He pulled away and retrieved a condom from his nightstand. Rolling the latex on in a swift motion, he pressed her down into the mattress and settled between her legs. The head of his erection slid along her damp flesh and she shuddered. She lifted her hips and tried to pull him deeper, but he held back, building the tension a few more sharp seconds before he plunged inside.
He went still for several fast, furious heartbeats, his forehead resting against hers as he seemed to catch his breath.
“Wrap your legs around me, sunshine,” he finally murmured, his voice husky and raw.
She did. The motion lifted her and he slid even deeper. The sensation of being stretched and filled by the sheer strength of him stole her breath for several long moments and made her heart pound that much faster.
When he started to move, she clutched at his shoulders. With each thrust, the pressure built, pushing her higher, until she didn’t think she could take any more. She was close. So very close . . . And in another deep, dizzying thrust, suddenly she was there.
Heat washed over her, swamping her body and turning her inside out. She cried out, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, her legs clamping tight as tremors swept through her.
Linc plunged into her again and again, drawing out the pleasure as he searched for his own. And then he found it. His groan filled her ears and she opened her eyes in time to see him poised above her, his body rigid, every muscle in his neck taut as he spilled himself inside her.
Without breaking their contact, he rolled over and cradled her on his chest.
“I’ll get the phone for you,” he murmured as she settled herself against him. “But I’m afraid there’s no fire escape.”
She lifted her head and stared up into his deep blue eyes. “I don’t think I’d have the energy to climb out if you had one.”
He smiled and she gave him a smile of her own. And a kiss. And then she nuzzled his neck and closed her eyes.
Chapter 20
Has your father said anything about me?” Jacqueline Farrel asked after showing up on Eve’s doorstep late Friday evening. The same question she’d been asking every Friday night for the two months following Killer’s C-section—resulting in three healthy puppies—and the best orgasm of Eve’s life.
Eve retrieved a diet soda from the refrigerator and arched an eyebrow. “As in how much he misses you?”
Her mother shrugged and tried to look nonchalant as she set her briefcase on the kitchen table and sat down at the table. “That and when he intends to call to beg my forgiveness.”
“No.”
Correction—the best orgasm of Eve’s life up to that particular moment. It seemed every subsequent orgasm put the previous to shame. Not that Linc himself was responsible. Sure, he was good and they had chemistry. But they also had the situation working for them. After the initial session in his apartment, they’d decided to finish the Sexcess six.
The following week when he’d arrived at her apartment after placing second at Michigan Speedway, they’d had a wonderful version of flexible sex where they’d tried a very difficult Kama Sutra position involving a stack of pillows. The position itself had failed, but they’d gotten so turned on trying to get into it, that even the missionary sex that followed had been fabulous.
The following week, after a win at Dover Downs International Speedway, they’d given controlled sex a try. Linc tied her to the bedposts and stirred each sense until she’d been a screaming mass of nerves. She did the same to him the following night and bam . . . Incredible.
The week after that they’d met in Adams after he’d placed in the top three for yet another race, for more campaign fund-raising and step five—taboo sex. They’d done things in his kitchen with whipped cream that she’d only read about in books. The week after that, they’d had elemental sex beneath the stars on the hood of Linc’s first-ever car, an old Mustang that had been parked in a field in the back of Craig’s body shop.
The week after that they’d been on their own, but the lack of a plan hadn’t put a damper on things. It had been late in the evening after Sunday’s race—Eve had put in an appearance as the dutiful NASCAR wife, which gave her the chance to see Clint and Skye and the loudest pair of baby boys in the free world. The track had already cleared off by the time Linc finished with all the picture-taking and fanfare of winning the Fourth of July Pepsi 400. Linc had coaxed Eve into the seat of his race car for a ride. Literally. With the roar of the engine in her ears, the wind rushing through the open windows, and Linc deep inside her, they’d barely gone five laps before hitting Victory Lane. At least for her. He’d been excited, but controlled—he’d had to drive, after all—and so she’d made it up to him on the way back to the hotel. And again on the beach when they’d gone for a moonlit walk. And later that night on the hotel balcony. And—
“Maybe your father is having a midlife crisis.” Her mother’s comment drew her back to reality.
“Didn’t he have one ten years ago when he dyed his hair and signed you two up to learn how to do the macarena?”
“Well, yes, he did. But I’m beginning to think that was just a precursor of things to come.” Jacqueline peered at the container of Chinese noodles Eve had picked up for dinner. “Mmm, I love Chinese. Do you mind?”
“Knock yourself out. I really wanted Mexican,” she said, eager to wipe the sudden look of camaraderie from her mother’s eyes. “But the line was too long.”
“Oh.” Jacqueline retrieved a fork and took a bite. “That man is so stubborn,” she went on after she’d eaten several forkfuls. “He just can’t admit when he’s wrong.”
“Maybe you should call him. You know, be the bigger person.”
Her mother seemed to think about that. “Well, I am the stronger sex. And, obviously, more mature and objective. I’m afraid it’s our burden, dear, to always be the voice of reason.” Jacqueline pulled out her cell phone, punched a button, and waited. “He’s not home,” she finally declared, a stunned expression on her face as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just said. She clicked her cell phone shut and slid it into a pocket inside her briefcase. Her gaze went to her watch. “It’s nine o’clock and he’s not at the apartment. My apartment, mind you. And it’s not his volunteer night at the college.”
“What about Gram?”
“Your grandmother is undoubtedly out cruising the grocery store or a Laundromat or the Home Depot, or wherever else Cherry Chandler listed in yesterday’s show entitled ‘Male Meet Markets.’”
“You watch Cherry Chandler?”
“Only in the interest of Womanists everywhere. We have to know what absurdity we’re up against. And believe you me, it’s not pretty. Why, I practically gobbled an entire roll of Tums while Cherry went on and on about men and their love of tools and electronics and how women should capitalize on it when man-hunting. Imagine any woman hunting for a man! They should be hunting for us.” She seemed to think better of her statement. “Not that I advocate men hunting for women. We are in no way the weaker prey to be devoured by the big, bad male. I simply meant that men are the ones who should be putting themselves out there. Can you imagine hanging out in the condom section at Wal-Mart just to pick up a man?”
“It does allow you to kill two birds with one stone.”
Her mother shook her head and glanced at the clock again. “Your father’s always home by nine on a Friday. He never misses the local news. He likes to be informed.”
“Maybe he’s just not picking up the phone. He could be asleep.”
“That’s probably it.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and took a thoughtful sip. “You don’t think your father meant what he said about us testing the waters?”
“Dad suggested testing the waters?”
“He mentioned something a while ago, but I’m sure it was just a bunch of nonsense. Your father isn’t the type to do such a thing. Then again, he did say it and he’s also not the type to lie.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t.”
E
ve tamped down on her own anxiety. The thought of her father testing anything other than the knowledge of the students in his advanced anthropology class . . . She wasn’t going there.
“I’m sure it was just a scare tactic,” she told her mother, eager to ease her own mind rather than Jacqueline’s.
“That’s right.” Her mother stiffened. “And it’s not going to work. I could care less if he’s home or not. Or if he’s out with some weak-willed female from the college who probably laughs at his lame Amazon rain forest jokes. Your father has absolutely no sense of humor.” Several seconds ticked by before she added, “Lameness aside, it is endearing at times.” She stared blankly ahead, her eyes bright and worried.
Tears? No way. This was her mother. A rock of sexual knowledge and Womanist strength. She didn’t cry. She ate condescending male chauvinists for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She didn’t break down. She couldn’t.
Finally, thankfully, her mother blinked several times and shifted her attention to Eve. “So what are you doing tonight, dear?”
“Trina and I are watching videos.” It was that or pine away for Linc, who was in Texas qualifying for yet another race.
“Oh. What are you two watching tonight?”
A Steven Seagal movie. That was an answer guaranteed to send her mother running back to her hotel. Alone. Lonely. “The Terminator,” Eve heard herself say.
Her mother smiled. “Isn’t that the one where the woman is the only one to survive?”
“That’s the one. She kicks the Terminator’s ass and rolls off into the sunset to raise her unborn child.” She was definitely going to regret this, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “You want to watch with us? We’ve got kettle corn.”
“Why, I haven’t had kettle corn since your father took me to see The Life and Times of Joan of Arc.” At Eve’s puzzled glance, her mother added, “That was back when we were at Harvard. It was part of an independent film festival at the campus theater.” A faraway look gleamed in her eyes and a smile crooked her lips. A sad smile. “Kettle corn is my favorite.”
It was Eve’s, too, not that she intended to admit as much. Instead, she waved a bag of the microwave popcorn and wiggled her eyebrows. “You game?”
“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“I’m sure.” Her mother beamed and for the first time, Eve didn’t feel the urge to run in the opposite direction.
Okay, so maybe she felt a tiny urge, but she didn’t let it get the best of her. It was just a few hours, for heaven’s sake. It wasn’t as if they were going to buy matching outfits and start finishing each other’s sentences. It was no big deal.
And it certainly wasn’t a big deal that Eve actually enjoyed the next two hours sitting next to her mother, of all people.
She simply chalked it up to temporary insanity brought on by the enormous amount of great sex she was having with Linc Adams and the fact that she liked him for more than just sex. She liked watching him give it his all at the racetrack. And she liked seeing him win. And she liked having breakfast with him at the diner in Adams. And she liked waiting up for him on Sunday nights and inhaling the scent of wind and leather and wildness that always surrounded him after a race. And she liked snuggling up against his back in the middle of the night.
She liked his company.
But she didn’t love it, and so it would be no problem to say good-bye. She’d given up brownies and Dr Pepper, and she’d had extremely strong feelings for both of those. But, ultimately, they’d been bad for her on a long-term basis, and so she’d gone cold turkey. She would do the same with Linc when the time came.
In the meantime . . . Eve ignored the strange tightening in her chest, scarfed down a mouthful of popcorn, and watched an eighteen-wheeler run down Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“I want you to publicly declare that your entire platform is nothing more than a load of propagandist bunk, designed to fund your dependency on lip gloss and cosmetic surgery,” Jacqueline declared as she walked into Cherry Chandler’s dressing room at the studio where she taped her so-called talk show.
“Come again?” The attractive blonde paused in painting on her lipstick and her gaze shifted to Jacqueline’s reflection in the massive mirror. Cherry’s eyes were as blue as Jacqueline remembered from their college days, and just as knowing.
“Or at least write a private e-mail to Donovan and my mother saying pretty much the same thing.”
Cherry smoothed her lips together and capped her tube of M*A*C with French-manicured fingers. “Have you been chasing the moon pies with Yoo-Hoo again?”
“I haven’t touched a moon pie since our senior year at Harvard. Not that it was my fault in the first place. Who knew so much sugar could actually cause hallucinations?”
Cherry smiled, her glossy pink lips parting to reveal straight, white teeth. “You thought you were Joan of Arc. You were this close to shaving off your hair and tying yourself to the flagpole. You would have if I hadn’t been there to grab the razor.”
“And you would have failed Testosterone versus Estrogen if I hadn’t let you copy my lecture notes.”
“That makes us even then.”
“What about Reeducating the Darwinian Male? You would have failed that one for sure if I hadn’t helped you write your term paper, which means you owe me and I’m here to collect.” She ripped off a piece of paper and scribbled down two e-mail addresses. “Just say something to the effect that you’re wrong, but you continue to advocate the whole sensitive mate thing because you’re a materialistic, money-hungry, superficial ditz who prefers to use her feminine wiles rather than her brains to get ahead in an equally materialistic, money-hungry superficial society.”
“I am not a ditz, and I’m not calling my life’s work a bunch of propagandist bunk.” She eyed Jacqueline, her gaze as assessing as it had been all those years ago. “What’s all this really about? You don’t agree with my views; I don’t agree with yours. We’ve never seen eye-to-eye, but we’ve always agreed to disagree. Or at least keep our distance from each other to avoid any hair-pulling.”
The statement stirred a memory and Jacqueline did her best not to smile. “You totally deserved that. You tried to set me up on a date.”
“Dates are fun and you needed to have some fun. You were much too serious.” She eyed Jacqueline’s beige blazer and slacks. “I see things haven’t changed much.”
“I’m serious because I like being taken seriously by a society that expects sexologists to flit about wearing pink chiffon lounge pajamas.”
“They were fuscia and comfortable, and I only wore them once when I did the fashion show segment ‘Lasso Him with Lingerie,’ which totally blew away your ‘What Taking Out the Trash Really Means.’” The tension hung between them for several long moments before Cherry murmured, “Give. What’s your real problem?”
“I’m facing utter catastrophe.” Jacqueline sank down into a nearby chair. “Donovan wants to . . .” She shook her head. “Heavens, I can’t even say it.”
“He wants to . . . Have sex with you, buy you a condo in Maui, hang you upside down and flog you with red licorice— What?”
Jacqueline licked her lips and stiffened. “He wants to . . .” Another lick and she swallowed. “He wants to . . .” She lowered her voice and forced the words out. “He wants to marry me.”
Cherry smiled. “The handsome, educated, sensitive father of your children wants to marry you? Imagine that.” She shook her head. “Hello? He’s always wanted to marry you. He stood outside our dorm window and sang ‘Only You’ by the Platters just to get you to have dinner with him. It was so romantic.”
“It was silly, and the only reason I agreed to have dinner with him was to shut him up.”
“And you ended up liking him.”
“Once I got to know him and realized that he was an intelligent, ambitious graduate student who appreciated Joan Baez. We had a lot in common.”
“He wanted to marry you before that, and if you didn’t realize that,
you’re a lot ditzier than I am.” Cherry stood and straightened her low-cut blouse before grabbing a small, cordless microphone from the table and clipping it just shy of her cleavage. “You are so self-centered, Jackie.”
“I am not, and don’t call me Jackie.” Jacqueline slapped at an invisible piece of lint on her own jacket. “I hate that name.”
“Yes, you are. You’re so wrapped up in your own stupid fears that you totally overlook the happiness of the one person who actually sees you at your worst—and trust me, it isn’t pretty—and still wants to be with you anyway. We should all be so lucky.”
Jacqueline’s head snapped up and her gaze collided with Cherry’s. “You and Ron are having troubles?”
“Ron was my second husband.” Cherry shook her head and turned back to survey herself in the mirror again. “Then there was Jack. Then Richard. I’m dating Steve now. Fourteen months, two days, and three hours. I swear, I’ve bent over backwards for that man—literally—and I still can’t get him to propose.”
“Miss Chandler?” A man ducked his head in the doorway, a pair of headphones around his neck. “We’re ready on the set for you.”
She turned a radiant smile on the man. “Give me just a minute, James.” He nodded and she turned back to Jacqueline, her smile fading. “On top of that, I’ve got two ungrateful daughters hell-bent on publicly humiliating their loving, devoted mother by starting an Internet-based matchmaking service.”
“Matchmaking?” Jacqueline shuddered. “That’s horrible.”
“It’s not the matchmaking that’s horrible. It’s the nature of the matchmaking. Forget trying to find your soul mate, or at the very least a kind, decent man with a nice bank account who isn’t afraid of commitment. Their service is totally anticommitment.”
“How’s that?”
“UltimateSexMatch.com.” Cherry retrieved a tube of lipstick and smeared another coat of bright pink onto her pouty lips. “You think you have troubles? Try to imagine what it’s like to have the fruit of your womb turning their backs on everything you’ve raised them to believe in.” At Jacqueline’s raised eyebrows, she shook her head. “Okay, so you know. But it’s not like you taught your girls the truth when it comes to men.”
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