip and a big smile on her face. Fern squealed and ran to her friend, taking the tow-headed toddler from her arms and smothering his little face with kisses. Apparently, Becker was out of town and Rita had been driving home from her mother's when she'd seen Bailey motoring down the street on his way to the store. He'd convinced her that karaoke and dancing were just what she needed.
Before long, Bailey had the music blaring and Rita's son Ty in his lap, cruising up and down the aisles, making the little boy shriek with glee. Rita ran along beside them, her face wreathed in smiles at her son's happiness. Like Fern, Rita had changed since high school. Ambrose wondered how just a few years could alter each of them so drastically, though from what he'd seen of Becker Garth, he hadn't changed at all. He was still a bully, and his wife was now his main target. Rita was still beautiful, but she looked beaten-down and skittish and didn't seem comfortable looking at him, so he retreated to the bakery not long after she and Bailey arrived.
“Ambrose?” Fern was smiling at him from the doorway and he smiled back, liking the way she looked at him, as if there was nothing wrong with his face, as if his very presence made her happy. “You have to come out, just for a minute.”
“Yeah? I think I like it in here better,” he said mildly.
“We're playing the Sheen/Taylor Greatest Hits CD, all our favorite dance songs, and I want to dance with you.”
Ambrose groaned and laughed simultaneously. Leave it to Bailey and Fern. They would have a greatest hits CD. And he would be happy to dance with Fern–he would be happy to do almost anything with Fern–but he would rather stay in the kitchen and dance where no one was watching.