"Yes," she answered, but her mind whirled. If you really, really want something, then you have to do whatever it takes. Out of the mouths of babes. Or in this case, a pregnant woman.
Without a clue how momentous her words had been, Helen turned to the window. "Well, let me show you what I want."
Debbie followed her in a daze, her heart crying out. She wanted. So badly. She wanted passion. She wanted a passionate marriage.
Did she have the courage to do whatever it took?
* * * *
Debbie looked at her husband across the kitchen table, the scent of the tangy sweet and sour sauce tingling in her nose, the red pepper flakes bursting in her mouth.
"That was good, honey, thanks."
"You're welcome." Stir-fry was easy. She just hadn't bothered to put herself out in too many months to count.
He pushed the plate away and sat back in his chair. He was a good man. Intelligent, funny, and a good provider. He always had been--always polite, always kind to her, always appreciating the little things she did. But there were tired lines beneath his eyes that hadn't been there a couple of years ago. He didn't smile or laugh as often as he used to. She hadn't noticed. Probably because she hadn't looked at him, really looked at him, in ... years.
"Did you have a good day?" she asked.
"It was fine." He always said he was fine. Now she wondered if she'd never listened well enough either.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you, too," was the automatic reply.
Helen Blaylock's words echoed in her mind. If you really, really want something, then you have to do whatever it takes.
"Are you ever going to want me again?"
"I want you. Don't be silly."
She put her fork down. He ate faster than she did, and her plate was still a quarter full, but she wasn't hungry anymore. "You always say that. But you don't act on it."
"I know, sweetie, and I'm sorry. I'll get better. I promise."
He always said that, too. The situation didn't get better. "We have to make a change. We have to do things differently. This isn't working the way it is."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers massaging his temples. "I'm tired. This isn't a good time."
"I know."
There was never a good time. Before, that had angered her so much. Now, she saw how much he really meant it. He was so tired of ... something. His career? She didn't really think that was the problem. It was something so much deeper. A lack of life purpose? A feeling that he'd gone to work every day for the last twenty years and hadn't really accomplished anything important? Maybe it was his pride in her stained glass work that made her think that. He'd often said he wished he had something that meant as much to him as her glasswork did to her.
"Want to tell me about it?" she asked after a lengthy silence, hoping to draw him out, even as she knew that was next to impossible.
He closed his eyes, sat there rubbing his temples in circles. "Not really."
"Maybe I can help."
He looked at her, seemed to study her for several minutes. "I don't think so. It's just some mid-life crisis thing. Don't worry. I'll be better in a little while."
He'd been like this for so long. "You're not very happy, are you?"
He gave a small laugh, something halfway between self-deprecating and a snort. "I don't really know. I'm too tired to think about it."
"We need to think about it. And talk about it. I'm lonely."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"I want us to start making love again. Maybe we should have a goal. Like once a week."
He scrubbed his hands down his face. "Why is sex so important to you?"
How many times had she heard that question? She struggled to answer again, with something different, something that might get through to him. "It's more than just sex. I need passion. Without passion for each other, we're just roommates. It's not a marriage."
"I don't know how you can say that. I do everything for you. I go to work every day. I come home every night. We've got financial security. What more do you want?"
"Passion."
"Why?"
"Because without it, I don't feel vital. It makes me feel strong. And alive. A part of something. Instead of just going through the motions."
"Doesn't it mean anything that I love you?"
"It means a lot." But it wasn't enough. She drew in a breath, held it, thinking about Mrs. Blaylock. You have to do whatever it takes. She'd exposed herself to Stephen, but she'd never even tried with her husband. If they were going to have a marriage, then she had to give him the same things she gave her lover. "Why don't you ever come into the bedroom while I'm masturbating? I'd do it for you, if you wanted me to. I think about you watching me, and it turns me on."
Once the words were out, her fingers tingled and her heart raced. She even saw spots before her eyes. She'd never admitted aloud the things she did alone in their bedroom.
He dropped his hands to the table, folding his arms, and looked out the kitchen window at the garden. "I didn't know you were."
"Be honest," she whispered.
He looked at her then, really looked, his gaze traveling over her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, then up to her eyes. "I just can't do it. I don't know why. I just can't."
"You have to figure out why."
"But I don't know." He sucked in a deep breath, rolled his lips inward, then let the air rush out between them. "And I'm too tired to want to try."
They sat in silence. The clock ticked on the wall. The oven's temperature gauge clicked back on. She'd warmed the plates, but forgotten to turn it off when she took them out.
"I do love you," he said.
"And I'll always love you."
He turned to study the garden once more. "But you don't want to do this anymore, do you?"
"No." For the first time, tears pricked her eyes. He had been her best friend for so long. She didn't know what she'd do without him.
"I'm sorry I can't change."
The problem was that he wasn't willing to. He wasn't even willing to look at what bothered him so much. She knew he never would be. "It's not your fault. We could have gone on if I didn't feel that I need more."
Stephen had given her that something more she'd been looking for, even if for such a short time. During the whole conversation, she hadn't allowed a single thought of him to intrude until that moment. This wasn't about Stephen. It wasn't about the club or the things he'd done to her and for her.
This was only about her marriage. She'd known it wasn't working for a long time, long before Stephen. He'd merely opened her eyes to the other possibilities.
She put her hand over her husband's, squeezed until he looked at her. "I don't blame you. If I could help you, I would. Only I can't. I know that now. You have to work it out for yourself. I hope you do, but I'll still love you even if you don't."
"But you're not going to be here, are you?"
"No. I can't wait anymore. I really wish I could."
Moisture brimmed in his eyes, then spilled over. "Please don't leave me."
She turned his hand over, locking palms with him. "Please start wanting me again."
He closed his eyes, drops leaking through his lashes. Crying seemed so unmanly, yet he'd never been more of man than he was right now. Even as he cut through the last hope she had. "I wish I could. I would. It's not your fault."
She leaned down to kiss the back of his hand. "Almost every screw-up takes two to make it happen."
"I don't know where we went wrong. I'm so sorry. I knew you needed more, and I should have..."
She stopped him with a finger over his lips. "You're a good man. Maybe this change will help you figure out what you really need."
She couldn't stay waiting for him to figure out what was making him so miserable. She'd waited so long already, and she wasn't sure he was capable of doing it. Nor was it something she could do for him. She'd lost faith, lost hope, in him, in their marriage. The brutal
truth was, she didn't want to wait anymore.
He sniffed, swiped at his nose. "God, we're so fucking civilized, aren't we?"
"Yeah. We always were. Maybe that was the problem."
This time when she went to bed, she covered her mouth with her hands and cried all the tears she hadn't cried in front of him. Tears for all the special moments they'd had, and all those that would never come. She would miss him, she really would. She wished she could hate him. It might have lessened her own pain. He was a good man, and she couldn't blame him for what had gone missing in his life. He honestly didn't know.
She was afraid he never would.
If you really, really want something, then you have to do whatever it takes.
She wanted passion and fire. She'd chosen that over the safety of her marriage.
Outside the bedroom, the volume rose on the TV.
* * * *
There couldn't have been a more amicable divorce on the planet. Yet there were still a myriad of details to handle. Debbie bought out her husband's half of the house. It would mean she couldn't quit work by the end of the year. She couldn't quit work for a long, long time. That made her like most people. Then there were the cars and the big screen TV and the stuff they'd accumulated over the years. She couldn't believe how much there was. There were all the new things too, that she had to buy to replace the necessities he took.
She cried half the time and was almost overcome with paralyzing fear the rest. Almost.
The only rays of sunshine were the clients Stephen continued to send her way and the praise they always passed on. She praised him in return. Sometimes it felt like they were actually communicating. She kept his email address, his home address, his cell phone number. Late at night, alone not only in her bed but in the whole house, the urge to call him beat like a drum in her head.
She had things to do; emotions to reconcile. She couldn't call Stephen until she did. Until she was free of her former life and all the doubts that had consumed her for so long.
She couldn't call him until she could tell him she believed he wouldn't tire of her.
Even the day she held her divorce papers in her hand, she still couldn't say that. She'd begun to believe she never would be able to.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Stephen shuffled through the stack of mail. Bills, flyers, a magazine. And one cream-colored envelope with a computer label and no return address.
Like the invitations he'd sent her. His fingers trembled, and his heart hammered.
He'd kept to his promise and hadn't contacted her in seven months. His only news of her came through the clients he directed her way and the occasional phone call from Stacy. When Stacy told him about the pending divorce, he'd gone to the club three times in desperation. He'd left after a fruitless search, not really expecting her to be there in the first place. Perhaps praying she wouldn't be, the thought of finding her with someone else eating at him.
He carelessly ripped at the envelope. Inside was the invitation he'd hoped for, but had never really believed would come. Sinking to his knees in the front hall, he opened it.
"Friday." In capital letters, just as he'd written it all those months ago. His heart raced and his palms turned sweaty. She'd given him a time, too. "7:00 p.m."
He had two days to prepare, two days in which to go crazy. Two days until he discovered whether he would rise from the hell he'd been living in or was doomed to stay there forever.
* * * *
The parking garage was sparsely filled and the front hall empty except for a hostess and the usual waiter with a tray of filled champagne glasses. Shaky on the inside, his fingers numb, Stephen could barely manage to take the invitation from his inside jacket pocket, let alone hold a glass without spilling the contents.
"Mr. Knight, we're so glad you could join us. I believe your lady of the night is in the blue room, if you'd like to go up. It's early still and the party down here won't really begin for another couple of hours."
Lady of the night. Is that what she'd told the hostess to say? The title was rife with meaning, but in his current state, he couldn't figure out the message. If indeed there was any special significance at all.
"Third floor," the woman prodded when he failed to move. "Fourth door on the right. Just knock."
To ease his tension, he counted the steps as he climbed. He felt like a teenager going to the prom. Earlier, he'd ransacked his closet, finally deciding on the tux he hadn't worn since a friend's wedding ten years ago. She hadn't seen him in anything more dressy than brand new jeans and a button-down shirt. The unfamiliar weight of the jacket and accouterments stiffened his muscles. His knees creaked with each riser. He'd aged ten years in the last seven months, another five on the drive over.
For two days, he'd told himself she wouldn't send him the invitation if she planned only one night. She wouldn't tease him that way, then walk away. But the lady of the night comment pounded in him.
At the fourth door on the right, he straightened his tie, adjusted the cummerbund, and smoothed down the jacket.
After a deep breath, he knocked.
He'd been expecting her, and his heart dropped to his knees when a white-coated waiter opened the door. The man smiled and waved him in with a flourish.
She was seated at a small round table set with lace, crystal, and silver. The soft lighting from the wall sconces sparkled in her hair, but left her face in shadows. Then she rose and took his breath away. A short, black, sequined dress draped her curves, the neck plunging to her breasts. Moving to him, she revealed a creamy expanse of thigh he'd dreamed about kissing.
She stepped into the pool of light from the overhead chandelier and held out her hand, palm down. "Stephen, I'm so glad you came."
He took that hand, raised it to his lips; placed a lingering kiss, drawing in the scent of citrus lotion and woman. He straightened to look at her once more. She was as beautiful as he remembered, the same and yet different. Her blue eyes glittered. The shade of gloss, enriched, deepened, and plumped lips that had already been luscious. Her skin glowed. Though she'd worn fuck-me heels for him before, she seemed taller now, and her breasts swelled, almost overflowing the lace cups that tempted at the edge of the dress's deep vee.
For the first time, he was seeing the true Desiree she'd kept hidden inside. The sure, strong, confident woman he'd wanted to set free. She'd set herself free without his help.
"Aren't you going to say something, Stephen?"
I love you. I want you. I need you. Don't let this be the only night. "It's good to see you. You look gorgeous."
She smiled, genuine and pleasure-filled. "Thank you." She traced a hand down his lapel, caressed the boutonniere. "You look beautiful." She waved a hand at the table behind them. "Would you like a glass of champagne first? Eduardo will pour. I ordered dinner for 7:30."
He only wanted her. But she'd planned this for him, and he would take everything, jealously hoarding each surprise. Eduardo popped the cork as Stephen stared into her eyes. They spoke to him, but he was terrified to read too deeply.
Eduardo poured expertly, tilting the glasses to the side to keep the foam to a minimum. After handing them each a glass, he retreated to a corner. The wine sizzled in Stephen's throat as he downed half the glass.
He came back to himself as she touched his arm. "Do you like the room?"
For the first time, he took in the plush layout. To one end, the table and two chairs were placed intimately side-by-side. Beyond sat a settee big enough for two. He imagined her on her knees between his legs, her mouth on him. He realized then that until this moment he'd cut off all his crazy sexual thoughts. Without hope, even those had been painful.
She turned slightly, pulling him with her. As in the red room, everything followed the blue theme. Silk hangings graced the walls, candles burned in silver candelabras, and a pure blue spread covered the huge, high bed. Missing, though, were the velvet bed curtains and the mirror on the ceiling.
Leaning in, her breath warm at h
is throat, she whispered, "We don't need the mirror. I can see everything I want to see in your eyes when you look at me."
He closed those "windows to his soul," his heart aching, breaking, and soaring all at once. She would see the desire, but would she understand the rest? He was too damned scared to ask.
She stroked his arm. "I'm glad you're here with me, Stephen."
Her touch enflamed, yet strangely, calmed him as well. Debbie, even wearing her Desiree persona, had never been a cruel woman. After what had occurred between them in the Thomases house, she wouldn't play with him.
"Eduardo, perhaps we could start our salads now. Stephen's hungry, I think."
"Yes, ma'am. Right away." Then he disappeared through a door Stephen had missed.
She led him to the table. He held out a chair, seated her, then took his own next to hers. Her bare thigh brushed his. He ached to touch her. His cock throbbed, hardening in his trousers.
Setting her glass down, she leaned on her elbows and laced her fingers. The scoop of her dress fell forward, revealing plump breasts and hard nipples straining against the sheer cup of her bra. His hand lifted as if it weren't even a part of him, and his finger trailed across a stiff peak.
She drew in a breath and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. Her pupils dilated until her eyes seemed as deep as the midnight of her dress. "I suppose you're wondering why I asked you here tonight."
He was dying. He remained silent, afraid his voice would crack.
"I mean, besides wanting you to fuck me because it's been so long."
The word slapped his face. "I don't want to fuck you."
She put his hand on her thigh, guided him to the top of her leg. The tiniest of panties hugged the rise of her hip.
"Don't you?" she whispered. "Didn't you once tell me that fucking and making love were the same thing? You said it was the feeling inside that counted."
He remembered. He hadn't thought she believed him.
He slipped his hand between her thighs, his finger resting against her warm, damp panties. She was ready for him. He'd never stopped being ready for her.
The Sex Club Page 13