“How do you even—”
Ding! Never had an elevator chime been more annoying. He popped out and made straight for their
(yes, their, it was theirs)
room. Once inside, she went straight for the room service menu to make good on her word, but he put a hand on her wrist to stop her. “Will you come to bed with me?”
“Do you want bruschetta or— What?”
“I really, really need to have sex with you,” he said patiently, like it was an everyday feeling, like she shouldn’t be amazed. “Can we?”
She could only gape and thought she must look ridiculous with her big eyes staring and her big mouth hanging open. Every time she thought the conversation couldn’t get more surreal, he topped it. “I didn’t—I never thought you’d want to. With me.”
“I never thought you’d want to. With me.” He was looking at her with a steady gaze; those baby blues never wavered. “I hoped, but … I didn’t have the courage to ask until now.”
“You know I’ve been up to—to bad things, and that I’m partially responsible for—for things.…” The mess you’re in. The mess I’m in. The mess you didn’t deserve. The mess I did deserve. “And you still want to?”
“Oh, God, yes.” The cool reserve slipped and she saw his desire, which fed her own repressed hunger. “Since Friday.”
“But today is— Oh. You’re teasing.”
He smiled. “Maybe a little. I mean, I don’t know for sure that it’s Friday, but I’ll take your word.”
“You shouldn’t,” she said earnestly. “About anything. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. Maybe my word is shit, and I’ve been fooling myself. Maybe building a life around keeping promises and making things fair is juvenile and stupid.”
“Hey, hey.” He stepped a little closer and she closed her eyes; he smelled like Venice: complex and rich and wonderful. “Maybe you’re just scrupulously, pathologically fair.” His thumb was gently stroking along her pulse point, and when she opened her eyes, she saw his smile wasn’t wavering.
She took a breath, and slowly let it out. She wanted. Oh, how she wanted. But. “Please not yet,” she begged. “Wait twenty-four hours, wait just a little bit longer and after you hear—if you still want me—” Ha! She was clearly swimming in the realm of the inconceivable. “—then I’d—I’d love to go to bed with you. Mine or that awful hide-a-bed you’ve been sentenced to.”
“No” was the gentle response. “It’s now or never, Delaney. We’re almost done is the thing. This is our one chance, I think. And it’s not an ultimatum. I want you—badly. But I’ll jump into traffic before pushing you into sex. I just—I want you. So much. Even if it’s only for a little while. Even if it’s maybe a lie. I want you until we have to go back to our lives.”
She saw his point, and it made sense. Whether he was punished for another week or a decade, eventually he’d want to get the hell away—he likely wanted to get the hell away now—and he’d put as much distance as he could between them. Eventually he’d go back to what was his and she’d go back to what was hers, and one of them would have had a narrow escape, and the other would have to live the rest of their life knowing they destroyed their own happiness for pride.
She knew, just like he did. No question: This was their only chance. She’d have to live on the memories; she’d have to make that enough.
“Yes,” she said, and reached for him.
Forty
She went right into his arms, and it was a revelation, it was the best thing ever, it was all contradiction, and pure Delaney: She was soft and firm and gentle and urgent and sweet and sharp. She had him out of his clothes faster than he believed possible, then pressed her hand against his bare chest and pushed. He fell back on the bed, then propped himself up on his elbows to watch her make short work of her clothes: She yanked the sweatshirt over her head and her lovely apple-size breasts bounced free
(no bra oh my God this might be over the second she touches me)
and she shucked off her jeans and kicked off her shoes and wiggled out of her gray hip-huggers, a panty and color he had never found erotic until this moment. Then she climbed on top of him and he caught her around the waist.
“Wait, socks? You’re leaving your socks on?”
“Shut up,” she breathed, and kissed him through his giggles. He put his arms around her and then stroked down, cupping the firm globes of her ass and going lower, until …
“Hey! That— You’re tickling!”
“Purely a side effect,” he grunted, getting ahold of her left sock and—nope, lost it—wait, there it—ah! “No fair,” he growled as she nibbled and kissed the skin over the pulse in his throat.
“Very fair; I gave consent for sex, not sockless sex.” Her hand slid down
(oh God)
and she found his length just as his hand closed over her other ankle. She clasped him and gave him a firm stroke, then used her thumb to swipe across the wetness at his tip; he groaned into her neck and groped blindly for the sock.
“Split the difference?” he managed, and she laughed and jerked her foot out of his grasp.
“One on and one off? You’re a filthy, filthy man.”
“None of this should be sexy,” he observed. “They’re goddamned tube socks, the least sexy socks in all of sockdom. And you wear old-lady underwear.”
“I wear comfortable underwear, you fucking whiner. Walk around all day with the lace of a G-string up your crack and then tell me how much fun it is.”
“No, no! If I gave the impression I was complaining, I’m sorry. Your clothes shouldn’t be sexy, but they are. I shouldn’t want a tricky bitch like you, but I do. And you shouldn’t be with an asshole like me, but you are.”
She groaned and her fists bopped his shoulders, lightly. “Are you trying to torpedo the mood?”
“No! It’s just happening,” he admitted, thinking, What are you doing? Why are you fucking this up?
“Shut up,” she suggested, “and kiss me back.”
So he did. And it wasn’t just glorious; it was excellent advice, too. Her mouth bloomed beneath his like a dark flower, and he could feel her nipples tightening against his chest. He was a tit man, always had been, and Delaney’s were outfuckingstanding, firm and sweet like Anjou pears, with dark pink nipples. She pulled back so he could palm them, and the feel of her tender skin in his hands, and her gray gaze on him, almost made his eyes roll back. She was, in a word, exquisite.
“Condom?”
He nearly shrieked in disappointment. “In my wallet. At the bottom of Lake Como.”
She grinned down at him and sat up. “S’okay. I’ve got a couple in my bag.”
“Thank God,” he said, possibly the most sincere he had been in twenty-eight years. “Really. Thank … God.”
She hurried into the bathroom and he had the extraordinary pleasure of watching her go; she was all dark hair
(the waves tumbling about her shoulders, the sweet dark triangle of her sex … ummmm…)
and pale skin studded with freckles. Her hips swelled from a narrow waist; her legs were long and trim.
She came back holding a condom aloft in triumph
“Ta-dah!”
which made him laugh. “Christ, you’re gorgeous,” he said when she climbed back on top of him. “I mean, you are just top to bottom the whole package.”
“Awww. You say the most nonsensical things.”
“That wasn’t my best,” he admitted. “It’s getting kind of hard to mink. Think.”
“Yes, well.” She grasped his prick in her small warm hand and he shuddered and bit back a groan as her hand slid up.… and down … and back up. Slowly. So goddamned slowly. He wanted her to stop. He wanted her never to stop. He wanted her to … Um. Do something. Or nothing. Huh? “Your brain’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Buh,” he agreed. “Um. Come down here. Might die. If I don’t kiss you s’more. ’Kay?”
“I don’t want you to die,” she whispered, bending and giving him
her mouth. “I can’t think of anything worse.”
He put his arms around that small pretty waist and pulled her in so closely that she gasped for breath, and it still wasn’t enough. He rolled until she was on her back and licked the tender spot behind her ear. She stiffened
(careful, careful)
and he pulled back. “Is this okay?”
“Tickles,” she said, and shivered when he did it again. “Um. I like that.”
“Good. We’re only doing the things you like. Yes?”
“Oh, yes. But I’m not made of glass. You don’t have to baby me.”
“I’m not. I’m cherishing you. I’ve thought about this a lot in the last few days and I don’t want to rush.”
“I kind of want to,” she confessed, reaching around and lightly scratching his back and then his ass. “I’ve been thinking about it, too, y’see. And then, when you’ve rested, we can go again.” She bit his earlobe. “As many times as you like. ’Til morning, when we have to … be ourselves again.”
“Oh my God.”
“You should talk, though. A lot. I love your voice. Goddamned verbal velvet, that voice.”
“If you’re not careful, this will be over before you can get the condom unwrapped,” he growled in his goddamned verbal velvet voice. “Possibly if you move your hands another few— Yeow!”
“So firm.” She giggled, then pinched his ass again.
His kissed her through her giggles, attacked her neck, tried to hold back
“It’s okay. I don’t mind a few marks.”
and then latched on until a dark love bite was blooming halfway down her throat. He wanted to see it. He wanted other people to see it. This was their only chance, but tomorrow, when he was gone, other people would look and see his mark on her. The thought made his hands shake.
“Rake, it’s okay. It’s— Oh. Oh.”
He licked at her nipples like a cat until they were straining and red, then rubbed his stubble over them until she arched and sighed beneath him. He moved lower and nuzzled the tender undersides of her breasts, licking at the sweet curves there, and then lower still, and kissed the soft skin around her navel.
He moved lower, taking his time, and ran his hands up her long, sleek thighs, gently easing her legs apart. He got a whiff of her—soap and musk and warmth—and nuzzled against the dark curls covering her mound. He blew softly, then nuzzled again, and then licked a slow, gentle stripe that parted those plump outer lips. Delaney let out a groan and he shuddered and fought the impulse to spread her wide and lunge and go and go and go until he came, until they both came.
He licked and teased and sucked and—gently!—nibbled, while Delaney moaned and squirmed beneath him, her fingers locked in his hair, her legs spreading to allow him more access, and when he slipped two fingers inside, he had to grit his teeth
(God, God, like crushed velvet, like hot crushed velvet, and if it’s this good around my fingers, how will it feel around my ah God)
and fight the impulse to be extremely ungentlemanly.
“Keep them there,” she said hoarsely, “keep doing that.” Then she brought her own fingers down and while his slid slowly in and out of her, she held herself open with one hand and stroked her clit with the other, legs spread
“Rake, Rake, that’s so good, that’s perfect, don’t stop, don’t…”
(God oh God oh God oh God oh God)
and squirmed and brought herself to orgasm while he watched, while she showed him exactly what she liked and how she liked it, and he’d never, not ever, seen anything hotter. When her fingers stopped, his did, too, and she gasped for breath. When she relaxed and opened her eyes to look at him, he darted in close and licked at her clit once, twice, and then sucked it into his mouth, and she fell into another orgasm, her thighs clenching around his head
“Rake! Ah, God, ah-ah-ah!”
as she shook through it. Then her thighs relaxed and she seized him by the shoulders and hauled him up.
“You now. You, please, I need to feel you, you have to be inside me, you have to, I want to do that to you, I want you to come as hard as I did, now, Rake, right now.”
It took, at rough estimate, a thousand years to get the condom on. But it was, finally, and then he was slipping into her, and thank God for the condom, or they would have been done, it would have been over. She was wet and delightfully tight, hot and smooth and luscious exactly where he needed her to be, and her legs came up and locked around his waist
“Harder. Please, Rake—more. More.”
and he could have wept in relief. He knew enough about her teenage years to worry about doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, but Delaney goddamn owned her sexuality and had no problem telling him what she needed.
So he surged forward, and her moan was like music; he pulled out and slammed back in, and did it again, and again, and her hips met his every thrust. The headboard was thumping and the DND sign wasn’t on the door and he gave not a shit; the Sistine Chapel Choir could have stormed the room and started vocal warm-ups and he couldn’t have stopped.
“It’s so good,” she groaned beneath him. “Rake. That’s so good.”
“Yes,” he managed. “Perfect. You’re perfect. God, I adore you.”
Her eyes widened. “No. You don’t—you can’t. It’s okay, you— Ah!” She whimpered a little and tightened her grip. “You don’t have to say nice things.”
“Shut up. I do. You—ah—God—” And that was it, he was tumbling over the edge and no turning back. He felt his eyes roll back as his orgasm burned through him, felt her shudder against him as he filled the condom, as she found one last orgasm.
He didn’t want to. But it was necessary, and, for the first time, the worst part of the sex act: pulling out, pulling away.
Normally he didn’t care. Normally it was a relief: He’d come, she’d come, they’d had a good time, and he could think again. With other partners, this was usually the time he felt affectionate and grateful toward the lady in question. Did she want to stay? Great, they’d watch TV. Did she want to go? Great, he’d help her get dressed and call a cab. Did she want to spend the night? Great, they’d snuggle and snooze.
He wanted Delaney to stay, and not for a Fargo marathon. He wanted her to stay forever.
And of course, that was never an option. He knew that before he knew what color her nipples were.
She waited as he got rid of the condom and, when he climbed back into bed, curled up into his side. His arm went around her at once.
(Thank God! A cuddler!)
“Mmmmm. Normally I don’t get off so fast. Been wanting you for days,” she mumbled.
“Oh? Uh, me either. I’m not normally that fast. Definitely. Slow and steady wins the race, that’s normally my— Ow! God, you fuck like an angel and pinch like a witch.”
“Shut up,” she said into his bicep, and wriggled closer.
“That was wonderful. You’re wonderful. The most—” He stopped himself.
“Words out of my mouth,” she murmured, then yawned. “Jeez. Sorry. I’m not usually like this.”
Yes, well, having a guilty conscience is probably exhausting. He couldn’t say that to her, though, even if it was true. Not now, when she was small and vulnerable and trusting against him. “Go to sleep,” he said, and kissed her.
She did.
Forty-one
Where was she?
Was it safe?
The door. Or even a window. If she could look out. If she could see. Then she’d know.
Oh but what if it was the apartment in Manhattan or the farmhouse in Wyoming? What if there were hard hands groping in the dark, yanking her from sleep?
“Delaney. It’s okay, honey. You’re safe.”
She was?
“You can go anywhere. Do anything.”
She could?
“You don’t have to stay here.”
But—she did. That was the problem of the foster care system in its entirety: You had to stay. No matter what. Until
you were eighteen. There were rules. So many rules, and so many people who ignored them or, worse, obeyed them. She wished she and her friends could have their own safe place. Not just one, either. But that meant surviving; that meant turning eighteen and then working to make it happen.
But … she was eighteen. And … maybe older?
Wasn’t she?
“Of course, you’re a grown woman. You don’t take shit from anybody. And you go wherever you want, every day.”
Could it be true? Oh, please let it be true. She wouldn’t ask for anything else if she was safe. Being alone wasn’t so bad if she was safe. She wasn’t greedy. She hated greed. She’d never ask for more than she earned.
“You deserve everything in the world, Delaney, and wanting to be safe and happy isn’t greedy. Won’t you please come back to bed? You’re only wearing one sock.”
One sock? But that was ridiculous. And these thoughts—these tiresome, constant worries she had—they weren’t ridiculous. They were scary. They were real. If something was ridiculous, it must be a dream.
So this was a dream.
This was a wonderful dream.
“Okay,” she said, and the ridiculous man who chased away the scary stuff seemed pleased, and that was nice, too. She let out a small giggle, but the ridiculous man didn’t mind at all, which was more proof—not that it was needed!—that he was ridiculous.
More proof this was one of the nicest dreams ever.
Almost as good as the ones where she could fly away.
“C’mon, honey. You and your one sock, won’t you come back to bed?”
Well, sure. Grand idea! One sock! Ridiculous man!
“Okay,” she agreed, and felt herself tucked in and kissed, very lightly, on the forehead. A ridiculous spot for a kiss! Which was the point!
Better than the dreams where she could fly. And once she’d decided that, she tumbled back down into sweet dark sleep.
Forty-two
When she woke, it was just getting dark. Napped the afternoon away. Never get to sleep tonight. Oh, well. I was going to have trouble sleeping anyway.
The Love Scam Page 18