She moaned, trying to push the images away. She moaned and he pulled her closer.
He leaned into her, and she could feel every inch of his desire. He wanted her. Quentin wanted Jett.
For a moment his tongue left hers, and he kissed her face, her neck, her shoulder, making her quiver.
“Sheridan,” he whispered in that voice.
She was ready to bow down. The heat inside her rose, taking her to a place where she had to have more.
Still connected, she backed him toward the staircase until he hit the first step. He pulled back slightly, and his eyes asked the question. Her lips answered when she pressed her mouth to his, and they climbed the stairs, legs, arms, lips entwined.
She wasn’t sure how they made it to her bedroom, but she was more amazed they were still wearing clothes.
He slipped her jacket from her shoulders and massaged her bare arms until goosebumps were on every part of her. He took off her top, and then his tongue teased her.
She wanted to scream, demand that he take her, take her quickly, or she would die. But she couldn’t pull her lips away to tell him.
She was sure hours had passed before she was standing covered only by her La Perla bra and panties. He pulled back for a moment, and she hoped it was a smile of appreciation that crossed his face.
He laid her on the bed, but when she reached for the buttons on his shirt, he gently pushed her hand away and stood.
“I just want to look at you,” he said.
He shrugged the jacket from his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. His eyes never left her as he stripped, slowly, seductively, making her a promise.
His eyes seared her. “You are so beautiful.”
Still he stood above her, until his naked, muscle-packed body glistened in the dark.
Still he stood above her, and she felt as beautiful as he said she was.
Still he stood above her. His eyes whispering that he wanted her. Her eyes screaming that she needed him.
It was torture. It was agony. It was ecstasy.
When he finally lowered his weight onto her, she kissed him, grateful to feel him once more.
His lips, his hands, his eyes did things to her she’d almost forgotten. He rolled over, pulling her on top. She removed her bra, and drank in the lust, love—it didn’t matter what it was—that was in his eyes.
She was a woman.
Wanted by a man.
She kissed him, then frowned when he reached for his jacket. It took a moment for her to recognize the plastic packet.
What am I doing here?
But that questioning thought was gone when he joined with her and she moaned as if it were her first time.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
She nodded, because she had forgotten how to speak English. But the memory of love rushed throughout her body. And she forgot who she was. The only thing she knew was she wanted this man.
He made love to her as if he loved her. Slowly, at times. Gently, at times. Urgently, always. He caressed her with words, telling her he wanted every part of her.
And she drank in all that he said.
Their love continued for hours, until there was no more within them. At the end she collapsed into his arms. And he held her. And planted small kisses on top of her head. And he held her some more. Then he slept.
She didn’t close her eyes. She didn’t want to sleep. She just wanted to rest and remember.
Her legs covered his. His arms covered hers.
Sheridan opened her eyes to the glow of the new day’s sun peeking through the curtains. She had no idea what time it was, even though she’d fought to stay awake, wanting to be aware of each passing hour.
She twisted, trying to glance at the clock, but Brock’s embrace tightened. She wondered if he was awake. But his eyes were closed, his breathing sleep-steady. Even in his unconsciousness, he wanted her near.
“You wake up early,” he said, shattering that thought.
Still she smiled. “It’s not early.” She sat up and pulled a corner of the sheet over her. The clock told her she’d been right. It was just after ten.
“It’s early to me.” He turned on his side, rested on his elbow, and tugged the sheet from her, leaving her exposed.
She combed through her hair and turned away from his stare. With his fingers, he brought her back, making her look at him. “I had a wonderful time last night,” he said, as if he knew those were the words she needed to hear.
She leaned back and he sat up. He kissed her, gently. But then passion grew and she begged him to take her again.
“Mom!”
Sheridan’s eyes opened wide. “Oh. My. God.” She tore from Brock’s embrace and jumped from the bed. “That’s my son.”
“Okay.” Brock held up his hands. “Go talk to him. I’ll get dressed and then get out of here without him seeing me.”
Sheridan grabbed her robe. She was shaking when Brock jumped from the bed and held her for a moment. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Mom!”
His voice was closer. Sheridan stepped into the hallway, closing her bedroom door behind her. “Christopher, what are you doing home?”
He grinned. “Is that any way to speak to your number one son? I thought you’d be glad to see me.” He handed her purse to her. “This was on the floor downstairs.”
She grabbed her bag and waved her hand in the air. “It must have fallen…”
He moved toward his bedroom. “I just came to change my clothes and get my golf clubs. Darryl’s mom’s going to take us to the course.”
Darryl. Golf. She would have been delighted if she weren’t terrified.
Christopher stepped into his bedroom, and Sheridan leaned against the wall. But before she could inhale a breath of relief, Christopher leaned back into the hallway.
“Whose car’s in the driveway?”
Oh, my God. “Ah, it belongs to a friend. Who had to leave his…their car here overnight…because…he…they needed to leave it.” She hoped it didn’t sound as stupid to him as it did to her.
Christopher frowned, shrugged, and then stepped back into his room, and Sheridan tiptoed back into hers. She had a quick moment of relief when Brock stood before her, dressed.
“I’m ready,” he whispered.
“Let me make sure he’s still in his bedroom.” Sheridan reached for the doorknob, but Brock pulled her to him. He kissed her, and even though her son was just feet away, she reveled in the embrace for a moment.
When she stepped back, he said, “I’ll call you.”
Sheridan peeked outside and then nodded to Brock. They stepped into the hallway.
“Mom!” Christopher came from his bedroom before they had taken three steps. “Mom?”
She decided this would be the perfect moment for Jesus to return. But then she wondered why she would turn to Him now. Although she had called His name a million times last night, she hadn’t been thinking about Jesus at all.
Sheridan took a breath, turned around, and said, “Christopher,” as if she were delighted to see him.
He moved toward her, his eyes all the time on Brock.
“Christopher, this is Brock Goodman.” She wanted to say more but couldn’t think of any new words.
Brock held out his hand. Moments passed, but Brock held his smile and his hand in the air. Finally, without a word, Christopher shook his hand, turned, and walked back toward his bedroom.
“Christopher, did you need anything?” Sheridan asked.
“Naw, never mind.” This time, he closed his bedroom door, and Sheridan closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Brock said.
At the bottom of the stairs, he said, “I’m sorry about Christopher, but I’m not sorry about last night.”
She allowed herself a moment to remember.
He touched her chin. “I’ll call you,” he said before he stepped out the door.
Her eyes followed him, and she stood until the Camry backed out of the driveway.
Sheridan tightened her robe.
“I’m going back to Darryl’s,” he said, as he bounced toward her. He stopped at the door. “Is it okay if I spend the night over there?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. She had to say something. “How was last night?” she asked.
“Fine.” He looked at her. “How was last night for you?”
She wanted to slap him; wanted to slap herself even more. Didn’t know what to say. “Christopher, I’m sorry about what happened. What you saw. I shouldn’t have…”
He held up his hands. “It’s cool, Mom. I understand. Everyone has their needs. See ya later.” He closed the door, leaving her standing alone.
“Everyone has their needs”?
Sheridan didn’t even want to imagine. With each step she took up the stairs, the dreadful moments played in her mind. Brock tiptoeing out of the room. Christopher charging out of his. The second their eyes met. Sheridan wished she could pray the last fifteen minutes from existence.
But when she entered the bedroom, the memories of the night rushed over her like a waterfall, washing away the guilt, dousing her with pleasure. She lay on the tousled sheets and bed cover, allowing her mind to revisit the hours. There were parts where she smiled, moments when she shuddered. Even as guilt crept back to her, she wished she could go back twelve hours and live inside each minute again.
She sighed as she rubbed the sheets where he’d slept. I can’t do that again. It was beyond her wanting to do right by her children. This was about wanting to do right by God.
She closed her eyes and prayed. Asked God for forgiveness. Asked Him for strength. Asked Him for guidance, because there was no doubt she wanted to see Brock Goodman. And she wasn’t sure what her walk with God would look like when they got together again.
Chapter Thirty-four
“Pastor, I have to cancel tomorrow,” Sheridan mouthed as Pastor Ford stepped from the altar after the service. The pastor motioned for her to come closer, and Sheridan took a deep breath before she moved.
“You can’t make it tomorrow?” the pastor asked.
Sheridan shook her head because she didn’t want to lie out loud. Didn’t seem like a good idea—to be telling a lie, on Sunday, in God’s house, to her pastor, in front of the altar. Especially after what she’d done this weekend.
“Okay.” The pastor took Sheridan’s hand. “How are you doing?”
“Great. Well. Fine.”
Pastor Ford squinted and Sheridan held her breath, praying that her pastor wouldn’t have a vision. When Pastor Ford said, “I’ll see you in Bible study on Tuesday,” Sheridan nodded. She had no intention of seeing Pastor Ford alone for at least a week. By then, maybe God would have so many other things on Pastor Ford’s mind that she wouldn’t be able to look at her and immediately know Sheridan Hart was the church’s biggest fornicator.
As Pastor Ford walked to her office, Sheridan sauntered toward the back of the sanctuary. Her eyes continued to do what they’d been doing all morning—searching for Brock.
She’d squirmed through the entire service, barely able to keep her eyes on the scriptures, barely able to keep her mind on the pastor. Instead, her body twisted as her eyes roamed through the church.
She’d been sure he’d be in church after she hadn’t heard from him. Yesterday she’d expected him to go home, rest a while, then call to check on her and Christopher—and to remind her that he’d had a wonderful time.
But when her phone didn’t ring, Sheridan had slept, knowing she’d see Brock in church today. But he wasn’t there, and as Sheridan scanned the second-service worshippers, there was still no sign of the man she’d given herself to.
“Hi, Mom.”
Her thoughts had taken her so far away that Sheridan hadn’t seen Christopher approach her.
“Hey.” She hugged him. “I didn’t know which service you were coming to.”
“We came to the first one.”
“Okay. So, do you want to ride home with me?”
He nodded.
As they walked toward the parking lot, Sheridan couldn’t keep her eyes away from the thinning crowd.
“Are you looking for someone?” he asked, as if he already knew the answer.
She shook her head. In the car she asked, “Do you need to pick anything up from Darryl’s?”
“Naw, I’ll do it later. Darryl’s going to his father’s house today.”
Sheridan eased into traffic and hoped to find words to say. Should I wait until we get home? “Do you want to pick up something to eat?”
Christopher nodded. “Can we stop at McDonald’s?”
If she didn’t need a bribe, she would have made another choice for him. But if he wanted twelve Double Quarter Pounders with cheese and as many supersized fries, she was willing to buy it all if it would help her now.
The next words Christopher spoke were to the drive-thru attendant as Sheridan searched for what needed to be said. While he yelled his order, Sheridan prayed, then waited until they turned back onto Century Boulevard.
“I want to talk to you.”
Christopher popped a french fry in his mouth.
She said, “I’m really sorry—”
“I told you, Mom, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Maybe it’s not, but I can’t tell you that.”
“Yes, you can. You know right from wrong.”
“Yeah, but everyone makes mistakes. Even you, Mom.” He paused. “I’m not mad about it or anything. I understand. It was because of Dad.”
“This has nothing to do with your father.”
He shrugged. “Okay. But it doesn’t have anything to do with me either.”
“Why do you keep…” She stopped. Christopher didn’t want to have this discussion. Not about his mother—with a man who was not his father—having sex. And how could she blame him? She was almost forty and still wanted to believe her parents had had sex only twice, for the pure purpose of procreating. She’d never talked to her mother or father about sex.
Maybe I need to break this cycle, she thought. And then the other side of her said, Maybe this isn’t the time.
“Oh, no, what’s Dad doing here?” Christopher groaned, tugging her from her thoughts.
She turned into their driveway. “I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out.”
She climbed from the SUV, but when Christopher got out, he said, “I’m going to Darryl’s.”
“I thought Darryl wasn’t home.”
“Then I’ll go to the park or see if Brendan’s home. Déjà may still be over there.”
Sheridan watched her son trot down the street, away from his home, far from his father.
Inside the house, Quentin’s jacket was tossed over the settee and he was on the couch, leaning back, his eyes closed, as Barbra Streisand sang his favorite song, “Evergreen,” to him. Sheridan paused at the entryway, staring at Quentin posed in the way she had found him so many times before.
“Quentin.”
He opened his eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
She lowered the stereo’s volume. “You can’t come in here anytime you want.”
He shrugged. “I knew you were at church. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
“Well, it is a problem, because this is my home now. I don’t have a key to your house. And even if I did, I wouldn’t just barge in there.”
“Okay, but it’s not like…” He stopped.
“Not like what? Not like I may have someone here?”
A slight grin slipped over his face. “Well, I was going to say that,” he teased.
“Well, if you said that, you’d be wrong.”
His smile left. “What do you mean?” He looked at her as if he was trying to discover the meaning behind her words.
She crossed her arms. “Did you want anything?”
He stood. “You called me about the mail. And I wanted to see if everything was all right with you and the kids.”
“Why would something be wrong?”
“I didn’t think anything was wrong, Sheridan. I was just checking.”
“We’re all fine.” Except for the fact that I haven’t heard from Brock. “Although Christopher was upset when we drove up and saw your car. He took off.” As soon as the look of hurt swept over him, she regretted her words.
“Well,” he slapped his hands against his legs. “I’ll get going.”
She sighed as she watched him walk away. Yes, she felt awful not hearing from Brock, but no, she didn’t have to bring Quentin down with her.
Quentin picked up the pile of envelopes and slipped into his jacket. “Tell Tori I’ll call her tonight.”
Sheridan said, “She’ll be back from Joy’s around seven.”
“Okay.” He glanced at her. “I’m sorry about the key. Do you want it back?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. You may need it one time for the children or something. I just want you to call before you come over.”
He nodded. And then, he left.
Sheridan felt no joy as Quentin swaggered to his car. And she felt even worse when she went upstairs and waited for Brock to call.
Chapter Thirty-five
Sheridan closed the door just as the school van pulled away. She glanced at the clock and counted again. It had been almost seventy hours since she’d seen or heard from Brock and he had consumed most of her mind for most of those hours. If he doesn’t want to call, that’s fine, she told herself.
But minutes later she was studying the clock, counting again, wondering if it was really approaching seventy-one hours since she’d last seen him.
“I need to do something,” she said for at least the thousandth time. She searched, seeking tasks to keep her thoughts away from a man she’d spent no more than ten waking hours with. But it was those other hours—the ones they’d spent in bed—that consumed her.
She put this morning’s plates into the dishwasher, then stood, staring out the window, until the machine stopped forty-five minutes later. Then she fluffed every pillow on the couch and chairs in the living room, changed the linen in all the bedrooms, and vacuumed the two levels of the house even though her housekeeper had done the same yesterday.
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