Play For Me

by Tam DeRudder Jackson

  “How long will you be nursing her?” I asked as I slid off the other side of the bed.

  “I’ll try for a year at least. It’ll kind of depend on how things work out with classes and all. The longer I can nurse her, the better it is for her.”

  “Are you saying I have to wait a whole year to enjoy your tits again?” I pouted.

  Clio laughed a nervous little laugh. “I had the impression you weren’t as interested in me that way since I’m a mom now.”

  “Oh, babe, you are so wrong.” I put my hands on her hips, careful not to squish Angel between us. “You’re even sexier now than you were before. Which is a damn miracle considering how sexy you’ve always been.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  I smiled at her and gave her hips a squeeze. “I’ve been holding off since I did some reading that said a woman should wait at least six weeks after giving birth before going back to playtime in the sack.” I blew out a breath. “It’s been pure hell being around you without bedding you.”

  “It’ll be six weeks day after tomorrow,” she whispered.

  “Good to know.” I reached between us to adjust myself in my jeans, not bothering to hide my arousal from her this time.

  Her eyes darkened as she watched me, and I saw her throat work as she swallowed. Looked like I wasn’t the only one who was hot and bothered.

  She cleared her throat. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

  “Not yet. You?”

  “Um, no. Scrambled eggs sound good?” she asked as she put Angel in her little bed before she headed into the kitchen.

  Her face pinkened at my admissions, which I liked, and I deliberately put my hand on her ass as she bent over to look in the fridge.

  “Scrambled eggs sound great, babe. Maybe add in some of that Italian sausage I bought the other day,” I said conversationally as I fondled one sweet, rounded cheek.

  “Jack! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Helping you decide the breakfast menu.”

  “With your hand on my ass?”

  “Couldn’t figure out where else to put it since it’s kind of a reach to put it on your tits while you have your head in the fridge.” I smirked.

  “You are unbelievable!” she huffed as she straightened and faced me with a carton of eggs in her hand.

  “And you’re beautiful,” I said before I leaned in and kissed her softly on the mouth. I had to do something, or I might not be able to wait two more days before making love to her again. It had been almost a year as it was, and between doing without all that time and being around her all day every day for the last two weeks, I’d suffered blue balls long enough already.

  When I pulled away from her, she blinked at me and moved as if in a daze to start breakfast. I understood how she felt: she had that effect on me too.

  Her kitchen could only accommodate one cook at a time, so I gave her space, retreating to the other side of the island and seating myself on a barstool to keep her company as she made breakfast. After cooking with her a few times over the past weeks, I understood why her fridge contained only eggs and plants when I looked in it the first time. She pretty much had breakfast down, but outside of sandwiches, any other dish defeated her. On her budget, she couldn’t afford to eat out or order in, so her menu consisted of eggs and veggies and fruit.

  I thought I’d run the idea of cooking lessons by her friends and see if they thought she’d like that or if it would piss her off. If she wouldn’t be up for lessons, I figured I’d have to hire a chef when I inevitably had to be out of town with the band. One way or the other, I had to make sure my woman ate. After two weeks of me feeding her, she looked more like herself, and I wanted her to stay that way.

  As I sat there watching her, Clio interrupted my thoughts about her and food. “I had a visitor this morning. That’s why I was late feeding Angel.”

  The eggs sizzled as she poured them into the overheated pan, but she didn’t seem to notice as she busied herself popping bread into the toaster.

  “Yeah? Who was here already today?” I asked. It was only ten o’clock in the freakin’ morning. Then I remembered her friends were due to arrive any day, and I relaxed.

  “Clive Carlyle.”

  She pulled a carton of strawberries from the fridge and rinsed them in the sink then placed them in a bowl and added sliced bananas.

  At the sound of that particular last name, I couldn’t help it. I fisted my hands and gritted my teeth against my temper. Trying to keep my voice even, I asked, “Any relation to Michael Carlyle?”

  “His father. And Harrison’s business partner.”

  She set a glass of orange juice in front of me and went back to stirring the eggs and sausage in the pan.

  Michael Carlyle graduated in my class. Shortly after Clio and I began dating, he started sniffing around her. My buddies and I cornered him after school one day, and I’d set his smarmy ass straight about whose girl she was. After I graduated, I heard through the grapevine that he’d tried hard to date her. Still, what could his father want with Clio?

  “And?”

  Returning to the eggs, she mashed them around in the pan, and as I watched her, I thought again about those cooking lessons. Though she did seem to be getting the hang of putting together an entire meal at once. When the toast popped up, she buttered it and placed it on a plate in front of me before returning to the eggs. Finally, she looked at me.

  “He said, and I quote, ‘I’m here on behalf of your parents. It’s come to their attention that you went through with your pregnancy and gave birth. They are interested in the particulars.’ ‘Oh, really?’ I said. ‘So that’s why you’re here asking after me instead of Harrison or Meredith? Because they’re so interested in me?’

  “And he said all deliberately, ‘Your parents are merely concerned for your welfare. They asked me as a favor to see how you are and to check on the baby.’”

  With a nod, I gestured to our breakfast, and she turned off the burner and spooned eggs and sausage onto the plates waiting on the counter.

  Setting the plates on the bar, she pulled up a stool and joined me without a break in her narrative. “I called bullshit on that.”

  “Good girl.”

  Clio continued as though I hadn’t said anything. “I told him I knew he only dropped by to find out if my baby was a boy or a girl.” She forked a mouthful of eggs, chewed, swallowed, and added, “Clive is such a suck-up to Harrison. Even his name is pretentious.”

  “That is the name for a guy with a stick up his ass,” I said, trying to play along even though breakfast tasted like ash in my mouth and my gut churned at what was coming next.

  Clio was on a roll about Clive Carlyle, though, keeping me in suspense for what I feared was the real point of his visit.

  Gesturing with her fork, she said, “He affects this posh British accent, which totally cracks me up because I know he was born in Littleton. Michael told me that once at a company Christmas party when he drank a bit too much champagne.”

  My blood boiled at the thought of my girl attending a party with that asshole, but I kept my thoughts to myself. “Is that why you’ve been affecting an accent for this little story?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” She giggled. “Anyway, I told Clive he was still full of shit. The Barneses want to know if I have a son. I told him he could give them this answer: fuck off.”

  She ate a couple more bites of breakfast and washed it down with a swig of orange juice. I knew she wasn’t a saint, but I’d never heard my girl talk like that. Carlyle had riled her up more than she was letting on.

  She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Clive’s mouth dropped right open when I said that.”

  Bet it did.

  “Guess I surprised him.”

  Bet you did.

  “But he recovered pretty fast, telling me I didn’t need to curse like that. That my language was common and utterly beneath me. Then he wanted to know what to tell my parents.” She gave me a conspiratorial gr
in. “I told him again to tell them to fuck off. But when he said it in his fancy accent, I was sure it wouldn’t sound so common. After that, I closed the door gently, but firmly in his face.”

  I sipped my orange juice and waited for the shoe to drop.

  “Now I’m worried maybe my response to his visit was a bit rash. I should have found out what Harrison and Meredith truly want before I start closing doors on their messengers.”

  “What difference does it make if they know the sex of our baby, Clio?”

  “Since Angel is a girl, I doubt it makes any difference. She’ll be yet another example of what a disappointment I am.” She slammed her fork on the counter, and with a glance toward the bedroom where Angel slept, I covered her hand. “But I’ll be damned if I let them have any chance at all to hurt her. Little as they are, babies can feel rejection, and my baby will never feel rejected—or invisible—as long as I have control over the situation.”

  The fierceness in her tone, in her stance, in the way she banged utensils around as she spoke left no doubt in my mind how much Clio loved Angel, how much she would fight for our little girl no matter what. My heart swelled with pride while at the same time I worried about what her father was up to. I could tell she worried about that too.

  I gave her hand a squeeze. “Whatever they try, Clio, remember you’re not alone. I’m Angel’s dad, and I promise, Harrison and Meredith and their minions will have to go through me to get to either of you.”

  “You’d do that for us?”

  “You have to ask?” I didn’t mean to growl at her, but seriously?

  She stood and turned me on my barstool, inserting herself between my legs while she wrapped her arms around my neck. “Thanks, Jack. That makes me feel better about losing my mind and telling Clive to fuck off. As good as it felt to say it at the time, it was probably a dumbass move on my part.”

  “Actually, I think you standing up for yourself is sexy.”

  I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her closer to me. Because my self-control started disappearing as soon as she said we only had to wait two more days, I leaned in and kissed the hollow of her neck. She whimpered in the back of her throat, and I smiled into her skin. From the way she always responded, I knew she had a thing for my mouth and my hands on her neck. So of course, I took advantage of every opportunity to touch her the way she liked.

  Next thing I knew, I had my tongue in her mouth while she sat on my lap with her legs wrapped around my waist. Jesus, I was hard as cement. “Baby,” I panted, pulling away from her a little, “as much as it pains me, literally, to say it, we have to wait for what you’re asking for right now.”

  She made a face, and I cracked up.

  “I’ll make it worth the wait, I promise.”

  “Okay.” She sighed but made no move to disengage herself from me.

  “Um, Clio? You need to climb down.”

  “Fine.”

  Slowly, so slowly I swear she tortured me on purpose, she lowered her legs from around me and pulled out of my arms. She straightened her shirt, ran her hands down her shorts, and finally moved back around the island to clean up breakfast.

  “What?” she asked when she reached across the island for our plates and utensils.

  “You’re even sexy when you’re doing dishes, you know that?”

  Softly, she said, “Thanks,” as she adorably ducked her head to concentrate on not dropping our plates.

  After years on the road and being exposed to every kind of woman imaginable, most of them pushy and loud as they vied for the band’s attention, Clio’s genuine response to my compliment refreshed the hell out of me. Joining her at the sink, I tucked a stray strand of her silky hair behind her ear and smiled at her. I grabbed the dish towel and went to work helping her clean up.