No Time to Explain

by Kate Angell

  She went up on her toes. Strained. Back down. Moaned. Short of breath. She rocked her hips. Built to climax. Spiraled, shuddered. Then collapsed against him. Undone. Her head fell back. Her spine was liquid. Her knees weak.

  “Accept my apology? ” escaped her lips, soft and breathy.

  He turned her toward him. He held her hips tightly. His nostrils flared. His gaze was wicked dark. “You’re not sorry enough. I’m still pretty mad, sweetheart.”

  He reached around her and opened her bedroom door with a slight flick of his wrist. He backed her inside, towering over her, but not overpowering. The door creaked closed. They stood on the braided rug. The air between them was electric. Raw excitement. Whatever anger he’d felt earlier had left his body hot. A fusion of heat and arousal. His erection was prominent. He wanted her, despite the secret she’d been keeping.

  Dean was momentarily forgotten. Her full attention was on Joe. He raked his hands into her hair, and her scalp tingled. She looked up into his warrior’s face, scraped and bruised. Sore lip. Being battered didn’t stop him. He kissed her aggressively. Thoroughly. Biting her own bottom lip, the tip of her tongue. Then sucking it into his mouth. Deep. Her heart softened to this hard man. She cared for him.

  “Lift your arms,” he roughly said.

  She raised them high. Her spine stretched. Her breasts lifted. He focused on her chest as he pushed her Rebels T-shirt over her breasts, her head. He tossed it to the floor. Her pale yellow bra was scalloped and lacy. Her nipples were visible through it. He fingered the front clasp. It popped open. Her breasts spilled into his palms. They rose and fell with her breathing. Erratic. Her nipples pointed. He squeezed and kneaded, his touch callused, hard, but not hurtful. Her bra went the way of her shirt.

  She slipped off her leather thong sandals, amber-embellished. He took down her jeans. She sidestepped the denim. His gaze moved down her body. Narrowed on her V-zone. She wore his gift, the natural-blond panties. Sheer and revealing. Her pubic hair was a shade darker than the silk. He stroked a finger from her navel to the juncture of her thighs, then pressed the silk against her sex, rubbed her dampness. Her legs stiffened. Her knees locked. He held her on the edge. But didn’t let her come.

  She was wound so tight, her heart bumped, her stomach was a sexual knot. She stood nearly naked while he was fully clothed. She rectified the situation. She scored her fingernails under his T-shirt, over his six-pack, his pecs, then back down his sides. His muscles rippled, tensed. A streamlined push up his torso, and she pitched Takes Gutz. His expression was as tight as his body.

  Confident, momentarily in control, she bent, pulled off his sneakers and socks, traced his toes, then got him out of his jeans. His boxer briefs came next. Still on her knees, she kissed up his thighs, and his dick rose, long and large. Looking for attention. No kiss, only a tease of warm breath along its length. She flicked her tongue to each hip bone, gave Chaos a kiss. She imagined the hellhound’s howl. Her fingers stretched, sketched his abdomen. Solid. Tanned flesh. Breathing muscle.

  Joe widened his stance. Exhaled sharply. He grasped her shoulders and drew her to her feet. “Condom,” was a husky sound.

  “Bedside drawer.” A few left over from their previous night together. Their pretend honeymoon.

  They stared at each other. The look on his face was a subtle meld of anger and need. Need won out. Her body ached, craved him. His erection was ready for her. She made her move, bold and transparent, leading him to the bed, and not by the hand. There she stripped off her panties. Went flush against him. Clutching his shoulders, she climbed him. Her legs wrapped his waist. Her thighs squeezed. Sex to sex. Him hard. Her wet. He cupped her butt.

  Dusk crept through the window, casting shadows. On Joe. On her. Obscuring the scraped side of his face, and shading her cleavage. A rock of her hips signaled him to the bed. He went down on the mattress, took her with him. He hitched himself up against the headboard until he was sitting. She straddled him. His erection nestled between her thighs.

  Leaning forward, she brushed his dick, as her breath bathed his neck, his cheek, his mouth. Their tongues soon tangled, mated. Erotically. He palmed her breasts, circled one nipple, and thumbed the tip, bringing exquisite pleasure. His hand flared across her belly, wide, coarse. Her stomach fluttered.

  A quick recovery of a condom, a ripped wrapper, and she sheathed him. She rocked forward, then back, teasing his erect penis, yet refusing to take him in fully. He curved his hands over her hips, squeezed her. His need was raw, rushing, and intense.

  She went on to frustrate him further. She stroked his sex, holding him between her palms, suggestively rubbing her hands together. Friction and heat; slow, then fast. Until air exploded in his lungs, jagged and sharp, his chest heaved, and he took control. Slipping inside her. Their bodies linked.

  She moved her hips up and down. The strength of her thighs set the pace for their mutual satisfaction. She dug her fingers into his shoulders. He clutched her hips. Crushing, yet careful. She craved. Lusted. Began to unravel. Their rhythm left her sighing, him moaning. Both panting.

  Sensation overtook her. A sexual high. Time went away and her orgasm rose, broke in a sunburst. His muscles bunched, his back arched, and his hips came off the bed. He came a second after her, his expression going from pain to pleasure. Sex defused his anger. Orgasms ended an argument they’d earlier had no idea how to end.

  In the aftermath, he rid himself of the condom and came back to bed. They lay facing each other, bodies aligned, forehead to forehead. A light touching of lips. Until his smile broke. “Makeup sex. You’re good at it, babe.”

  He brought out her best. She felt close to him. Reassured in the moment, even if the issue of her connection to Dean wasn’t fully resolved. A situation she couldn’t push. She crossed her fingers and hoped the two men would come to an understanding. However tenuous. Friendships often formed without conscious thought. Differences and similarities fused. For mutual benefit. Their future might yet come together. Given time.

  Shortly thereafter, Joe dragged on his jeans and left her, just long enough to feed Turbo. To let his dog outside. To lead the rottie back to his bedroom and settle him in for the night. Doors opened, then closed, as he cut through their adjoining bath. He arrived with a T-shirt in hand. He held it out to her. “Yours.” Richmond Rogues appeared on the front. His number, forty-five, on the back. She sat up, knelt on the bed, and tried it on. The XXL dwarfed her, hanging off one shoulder, swaying at her knees. His scent infused the cotton.

  He eyed her. “Perfect fit. Wear it.”

  “To bed. My new pj’s.”

  He shucked his jeans, joined her again, bare-ass naked. He looked good in his skin. He rolled onto his side, curved her into his body, where she felt cocooned and protected. She realized a moment before she closed her eyes that every woman should have a lover like Joe. At least once in her life. As a gold standard for sex.

  Sleep tucked them in, and open shutters ushered in sunshine at 6 a.m., fluttering Stevie’s eyelids and drawing her yawn. Trapped by Joe’s weight, she had no wiggle room. His chest backed her shoulders, his hips bracketed her bottom. Snug. Taking a deep breath, she inched away. At the edge of the bed, she glanced over her shoulder and fell in love with the man.

  He remained on his side, arms in the exact position where she’d left him, as if awaiting her return. His hair shadowed his scraped face. He looked battle-worn. She’d applied antiseptic salve to his cuts the night before, and he hadn’t grimaced or winced. He had a high tolerance for pain. She herself was shaking after her ministrations. He’d pulled her close, assured her that he was a fast healer. Minor scars would join his twice-broken nose, further hardening his features. She liked him rugged, rough. He emanated strength.

  She drew the white cotton sheet over his hip. Admired the sturdy width of his chest, his powerful arms. His flat abdomen. His hellhound tat. Hot. Sunbeams played off his fake gold wedding band, reminding her of their extended honeymoon. Which would eventually end.
She just didn’t know when. He didn’t do monogamy.

  She debated getting dressed, then made it easy on herself. Her oversized Rogues T-shirt dragged her knees. She added a pair of black leggings and went to brush her teeth, barefoot. To comb her hair. Then she went to check on Turbo. He lay on the double bed, a scavenger of Joe’s pillows. He wagged his greeting, and followed her to the kitchen. Her coffee. His kibble.

  The lighting on the staircase was dim, the hallway even darker. The front door creaked, and Lori slipped in. She hit the main light switch, brightening the entrance. Both women startled, blinked. Then came together. Hugged. They smiled knowingly at each other. As close as sisters.

  Lori wore her Rebels T-shirt from the exhibition game.

  Stevie faced her in her Rogues tee.

  “I assume you got to Joe,” hoped Lori.

  “He got me, good.”

  “How are things?”

  “Horizontal.”

  Lori laughed. “Nice position.”

  She hesitated, whispered, “How’s Dean?”

  “I talked him down. He values family. You’re important to him. He can live with you seeing Joe. It won’t affect his game. But he doesn’t want you to get hurt. Joe apparently takes being single to a new level. He’s not marriage material.”

  “I’m not looking to get married.” Not at the moment, anyway. Joe’s playing groom for an afternoon was as close as she might ever get to wearing a wedding gown. To having a honeymoon. They lived in the real world. “We’re just enjoying each other.”

  “I’m appreciating Dean, too. We’re making up for lost time.”

  The back door lock clicked, and Twyla hobbled inside. Her hair was slightly mussed. Her teal wire rims rested low on her nose. She wore a mauve bathrobe belted at the waist. One bedroom slipper and her plaster foot cast.

  Lori raised an eyebrow. “Your aunt has that morning-after look.”

  “Morning after what?”

  “Morning after George.”

  “No way!”

  “Way. I passed him leaving in his SUV as I was coming home. He saluted. A definite overnighter.”

  “George is a nice guy,” Stevie said. “My aunt’s always been too busy for a relationship.”

  “Apparently she’s not too busy for George.”

  Stevie embraced the idea of the older couple. In a roundabout way, a torn braided rug had brought them together. Turbo’s destruction, followed by Joe’s introduction of George to her aunt, had led to a good match. The way they looked at each other promised a future.

  Lori sniffed the air. “I smell coffee.”

  It was always Twyla’s first order of business. A rich Colombia blend. Next came Turbo. Afterward, she’d scramble eggs and fry bacon. Heat croissants. For Lori, Stevie, and occasionally Joe. An hour before the doggy day care opened at seven.

  “Good night’s sleep?” Lori asked Twyla as the girls entered the kitchen.

  She eyed both girls. Blushed. Was honest. “Little night’s sleep,” she said on a yawn.

  “Sexual hangover,” Lori teased.

  Deepening color flushed her aunt’s cheeks. “I’ll catch a nap later,” said Twyla. “You girls will be busy. Unleashed is full today. I interviewed and accepted three new pups Sunday afternoon while you were at the exhibition game. All six to eight months old. Small. Two Maltese and a Yorkshire terrier. Mannered, but playful. They’ll need lots of yard time.”

  Stevie gave her a thumbs-up. “Got it.”

  “Got what?” came from the doorway. Joe.

  “Got puppies today,” Stevie told him, as she took him in. He was wearing a worn and torn Catch Me If You Can white T-shirt, navy gym shorts. Running shoes. He’d tied back his hair. His face was like a mask, half morning stubble, half bruised and scraped.

  “Run?” he asked, tagging Turbo. The rottie made a swift exit, headed for the front door. He nodded to Stevie. “See you before I go.” He took off, too.

  Lori put her hand on her chest. “Joe makes my heart kick.”

  He made Stevie’s heart quicken, as well—into a rapid pulse felt throughout her body. Echoing in her ears, fluttering at the base of her throat, settling in her belly, a throbbing at her pelvis. She’d never felt this way about any man before. It scared her, excited her, and made her a little crazy.

  Joe was difficult to analyze; the outcome of their relationship, unpredictable. Would it develop or end? Either way, she was with him now. Short-lived or long-term, she’d have to take her chances. Let it unfold on its own.

  Her aunt soon passed her a plate, and she ate her breakfast, momentarily content. Turbo reappeared before Joe, panting from their jog. He flopped down on the kitchen floor to rest.

  Stevie heard Joe head up the steps for a shower and a half-face shave. She finished her breakfast, enjoyed a second cup of coffee, then pushed back her chair. Ready to attack Monday. Twenty minutes before the first dogs arrived.

  “We’re good to go,” she told her aunt. “Time to put up your foot, rest.”

  Twyla’s eyes misted. “You girls are lifesavers. I have a great staff, but I’m not sure I could’ve managed without you.”

  Stevie washed off her plate, put it in the dishwasher. Paused by her aunt’s chair and gave her a hug. “Family takes care of family. We’re here as long as you need us.”

  “What about your psychology practice?” Twyla asked.

  Stevie gave her an extra squeeze around the shoulders. “My degree isn’t going anywhere. I’ve been offered positions at two mental health clinics. The offers are open-ended. I can even hang out my own shingle. I’ll make my choice when I return to Roanoke.”

  “Lori?” Twyla asked.

  “No career path yet,” she admitted, not the least bit concerned. “I’ve been bouncing between jobs for three years now. I love Barefoot William. I’m thinking about becoming a beach bum.” Big grin.

  “You’re dating my nephew now?”

  Lori finished her eggs, sighed. “I love Dean.”

  “I know, dear.” Twyla patted Lori on the hand. “I’ve seen how you look at him. How he looks at you. Dean is dedicated to playing pro ball. But he’s equally devoted to you.”

  “Spring training is all-important,” said Lori. “Afterward, we’ll figure us out.”

  Stevie waited for Lori to clean up, then the girls took the narrow back kitchen steps to the second floor. They parted ways to dress. Joe heard her bedroom door open, close, and shouted from the bathroom, “Shower’s open, babe.”

  She had little time, so she washed up quickly. Threw on clothes even faster. A yellow Unleashed polo, khaki shorts, and brown Keds. She towel-dried her hair. The new short style had its advantages. She left the pretend gold band on her thumb. Silly, but it felt right. For now.

  Joe, Lori, and Stevie converged on the front door at the same time, just as the first group of dogs arrived. Turbo awaited Etta. Rylan Cates dropped off his Great Dane, Atlas. Halo Todd came next with pug Quigley, then Will Ridgeway with Chihuahua Cutie Patootie.

  Ry spoke to Joe in the entry hall. “Big fund-raiser tomorrow, following practice, at four. Jill wanted me to remind everyone.”

  “I’ve already received six texts from her.”

  “She knows who needs the most reminding.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “People-sized wooden board games,” Rylan explained, including Lori and Stevie. “The Rogues will split into three teams. Tic-tac-toe, chess, or checkers. My group is checkers. We’re human game pieces, playing on enormous boards. We’re all wearing black shirts. We need twelve players, but we only have nine. Five Rogues: Halo, Landon, Pax, Joe, and me. My sister Shaye; her husband, Trace. My two brothers: Dune, who’s a retired pro-volleyball player, and Zane, a hurricane hunter, who’s home on leave. You girls want to join Team Rogue?”

  “Yes!” Lori didn’t have to think twice.

  “I’ll inform my aunt, and have the staff close out the day for us,” said Stevie. “They’re dependable.”

  Rylan n
odded. “Great. We still need one more player.”

  The front door opened, and Dean Jensen and his bulldog entered. Turbo greeted Etta affectionately. They nuzzled noses, then trotted off together. A furry twosome.

  Dean pulled a face. “Of all the dogs here . . .” Etta chooses Turbo. His implied insult went unspoken.

  Joe set his jaw. His expression reflected Dean’s sentiment.

  “So . . . one more checker,” came from Rylan.

  Stevie saw Joe narrow his gaze on his team captain, a don’t-you-dare stare. Ry ignored him. “Dean, you’re aware of the fund-raiser tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.

  He gave a short nod. “It’s been advertised all over town. I read a flyer. A Rogues/Barefoot William promotion. Fans pay for spots on opposing teams, on all boards. Rogues are showcased, and, win or lose, the challengers exit. Money raised goes to local charities.”

  “That’s right,” said Rylan. “I’m in charge of checkers. We’re at eleven with Lori and Stevie.”

  That stunned Dean. “Lori?” He looked at her. Confused.

  She responded with, “They need twelve players.”

  “You’d round off our dozen, if you want,” added Ry. “Invitation extended.”

  Dean swallowed. “To play with the Rogues.”

  “It’s a board game,” Joe emphasized. “On the beach, not at the ballpark.”

  It was clear that Dean was so taken aback, he couldn’t speak. Stevie held her breath, hoping he’d accept. Lori nudged him with her elbow, encouragingly.

  “I’m there,” he agreed.

  Stevie caught Joe’s eye. His body was tense, his expression resigned. Thank you, she tried to convey.

  He got her message. His gaze was wicked dark. She received his thank me later, as he and his teammates left for practice.

  Dean hung back. He curved his arms around the girls’ shoulders. Hugged them hard. His grin was explosive. “Damn, I’m a human checker.”