by Crowe, Liz
“You okay?” Jack bustled around her.
She waved him away. “Yes. No. Stop hovering, dammit.”
“Fine. Let’s go. I’ve got your chariot prepared m’lady.” Evan popped a wheelie with the chair, making her smile.
“Did you get those papers for me?” She asked Jack as she sat gingerly in the seat. She planned to present Mitchell with divorce papers the next day, when he got home from his own stay at the Medical Center.
“Yes. All ready to go. You sure you want to…”
She held up a hand. “This is my problem to solve. I plan to do it.”
Ignoring their mumbling about pressing charges, she stared straight ahead, already planning the discussion. Why she wouldn’t press charges was a popular topic and one she was summarily sick of hearing. While a pretty large part of her knew that was likely the best way to handle this, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She honestly believed he would listen to her now, and they could part amicably, like mature adults. He had loved her. Once. She knew it. And was just as convinced now, after all this, he would see reason and let her go.
By the time her friends had her settled in at home and left at her insistence, a distinct chill of fear settled around her heart. Visions, sensations, pain, terror and blood all crowded in around her, but she forced herself to calm. She simply had to get a handle on this. Alone. She took a breath, sipped her tea, and stared out onto the huge expanse of lawn. When her phone buzzed she answered it without thinking. The sound of Blake’s deep voice filled her ears and brought instant tears to her eyes. She gripped the couch’s arm. “Hi,” she whispered.
“You home now?”
“Yes.”
The silence expanded between them. Suzanne bit her lip, tried to recall her strength. He asked a simple question. “When can I see you?”
She wanted to see him, but she couldn’t yet, maybe not ever. The realization sliced through her, making her gasp. She didn’t deserve him. He was inappropriate on so many levels. Too young, too brash, and too utterly perfect. Nothing in her whole life would ever be perfect again. He deserved to have wife who could give him everything, including children. She tried to think of a way to keep him at arm’s length while the rest of her clamored for him.
She slumped into the couch. “I’m not sure. Mitchell gets home tomorrow. I’ll be presenting him with the divorce papers then.”
His sharp intake of breath made her close her eyes. “Jesus, Suzanne. You’re actually going to see him?”
“Yes Blake, I am. I have to finish this my way.”
“Your way.” His voice dipped an octave, making her skin pebble. “Your way landed you in the hospital, nearly dead, and your future as a mother destroyed. God damn it, Suzanne.”
He was right of course. She spoke without thinking. “I miss you.” The girl she once was craved everything about him. Wanted him there, that very minute, with her. The woman she’d become thanks to Mitchell, still flinched at every sound, second-guessed every word that left her lips. Blake did not need that kind of dependence.
He groaned. “You have no idea how much I want to see you. But I get it, I mean, I am pretending to, sort of.”
“Can you… come now?” She tried to keep the hitch out of her voice. “I mean, if you want.” She winced as she shifted on the couch, wondering if it were too early for another pain killer.
“Are you kidding me? I’m right outside your door.”
She looked up, heard the knock, and was unable to hold back the rush of emotion that overwhelmed her when she noted the huge divot in the drywall behind it the door, and then saw his face. He caught her before she fell.
Blake clenched his fists, determined to let her set the pace, to see if she really wanted to see him or was only humoring him. The two weeks between then and when he’d put her dickhead husband in the hospital had ripped his guts out, but he’d honored her demand that he stay away. She looked even smaller than usual, clutching the doorframe, tears standing in her huge eyes. He held out a hand, and she stumbled forward. He caught her, picked her up and carried her back inside.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, opened her lips to his, but he kept it gentle, knowing she still hurt. His chest ached so badly he toyed with the concept that he was having a heart attack, until he realized the sensation for what it was.
“I love you.” He muttered into her hair. She turned her face up to his as he sank onto the couch, still clutching her close.
“Don’t be silly. You hardly know me.” She felt so perfect, snuggled into his chest. He stroked her hair, her face, kissed her repeatedly, unable to stop. They stretched out on the large couch, with her head in the crook of his arm, her fingers trailing up and down his arm, reaching up to touch his jaw, the small gold hoop he wore in one ear as if reassuring herself he was real.
“I know you enough,” he whispered. “Sleep now. I’m here.” He fell into his own dreamless slumber, the first in weeks, holding her in his arms.
His eyes snapped open at the sound of her scream. She sat, hands over her eyes, trembling and sobbing. He sat, trying to shake the clouds from his consciousness. “Shh…It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m here.”
“You have t-t-to go Blake. He’s coming home.”
He frowned and stood, stretching. “I’ll just hide in the kitchen or something. You know, make sure he doesn’t…”
“No. I’m a wreck. I need a shower and some food. You should go.”
He gritted his teeth at the damn independent bullshit thing that came so easily for her. “Tell you what,” he pulled her to her feet before she could protest. “I’ll help with the shower, and the food, then I’ll go.”
She shook her head, but let him guide her upstairs, directing him to a guest room shower. He turned on the water and helped her undress, using every bit of his willpower not to punch a hole in the tile at the sight of her battered body. As he eased her jeans down and off, tugging the scrap of lace that passed for panties, he had to use another set of skills to get his cock to soften. He had no business doing anything with her but helping.
But when she threaded her fingers in his hair as he leaned down to slip off her socks, he could not resist a small, feathery kiss, near her navel. She gripped him harder. “Yes.” She whispered. His tongue found the healing scar from her surgery. He went lower, touched it to the slight covering of red hair over her sex. “Please.” She moved back, pulling him with her, sat on the edge of a huge tub. He stayed on his knees, gripped her hips and leaned into her, probing gently, pleased when the small button of her clit hardened under the soft laving of his tongue. She parted her legs and he had to bite down the urge to gasp. He would kill that fucker the next time he saw him. “Sorry.” She tried to push him away. “It’s a mess down there.”
“No. It’s perfect. And I’m about to make it even better.” He parted her knees a bit more. “Just sit back and relax.” He coaxed two quick orgasms from her, lapped at the juices that flowed and had to shift himself to keep from cutting off circulation to his entire body since all the blood in his body had shot to his cock. She had one foot propped on his shoulder as her body spasmed and trembled from the last climax. He leaned back, fighting the urge to pick her up and toss her on the bed, sink deep inside her and finally be connected. She put her foot down, leaned forward and kissed him. That did not help.
“Uh, sorry,” He grunted when she stood, wobbled a little, and pulled him up with her. She smiled, gripped his face and laid a mind-blowing kiss on him at the same time turning him so he sat where she once did. Nibbling his neck she slid his zipper down. The room dimmed, as he felt her hand on his flesh, her thumb rubbing his head. “Come, Blake. Show me.” She whispered, nearly sending him over the edge with her words. She sat next to him, ran her hands over his chest, tweaked his nipples as he fisted himself, groaning as the climax blinded him. His hips jerked and he covered his shirt as she kept whispering, kissing him, and touching him.
“Dear Jesus,” he groaned as she handed him a towel, g
rinning at the wicked look in her eyes.
“Now, I’m going to shower. You can make some food if you want. I have no idea what’s in the kitchen. After that, you have to go. I’ll be fine.” She held onto the shower door as she stepped under the water. Blake watched her a second, forcing down his natural inclination to insist on staying. She’d have it her way. He knew it. He sighed, stood, and wandered down to the kitchen already planning how he’d hide in one of the many rooms in the giant house. There was no way in this lifetime or any other that he was going to leave her alone with that asshole.
****
Suzanne clutched the folder in her lap as she sat on the darkening porch. She had gotten a single call from her husband. He was getting a taxi home from the hospital, as his broken leg still wouldn’t allow him to drive. He had stated nothing more than the facts, but the cold steel of his voice had spoken volumes. That and the words “You had better be alone when I get there.” She had hung up without acknowledgement.
Setting the folder on the chaise lounge beside her, she plucked at the cushion a while, leaned back, leaned forward, paced, then sat back down. Nothing she did would make him get here any faster. She forced herself to think about Blake. His soft words, gentle kisses, intense need to help her. She looked up at the second floor balcony, willing him to stay quiet. She’d realized, finally, there would be no convincing him to leave. It gave her an odd sense of comfort.
A wave of throat-clenching panic washed over her, making her grip the chair arms. The near two-year long cycle of abuse had terrorized her at first, then cowed her, forcing her to tiptoe around Mitchell’s moods and change everything about the way she would normally respond to a man. It made her jumpy and less effective at work too, always anticipating the inevitable phone calls and texts demanding updates and detailed descriptions of where she was, what she was or wasn’t doing. The Suzanne of her youth—the one who was strong, independent, full of life and spirit—had been beaten out of her. Blake represented a return to it in a sense, but in another, much darker way.
Suddenly at that moment all she really wanted was to be left alone. She gulped, picturing his soft green eyes, his earnest words and amazing lips and body. Unfair! Her brain screamed. Don’t do this to him. Because you know where it’s going. You are not worthy and you know it. Mitchell is never going to divorce you. This is your life now. Take it or leave it, or do something else about it. Do not subject that lovely young man to this shit a minute longer.
The taxi drove up breaking her train of thought, and Suzanne took a deep breath and sank back into the seat cushions, her ears humming with fear. He spoke to the taxi driver then cursed as he tried to manipulate his crutches up the long walk. She jumped when he barked out her name, but stayed silent as he clanked his way up the steps. “God damn it, Suzanne, where the fuck are you? Come give me a hand.” She rose, nearly deafened from her own terror, and took three steps toward the stairs, reaching it just as he got to the top one.
The look in his eyes meant one thing. There was no simple “divorce” on her immediate horizon. Mitchell’s eyes blazed with a sick fury she had seen a couple of times, the last one right before he administered the beating, rape and mutilation of her face and body. The echo of her screams filled the space between her ears. The sharp, coppery smell of her own blood, and sensation of excruciating agony shot through her as if they were still happening. The humiliation of emerging from a pain-filled fog to find her husband pounding into her, raping her like a psychopath, cursing wildly, calling her names. Then the broken glass from the shower door… She whimpered as the memories flooded her senses. The final vision of him lifting the bloodied shard he’d used to cut her vagina, puncture her cervix, raising it toward her face, flashed in her vision like a bad horror movie.
She watched, detached from the scene somehow. Her hand rose, as if to ward off a blow. The one he could not initiate encumbered as he was with crutches and lower leg cast. Silently, she put her hand against his chest, felt his heart beat for a split second, and shoved hard. Horrified at the spectacle of him falling backwards in cartoonish slow motion, arms pinwheeling, his one good leg scrabbling for purchase. The sound the back of his skull made connecting with the granite banister would haunt her for the rest of her life.
She stared with morbid fascination, frozen in place, as blood pooled beneath the man she had married. The one she had loved, and who had systematically destroyed everything she knew about love with his fists, his cock and his need to punish her for his failings. She screamed when Blake shoved her aside and leapt down the steps. “No! Don’t touch him.” He stopped halfway down and turned to her, a combination of dismay and relief in his eyes. He managed to run back up and catch her before she crumpled to the porch.
Chapter Five
One Month Later
Blake stood in the bedroom doorway, coffee mug in hand, smells of breakfast suffusing the house. He loved this moment of the day, just before Suzanne woke, and he got to watch her sleep. It had been a rough night. They all were. He ran a hand across his jaw. Her asshole of a husband was dead on arrival, and the police had taken one look at Suzanne’s still obvious bruises, and ruled it an accident. She swore Jack probably had something to do with it too. But Blake didn’t care, as long as the bastard was good and gone.
He’d had a will in place, leaving everything to her, so no probate had been required. Blake had moved into her house and her life almost immediately. They had spent a solid week in bed, or on the couch, or on the kitchen counter. She’d been tender still, but the word “voracious” came to mind when he thought back to those early days. He watched her flip over, and smiled at the sight of those pert, pink nipples when the sheet slid down to her waist.
Sara had berated him up one side and down the other, of course. Told him he should slow down, not move in right away, give her some space. But as far as he was concerned, he’d wasted nearly his entire life waiting for her. He had no intention of staying away any longer. Besides, Suzanne wanted it too. He sipped his coffee and ran a hand over his hardening cock as he watched her turn once more, exposing her small, heart-shaped ass to his gaze. Although, if he were honest, the more time went on the worse her nightmares got.
She was starting some kind of therapy that week, which he hoped would help. Because every time she woke screaming, he had to hold her for hours to calm her down. It was exhausting. Not that he minded, but he’d hoped the terror would have faded at least some by now. To be the man who comforted, the one there for her when she woke, sweat soaked and sobbing, felt like his calling. He couldn’t imagine anything better than taking care of her.
He set the cup on the side table and slid into the bed, unable to resist any longer. Curving his body around hers, he cupped a breast, kissed her shoulder and sighed as she arched back into him. He stroked her nipples until they were lovely hard peaks and she squirmed and whimpered against him. He ran a hand down her waist, hip, then around to find her clit hard and pulsing. Teasing it he kept kissing her neck and shoulders. As she opened her legs, he reached further, found her moist center, still slick from their activity the night before.
She arched back further. He groaned and slipped his shorts down, loving the feel of her warm ass against his cock. “Mmmm…” She muttered, reaching back to grip his hair, lean her head against his shoulder giving him more access to her luscious neck. “Lovely.” She sighed, put her hand over his that was fingering her clit. “Gonna make me come.”
He grinned into her skin. “That’s the general idea, isn’t it?” He took her hand, pressed it against her sex. “May I join you?”
“You’d better hurry,” she whispered, her hand moving fast against herself.
“Arch back more my love,” he whispered. Ass play was not something he was ready to do with her. He associated that with men. Something he kept separate. While equally erotic, it was nothing like this. Every time he made love with Suzanne he felt something of his soul leave him and fly into her. While alarming, the look in her eyes after to
ld him all was well. That this was meant to be. “Ah yes,” he groaned as she lifted her top leg, draped it back over his and he slid inside the tight glove of her body. He gripped her hip, thrust out and in as she stroked herself, gripping him so hard he came with her, their cries of passion mixing and filling the air around them.
He kissed her shoulders again and again, loving the sight of her pebbling skin as he pulled out and held her close. “I love you,” he whispered. She stiffened in his arms. But he wouldn’t let go, and finally she relaxed. She wouldn’t say it, not yet. But he was sure she felt it too.
Suzanne insisted on getting back to work a week after the accident. Claimed it settled her nerves, gave her something to think about other than what she’d done. Their workdays were long and complex, their paths not crossing much. She spent a lot of time on the road around Michigan, selling with their distributors, or training new sales people to add to her staff. When he did catch sight of her, usually as she studied the production board or with her laptop open on the Tap Room bar, he would catch her eye, smile, and she’d blow a kiss. And all was right in his universe.
****
A few weeks later, he was rushing through his day, trying to play catch up as usual with the new sales push for his apparent success with a dark lager and a funky hybrid California common style. He had handed off a lot of daily brew house responsibility to Cal, his second brewer so he could focus on longer range planning. But he hated it. After staring at the computer screen, the endless grids of spreadsheets and order futuring Suzanne had demanded, he gave his hair one last tug and gave up. He stretched his arms up over his head, and gazed out over the late evening brewery activity. The contentment that settled over his nerves when he saw her, at the far end of the room seemingly chewing a bartender a new one over something, made him smile to himself.
Her small form, encased in thin black skirt and silky cream shirt, hair yanked up in a messy bun pencil stuck behind one ear caused all sorts of erotic humming in his brain. He shifted in his seat, glanced around to make sure no one remained in the back area where his worktable sat alongside stacks of packaging materials. “Hey,” he called out. She turned instantly, as if in tune to him, then held up a hand. “Suzanne, can you come here a second?” She frowned at the unlucky bartender another second then stomped back through fermenters. He stood, took her elbow and pulled her back into the shadows.