Wanted: Wife (25 page)

Andy sighed, folding his arms atop the paper. “Something wrong?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just thought . . .” I popped a bit of muffin in my mouth. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“No. Hey.” He pulled my hand toward him. “What is it?”

I shrugged again. God, I hated being petulant, but this was bothering me. “Maybe I just don’t like the idea of being an afterthought.”

“What?” He pulled back, looking positively pinched. “You think
I
think—”

“Oh, forget it,” I said, feeling stupid. I slipped out of my chair and into his lap. “I’m sorry,” I said, looping my arms around his neck. “I’m just happy I’m here. For whatever reason.”

“Julie, you could never be an afterthought, but remember—we had to contend with birthing a heifer, chickens, a trashed house, overflowing vegetables, and a myriad of other things that needed immediate attention. And this house wasn’t even empty until a few days ago.” He bounced me on his knees a few beats.
“Tu comprends?”

“All right, I get it.” I kissed him, and we sat in companionable silence for a bit, Andy sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. “So . . . what do you want to do now?”

He kissed me, smiling wickedly.

“Again? Come on, there’s more to a honeymoon than just
that
.”

“Like what? It’s raining!”

What began as a downpour now seemed to be easing. “Even with the rain.”

He sighed, slowly shaking his head. “Jesus, you’re such an American.”

“So are you, but every now and then your Frenchiness precedes you. Come on, get up.” I slid from his lap. “We’re going out.”

“Where? It’s hardly a beach day.”

“But we’re not going on the beach. We’re going shopping.”

“Shopping!” My manly-man gaped at me as if I just suggested he don a pink tutu. “Why?”

I pinched the front of his shirt. Here—smell this. We still stink like smoke. If we’re going out tonight we each need to get a new outfit. And we
are
going out tonight, aren’t we?”

Andy sniffed his collar. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s go.”

“Just let me get my shoes.”

As I trotted to the bedroom, he mumbled,
“Frenchiness?”

W
E WALKED HAND-IN-HAND
from the restaurant to the bayside, looking strangely enough like a couple on their honeymoon. As the water lapped against the pilings, the half-moon rising behind us, Andy slipped his arms around my waist and pulled me to him, his forehead against mine.

“Forgive me yet?” he said, most contritely, kissing my hand.

I tossed my hair, wearing it loose that night, thinking about whether or not I should absolve him of his most egregious transgression. “I’m still thinking . . .” I slipped my hand to the back of his neck. “Kiss me, and I’ll let you know.”

That afternoon, we had left our rather vacated end of the island for Beach Haven a few miles away, rambling in and out of the shops that were still open, buying a dress, a rather sexy bra set, and four inch heels for me, a polo and a pair of khakis for Andy, and swim suits for each of us. Soon after the rain stopped and the day became sunny and warm, we headed to an outdoor café for coffee, sharing a bread bowl of lobster bisque. Then we took a walk along the docks, mainly so Andy could impress me by talking nautical shop with a couple of captains. One of them was kind enough to not only give us a tour of his boat, but to also engage Andy in a rather spirited discussion about his engine’s compression. Only after I was thoroughly dazzled by talk of twin MTU 600 horsepower diesel engines did Andy spirit me back to the cottage. I squeezed into my new bikini and Andy into his swim trunks, and we ran down to the water. The clear sky had brought out some fishermen, though they were a bit down the beach on either side.

“I must tell you,” I said as my feet hit the surf, “it’s been years since I’ve worn a bikini.” I repositioned the top, my girls nearly boiling over. But what did I want for ten bucks? “I can’t believe you talked me into it.”

Andy raked me with his gaze, smiling appreciatively. “Why? You have the figure for it. You look gorgeous.
Fantastique
.”

“But it’ll be hard to swim in.” I picked at it. “I feel like I’m falling out.”

He came up to me, running his thumbs over the rim of the cups. “Then take it off. European women go topless at the beach. It’s no big thing.” His hand trailed to the clasp in between, his finger looping under it.

My eyes widened. “Don’t you dare . . .”

“Do . . . what?” He leaned down to kiss me, distracting me with his well-placed tongue. Suddenly the bikini top popped apart, slipping down my arms to the water. I gasped, palming my boobs while he snatched it from the surf a split-second before the next wave took it.

“Give me that you bastard!” I yelled. Andy promptly shoved it down his trunks and dove into the water.

“Son of a bitch!” I screamed, diving after him.

By the time I hit air he was in front of me, laughing hysterically and hauling me to him. “You bastard!” I cried, pummeling his chest, which only made him tweak my high-beam nips and laugh harder. So hard a minute later I was joining him, jumping in and out of the waves with my new-found freedom.

“See?” he said. “Isn’t it easier to swim without worrying if your top will fall off?”

“Yeah,” I said, up to my neck in the water, “but how the hell am I supposed to walk out?” I stuck out my hand. “Fork it over, buster.”

“You sure?” His eyes dropped to my buoyant boobage. “You look terrific.”

I waggled my fingers. “Absolutely. Give it here.”

“Okay . . .” He sighed dramatically, reaching into his trunks. His face went blank.

“Don’t tell me . . .” I shoved my hand down his shorts, rummaging through every square inch. He leaned back, grinning. I looked up in horror, snatching my hand out.

“How could you!” I cried. “At a time like this!”

“For Christ’s sake—you had your hand down my pants! What did you expect!”

I looked away.
I will not laugh. I will not laugh
. “Where is it!”

“I don’t know! There’s netting in this suit, it must have slipped out somehow. Maybe there’s a hole?”

The perils of cheap suits. The wind had kicked up, the water now warmer than the air, and I was starting to freeze. I crossed my arms in front of me. With evening prime fishing time, more fishermen had set up on the beach, these ones within viewing distance. The longer I waited, the worse it would get. “I’m getting out.”

Andy slung his arm over my shoulder. “Stay close to me and no one will know the difference.” And just like that, we ambled from the surf, where just before we hit dry sand, we looked down and there, washed up on the shore, was my elusive top.

“Well, look at that,” Andy said.

I looked at it a moment then, stepping away from him, turned and in full frontal fishermen position dropped my arms. “Get it for me, darling, will you?”

Just before I turned to stroll back to the cottage, I could have sworn a fisherman or two dropped their poles. But then again, I’m sure plenty others were raising theirs.

After that, I fully intended to torture Andy. I showered with the door wide and the shower curtain half open, slowly slathering myself with soap and shampoo until I was sudsy and shiny, arching each leg on the rim of the tub to shave. As he worked his razor across his own beard, I could see him swallowing hard, so I tried to make it even worse when I slipped into my new champagne lace underwear, the boy shorts giving him a tantalizing glimpse of my bottom. And I’m sure the boned bra piqued his ardor much more than any naked boobs could’ve that afternoon.

But the
pièce de résistance
had to be the four-inch sandals I bought—spiky, strappy little things I swear were designed to bring him down. When I walked out of the bedroom, a slip of lace just peeking from the deep cleavage of my white wrap dress, my newly acquired height now elevating my charms for easier viewing, Andy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, his mouth so dry
I
needed a drink of water.

“Ready?” he rasped, gaping at me.

“Am I ever,” I said, licking my lips. I squeezed past him, brushing my hip against his on the way to the door.

Dinner was no better. I did my best
Tom Jones
imitation while nipping shrimp cocktail and crab legs. At one point Andy reached under the table to furtively caress my knee. I coldly crossed my legs, shifting.

“Chienne,”
he whispered, pouring another glass of wine.

So when he broke our kiss there at the bayside after dinner, Andy was one supremely frustrated man. “Well? Will you still make me suffer?”

I tossed my head—and my hair—looking upward, thinking. “I don’t know,” I said, biting my lip as I caught his smoldering gaze. “Why don’t you take me home and find out.”

He grabbed my hand and we were off.

I don’t think I’ve ever ridden so fast down a residential street in my life. Andy peeled down the boulevard, pulling sideways into the driveway. He jammed the truck into park then pulled me out his side, leaving the door half-opened as he fumbled for his key and threw open the front door. I went right for the back porch, where I pertly half-perched on the railing.

“Well?” he said, raking a hand through his already well-raked hair.

I leaned against a post, my breasts arching sweetly, and with a bit of a pouty lip, said, “I guess I’m just not in the mood.” I shrugged. “Sorry.” I hopped off the railing, heading inside. “I’m tired. Good night.”

I wasn’t halfway to the door when his hand caught my arm. A moment later I was back atop the railing, Andy firmly between my spread legs. “Where do you think you’re going?” he growled, his eyes like blue crystals in the moonlight.

“I-I was going to bed,” I said, barely able to speak.

“Really?” He slid my dress up my legs. “Did you actually think you’d get there without me?” Two fingers slipped to my crotch; I immediately went wet. “Or without this first?” He slid a finger inside me.

I threw my head back as his thumb worked its magic, grasping his shoulders for support. Before a minute was out he had my satin boy shorts on the porch and I was coming so violently I shook in his hands. When I came back to earth, my fingers were at his zipper.

“Fuck me, Andy,” I said, fumbling with it. “Fuck me—
please
.”

“How about—
no
,” he said, slapping my hand away. “How about—
I’m
tired?”

I grabbed at his cock; he pinned my hands behind my back, biting my lip before shoving his tongue between my swollen lips. I had just come, but I was already wanting more, panting against his mouth, my hips writhing as he pressed his pelvis into mine.

“Andy . . . Andy . . .” I panted, never wanting him more.

“How does it feel,
ma petite
, to want something . . .” He kissed me savagely. “Want something so badly you can’t have?”

I fought against his grasp, but he only tightened it. “Andy . . .” I kissed him hard, tasting blood. “I’ll do anything if you only—”

“Anything?” He laughed. “Oh,
ma chérie
. . . you just said the magic words.” He freed himself, and within a second he was inside me.

I felt a million things imploding—my mind spinning out of control as he was everywhere: in me, above me, around me, his scent like sexual adrenaline. We grasped at each other, panting, heaving, Andy pounding me so hard I felt each thrust like a beat of my heart. Then suddenly he lifted me up and we were spinning around, Andy slipping from me only long enough to carry me inside. We fell to the bed, all arms and legs and kisses, and then miraculously he was inside me again, rising above me, his gaze firm when he bent to kiss me, his mouth so soft against mine.

“You’re mine,” he said, “my wife,
ma femme
. They can look all they want, appreciate you like I do, but they can never have you. You’re mine, wife.
Mine
.” Then he took us both over the moon.

For a little while, I fell asleep in his arms, and as was my habit, I eased away and slipped into the bathroom. After I flicked on the light, I caught myself in the mirror where all at once it hit me. “Oh, shit . . .” I murmured, breaking into a sweat.

I wrenched on the cold tap, slapping my face with freezing water, my heart pounding. I grasped the sink, trying to steady myself, but it was no use. There was no denying the reality slowly seeping down the inside of my thigh.

I was fucked—metaphorically and otherwise.

Chapter Eighteen

Reentry

I
HAD FORGOTTEN
my birth control pills.

I plopped down on the toilet, my head in my hands. Not only had I forgotten my pills, but because of our argument and the confusion over the fire, I hadn’t started a new pack Saturday night, which meant, because of a lapse for my period, I last took a dose nine days ago. Which led me to think the unthinkable.

I could be pregnant.

“Jesus Christ . . .” I groaned, how could I have been so incredibly stupid! I counted the times we had sex: once Saturday night, not at all on Sunday, but once early this morning, then around noon, then just a few . . . “ Jesus . . .”
Four times
. Three, just today. I couldn’t have done better if his spunk and my eggs had partied in a Petrie dish.

I got up, splashed my face again with cold water.
Think
.
Think
, I told myself, grappling for a towel. People have had sex from time immemorial, and they couldn’t have gotten pregnant every single time. How did they avoid it?

I could’ve been practical and run down the local drugstore for a morning-after pill. But how would I’ve gotten that past Andy, especially since it would bring on my period, and didn’t I just get over it?
Scratch that
. I recalled reading a book where a whore douched with—
No
, I thought, cringing.
Get serious
. Then I remembered something from my high school health class, about the Rhythm Method of birth control. That a woman’s safest time to have sex was right after and right before her period, since ovulation usually occurred in the middle of her month. I breathed a sigh of relief. Until I remembered this method was statistically unreliable because there were too many variables.
Like how being on the pill skewed ovulation
. Damn.
Think, think
. . .