Touching her was like touching satin, smooth and warm and perfect. And still she didn't pull away.
He kissed her breasts, tugging gently on her nipples with his lips. She moaned, lifting her hips to press herself against his fingers, surprising him and surprising herself even more.
Then she froze, and George lifted his head to look down into her eyes. She was still breathing hard, still trembling. As he gazed at her, she moistened her lips and gave him a shaky smile.
"Oh, my," she said.
He smiled, feeling a burst of pleasure so intense, it nearly brought tears to his eyes. It was amazing really. He had a hard-on the size of the space shuttle, yet it was his heart that seemed to explode in his chest. "More?"
She nodded.
He pressed his fingers more deeply inside of her, watching her eyes as he used his thumb to slowly caress her.
"Oh," she breathed. She moistened her lips again. "Can you…"
"Yes," he said. "Whatever you want, babe, absolutely, unequivocally yes."
She actually blushed. "Can you make it feel this good with your… you know?"
He did know. "Yes."
He rocked onto his back, grabbing for a condom from his bedside table drawer with one hand, while still touching her with the other. He had his pants open and pushed down and himself covered, all with one hand, in the blink of an eye.
"You say stop, we stop," he told her again as he rolled her onto her side and nestled himself behind her. This way he wasn't on top of her. This way she wouldn't feel pinned down and out of control.
And still he touched her, still gently, his arm around her. He pressed himself against her from behind, slowly entering her with just the tip of his arousal before just as slowly pulling back again. He did it again, going a little bit farther this time, careful not to move too fast.
She made a soft sound, and when he did it again, she moved with him.
She didn't tense up, she didn't pull away, she didn't tell him to stop. Slowly, impossibly slowly, he made love to her. Each stroke seemed to take a lifetime in which he lived and died and lived again.
Dear God, this was probably going to kill him—but what a way to go.
She began to climax with him deep inside her, and he felt his own release begin, but still he kept it slow, pulling back in a movement that felt so good, he was certain this was it. His brain was definitely going to explode. The next slow thrust pushed him over the edge as she continued to tremble around him, and he came in an eruption of pleasure so intense he saw lights and colors behind his closed eyes.
But his physical pleasure was nothing compared to the joy of the knowledge that he'd taken this woman to a place she'd never been before.
"Omigod," Kim was saying. "Omigod, omigod. I didn't know. I never knew."
She turned toward him, her beautiful brown eyes brimming with tears. She was shaking, and he held her, still gently, still making sure she knew she could pull free.
But she reached up and touched his face, surprise in her voice as she looked at him. "You're crying."
He was.
She kissed him. "Oh God, George," she whispered and her own tears overflowed. "What am I going to do? I don't want to be in love with you."
Shaun went into the playroom to find Mindy upside down on the couch, watching Gilligan's Island.
"I think this time they're really going to make it off the island," she told him. Her head was dangling off the front of the couch, her long legs stretched up against the wall behind it. Gravity was doing funny things to her breasts.
Shaun looked away, uncomfortable at the thought of Mindy having breasts. He didn't really think of her as a girl. Not the way he thought of the redhead from California.
"The Professor's built a radio out of coconuts," Mindy reported. "If he's smart, all he needs to do is use one of Ginger's underwire bras for an antennae."
Shaun walked to the window under the front eaves, bending slightly to keep from hitting his head. "I hate to break it to you, Mind, but they never get off the island."
"Well, why would they want to?" she asked. "They're in paradise. You know, I used to wonder why the Professor didn't just choose Mary Ann. I mean, what was he waiting for? She was so obviously the nicest person on the island. But then I figured it out. The Professor's gay. All those years, he had a thing for Gilligan."
Shaun stood silently, looking down from the vantage point at the third-floor window, looking out at the street in front of the house. No traffic passed. No cars pulled up. Nothing moved.
"Well, jeez," Mindy said, turning right side up as she muted the TV with the remote control. "You must've left your sense of humor down in the kitchen."
He didn't look at her. "I don't think the idea of someone being gay is particularly funny."
Mindy was silent, and when he turned to look at her, her eyes were even more enormous than ever behind her glasses. It was strange. He rarely noticed the odd effect her glasses had on her eyes anymore. She'd spent every afternoon at his house for the past three days, and was here again, this Saturday morning. Instead of driving him completely insane, he'd found he liked her company. He liked turning around and finding her there. He even liked the really stupid jokes she made.
Most of the time.
"No," he said. "I'm not gay. Why do people always think I'm gay?" He answered his own question. "Because I like to dance? That's so stupid."
"It's okay if you are," she said softly. "I'll still be your friend."
Friend. She was his friend and would be no matter what, and he still made her hide her bike behind the house and sneak in through the back door. They'd talked about all kinds of deeply personal, private things, yet he never gave her more than a cursory nod when they passed in the hall at school. He never sat with her at lunch, even though they both often sat alone.
She may have been his friend, but he was no kind of real friend to her.
To his complete horror, his eyes filled with tears. He quickly turned back to the window.
"You're freaking out because your father's not here yet," Mindy said in that same quiet voice.
"I don't think he's coming." Shaun finally admitted it to himself. Oh, he'd played the game, telling himself that he was tough, he was able to face reality, that he wouldn't believe Harry was really going to visit until he got here. But the truth was, he'd hoped.
He'd even prayed.
He'd pretended it was for Emily's sake, when the truth was, he'd wanted Harry to come. He'd wanted his daddy to come and make everything right again.
But Harry wasn't coming.
Any minute now, the phone would ring, and Harry would apologize and—
"Mindy!" Em was standing right outside the playroom door, shouting loud enough to knock it off its hinges. "Are you in there?"
Even though Shaun was farther away, he was faster and he reached the door first, opening it. "Don't shout! Aunt Marge is working downstairs," he said. "God, how could someone so short be so loud?"
Emily stood outside, holding a box that was nearly as big as she was. "I'm here to see Mindy."
"Oh, Em, thanks." Mindy pushed past him and took the box. "You brought me the—"
"Photo albums?" Shaun couldn't believe it. All he needed to do now was to have to sit with his little sister and look at pictures taken back when his life was more than this unbearable mixture of sadness, fear, and hurt.
Pictures of his mother with her arms around him, laughter lighting both of their faces.
God, he missed her. He missed Kevin, too.
The tears that were never far from the surface these days clogged his throat.
There was no way he could do this today, no way he could sit with Em and make up more of his lies about why Harry didn't come see them more often. Daddy loved her, of course Daddy loved her, but he was just too busy with his goddamn important job. He was too busy saving the world. And that meant he couldn't spend even one lousy day with them out of three hundred and sixty-five.
His voice shoo
k as he turned to look at Mindy. "You asked Em to bring up the photo albums?"
Mindy looked perplexed. "Is that bad?"
Shaun glared at his little sister. "You know you're supposed to ask Marge before you take these out."
"That was my fault," Mindy cut in. "I wanted to see what your father looks like."
So did he. He wanted desperately to see what his father looked like these days. Fat chance of that happening.
"I was curious," Mindy continued.
"Maybe you should mind your own goddamn business!" he spat, all of his frustration erupting into violent anger. "You're always over here. Always in the way. Always curious and sticking your big nose into everything. Fats MacBlubber, taking up twice the space on my couch. I didn't ask you to come here! Why don't you just go home and leave me alone?"
Em tugged on his shirt. "Don't say goddamn. Don't say goddamn."
He slapped at his sister's hand, harder than he should have. "Guess what, Em? Dad was supposed to visit us, but he's not coming. And it's not because his job is so important. It's because he doesn't love us. He's probably lying somewhere, too drunk to get out of bed. He doesn't work for the president. The reason he doesn't come here is because he's an asshole who doesn't give a shit about us!"
"Don't say shit," Em whispered, her eyes overflowing with tears as she clutched her slapped hand close to her chest.
"You're the asshole." Mindy pushed past him, scooping up Em into her arms as she ran from the room.
Shaun felt sick to his stomach, all his anger turning instantly to shame. Dear God, what had he just said? What had he done? His legs felt weak, and he lowered himself onto the couch.
The TV was still on, still muted, and in brilliantly garish 1960s-era color, Gilligan silently mugged for the cameras as the skipper hit him over the head with his hat.
Harry hadn't slept well.
When Alessandra woke up, she could tell just from looking that if he'd slept at all, it had been only fitful dozing.
This man had fearlessly thrown himself in front of her last night. He'd been prepared to use his body to stop bullets meant for her, hadn't batted an eye as he'd calmly faced death. He'd done the same when he'd leapt in front of Ivo's gun.
But when it came to facing his children, he was terrified.
"It's going to be okay," she told him.
"Maybe. But it's not going to be easy," he said quietly.
She touched his hair, admiring the way his new cut still managed to make him look sexy, even mussed from sleep. At least one of them was going to have a good hair day. "I think you should be honest with them about why you haven't been to visit. And I think you should all go in for grief counseling."
He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her. She could barely hear him when he spoke. "What if it's too late?"
"As long as you're alive, there's no such thing as too late." She believed that with all her heart.
He was silent, and she touched his back. "If you want," she said, "I'll hold your hand."
Harry closed his eyes, wishing he could just sit there forever. "Yeah, I might take you up on that."
This was completely stupid. His kids were kids. All he needed to do was explain. Well, try to explain. He wasn't sure he actually could explain. But they were kids—he was their father. They'd forgive him. And then they could start over.
He'd visit more often. Monthly, at least.
He'd be able to see Allie then, too. They could continue on in their current nonrelationship damn near indefinitely. He liked that idea.
She leaned over, holding him tightly from behind as she kissed his cheek. "Just let me know if you need me."
Harry watched as she walked naked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. He hadn't been completely honest last night, not with her, not with himself.
Her vehement reaction to his suggestion that she might be interested in marriage had bothered him just a little too much. What kind of head case was he—that he should be disappointed when Allie gave him the response he was hoping for?
But he had been disappointed, and her absolute certainty that she did not want to marry him had stung.
He'd thought long and hard about it last night, between his long, hard thoughts of Shaun and Emily. Realistically, he knew there was no way in hell a woman like Alessandra Lamont would want more from a man like him than quick, hot sex. He was by no means a member of the millionaires' club—not even close. He hated his job, and his family life was about to detonate. With the exception of his newly awakened sex life, there was not one part of his existence that wasn't in complete shambles.
And his sex life was about to go up in smoke, too, from his own foolish stupidity. Yes, he was on the verge of fucking up the one good thing he had going.
He was falling in love with Alessandra Lamont. Of all the stupid-ass things he could do, he knew that would be the worst. It would completely sabotage his friendship with her.
Let me know if you need me, she'd said.
He needed her. Desperately. But there was no way in hell he was going to tell her that.
"I'm assuming there's been no word at all from Harry." Nicole sat on the edge of George's forest-green sofa. It had been their sofa, and this had been their living room, before the divorce. They'd made love right here, in front of the TV, more times than she could count.
George lit a cigarette and glanced in the direction of the kitchen, where Kim was fixing them all a cup of tea. Tea. It was absurd, the stripper making them tea in what used to be her kitchen. But Nicole would have agreed to a cup of arsenic just to get Kim out of the room.
"No," he said. He lowered his voice. "But I've been thinking, trying to remember anything he might've said. I don't know if this is going to help, but once, when he was completely plastered, he mentioned something about Colorado."
"Colorado's a pretty big state." Nicole waved his smoke away from her face.
George shrugged. "Best I can do."
"Keep thinking."
"I will. I haven't got much else to do—aside from the kinky sex, that is."
He was only saying that to piss her off. Nicole gave him a completely unperturbed, vaguely disinterested smile.
"Hey, did you see the new curtains?" George asked. "Can you believe I finally got curtains?"
In all the years that they'd lived here, Nicole had never gotten around to putting curtains up in the living room. Toward the end of their marriage, they'd argued about it bitterly. George had thrown it in her face as an example of her unwillingness to spend any time at all improving their life together. Of all the stupid arguments, that one had really taken the cake.
His new curtains were a swirl of green and off-white, complementing the couch almost perfectly. "They're very nice."
"Oh, do you like them?" Kim came in carrying three mugs on a tray. The tray had been a wedding gift from George's Aunt Jennifer; the mugs were the ones they'd picked up at a craft fair during their honeymoon. Kim gave George a smile, a softness coming into her eyes as she looked at him. "I had fun making them."
"You made them?" Nicole said, then mentally kicked herself for making more than a noncommittal noise of agreement.
George was getting far too much enjoyment from this.
"I like to sew. I also like to walk around naked at night," Kim explained, making an aren't-I-naughty face as she set down one of the mugs on the table next to George's lounger, "but I felt funny doing it with no curtains on the windows. It felt kind of like I was putting on a free show."
"Wouldn't want to do that," Nicole murmured.
Kim put Aunt Jennifer's tray in the center of the coffee table. There was a plate of home-baked cookies on it as well. "Please help yourself. I wasn't sure if you wanted lemon or sugar."
There was that softness again as she looked at George. It was as if he'd suddenly turned into Elvis or God or someone equivalent.
"Nic likes it plain," George said with an answering smile at Kim that implied shared secrets.
"I think she thinks it'll put hair on her chest."
Kim was wide-eyed. "Why would you want hair on your chest?"
"I always wondered that, too," George mused. "Have one of the cookies," he told Nicole. "They are incredible. Kim is the absolute best cook." He turned to Kim. "Nic manages to burn water."
As Nicole stood up, she turned to Kim and lied. "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to skip the tea. It was… nice seeing you again. Will you do me a favor and give me another minute alone with George? All those FBI secrets, you know…"
"Why don't you order us Chinese for lunch, babe?" George suggested. "You can use the phone in the bedroom."
He actually patted her on the bottom as she passed his chair, and she actually seemed to like it.
Nicole sat back down on the couch, waiting until she heard the bedroom door close behind Kim before she turned to George. "Well, you really made me feel bad—she's obviously everything I never was. Except guess what, George? I don't feel bad. Big freaking deal. So you found yourself Trixie Homemaker. She cooks, she sews, she strips, she screws—all at the drop of a hat. I'm sure that's very lovely for you, but look into my eyes and read my lips. It means nothing to me. Congratulations, you really hurt someone this time—except the person who's getting hurt here isn't me. It's Kim."
George was just sitting there with no expression, his injured leg extended before him, cigarette held loosely between his fingers, watching her. "You done?"
"No. What's gonna happen when you're tired of this game? She's obviously crazy about you. She obviously expects you to marry her. Unless you're so twisted that you're ready to keep this farce going 'til death do you part, you are going to emotionally eviscerate this girl. And I hate to say it, George, but I think she's probably a nice girl—a stupid girl—but at her core I think she's nice. Be a man for once in your life and be honest about what you're doing here."
George smiled. "Be a man. That's funny. I never had an opportunity to be a man before—you were always snatching that role away from me."
Frustrated, she turned to leave.
"Nic."
Body Guard Page 22