Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (24 page)

  "These cookies are a bitch to make."

  He caught her shoulder, made her face him. "You want to tell me?"

"No."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

  "Because I'm a hard, jaded, fucked -up woman you shouldn't be talking to in the fi rst place."

  "Where did you get that dress?"

  "Attic."

  He took a step closer, still gripping her shoulder. "I was kidding before, you do look beautiful."

  "Glad you think so." She took a step back so his arm went straight. "It's my costume for the party tomorrow."

  He stepped forward again. "This is where I say you've been wearing costumes all along, right?"

  "Whatever floats your boat." She stepped back.

  Step forward. "Vivian."

  "Yes?" Step back.

  Forward. "Hold still."

  "Why?" Next attempt to step back thwarted by strong muscular pressure from strong muscular arms belonging to Mike.

  "Because I'm going to kiss you."

  Sharp intake of breath on Vivian's part cut short by one of the most amazing kisses she'd ever been privileged to receive.

  And another one. And . . . oh God. More. And she was kissing him back like the affection- and sex -starved fool she was, only as the kisses progressed, it started being less about her needs and more about Mike, which scared the shit out of her. "Stop."

  His hands traveled from her shoulders to the sides of her breasts and made the sweet, virginal, cotton feel extremely sexy. Not to mention the woman wearing it.

  "Why?"

"I don't know." What reason would make sense?

  His thumbs found her nipples, which practically barged through the nylon of her bra, like the Incredible Hulk, whose inflating muscles shredded his human clothes.

  "Mike."

  "What?" He backed her against the wall, wedged his thigh between hers, and proceeded to work magic that made her brain beg to be released from the burden of common sense. Hell, of conscious thought.

  "I forget."

  "Good." He painted a tiny circle on her neck with his tongue, and she pushed her pelvis instinctively against the erection promising heaven through too much fabric.

  Then he stopped, and her moan of disappointment came out much too loudly.

  "Cookies."

  "They're—" She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. "Burning."

  Classic interruption. Had to be either that or a knock at the door, which, at the rate the cookies were burning, would probably be the fi re department.

  One pan of charred cardamom butter cookies out of the oven, and of course, as in any good farce, the smoke detector went off. While she dealt with the cookies, Mike climbed a chair, yanked out the battery, and went around opening windows.

  "Whew." He waved smoke toward the fresh air and winked. "Surprised
we
didn't set it off."

  "Yeah." She put the pan on the tile counter, where it sizzled against some water left there.

  "So?"

  She turned and found him standing in the center of the kitchen, hands on hips, giving her the where -were-we? look, which made his blue eyes hot and sweet, and which made her chest fl uttery, and which made every warning signal go off at a decibel level that made the smoke detector a lullaby. "So -o-o?"

  He took a few steps toward her and she took the last step to him, though she hadn't intended to.

  "It's lucky the cookies burned," he said.

  "Why? They were good cookies."

  "Because I want you to make the decision about us with your brain, not your . . . not the rest of you."

  She laughed. "You mean not with my c—"

  His hand made sure the rest of the word couldn't come out of hers. "You are such a foul mouth."

  She blinked up at him, moved back from his hand. "Is that exciting to you?"

  "Possibly."

  "Come see my bedroom."

  He frowned. "Vivian . . ."

  "No, no, I want you to see it. It's painted."

  "Listen to me." He took her shoulders and planted her solidly on the floor. "If we go up there, we're not coming back down for several hours."

  "Gee, Mike, you take a long time to look at paint."

  "And if we go up there and spend several hours, that's not going to be the only time we spend several hours."

  "Fine by me. Paint is endlessly fascinating."

  "Vivian." His jaw tensed; his hands on her shoulders clamped harder. "We are going to do this like normal people."

  "You know any?"

  "We're going to be together exclusively, and see this through until we either decide it won't work or get married."

  "
Married?"
She put her hand to her thumping heart. "What are you, nuts?"

  "Relax. I was making a point."

  "Christmas, you scared the crap outta me."

  "Yeah." He grimaced comically. "I think I wet myself."

  She laughed and didn't resist when he took her hands and put them around his neck, though she felt as if she should.

  "Let's go upstairs, Vivian."

  "To see the paint?"

  His hands gripped her waist; she felt the quiet strength in them, and her heart did that weird squeezy thing again. "And more, if we have a deal."

  "Mike, I'm leaving as soon as—"

  "That's immaterial. Do we have a deal?"

  "How is that immaterial?"

  "Because I'm talking about you and me, not where we live."

  "I've just been through hell. When I leave here, I want to leave. I want to put this whole miserable chapter of my life behind me. I want to start completely over."

  "With some other sugar daddy who beats you up?"

  She took in a deep breath, half begging for patience, half in horror at the thought. "No. Maybe on my own. Or with a man who is good to me."

  "And?" He spread his arms what -about-me? wide.

  She laughed. "Not in Kettle. I don't belong here."

  He looked down at her dress and over at the cookies. "You're underestimating—"

  "I put on a costume and baked some cookies, Mike. You might think you don't want another Rosemary, but you're asking me to be her every time you talk to me."

  "I'm not asking you to be Rosemary. Trust me." He took in a breath that hunched his shoulders up by his ears, then blew it out and let them drop. "I want to tell you."

  Oh God, here it came. The outpouring. She wanted it desperately, to know she could hold a place in his heart Rosemary couldn't. At the same time, she was going to leave soon, and if she was the first person he'd told, it was like shooting a wild dog you'd taken a month to make trust you. "Why do you want to tell me now?"

  "I've been doing a lot of thinking."

  "This is new for you?"

  "Shut up, Vivian." Only he said it as if he meant he adored her.

  "Go on." How could she refuse? "I'm listening."

  "I . . . knew Rosemary from childhood. We dated through high school and got married because Kettle expected us to. I was young and infatuated and I didn't have the strength to say no even though it felt wrong." His face shut down. "She was a sweet woman. But she didn't challenge me, not in any way, not ever. My needs always came first. My opinions and decisions ruled. It drove me nuts."

  "I can imagine."

  "I'd pick fights to try and get her to stick up for herself. I was cruel sometimes. I'd make her do things in bed she didn't want to, to see if she'd say no. And she'd just lie there looking martyred." He closed his eyes briefly, and it hit Vivian that what she'd always read as pain was mostly anger. "After a while I realized she
was
fi ghting back. Bitterly."

  "Damn right." Vivian snorted. She wanted to dig Rosemary up and sock her in the nose. "Bitches come in all fl avors."

  "So I stopped trying to have a marriage. I smiled. I let her cater to me. I gave up on sex. I felt trapped. On more than one occasion I hoped she'd die."

  "And you got your wish."

  "Yeah." He looked down at his feet. "Aneurysm. Bang, she was gone. And you know where I was?"

  Vivian cringed. "Not on top of someone else?"

  "Close. In a bar, drunk off my ass, with some woman I'd just met doing some serious lap dancing." He ran his hand across his forehead, looking so miserable, she wanted to do whatever it took to make him smile again.

  "Oh God."

  "That was the fi rst time I let another woman touch me."

  "Oh God, Mike." Vivian put her hands over her mouth and laughed in total dismay. "So you came home from this other woman messed up and guilty, and Rosemary was dead?"

  "Yeah."

  "Don't tell me. In your bed. Waiting for you."

  "Yeah."

  "Oh no. Oh no." She reached and touched his chest, feeling as if a truck was parked on her own. "The ultimate passive aggressive victory."

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her close; she forced herself to relax against his solid, hard warmth. If God screwed up and sent her to heaven, it would be full of guys like Mike. "So . . . what then?"

  "I made it through everyone's shock, and left. Went far and wide, holed up with a friend in Portland, Maine, worked too hard, drank too much, fucked too many."

  "No such thing." She squeezed him to show she was kidding. "Just don't tell me you blame yourself for her death."

  "No, I don't blame myself for her death. Her body did that to her. The doctor said even if I'd been there, nothing would have saved her. But I feel guilty as hell that I—"

  "Get over it, Mike." She lifted her head and forced him into eye contact. "She got you in the end, didn't she? Probably died with a smile on her lips."

  "I was with another woman and she was dying alone."

  "You were starving, Mike. She was starving you. I'm amazed you didn't have your dick in half the county. You deserved to."

  "Not that many people around here would agree with you."

  She took in his grim expression, and it bonked her over the head what it must have been like for Mike to live in Kettle. Way worse than for Vivian. "Why the hell did you come back here?"

  "I wanted to make peace with it, with her. I couldn't do it while I was away. I thought if I came back, maybe . . ."

  "But it didn't work."

  Meaningful look. "It's starting to."

  "Oh no. Oh no." She unwrapped her arms and pushed him away, totally nonplussed when he started chuckling. "I am not your personal savior, Mike. I'm an unstable mess of a person and I will take no responsibility for—"

  He lunged toward her and, oh crap. Kisses again. Hard ones. Hungry ones. Kisses with serious intentions that overwhelmed her, scared her, and turned her on madly.

  Now on her feet, then suddenly lifted off them and plunked down on the kitchen table. Her skirts up, panties pushed aside, and his tongue . . .

  Ohhh, let's just say she was currently a very happy woman. Getting happier all the time. In fact she was going to leave him in the dust. "Mike, you're going to make me come."

  "That's the plan."

  "What about you?"

  "No condoms."

  "Oh." She gasped and leaned back on her elbows, let her head tip back, gave herself over to the heat and warmth until she felt the orgasm building, faster than she'd expected it to, a big, long, pulsing explosion. Damn he was good. Rosemary was a fool.

  Then he lifted her—oh my God, he really did—and carried her, while she giggled like a teenager, up into her room.

  "Okay, nice paint. Where are the condoms?"

  "Glad to see you have priorities."

  He set her down and she giggled harder, lit up with anticipation. This was all going to be fine. Carnal sex was her expertise. She'd expected emotion, warmer and stickier than anything that would come out of their bodies. That she couldn't handle. But a guy who'd yank up her dress and stick his tongue between her legs, yeah, he was speaking her language.

  Quick trip to pull the shades in the room, then into the bathroom, and she tossed him the condoms. "Lie on the bed."

  He shed his pants and his shirt and lay on the bed and, oh my goodness. They shouldn't allow men that beautiful to be naked in front of anyone who wanted her heart to keep beating.

  She desperately wanted to touch him, but first she wanted to get this girl -next-door stuff out of the way and be sure he knew what he was getting.

  So, dress first—a long, slow pull of the zipper, while he watched and his briefs rose to a lovely pyramid shape.

  She started humming, "
What Lola wants . . ."
and let the material fall off her shoulders. Then turned partly away, gave him a come -hither look over her shoulder, and gyrated her—

  "Don't do that."

  She froze. "Don't do what?"

  "I want you to take your clothes off for me."

  "Gee, I thought that's what I was doing."

  "No. You're doing it for men everywhere." He lifted on his elbow, unselfconsciously
GQ
. "I want you to do it for me. Not the stripper routine. Just take them off."

  She didn't move. "You want me to stand here and take my dress off? What's sexy about that?"

  He rolled his eyes. "For someone who's done it all, you are clueless. Just let the dress go."

  "Fine." She let go. The dress swished to the ground, skirt billowed out, then slowly sank fl at.

  And there she stood in zebra -striped bikini underwear and a matching zebra -striped push -up bra. Not dancing. Not pouting. Not undulating. Not seducing.

  "Now take those off." He was whispering. His cock jumped under his briefs.

  She shifted her weight. She felt naked and stupid. And vulnerable. "But I'm . . . just a woman in underwear."

  "Geez, Vivian, you're
you
in underwear. You're incredible." His voice was low, husky; his own underwear began to look painful. "Take them off for me."

  She unhooked the bra and slid it off. Pulled down the panties and stepped out of them. Not a shimmy. Not an exaggerated self -caress. Not a peekaboo tease. She felt squashed. Suppressed. Unnatural.

  He groaned, dragged his briefs off, pulled a condom on so fast his fi ngers were practically a blur.