She had worked as hard as he had today, without complaint, eager to learn the skills he took for granted. Now she was as grimy as he, but she was totally unself-conscious and unapologetic about her appearance.
“Me?”
He put his hands around her waist and drew her to him. “You,” he said, and kissed her deeply.
She kissed him back, without hesitation. They stood there like that, with the cool refrigerated air washing over them. His lips traveled to her earlobes, and then to the nape of her neck and her collarbone. Her skin tasted warm and sweat-salty, but she still smelled faintly sweet, like floral shampoo.
“I could make us a salad,” she whispered, as she worked her hands up the back of his shirt.
“Mmm. Salad’s good.”
Her dress had skinny little straps that tied in a bow. He took the end of one of the stringlike things between his teeth and pulled, and it easily came undone. He kissed the bare spot, nibbling it just a little.
She inhaled sharply, but there was no protest, so he kissed his way, slowly, across her collarbone, pausing at the hollow just below her chin, where he felt her pulse quicken. Her head was thrown back, eyes closed, but her hands were busy on his back, massaging his shoulder blades, running down his back, then around, to his chest, her thumbs brushing his nipples. He detoured for a moment, burying his hands in her thick hair, and then he was kissing her again, their tongues darting in and out of each other’s parted lips. Her hands roamed down to his hips, and then back to his chest again.
She was saying something, but he’d lost his concentration. “Hmm?”
“I said, what kind of dressing?”
But before he could answer, not that he had an answer, she’d gathered the hem of his T-shirt in her fists, and abruptly jerked it upward. Helpfully, he crossed his arms over his head, and allowed her to pull it all the way off.
She took a half step backward, and assessed him lazily, through lowered eyelashes. Jack felt the blast of cold air on his bare chest. Caught her chin in his hand. “Did you say dressing, or undressing?”
Cara had drunk exactly one-half of a beer. So why did she feel so dizzy, intoxicated, and totally unlike herself?
It was all Jack Finnerty’s fault. She was not the kind of woman who noticed men’s bodies, ogled the way their jeans fit, obsessed about their muscled physiques, or fantasized about their romantic prowess.
So why had that been not far from her mind? All. Damn. Day. Why had she paused at the foot of that ladder, gazing up at his butt with an unexpected heat that seemed centered somewhere south of decent? Why had she obsessed about that thin-cotton T-shirt, sweat-soaked, clinging to his chest and his belly, wishing he’d just rip it off? And when the weight of his tool belt dragged his jeans down, and she’d glimpsed his navel and a downward-pointing arrow of dark hair, why had she been forced to go inside and slap cold water on her neck and face? Why?
Maybe it was inevitable that they would end up like this. After all, the second time she locked eyes with Jack, he’d dropped his trousers in front of her with absolutely no hesitation.
Jack kissed her again, and worked his knee between her legs.
“I could grill us a steak,” she whispered.
Dinner was the last thing on Jack’s mind. “Hmm?” His lips were working their way toward her left shoulder. He took the other thin strip of fabric between his teeth, pulled, and performed the same cheap trick as before. The strap fell away, and he nuzzled her bare, salty shoulder. Like a pretzel. Only way better. With his thumbs, he leisurely worked the dress downward, until he found her breasts, and her nipples, lowering his head to kiss them each, in turn.
Another brief gasp.
For a moment, he debated about the proper way to do this. The top of her dress had some kind of elastic. Should he pull it over her head, as she’d done with his shirt, or downward? Such a delicious dilemma.
“Steak.” She’d plunged her own hands into the waist of his jeans, her fingertips easing lower, digging into the flesh of his backside, at the same time, pressing her torso against his. He was already hard.
He nudged her backward, until she was pressed against the refrigerator shelves.
“I like steak.”
Down was the way to go, Jack decided. While his lips concentrated on her breasts, he skimmed his hands over her hips, pausing there. He found the hem of the dress, and in one easy movement, tugged it downward, past her hips and then her knees. From there, the dress fell to the floor, puddling around her bare ankles. Cara stood on her tiptoes, and with her right foot, delicately swept the discarded dress to one side.
The one remaining, infinitesimal rational part of her brain not subsumed with crazed lust told Cara that this current situation was insane, indecent, and yet, weirdly intoxicating. She was naked, except for her panties, which weren’t all that substantial, with her tushie pushed up against the cold metal shelves of her refrigerator. It was broad daylight outside. Her front door wasn’t even locked. What was she thinking?
Right now, the contents of her fridge, not all that exciting—the past-expiration-date quart of milk, half-head of Romaine lettuce, containers of no-fat Greek yogurt and assorted Tupperware containers of leftover roast chicken, steamed broccoli and molding strawberries, not to mention the pickles, mustard and Paul Newman balsamic vinaigrette—were getting the show of their lives. What was she thinking?
She didn’t care. And she definitely didn’t want to think.
Cara smoothed her hands over Jack’s flat belly, hooked her fingertips into the waistline of his jeans, pushed them down to his narrow hips, appreciating the hollow of his hipbones. She let the palm of her right hand drift leisurely down to his crotch, pausing there. Now it was his turn to gasp. She glanced down, and just the tiniest smile played across her lips as she saw his erection straining against the denim fabric. She grasped his waistband and nimbly unbuttoned his jeans.
She stopped then, and ran her hands back up his chest, feeling the rough texture of hair, of muscle and bone. And something else. She opened her eyes, frowned. Tiny black flecks of some hardened substance dotted his chest. With her fingernail, she scraped off a fleck and held it up for him to see.
“Roofing tar.”
“Oh.”
“From the barn at Cabin Creek. So it’s all your fault.”
“We’ll have to work on that,” Cara said. She lowered her head, and with her tongue and teeth, gently teased his nipples as her hands slowly inched downward, down toward the waistband of his jeans. With her thumbnail, she raked the metal tines of his fly. Down. Up. Down again. She cupped him with the same hand. He moaned into her hair. “You’re killin’ me here.”
She was naked, except for that languorous smile and a tiny pair of panties. Pink, with flowers. Naturally. He rolled them easily past her hips, her thighs and knees. And then gravity did the rest. She stepped daintily out of them and kicked them in the direction of the dress.
He kissed her and pulled away, finally able to feast on the sight of her—naked, just the way he’d imagined her since the first time he’d spotted her in that pink dress at his brother’s wedding. Only much, much better.
Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, and her chest was lightly freckled, her full breasts flushed pink. She had a narrow waist that belled out to full hips and a delicious, rounded butt.
Cara didn’t have the taut, angular physique of Zoey, who spent most of her waking hours at the gym, and the rest of them obsessively weighing herself and measuring every morsel, every calorie of food she ingested.
This was a woman’s body, the body of somebody with an appetite for the good things in life. This was a body he could spend a long time exploring.
Only now, her lips were slightly blue, and her skin was pebbled with goose bumps. And those shivers he’d felt, when he’d pressed himself urgently against her?
“Are you cold?”
“G-G-G-God y-e-s-s-s.”
30
“What about the dogs?” Cara asked,
as he pulled her down the hallway, toward the bedroom. She was glad he had his back to her, convinced her frostbitten butt was probably permanently imprinted with the Frigidaire logo.
“They’re on their own.” Jack plopped down on the edge of her bed, unknotting the laces of his work boots, kicking one free, then the other. He pulled her down beside him.
Suddenly shy about her state of undress, she clutched for the quilt draped over the foot of the bed, pulling it across her exposed breasts. “Maybe we should check on them. They’re awfully quiet out there. I hope Poppy isn’t showing Shaz how to dig up my peonies.”
He yanked the quilt off. “I’ll buy you a carload of peonies. Later.”
Cara crossed her arms across her exposed breasts. Was she actually going to go through with this? She hadn’t been with a man since leaving Leo, had only slept with two other men before marrying Leo. And what about birth control?
Too late. Jack scooted backward onto the pile of pillows at the head of her bed, tugging at her hand. “C’mere.”
She was stretched out beside him. He turned toward her, gave her a lazy smile. He ran his hands down her side, all the way down, and then back up. One hand slid between her thighs and paused there. Cara gripped his shoulders.
“Um, Jack?”
His tongue was making slow, excruciating circles around her nipple. Her body curled into his as he stroked and nipped and kissed, and she knew she could lose her mind—and self-control—any minute now.
“Hmm?”
He rolled away from her, just a few inches. “Don’t worry. I’ve got something in my pocket.”
Cara looked down. “So I see.”
“Dirty girl.” He flopped onto his back, waiting.
She hesitated only a moment. Propping herself up on one elbow, she pressed the flat of her hand lightly against the bulge of his jeans. “Here?”
He was touching her again, his gaze locked with hers.
Cara worked the metal zipper down half an inch at a time, stroking as she did so. “Here?” she whispered.
“You’re getting warm.”
Cara laughed. “You don’t even know.…”
She had the zipper all the way down now, and could see the waistband of his gray knit briefs, the erection straining against it. She let her fingertips trail across him.
“Warmer.”
Cara rolled onto her knees and grasped his jeans and the waistband of the briefs with both hands, sliding them lower. He stuck one leg between hers, so that she was directly over him. He ran his hands down her flank, and then around, and upward, suckling one breast, and then the other.
She nearly lost her concentration. The jeans were down around his hips now, and he thoughtfully thrust his hips upward, off the bed, so that she could tug them down, past his thighs. As her hands explored all the possible hiding spots for what she was seeking, as well as potential pleasure points, she felt the small square packet in his right front pocket.
She took her right foot, swung it over his leg and down, sliding the jeans all the way to his ankles.
Cara sat up with the jeans in hands, reached in, and extracted the foil-wrapped condom. “Got it,” she exclaimed.
“You win,” Jack said, reaching for her.
* * *
If she’d been cold standing in front of the Frigidaire, she was on fire now. At some point, Jack dragged a second box fan into the bedroom, placed it on a chair, and angled it toward the bed. The fan blades whirred ineffectively, but at least, she thought, remembering her open windows, they would have prevented anybody on the sidewalk below from hearing what was going on up here.
Their lovemaking started out slowly. She wanted him badly, but was too shy to tell him how badly. But Jack Finnerty seemed to know what she wanted, and what she needed. Eventually, whatever inhibitions she’d initially felt disappeared. She lost herself in the joy of pleasing him and letting him please her.
“You’re beautiful, you know that?” He was lying on his side, facing her, their bodies slicked with sex and sweat.
“I’m a hot mess and we both know it,” Cara retorted. “I can’t believe I let you take me to bed as filthy as I was. And I really can’t believe I let you into my bed as filthy as you were!”
“Who took who to bed? You were the one who asked me what I liked?”
“I was referring to dinner options,” she said, trying in vain to sound prim.
“So now I know. You like your men dirty. And you like your sex dirty.” Jack chuckled as he leaned forward and gave her a lingering kiss.
“No. Really. This was lovely. But now, I have got to have a shower.” Cara sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for the quilt to wrap around herself.
He sat up too, in time to grab the edge of the quilt and pull it away from her.
Cara crossed her arms over her bare chest, then shrugged. They’d spent the last hour and a half naked. He’d explored every inch of her body, and she his. It was too late to play shy.
“Wait up,” he said, standing. “I could use a shower myself. No use in wasting water.” He gave her a hopeful grin.
She opened her bathroom door and gestured inside. The room was tiled in pale pink, with a burgundy tile border. There was a pink toilet, a pink sink, and the smallest pink bathtub he’d ever seen—and he’d seen a lot of bathtubs in his job.
“Is that a Barbie dream tub?” he asked, pushing aside the flowered shower curtain to look down at it. It was barely big enough for one adult, let alone two.
Cara stepped around him, turned on the faucets, and stepped in. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you some hot water.”
* * *
She emerged from the shower wrapped in a thick white terry bath sheet, with her damp hair wrapped in another towel. He was standing, bemused, and stitch-stark naked, leaning against the doorway outside the bathroom.
Jack Finnerty had to be the least inhibited man she’d ever met, Cara decided. She handed him a clean towel and a washcloth. “Your turn. Listen, while you’re in the shower, I’m going to run to the store for a couple things.”
“More condoms?” He waggled his eyebrows in a comic leer. “Whipped cream?”
“Steak,” she said. “And a couple baking potatoes. Where are your clothes?”
He hooked a finger inside the edge of her towel and pulled her toward him. Good God, he was already aroused again.
“Why, you wanna hide ’em so you can keep me here as your love slave?”
“Dream on.” She kissed his nose. “I’ll throw ’em in the wash. Rapid cycle. You don’t want to put on those grubby jeans again after a shower, right?”
“Not really. It would be great if you’d go ahead and wash ’em, but I always keep a spare pair of jeans and a shirt in the truck.”
“Okay. I’ll check on the dogs on my way out.”
He’d seen her grill on his various trips in and out of the courtyard earlier. “I’ll start the grill, if you tell me where you keep the charcoal.”
“There’s a big galvanized trash can just outside the back door. The charcoal’s inside it and the lighter fluid should be sitting right beside it.”
When he got out of the shower, Jack wrapped the towel around his waist and wandered into her living room. The room was like her, he decided, and he approved. Lots of books. Novels. She had eclectic taste, from classics to recent best-sellers, heavy on mystery with some girly-looking romance novels mixed in. There were three whole shelves of gardening and interior-design books. And one devoted to nonfiction. Some history, some pop culture.
He’d never seen Zoey read anything heavier than Us magazine.
There were also half a dozen self-help books with dreary, depressing-sounding titles on Cara’s bookshelves. These, he decided, would be classified as “relationship books.” When Love Dies. Divorce: Getting Over It, Getting Through It.
And then there was his favorite: Putting Back the Pieces: Post-Divorce Recovery.
He pulled it from the shelves and leafed through
it, noting several pages that she’d dog-eared. The author photo of this little gem showed a grim-faced Slavic-looking woman, who, according to her bio, had a thriving marital therapy practice in New York. The author, a Dr. Jankovic, reminded him of Frau Blücher from Young Frankenstein.
For a moment, he felt a spasm of guilt, for invading Cara’s privacy. But that didn’t stop him from skimming down one of the pages, and when he saw a passage heavily underlined in ink, he read it aloud.
Over and over again in my thirty years of practice, I find a recurring pattern among patients whose marriages have failed. After careful examination, we discover that all too many of them have been attracted to a partner, in part because something in that spouse’s family life supplies that which was lacking in a person’s own life. Children of failed marriages often choose a partner from an intact home, in the mistaken belief that marital happiness can be genetically transferable.
What was that about? All Jack knew about Cara’s parents was that her father was a strict, controlling military type and her mother was dead. And of the ex, Leo, he knew even less, except that the guy was a shit.
And he also knew that no matter what she said, the divorce had left Cara emotionally fragile.
He found the stacked washer-dryer unit in a closet just off the kitchen, and transferred his clothes into the dryer. Then he padded outside, with the towel wrapped loosely around his hips, to get the grill started.
As soon as he opened the back door, Poppy and Shaz bounded over to greet him, tails wagging. He winced when he saw the havoc they’d wrought in Cara’s garden. Flowerpots were upended, plants matted down, and yes, it looked like one or both of the dogs had been digging up the beds. He’d have to make good on the peony IOU.
He dumped charcoal in the grill, added lighter fluid, and looked around for matches. Finding none, Jack went inside, found his truck keys on a small table in the hall, and went through the garden gate, into the lane where his truck was parked.
Save the Date Page 20