Hold Me Close

by Rosalind James

  “I’ll just say,” he said, pouring almond body oil into the water with one hand while the other held her securely over him, “that having you on my lap is one of my very favorite things. The only thing better is having you naked in my lap in my bathtub.”

  He set the bottle down on the shelf, picked up the bath sponge, and ran it over a smooth thigh. “So hard to decide which is my favorite part of you,” he murmured. “This is good.” He slid the other hand around her body and sent it up to capture a pert little breast, the nipple springing to attention under his thumb. “And this . . .” The sponge parted her thighs, and he began to wash her. Slowly, and so thoroughly. “This is very, very good. This is pretty much perfect.”

  She sighed. “Oh, Luke. Keep telling me. Please.”

  “You like the dirty talk?” Forget the sponge. He needed his hands on her.

  “Yes. I like it when you . . . tell me things. But, oh. This is that . . . torture thing I said.” She was shifting over him, squirming under his hands.

  “What?” he asked, increasing the tempo a little and hearing her catch her breath. “This? Or . . .” He lifted his hands. “If I stopped?”

  “Luke.” She was grabbing for his hands, putting them back on her body. “Don’t stop. Don’t.”

  “Mm.” His hand slid slickly up the delicate curve of one sweet, tender little breast until he got to the nipple. He pinched gently, got a delicious shudder for his pains that ran through her entire body, and knew he was going to have to do that some more. “You seem so sweet and innocent,” he sighed. “But you’re pretty naughty, aren’t you?”

  “Mm,” she said, snuggling up a little tighter. “Don’t stop. Please.”

  “I’m going to have to clean you up some more for what I’ve got in mind tonight, though.” He picked up the bottle of oil again, poured a little onto her ribs, and set it back down before he ran his other hand through it and felt the slickness coat his fingers. Ah. That was perfect. “Know how you smell to me right now?” he asked softly.

  “H—how?” she managed to say, because his hand was moving back down to her now, settling in, and starting to work in earnest.

  “You smell . . .” He inhaled, and, yes, she did. “Good enough to eat. And so you know? I’m a very, very slow eater. I take my time.” He was pinching that pink nipple a little bit more, and it was working. If he was torturing her, she was doing it to him, too, because he was pretty sure he was dying. But that didn’t matter. He needed to give her a night to remember, and it started right here. She wanted him to talk to her? He’d talk. “You want to know what we’re doing tonight?”

  He gave her another good pinch, and she wriggled, gasped, and said, “Oh . . . please.”

  “Then I’m going to tell you, so listen real good, sweetheart.”

  “Huh . . .” It was a moan, and a sigh. She wasn’t going to be talking much anymore herself, he could tell. She was limp over him, her head tucked back into the curve of his neck, her legs parted, and it felt so good. So good.

  “What happens first,” he said, “is that I make you come. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Except it’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be so hard, you’ll barely be able to stand it. And then we’re going to do it again, and again. I’m going to get your legs so weak, I’m going to have to carry you. And then . . .” His lips were at her ear, and he took the lobe in his teeth and bit down gently, and she cried out. Oh, yeah.

  “Then, I’m going to fuck you,” he told her, and felt her jerk and shudder again. He bit down again before he went on, because he loved it, and so did she. “You’re going to take me so deep. You’re going to take me all the way. And then I just might turn you over and put you on your hands and knees. What do you think about that?”

  As aroused as he was, as pliant and responsive as she felt in his arms, he was holding his breath, too. Was it too much?

  No. It was perfect. “Please,” she moaned. “Oh, Luke. Please.”

  She was almost there, because she loved it sweet and dirty. Exactly the same way he did. “Show me how you want it, then,” he told her. “Show me right now.”

  Her hips were bucking, and she wasn’t one bit quiet now. Her cries were loud, agonized, and she was shuddering, gasping, writhing against his restraining, pleasuring hands. He held her close and worked her all the way through it, until the cries turned to moans, then to sighs, until the jerking shudders turned to faint shivers, until she was lying over him, boneless, completely spent.

  He picked her up, exactly the way he’d imagined it, lifted her out of his tub, and set her on the mat. He rubbed her down with a towel while she leaned against the wall and shivered some more, and then he picked her up again and carried her to bed. Because she needed him to, and because he’d dreamed about doing that since the first day he’d seen her.

  He got a knee on his bed, spilled her onto the center of it, stood back, and looked at her there. Pink and white and gold, and so luscious. “Know what I’d like you to do right now?” he asked her.

  “What?”

  “I’d like you to reach behind you and hold on to those slats, and keep on holding them.”

  She stared at him, her eyes huge, and, slowly, she did it. Excitement, nerves, it was all there.

  “Sweetheart.” He got on the bed with her and kissed her. “You need to let go, you let go. This is only if it’s fun. Only if you like it. ”

  “I don’t want to . . . let go,” she said, and when he took a thigh in each hand and spread her wider, she gasped. “Oh, Luke. I want to hold on.”

  “That’s good. That’s real good. You hold on, because I’m going to enjoy you now.”

  And then he took his time, and he did enjoy it. Enjoyed her, and then enjoyed her again, because he wanted to give her everything he’d promised, wanted to get her legs shaking and her heart pounding, wanted to take her mind past fear and doubt, until all she could do was hold on and feel the waves breaking over her.

  As for himself . . . he wanted to wait until he couldn’t stand it a single moment longer, because that would make it so much better. He was strong, and he was patient, and he used every bit of that patience and strength on her. He used it until it was just about used up.

  When he finally told her, “All right, sweetheart. You can let go now,” and she unwrapped trembling hands from around the bed slats and twined her arms around his back, he couldn’t have said who was shaking more. Kayla, with the aftermath of satisfied desire, or him, with the need to slake himself in her.

  When he finally took her hands in his and slid slowly into all that heat, all that sweet slickness, it was almost too good. Skin on skin, and the sensation was nearly too much. He had to squeeze his eyes shut and stop for a minute, or it was going to be over too soon, and he needed this to last.

  “Luke—” she moaned, pulling her legs up and wrapping them around his back, which didn’t help matters at all. “Luke, please. Please don’t tease anymore. Don’t stop. I need it so much. Please do it to me now.”

  He couldn’t ignore a request like that, could he? Not when she was asking him so nicely. He loved her slow and sweet, and then he loved her deep and hard. And then he turned her over and started again, and that was even better. Until her face was against the pillow, the one eye he could see was squeezed shut, and her gorgeous mouth was open, breathing in gasps, calling out. Until he had an arm hauling her hips up against him, and it was desperate and hard and so hot, it was burning him up, and he was going down.

  And when he went higher still, when he wasn’t looking anymore, wasn’t thinking, wasn’t able to do anything but feel . . . when he was searching for it, burning for it, when he was lost—he called her name, and she reached out for him and found him. She spoke his name, she took his hand, and she brought him home.

  She lay with him afterwards while her heart rate slowly returned to normal, so satisfied she could barely move. Finally, she
roused herself enough to kiss his chest, stroke her way over his shoulder and down his arm, and tell him, “Thank you. That was what I’d call a really, really good date. That was worth waiting all week for.”

  “Mm.” He ran his own hand down her back, traced gently along the spot between her shoulder blades that he’d nuzzled earlier, and she remembered how she’d moaned and shivered when he’d done it. “I learned so much about you tonight. I do love an in-depth discussion, don’t you?”

  She laughed at that and hauled herself up far enough to give him a soft kiss on the lips. “Next time, I’m going to be learning exactly that much about you. Just so you know. You willing to pay a babysitter again for that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said with a sigh. “Oh, hell, yeah.”

  “Who knows, I might be willing to use your scarves after all. I’ll bet you’ve got more than just that one, don’t you?” When his eyes flew open, she did her best version of a wicked smile and said, “Well, if I tried them out on you first, of course. Because come to think of it—that had its points, like you said. And if you’re a slow eater . . .” She sighed herself now. “I’m afraid I’m a glacial one. I let you off easy tonight, but I think next time, I might need to take it really, really slowly. And then I might need to climb on top of you and see what I can do with all that stuff you’ve got. There’s this itch, you know?”

  “This . . . itch?” He was looking dazed again, and she loved that she was able to do that to him. That she’d surprised him, and that she’d thrilled him as much as he’d thrilled her. That she’d been able to enjoy every minute of it, because their play had felt like exactly that. Sweet, and hot, and safe.

  “Yeah,” she told him. “This itch. Deep, deep inside. And only one way to scratch it. I’ll have to wriggle around, figure out exactly how to do it. And that might take a while.”

  “You know,” he said, “I’d have said you’d pulled everything out of me I had to give tonight. And damned if you haven’t got me going again, just like that. You are one talented woman.”

  “Mm.” She kissed him again, then swung around to sit up, and he grabbed for her wrist and tugged.

  “Hey. I’m hungry,” she protested. “We need to make dinner, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yeah. That. Steaks.” He got out of bed himself and went into the bathroom, coming out with an armful of clothes that he dumped onto the bed. “But I’ll point out here that I’m the boy. I’m the one who’s supposed to need to eat.”

  “No. The boy’s the one who’s supposed to think I’m sexy and beautiful, and want to take me to bed more than anything. That’s your job. Think you’re up to it?”

  He laughed. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “Maybe. If you remind me. You going to do that again next week?”

  “Next week, hell. You know what kids love best? A night at the grandparents’. All that spoiling, playing Chinese checkers till the cows come home, pancakes and bacon for Sunday breakfast?”

  “They’re not his grandparents, though. And I have to work on Sunday morning, remember?”

  “I’ll wake you up. In this bed. And what do you mean, not his grandparents? Tomorrow night, they’re going to be. Count on it.”

  DREAMS AND DESIRES

  Eli woke with a start on Sunday morning. He’d been riding bikes with Luke and his mom. They were riding down the hill, because they were going for pizza. And then Luke turned around on his bike, and it was Alan. The bikes were gone, and Alan had hold of his mom, and she was screaming.

  “Run!” she yelled. “Eli, run!” He wanted to run, but he couldn’t. He had to help his mom.

  “Woof!”

  He sat up straight, his heart pounding. There was a window in front of him instead of a wall, and a picture of flowers that shouldn’t be there. And a dog barking.

  Daisy. It was Daisy barking outside, and it was morning, and he was at Luke’s parents’ house. He got up, even though his legs felt wobbly, and made his bed with unsteady hands.

  He’d had a bad dream. Just a dream, baby. Alan wasn’t there. His mom was safe. Except he didn’t know if she was.

  He went to the bathroom and changed into his jeans and T-shirt, then followed the smell of bacon and the sound of voices.

  Daisy came trotting forward to meet him in the living room. “Hi, girl.” He crouched down to pet her. She’d slept by his bed the night before, because Luke had said she should stay and “keep him company,” and he was embarrassed that he’d been glad she’d been there.

  He got up and went to the kitchen doorway, where he stopped. Luke and Uncle Stan were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, and Aunt Raylene was cooking pancakes.

  “Well, hey, there,” Luke said, smiling at him. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Where’s my mom?” Eli asked.

  “Working,” Luke said. “Remember?”

  Eli searched his face. He didn’t look mad. But Alan never looked mad the next day. He always looked all nice and cheerful, and he kissed Eli’s mom a lot on those mornings. But his mom never looked cheerful. She always looked like she’d been crying, and she moved like she hurt.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Aunt Raylene said. She came over and hugged him and kissed him on the top of his head, which was embarrassing, but felt good, too. “Want some pancakes?”

  “Yes, please.” Eli sat down at the table next to Uncle Stan, who poured him a glass of orange juice. He tried to look at Luke without him noticing, but Luke saw.

  “You have a good time last night?” Luke asked.

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “What all did you guys do? I forgot to warn my folks not to play poker with you. You win their life savings?”

  Eli smiled a little. “No. We played Monopoly.”

  “You win?”

  “No. Aunt Raylene did.”

  “Sure did,” Uncle Stan said. “Woman’s a stone-cold shark. Ruthless.”

  “I heard that.” Aunt Raylene came over with a big platter of pancakes and another one of bacon. “Here. Eat up. I put some chocolate chips in yours. Don’t tell Uncle Stan.”

  “Um . . . you just told him,” Eli pointed out.

  “Well, shoot. I sure did.” She sighed and put them onto his plate. “Too late now. The deed is done.”

  Eli poked at them a little with his fork. Luke was still looking at him, he could tell.

  “What’s up?” Luke asked. “Something on your mind?”

  “Did you and my mom go on a date last night?” He tried to make his voice sound tough, but it didn’t. He wished he was a teenager, that he had a deep voice.

  “Yep.” Luke dished himself up a pile of pancakes and a bunch of bacon. “I took her out to dinner, and we went dancing, too. We had a real good time. Thinking I need to get her some cowboy boots, though, because that was a pretty glaring omission to her dancing wardrobe. I wanted to ask you about that. Think she’d like that? And you know,” he went on, pouring syrup now, “maybe you need some of those, too. Do you even have boots?”

  Alan always did presents the next day. At first, Eli had liked the presents, and his mom had, too. He’d thought Alan liked his mom, and that was why he gave her things. But after a while, she didn’t seem like she liked them anymore. When Alan had put those earrings in her ears that last night, she’d jumped like it hurt.

  “I want to talk to my mom,” he said.

  “Bud, she’s at work.” Luke’s eyes were watchful, but he still didn’t look mad.

  “I still want to talk to her.” He shouldn’t have come here. He should have stayed home.

  Luke looked at him again, pulled his phone out of his back pocket, pressed a couple buttons, and handed it over.

  It went to her voicemail. Eli said, “Mom? It’s me. I’m just checking. If you want me to come home.” He knew everybody was looking, but he pressed the “End” button and han
ded the phone back to Luke.

  “Eat your pancakes before they get cold,” Aunt Raylene said, and Eli tried to, but it was hard, like before.

  “I didn’t hurt your mom.”

  Luke’s voice was quiet, but Eli’s head shot up like he’d shouted. He dropped his fork, and the clatter of it hitting the plate sounded loud in the kitchen. It was so quiet that he could hear the rooster clock on the wall ticking.

  “I—” Eli tried to say. “I just—”

  “I didn’t hit her,” Luke said. “I’ll never hit her. Your mom’s safe with me. Always.”

  “O—OK.” Eli tried to look at Luke’s face without showing that he was, to see if he was lying.

  “Luke’s dad has never hit me.” That was Aunt Raylene. “Men who hit their wives or their girlfriends—their dads usually hit their moms, too, when they were growing up. That’s where they learn it. I promise you, Uncle Stan didn’t hit, and neither do my boys.”

  “OK.” Eli looked back on his pancakes and tried to eat again, but the bite stuck in his throat, and he had to swallow hard to get it down.

  “So, now that we’ve got that sorted out,” Luke said, starting to work on his own pancakes, “I’m thinking that you might help me do some painting today. Surprise your mom. She kind of likes cooking at my house, don’t you think?”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” Eli said. “I think. Because she can play music and everything.”

  “But I don’t think she likes my red kitchen,” Luke said.

  “Honey, nobody likes your red kitchen,” Aunt Raylene said, and Eli smiled a little and ate another bite of pancake, and it tasted better.

  “So I was thinking,” Luke said, “that we could paint it a different color. Something that would make her happy, like music does. What do you think? Just do white, or something else?”

  “I think maybe she’d like yellow,” Eli said. “Like in here. It’s sort of happy, isn’t it? She likes pretty colors. Or pink, maybe.”