Tears filled his eyes. I’m losing my little girl.
He remembered watching the other one, forty years ago, walk away on the arm of his rival, and for a moment he thought his heart really was breaking. Every one. Every girl he loved went to a Morton. Marty was no fool, he knew how appealing those brawny idiots were.
But this was his own fault.
Hadn’t he set himself up for this? Surely you knew, you sciocco, that you would lose the little one to some man someday? Surely you knew it was your own folly, as much as his surfer-boy looks, that drove her away from you into his arms?
For a moment Irene’s face rose before him, forty years younger, her glorious hair, her kind, brown, listening eyes.
He shook his head. To hell with that. It was more important to come to grips with what was happening for his angelina and...and do the right thing. Whatever that was.
Of course she was attracted to the beef. But the swiftness of it, how Bobbyjay had changed her life—no, the kid gave her more than a thrill.
He hadn’t missed the way Bobbyjay stood up at the table whenever Fran or Daisy got up. He’d noticed how the two of them looked at each other. Like, What are you thinking? There was trust between them. How had that happened?
Marty thought of his own ex-wife, gone thirty-five years now. Had he ever looked at her like that? Had he even told her he loved her? When Irene married Bobby Morton, he had thought his heart would never beat again. He had married Gloria just to be married, so Irene wouldn’t look at him with pity, so Bobby Morton wouldn’t feel so much like he’d won. Marty looked down at his old hands on his knees, noting how the veins stood up and the nails were black. He felt cold.
Daisy wouldn’t be marrying with so little. She cared. And Bobbyjay cared. Marty could see it in his eyes, the way he was always turned a little bit toward Daisy no matter where she was. Maybe they had a chance. If the moron loved her enough. If he could give up his idiotic loyalty to those bastardos, his family, and give it to the woman who would need it for the rest of their lives.
Filled with an unfamiliar humility, Marty wondered just how you got that kind of loyalty from a spouse. Did you give it first and hope for the best? Could you beat it into him? If anyone could do that, it was his Daisy. He thought of the stories coming back to him through the boys, about Daisy’s exploits at work. He was proud of her. Maybe he had better tell her so. The way he felt right now, he might die of old age and sorrow before the wedding. Don’t let those things go unsaid.
Tears dripped onto his hands. Go to bed, old man. In the morning he would think more about how to test Bobbyjay’s commitment to his granddaughter. He had to find out now, before they did anything more drastic—more drastic than sleeping together under his very roof!—whether Bobbyjay would continue to put his bride before his family.
Looking down in her face while he bounced on top of her, Bobbyjay felt his erection like a red-hot wire running straight up his body into his heart. She was so beautiful. Thank God he had his jeans on. She was staring up at him like Christopher Columbus looking at the Staten Island ferry, kind of amazed and kind of, How did you get here first?
He had to be giving her a serious bruise on the thigh.
“Am I,” he panted quietly, “too heavy?”
She clutched his hips. “No,” she breathed when his ear came close to her mouth. A shiver ran through him. He never wanted this to stop.
The box spring bongoed on the floor and the headboard hit the wall, boing-whack, boing-whack.
A murmur of voices came from next door. Daisy clutched his shoulders and whispered, “I think it’s working! Don’t stop!” She raised her voice. “Don’t stop! Oh God, oh God, oh Jesus!” she shrieked, and then she punctured his eardrum with a scream that deafened him in one ear and made him jizz in his undershorts. The headboard whacked the wall a few more times. Bobbyjay concentrated on not passing out from the sheer relief of sexual pressure, and tried not to smother her under his shoulder.
She puffed against his tee-shirt. Her heart hammered through her body into his chest. Her hands clutched his back. “Bobbyjay,” she whispered.
Well, that was embarrassing. Fun, though.
He relaxed. Every muscle in his body switched off. Beneath him, Daisy seemed to flatten out.
“Ya big lug,” she wheezed. “Move.”
He rolled over on his side. “I hope you’re happy. I creamed my jeans.” She fit nicely into the hollow of his side. His lips rested naturally against her forehead and his eyes drifted shut.
“Well, I didn’t,” she whispered, so quietly that it was hard to tell what she might be thinking. He realized that her body, warm and soft and molded against his, was not relaxed.
“Bobbyjay?” she whispered. She twisted in his embrace and looked at him. Her almond eyes turned up at the corners. She looked serious and open and wound-up-tight. “Mom told me specifically not to let you fall asleep on me.”
“Urk?” he said, regressing again.
“She says it happens with guys sometimes. They come really fast, especially young guys without a lot of self control. You have to stay awake.”
He swallowed. “That Fran. What a kidder.”
Daisy smiled up at him. His heart, still trying to calm itself, thudded harder. “My wonderful fiancé does not conk out on me. Mom said.”
It was the smile.
Now he got it. Suddenly he was wide awake, with ten itchy fingers. He smiled back, not believing his luck.
“‘Mom said,’” he mimicked. “‘Mom said.’”
He reached down, far down Daisy’s leg, and slipped a finger down the top of her sock.
“This woman is gonna ruin her son-in-law’s sex life,” he whispered. Red hot lava rushed up his backbone.
If she played along, he was in.
If she raised her knee, he was a soprano.
Eyes locked on his, Daisy slowly raised her knee. He slipped off her sock. Triumph roared through him.
“Tell me again how you want it,” he whispered.
Marty Dit heard a knock on his door. “What?” he said listlessly. His ex-daughter-in-law poked her head in.
“Marty? You okay?” Fran slipped into the room. “Don’t look so mournful,” she said, sitting beside him on the bed and patting his hand. “It’s for the best.”
Then she saw the spy gear he had taken away from Wesley still resting on the bed. Her expression darkened.
Oh, shit. “Now, Fran—”
But it was like trying to hold back a typhoon.
“What have you been doing?” she began in a freezing voice.
Chapter Thirty
“C’mon, Daze,” Bobbyjay whispered, looking not just smart for once, but handsome and adoring and incredibly kind. “Pretend I’m not some scumbucket journeyman waitress-hound. Pretend you hafta coach me, ’cause—” His breath caught. “’Cause I’m so dumb.”
She felt really dumb herself. She had not clue one what to tell him. Her pulse hammered in her chest, in her panties, in her ears. For something to say, she whispered, “Rub me all over?”
He smiled just as if this he’d been praying she would say that, so she felt better. And then he started to rub.
He reached down to her ankles again and took her foot in his hand. Suddenly she felt helpless. Dizziness made her sink back against him, she breathed in, and then something like music started playing inside. Gently, he squeezed. A rush of comfort and peace and happiness flew up through her body from that foot. She moaned.
He made a “Mmmm” noise and very slowly pulled his hand up her ankle, squeezing in gentle pulses. The rush was so strong that she gasped. Her eyes rolled back in her head. “Oh.”
“Ssshh,” he whispered to her temple while his hand massaged her calf. “Give me the other foot.”
She bent the other knee and spooned herself against him. He did the thing with her other foot and she thought she would pass out. “How do you know to do that?” she murmured when the rush eased.
“When I tick
led your foot,” he whispered, “you didn’t stop me. And you blushed and got sweaty. And you looked away.”
“How does that tell you anything?” She twisted so she could see his face.
He blushed. “Uh, Weasel told me that stuff.”
“What, all that?”
“About the sweating. And he said, uh, girls won’t look at you when you’re doing something that makes them horny.”
Her heart felt like it would jump out of her chest. “Oh, is that so!”
“Shhh!” He leaned forward and touched her lips with his. A little happy sigh bubbled up in her chest. He looked so serious. She wanted to touch his face. When she licked her lips, she tasted his sweat.
“Well,” she whispered, less haughtily than she had intended, “for your information, Weasel doesn’t know everything.” She writhed against him until they faced each other on the creaky old bed. “Do it again,” she whispered.
He started over at her feet, never breaking eye contact, using both hands this time, working up from her arches to her ankles to her calves and she felt her back arching in spite of herself. This is embarrassing. She did want to look away. He watched her eyes unwaveringly. He loves me, she thought. Then a wiggly wave of something wonderful rushed up from her feet. And then another wave. She breathed carefully, trying to meet his eyes, but when the feelings got too strong, she couldn’t help it.
She looked away.
“I’m too sweaty,” she said and jerked into a sitting position, fumbling at the fly on her shorts.
And quiet, obedient, well-mannered Bobbyjay put one huge hand between her breasts and shoved her down onto her back. “Let me,” he whispered.
With the look of a little kid trying to steal from every rack of the candy store at once, he deftly popped her fly, unzipped her shorts, and pulled them down to her knees. Daisy felt the print of his hand on her chest. That inner drumbeat rocked her with every breath. Her eyes drifted shut.
“Quitter,” he breathed.
Her eyes flew open. “That does it.” She lunged for his fly and he bounced backward, making the bedsprings sproing.
“Sshh! I’ll do it!” he squeaked, and took exactly three and a half seconds to shuck his own jeans. Daisy seized the opportunity to kick her shorts onto the floor and peel off the flimsy little top he’d spoken so highly of. By the time she looked at him again he was naked except for his red and white boxer shorts, which had a big damp spot on the front.
Mostly naked, there was a lot of Bobbyjay.
And now she remembered she hadn’t bothered with a bra.
Before she could feel self-conscious or even a little chilly, he slid an arm across her back and pulled her gently against his big chest.
She wasn’t so sure of herself now. Their bare skins slid together. Their nipples poked each other’s chests. “Daisy,” he murmured to her hair. “Want to stop now?”
She drew a long shaky breath. “Touch my bottom?”
That really big hand slid down her back, took a grip on both her buns at once, and squeezed. She couldn’t help it, she yelped.
With her ear pressed to his chest, she heard him chuckle. Tell me that means I don’t have to coach you, she thought. She didn’t have the courage to say what she wanted. She could barely imagine it.
Pleadingly she met his eyes again. “I don’t know what to do.”
One at a time, his hands kneaded her buns. Her thoughts evaporated.
“I think I got the basics.” He smiled anxiously at her as he squeezed her buns. “You sure this is okay?”
Daisy gave up. “Just do it,” she begged, and shut her eyes.
When she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read the eagerness and yearning in his brown cow-eyes, it was easier to let go, just feel the sweep of his palms over her skin, smell the sweat on his neck, grab his hair when he did something to her nipple with his mouth. Don’t look, she thought, and also, Damn that Weasel for being right, and, Do that again. “Do it!” she said too loudly when he paused in the middle of licking all around her right breast. Careful to keep her eyes shut, she reached behind him and tugged on the waistband of his boxers and he came closer, lower, heating her with his body, covering her, weighing her legs down, then her hips, then her torso and shoulders. His hands came up and clasped her face, one on each side, and he lay panting on top of her while her pulse thundered through her.
“What?” she whispered. “Please?”
“I’m not so sure about this next part,” he muttered.
“So dare to fumble.” She reached past his enormous shoulder to touch his hair. “We’ll work it out together.”
With a quick peck on her temple, he rocked to one side and reached down. Daisy squeezed her eyes shut. Embarrassment and urgency and a feeling like a rising electric guitar chord crashed around inside her and she buried her face hard against his neck to keep from looking at his face and maybe ruining it because she couldn’t stand for it to end, and the electric guitar fuzzed out and got louder and bashed back and forth in her skin while his hand wiggled and it was a good thing she bit his neck just then because her scream came out like a guitar note trying to poke a tiny hole in the top of her head, spraying music and colored lights and fogging her brain with the effort of trying to keep quiet.
His hand was still wiggling. She clamped it hard with her thighs, to stop him before she split in half.
“No more,” she gasped, taking her mouth away from his neck. “Please, not yet, no more.”
He lay absolutely still, weighing down her right leg while she waited for her insides to stop smashing guitars on the stage.
After a long minute, he put his free hand up to stroke her hair. “You okay?”
“You’re not so dumb, Bobbyjay,” she whispered.
Take me now, Lord, before I mess this up, Bobbyjay thought. His hand was going numb between her thighs. He knew it was ungrateful of him, she’d given way more than he had ever dreamed he would actually get, but his heart wasn’t satisfied.
I want to be inside you. I want to die and leave the world behind and learn to fly looking into your eyes with my cock in your pussy and I want to know that you feel like this too.
Fat chance. Take the good stuff and let the wanting go.
His erection burned like a separate animal, yearning toward her through two pairs of underpants, his and hers.
“Bobbyjay?” she whispered.
He trusted himself enough to grunt.
“Can you reach under the pillows?”
Reluctantly he pulled his hand from between her thighs and slid it under the pillows. His heart skipped a beat.
“Condoms?” he whispered. It felt like a whole fistful.
She pressed her face against his neck again and nodded.
“Let me guess. More hospitality from your Mom.”
He felt her nod again. Holy shit! “You want me to—” He stopped. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m desperate,” she said clearly, and then cringed against him. “I’m not crazy,” she whispered. Her lips touched his ear. “Please, Bobbyjay. I’ve waited a long time. First I was a good girl and then I was choosy and then I—” she paused, “had a crush on Badger,” she said, her voice harder. “And now Goomba keeps me so busy housekeeping that I never meet any guys. Just my creepo cousins. It’s gotta go sometime.”
So much for love, Bobbyjay thought with a pang, facing his feelings and giving up hope in the same moment. His cock wilted a little.
She drew a shuddering breath. “And I trust you, Bobbyjay. I know you. I feel safe with you.”
C’mon, say it. If she wasn’t sure, how could he be? His arms tightened around her.
“I don’t want to wait and wait and then marry some bad-in-bed jerk from the Local, like Mom did.”
His throat felt hot. “No, that would be bad.” Could he take it like this, half a loaf? This might be all he would ever get.
She squeezed his arm and twisted, pressing her sweet breasts against him, and he looked down into her anxiou
s eyes. “You’ve been so patient,” she said. “I know it’s asking a lot.”
Yes, it is. “No, it’s not.”
So he let her mess with the condoms. She broke two, trying to get them open and rolled on, and he made her put two good ones on him. If I was Badger’s age, I couldn’t do this, he thought, his heart breaking while they laughed as silently as they could over the ripped foil packets. He felt older than Badger. He felt a hundred years old.
But his cock was only twenty-four. He gripped the bedstead and made her do all the moves, so he wouldn’t lose control and punch into her beautiful cherry and maybe hurt her, and he watched her face every second while she bit her lip in concentration, winced once, sank down over him, and swallowed his life, his soul, drawing his love inside her and wringing it dry with a thoughtful look on her face the whole time, like, Am I doing this right? She never once met his eyes. Eventually he accepted that she wasn’t going to, and he let his tears leak into his ears.
When the crisis came, he bucked once and then just shuddered, holding himself rigid. She glanced at him then.
“Are you okay?” With a careless hand she touched the wetness on his face.
“It was a little...slow is all,” he said. “Are you okay?”
She smiled tentatively. “Piece of cake. I was—”
The door of the adjacent bedroom slammed.
Someone knocked loudly on their door. Bobbyjay almost jumped out of his skin.
“Kids?” Oh shit. Fran. “We’re all going to the movies. You want to come with?”
Bobbyjay looked in panic at Daisy.
Daisy turned her head. She was still sitting on his cock. She cleared her throat.
“No thanks, we’ll stay here,” she called.
“Say good night, boys,” Fran called in a warning voice.
Two grunts, one tenor, one baritone, came from the other side of the door.
Daisy turned back to Bobbyjay with an eyeroll. He had to laugh. Footsteps thundered down the stairs. Outside, a car door slammed. He felt her relax, straddling him, and, as the headlights flashed over the bedroom walls and the engine noise died away, she looked at him at last with more tenderness than he had ever seen in her face.
Fools Paradise Page 17