Bad For Each Other

by Kate Hathaway

  Not that she had any wish to deny him. Nothing in her life had ever felt as right as lying here with him in languid abandon. Sharing tender caresses and whispered nothings, hot, devouring kisses and fevered strokes, and love words far too explicit for other rooms, other ears. Sharing these with the man she was committed to, heart and mind, body and soul.

  Years ago he'd taught her the ways she could pleasure him. Where to put her hands and how to move them. Now he coaxed her beyond her shyness, her reticence, to show him what pleased her. And she acquiesced, not only for the exquisite pleasure his touch brought, but also for the look in his eyes when he gave it. Though he'd never said the words she longed to hear, seeing that look, she was coming to believe that he meant them.

  But he was watching her now with hot eyes. He was past teasing, past play, the hard evidence of his desire burning high against her inner thigh. She shifted slightly, nestling his blunt tip against the part of her he had made so thoroughly ready for himself. Bringing his ear down to her lips, she murmured, "If you could manage to get yourself...focused...I'd love to feel you inside me."

  He moved over her then, covering her, looking directly into her eyes while his body began its penetration. She cupped his face in her palms, tracing his taut features with gentling fingers. A lift of her hips brought a catch of his breath and a ragged "Moll!" torn from his throat. She pulled his head down to her, opening her mouth and her body to him, feeling his tongue slide past her lips even as his rigid shaft pushed into her.

  With his thrust she felt herself quicken again, surprised that it could happen so soon. Her breathing picked up, keeping time with the pace of his entry and withdrawal. She hugged him with her thighs, flattening the soles of her feet on his hair-roughened calves and rocking to his rhythm.

  He pushed up, bracing himself with his arms extended on either side of her head, and stared down into her face. She watched him struggle, his eyes heavy-lidded, his nostrils flaring with each heaving breath, to hold her gaze through the tumult of sensations that racked him. Deliberately, her hands stroking the sweat-slick skin of his chest, his flanks, his tight buttocks, she whispered the carnal words she knew would inflame him, and she gloried as his control shattered.

  With a raw sound that could have been a curse, or a plea, or some mindless variation of her name, he poured himself into her. She saw his face contort into an expression she might have mistaken for agony had she not shuddered with the same sweet, sweet release. Cradling her lover, she gave herself over to the ecstasy.

  For long moments any thought, any purposeful action was impossible. Only when each breath was no longer an effort, when her arms and legs again answered to her volition, did she turn her head and find that Charlie was asleep.

  Restless as he was, she seldom saw him sleep and she cherished the moment. He lay heavy upon her, pressing her into the mattress, but she welcomed his weight. She studied his face on the pillow beside her. He appeared peaceful, relaxed, boyish—the way she remembered him best It was as if the years they'd been apart had contracted in some way, becoming small and vague and distant, while the time before those years and the present stretched into a continuum. She could barely remember life without him.

  But she would soon be without him again. They had only five more days of this private Eden before he had to return to the road. Five more days before she surrendered him to the crowds. The adulation. The temptations.

  She tried to reach across his body to switch off the lamp, but he stirred, mumbling her name, so she left it on and ran a hand along the warm skin of his shoulder to soothe him. In his sleep, he called for her. Only for her. All the times she'd seen him preoccupied by other cares, heedless with passion, or simply distracted, she had never heard another woman's name cross his lips.

  Holding him to her, feeling him still joined with her, though no longer aroused, she felt the first fragile tendrils of trust entwining her to him.

  Charlie draped one arm over the open door of the refrigerator and surveyed the contents. No bacon, no eggs, no juice, not even a slice of bread for toasting. Molly said she'd duck out later for groceries, but there was still breakfast to contend with. Looked like it was going to be oatmeal.

  Yech.

  The little fellow at his elbow didn't seem any too happy about that either, he thought, catching a glimpse of Tobie's glum expression.

  Straightening, Charlie shut the fridge door and opened the freezer above it. "Let's see what else we can dig up," he said, pulling out the cardboard cylinders he found.

  "Ice cream, Dad!" Tobie piped up, brightening considerably. "For breakfast!"

  "This is just to whet our appetites. You're still gonna have to face the oatmeal." He took down a bowl for Tobie and shuffled through the silverware drawer for spoons. "Let's see what we've got...peach...and strawberry."

  "I don't like strawberries, Dad."

  "No?" Charlie questioned, scooping some peach into the bowl and handing it to his son. "Why not?"

  "It's those black specks all over 'em. Makes it feel like another tongue in your mouth." Tobie said that with a grimace and a little shiver.

  For just a moment Charlie thought maybe the kid was putting him on, but the shudder seemed genuine. "I guess it's an acquired taste," he said with a laugh as Tobie took a seat at the table and plowed into his ice cream.

  Charlie put a pot of coffee on to brew, then settled himself against the counter, ankles crossed, and dug into the strawberry. They ate in silence for a few minutes, Tobie stealing an occasional glance at his father.

  "She's not gonna let you eat like that," the boy said, finally.

  "Like what?" Maybe Tobie meant the fact that he was barefoot and bare-chested. Females could be fussy about such things at mealtime. Although last night when their activities had caused them to work up an appetite and they'd eaten leftover lasagna in bed, Molly hadn't raised any objections to his wearing just the corner of a sheet across his lap. But then, she'd been similarly attired and he hadn't raised any objections, either.

  "Right out of the carton like that," Tobie explained. "She says it looks like a pig at a trough."

  Charlie laughed outright. That sounded like Molly. A trace of her mother reared its prissy head every once in a while. "Well, it's really not good manners, but this is the last of the carton. Let's keep it under our hats."

  "Keep what under your hats?" The woman under discussion sailed in and Charlie inhaled the fresh scent of soap and jasmine. She stopped in front of him, and he felt her warm hands settle on naked skin at his waist as she tipped her face up for a good-morning kiss. It wasn't her first kiss of the morning either, not that he was counting.

  "Mmm, strawberries," she murmured, licking her lips and noting the carton. "For breakfast?"

  "We're trying to work up an appetite for oatmeal."

  Grinning, Charlie scooped out a spoonful of ice cream and slipped it into her mouth. "Tobie doesn't like strawberries." The bright color that rushed to her cheeks and the mirth dancing in her eyes told him she knew why.

  "I suppose we'd better start to worry when he changes his tune," she replied with a sultry chuckle. He sucked in a breath, feeling her palm drift across his belly and the pad of her thumb dip into his navel before she moved away.

  Molly poured two mugs of coffee and left one on the counter next to him while she busied herself measuring out the oatmeal and preparing breakfast. Charlie disposed of the empty ice-cream container, sipped his coffee, and watched her efficient motions. She was barefoot, like he was, her long legs encased in faded blue jeans. On top she wore a loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt, tails tied at her waist. With a double take he realized that was his blue-striped button-down, unless he was greatly mistaken. No wonder he could never find it.

  Though the shirt was less figure-hugging than the T-shirts she often wore, the gentle sway of her breasts indicated she'd dispensed with a bra entirely. Again. To his surprise—and delight—she'd taken him up on his suggestion to go without around the house.

&
nbsp; She'd surprised him a lot over the past two weeks. She was everything he could imagine in a lover. Watching her placidly stir the pot on the stove, he pictured her as she'd been only hours before. Her hair a radiant curtain swirling down around them in the pale dawn light. Her breasts just brushing his lips in a teasing dance as she straddled him. Her emotions as bared to him as her body. In years past she'd been generous to him with her body, but she'd never shown this freedom, this wildness, this abandon, and he wondered at what had brought about the change.

  He suspected he knew, at least in part. And it had little to do with technique, or finesse or experience on either side. When they'd been together in the past, there had been no talk of marriage, of commitment, of permanence.

  He'd accused Molly of stiff-necked pride, but the truth was, he had his pride, too. He hadn't offered marriage when he'd considered himself a step down for her. He'd wanted to wait until his faith, and hers, in himself had paid off. Until others looked at him the way she always had. Until he could come to her with more than the mill grime underneath his fingernails.

  But first had come the distrust, the misunderstanding, the shouting and the ugly words. Then he'd been gone, and events had conspired to assure they never reconciled.

  So he'd never mentioned marriage. And for all that she teased him about being a nineties male, Molly was an old-fashioned girl. Though she'd never said in so many words, he couldn't pretend he didn't know where he stood with her. She might dismiss the lack of men in her past with excuses about a busy life, young child, single motherhood, but the reality was simpler than that. He'd known it intuitively when she was seventeen, and it was as true and pure now as it had been then.

  Molly didn't sleep with a man she didn't love. He was a little humbled by the knowledge and a little ashamed he couldn't make a similar claim himself. He doubted that she would be much comforted by the idea that the women in his life had been Molly substitutes—a fact he was none too proud of, but a fact all the same.

  Molly glanced his way, a question in her eyes, as if wondering at his prolonged silence. He pushed away from the counter and set bowls and spoons on the table.

  "What do you say we do some fishing today, Tobie, while your momma goes shopping?" Charlie asked, taking a chair alongside his son. He watched Molly approach and spoon the cooked cereal into the bowls, then return the pot to the stove. "We could catch some crappie, bass...." He broke off as Molly set applesauce and cinnamon on the table. Leave it to her to make even oatmeal special.

  Molly took their mugs to refill them and Charlie turned to find his son regarding him with an expression of utter horror. "She's not gonna let you talk like that," the boy breathed in hushed tones.

  "What?" Charlie mouthed in return, rapidly replaying his last words through his mind. Granted, his thoughts could sometimes use cleaning up, but, generally speaking, he was pretty careful about what came out of his mouth, especially around Tobie. Judging from the look on the kid's face, he'd let fly with one of the biggies.

  He looked to Molly for help and saw her at the counter adding milk to her mug of coffee, a hand cupped over her mouth and her shoulders shaking. Suddenly it dawned on him what he'd said to cause Tobie's consternation.

  "You mean crappie!" He was barely able to get the word out. He saw his son's eyes dart uncertainly from him to Molly. "Tobie, it's a fish. Looks to me like some elements of your education have been sadly neglected," he said, laughing with Molly as she took a seat at the table.

  "We prefer bass in this house," she said primly, but mischief gleamed in her eyes.

  They ate in a silence punctuated by quiet laughter and the disgusted shaking of Tobie's head. Evidently he was finding the behavior of the adults too juvenile for words.

  "If you're going fishing," Molly said as they finished, "make sure Tobie keeps his—"

  "Boots on. I know," Charlie finished for her. He was acutely conscious of the precautions they still had to take to protect Tobie from infection. "And, lucky me, I get to bait all the hooks."

  "You get to clean all the fish, too." She grinned at him as she rose to take their dishes to the sink. "I refuse to handle anything that can look me in the eye while I prepare it."

  "I'm gonna need a reward, then." He caught her hand when she returned to the table and reeled her into his lap.

  Their heads spun at the sound of Tobie's spoon clattering into his bowl and the scrape of the chair legs on the wooden floor as he pushed back. "If you two are gonna do mush," he muttered, "I'm goin' to watch TV."

  Charlie waited until the boy was out of sight and earshot before he sidled his hand up under Molly's shirt. "Nice chest," he whispered into the V of her open collar.

  She giggled into his hair, sliding her hands over his naked shoulders. "Don't you ever think of anything else?"

  "Well, it's hard." His fingers found her nipple, which beaded at the first gentle stroke.

  Her hand dove for his lap. "Again!"

  "Ahhh!" he gasped, grabbing her wrist. "I don't think so! You've worn me out. Honey, I'm tapped."

  "Well, that would certainly be a change." She laughed a little breathlessly and rested her chin against his forehead, feeling herself go weak as he played her nipple between thumb and forefinger.

  He nuzzled the edge of her shirt aside, his tongue trailing over the slope that was gradually becoming more exposed.

  "Charlie!" She brought a hand to his jaw in what was meant to be a gentle shove, but became a caress.

  With the last remnants of good sense he possessed, Charlie scooted his chair a little away from the table and adjusted Molly so her back would be to the door if they got company. Then he chinned her shirt aside and her nipple popped free, begging for the attention of his tongue and teeth.

  "Maybe I'm not in such bad shape, after all," he mumbled against her fragrant skin between teasing licks. "I could be coaxed...."

  "Charlie...we..." She arched to him, her hips beginning a rhythmic rocking in his lap.

  "Let's go upstairs, Moll." He buried his face between her breasts and his hand between her thighs, cupping his palm over her mound through the denim. "Let's go upstairs and do mush."

  "Tobie..." Her fingers gripped his hair as if grasping at the last dematerializing strands of her sanity.

  "He knows to knock." He pressed his middle finger against her sweet spot and was rewarded with the gush of her breath at his ear. "Come on, Moll."

  "Oh, Charlie...please...we can't..."

  It penetrated his foggy brain that she was pushing at his chest, though not very forcefully. He eased back, stilled his seeking hands, settled them at her waist, and looked at her.

  She was so ready. He could persuade her. But this was good, too. This self-denial, this restraint, this forbearance.

  They'd had some experience with it in recent days. They knew what to expect. The hunger, the edge, this wait would lend to their passion, when tonight, after long hours of hot looks and discreet touches, he would shut that bedroom door and press her against it. She would go wild for him, so eager, so aroused they'd barely make it to the bed, wouldn't care if they didn't.

  "Okay," he said. "Later," he whispered on her mouth, taking delicious liberties with his tongue while he did so. "I'll take care of Tobie. You go upstairs...finish dressing—" his hand moved to cup her bare breast and gently squeeze while he gave her a pointed look "—before you go to the grocery store."

  "Charlie!" She laid her cheek against his, laughing. "You're such a—"

  "Barbarian. I know. Just humor me, okay?" He released her, helped her to stand, steadied her when her legs were still wobbly, watched her walk away.

  He had her heart. He knew that. But he'd had her heart years ago and it hadn't been enough.

  What would it take to win her trust? To convince her his commitment ran as deep as hers? That there were corners of his soul, closed to everyone else, that only she could enter. What else would it cost them, before he did?

  Tobie squirmed as Molly hugged him too fiercel
y, and she eased up a bit. Together they watched the airport limo till it disappeared among the trees. As goodbyes went, it hadn't been too bad. Molly and Charlie had both been strong for Tobie, and he'd been a little subdued, solemn, but not weepy.

  Of course, she and Charlie had said their personal goodbyes the night before. All night. Charlie said he could sleep on the plane. He could sleep on the bus. Hell, what difference did it make, he didn't sleep anyway. And they didn't want to waste a minute.

  So their loving had been playful, raunchy at times, tender at others. Thorough. And when they'd discovered there was a limit to the times they could tell each other physically how much each would be missed, they had just lain together side by side, awake, but silent. Molly's hand, spread on Charlie's chest, rose and fell with his breathing. She felt his fingers, tangled in her hair, making tiny circles on her scalp the way he liked to do, even when they were teenagers, even before they'd been lovers.

  Finally, they'd risen and she'd watched him put on his public persona again. A little more glitter, a little more strut than he'd displayed the past couple of weeks. They'd gone downstairs and she'd fed him breakfast before Tobie joined them. Then, dry-eyed, she'd kissed him and watched his rangy, loose-limbed stride carry him away from her.

  When the limo disappeared from view, Tobie turned to her. She hunched down, her face on his level, and met his eyes. He pushed his hat back with his thumb, a gesture she'd seen his father perform countless times. Black eyes crinkling at the corners, he smiled at her. "He's pretty cool, Mom."

  Trying to keep her chin firm, her lips from trembling, she smiled back. "Yes, he is."

  "Do you s'pose he'll bring me one of those belt buckles like his next time he comes home?''

  She laughed with genuine amusement and hugged him close. Like father, like son.

  Chapter 13

  Molly watched Dr. Morrissey draw the last blood sample from the catheter in Tobie's chest. She helped her son slip his arms into his shirt as the doctor peeled off gloves and labeled the vial.