by Leanne Banks
“Are you saying I don’t satisfy you?” he demanded.
She bit her lip. “I’m not saying that, but maybe we should put the emphasis in our relationship on something else,” she said. “For a while.”
“You want to date,” he concluded, incredulous. But when he gave it some thought, it made sense.
She licked her lips and he felt himself grow hard. He had felt that mouth against his, sliding down his throat and chest, down lower, taking him to insane heights….
“We never did that, Brock,” she said. “We never just…dated.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Does that mean we sleep together or not?”
“That’s up to you,” she said. “If we waited for a little while to—” She broke off. “Do you still want to sleep together while we figure this out?”
Brock decided to leave the ball in her court, since this was her idea. “I’ll let you decide,” he said, rising from the car and crossing over to open the passenger door. “Dinner tomorrow night?”
“I’d rather hike on Sunday,” she said.
Brock swallowed.
“Is that okay?” she asked.
“Sure,” he said. He could last. He’d suffered far worse than unmet sexual need in his life.
Less than an hour later, Brock slid into bed and Elle curled against him. “Thank you,” she whispered, her lips against the back of his neck. He felt her breasts against him, her hand over his abdomen. He wondered if he would be able to stand this all night long.
Brock took a deep breath. He’d grown accustomed to making love to Elle every night. After all, she was his wife. She stirred his passions and was incredibly responsive. Why should he deny himself? Or her?
He knew, however, that she wanted him to use some restraint. It would take every bit of his determination, but he would damn well do it. Elle was worth it. And so was their marriage.
Sunday afternoon, Elle climbed up a trail behind Brock. She inhaled deeply, disgusted with her lack of physical fitness.
“You okay?” Brock asked, looking over his shoulder.
“Sure,” she said breathlessly.
He turned around and came to a stop. “You don’t sound okay,” he said, searching her face.
She put her hands on her hips as she tried to catch her breath. “It’s the altitude,” she said.
He grinned. “Not the exertion?”
She scowled at him. “The climb has been straight up.”
“I thought you could handle it,” he said.
“I can,” she replied and took a deep breath.
His blue eyes flickered over her. “Let’s take a break and drink some water.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m pregnant,” she said.
“I’m thirsty,” he said, sitting down as he pulled out his bottle of water. “Aren’t you?”
Elle sank onto a rock and also pulled out her water. She drank down the cool liquid quickly.
“You should make sure to keep hydrated,” Brock said.
“I will,” she said, downing almost all of the bottle.
“Want mine?” he asked.
“No, I’m good,” she said.
He pulled an extra bottle from his backpack and offered it to her. “I want to make sure my wife and baby have plenty of water.”
She finished hers and accepted his. “Thanks from both of us.”
He enclosed her hand in his. “Let’s go back down,” he said.
“I feel a little like a wimp. I didn’t expect to get this tired this soon.”
“You’re pregnant,” Brock said. “You’re feeding and breathing and doing everything for two.”
Elle couldn’t resist smiling. “Thanks,” she said, drawing strength from the clasp of his hand. “Let’s go back down.”
“Good. Now tell me, when you were a little girl, what did you want for Christmas?”
Elle did a double take. “For Christmas? A father,” she said, unable to keep the words from escaping her mouth.
Brock stopped midstep. “A father,” he echoed. “I’ll always be a father to our child,” he promised.
“Will you show up at most of his soccer games or her ballet recitals?” she asked.
He took a quick breath. “Yes, I will.”
She nodded and started to walk again. “That’s good,” she said, making her way down the trail.
“When you were a little girl,” Brock said, “what kind of husband did you want?”
“I dreamed of Prince Charming sweeping me away to a fairytale kingdom with a huge castle with housekeepers and cooks. But I was in charge of the babies,” she said. “We didn’t have nannies because the prince and I took care of our children.”
Her childhood dream moved him.
“Crazy, isn’t it?” Elle said.
Brock pulled her against him. “Not crazy at all.”
As they made their way down the last part of the path, Brock asked half a dozen more questions.
“What are your favorite movies?” he asked.
“I hate to say it,” she said.
“Sandra Bullock movies,” he said.
“Yes, and Julia Roberts. I like girl-power movies. Comes from being left in the shadow of my father and grandfather,” she said.
“Understandable,” Brock said. “Your favorite flower is the rose. And you especially love a multicolored arrangement.”
She stared at him in surprise. “How did you know that?”
“I got you flowers a few times. I caught you smelling the roses more than once.”
“I didn’t know you’d noticed,” she said, meeting his gaze.
“I didn’t notice as much as I should have,” he said. “But I noticed a few things. I’ll notice more in the future,” he promised.
She rested her forehead against his. “What’s your favorite flower?”
Surprise rushed through him. “I’ve never thought about it.”
“Think about it,” she said, smiling.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Wild flowers?”
“Hmm. I’m not so sure about that.”
“You’re not going to argue with me about my favorite flower, are you?” he challenged.
Elle sighed. “Okay,” she relented. “So which sports event are you dying to attend?”
He laughed. “Lots of them, but I can’t make time for them all,” he said. “Would you go with me?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” he said, pulling her into a hug and sliding his hands down over her butt, lifting her against him. “You never quit making me want you,” he said.
Elle brushed her lips over his. “Who, me?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “You.”
That night as she snuggled in his arms, Brock wanted her more than ever. His need for her alarmed him, but the sensation of her skin against his and her clean, sexy scent distracted him. He resigned himself to another night of frustration and forced his eyes closed.
Seconds later, he felt her hand drift over his chest, down to his abdomen. He caught that wicked, curious hand just before she touched him where he was hard and wanting her. “No teasing,” he said in a low voice.
She lifted her lips to his, her eyelids fluttering to a sultry half-mast. “What if the teasing will be followed by satisfaction?”
“I thought you wanted us to take some time—”
She rubbed her mouth against his, sliding her tongue just inside. “I want you, too, Brock,” she confessed. “It’s hard for me to stay away from you.”
“If you’re sure,” he said, loosening his grip on her hand. Two breaths later she was touching him intimately and kissing him as if there was no tomorrow. He wondered if he would ever get enough of her.
They made love that night and when Brock awakened in the morning, he was caught between wanting to take her again and giving her a break. He wanted Elle too much. She got under his skin.
The following week, despite their discussion, Brock came home late every night. Elle
refused to be a nag. She occupied herself by visiting her mother and grandfather, and continuing with redecorating the house. On Friday, Brock left before she rose, but Elle decided to take breakfast in the sunroom, anyway.
Yawning, she indulged in eggs, bacon and blueberry pancakes. The housekeeper brought her the newspaper and she scanned it as she ate. Just as she was finishing a gooey, delicious bite of pancake, she glimpsed a photo of Brock with a beautiful blonde. He was lifting a glass of wine and she was laughing
Elle’s food lodged in her throat. “Oh, my God,” she said, choking, coughing then swallowing. She read the caption beneath the photo. “Hot San Francisco Mad Man Brock Maddox charms cosmetics queen Lenora Hudgins.”
Elle stared at the photo, absorbing every detail. Lenora was beautiful. Brock looked charming and sexy. She wanted to club him. She was staying home every night when he was out courting Lenora Hudgins. Or her account, anyway.
Twelve hours later, she was still steaming as she waited for Brock to return home. He finally wandered in at eight o’clock as she finished a BLT while watching her second Julia Roberts movie. Taking a deep breath, she focused on that big-screen TV instead of how furious she was with her husband.
“Julia Roberts,” he said. “Did she win an Oscar for this one?”
“No. I watched that one earlier,” she said.
Silence stretched between them. “How was your day?” he asked.
“Downhill after my second blueberry pancake,” she said, “thanks to your photo with Lenora in the paper.”
Another silence fell like a lead weight. “What photo?”
“The one in the paper this morning,” she said, still not looking at him. “You didn’t see it?”
He swore. “No. I didn’t. You didn’t read anything into that photo, did you?” he asked. “Because it was all business.”
“Hmm,” she said. “If I were the jealous type, I would have to disagree. I can’t help wondering how you would feel if the roles were reversed and I were toasting a man with that kind of smile on my face.” She thrust the paper toward him, her gaze focused on Julia Roberts on the screen. “You want to answer that one?”
“It isn’t what it looks like, Elle. Come on. You worked for me. You know exactly what those dinners are all about.”
“Again, how would you respond if that were me in the photo? And I said ‘it isn’t what it looks like?’” she asked.
“I would want to beat the guy to a pulp,” he conceded.
She finally met his gaze. “I don’t think Lenora would look good with a black eye,” she said. “I also don’t think you would get the account if I punched her.”
“You want to join me the next time Lenora and I have dinner?” he asked.
“I think you might have a hard time winning the account with your pregnant wife along,” she said.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Any chance I can get some free makeup samples?” she asked.
His lips twitched. “What do you want me to do?”
“Tell me how much she turns you off,” she said.
“She does,” Brock said. “Plastic. Over-Botoxed. Her skin is so tightly stretched she looks like she’s permanently in a spaceship with a G-force blowing back her skin.”
“You’re exaggerating,” she said.
He chuckled. “The woman is impossible to please. She’s an alien.”
“Does she want you to go to bed with her?”
“No, Elle, she’s just incredibly difficult and demands a lot of attention,” he said, irritation bleeding through his cool countenance.
His response aroused her curiosity. “In what way?”
“Do you really want to know?” he asked.
“Yes, I do. I miss the activity at the office. Hearing about your work is fun for me,” she said and he sat down beside her. “Tell me about her. Is she married? Does she have children? How old is she?”
“Unmarried, one child, college-aged, she’s fifty-three. She’s had too many face-lifts and works out too much,” he said.
“Scared, but gotta be tough to stay on top,” Elle said. “Bring her here for dinner one night next week. We’ll have roast chicken, mashed potatoes, string beans and biscuits.”
“The only thing she’ll eat is the chicken,” he said.
“We’ll see,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “What makes you so sure?”
“What have you got to lose?” she countered.
He shrugged. “Good point.”
They slept together for the next three nights, but didn’t make love, even though their experiment was technically over. The lack of intimacy relieved Elle, then made her feel uneasy. She tried not to focus on it. On Monday night, Lenora was scheduled to arrive for dinner at six. By six-thirty, she still hadn’t arrived.
“This is why I can’t stand dealing with this woman,” Brock muttered, pacing from one end of the den to the other.
Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “She finally showed.”
Elle allowed the housekeeper to greet Lenora, then counted to ten and rose. She slid her hand inside Brock’s and walked toward the dining room. He squeezed her hand and glanced at her. “Thanks,” he muttered.
Lenora swept into the hallway. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Crazy Monday,” the platinum blonde with smoky eyes and a too-thin frame said.
“Lenora, we’re glad you could come. This is my wife, Elle.”
“Nice to meet you, Elle. Something smells delicious.”
“Just a little home cooking. I figure a hardworking woman could use a little home cooking every now and then,” Elle said.
Lenora studied her for a moment, then sighed. “Comfort food,” she said. “I never indulge, but I just might tonight.”
“It won’t hurt you,” Elle said. “As my mother would say, you could use some fattening up. Come into the dining room. You’ve earned your dinner.”
Lenora smiled. “I’ll pay with the elliptical tomorrow, but you’re tempting me.”
“We all gotta live,” Elle said, and the three of them entered the dining room.
After Lenora consumed chicken, mashed potatoes, stuffing, biscuits and green beans, she groaned as she sat back in her chair. “That was delicious. So bad, but so good.”
“Give yourself a break,” Elle said. “You obviously work like a dog.”
“I like her,” Lenora said to Brock. “Where did you find her?”
“In my office,” Brock said. “I got lucky.”
“So you did,” Lenora said, one of her over-Botoxed eyebrows rising just slightly. “Tell me, Elle, how do you plan to approach aging?” she asked. “Not that you’re anywhere near it.”
Elle sighed. “I’m conflicted. I want to take care of my skin, but you know, Catherine Deneuve doesn’t believe in staying too thin. We women have a tough road to hoe, but I don’t think I want to kill myself after forty-five. I mean, the truth is, no one is paying me to look good.”
Lenora gave a short laugh. “So true. So your theory is to look good without overextending yourself. Make it as easy as possible,” the woman said.
“The kiss method,” Elle said. “Keep it simple, sweetheart.”
“Ooh,” Lenora said. “I like that.” She clasped her fingers together and leaned forward. “Okay, Mr. Maddox, I want to sign with your company. And our campaign will be ‘Keep It Simple, Sweetheart.’ It works for any age, from teens to young twenties to new moms to women of a certain age.”
Brock shot Elle a cryptic smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Three hours later, after everyone—including Lenora—ate a slice of hot apple pie à la mode, Brock led Elle to bed. “I’ve missed you in the office,” he said, taking her clothes off.
She felt her heart beat faster. “Are you ready to trust me again?” she asked.
“You did get me a new account tonight. Maybe I should hire you as a copy writer,” he said, grinning. “Did I remove
your fears about any possibility of attraction to Lenora?”
“I thought she was lovely,” she said, lifting her hands to sift through his hair.
“She’s a barracuda,” he said. “You’re very sharp, but you’re also compassionate. I’ve always been drawn to you for those qualities.”
“Hmm,” she said, enjoying the way his hands slid over her skin.
“You are irresistibly sexy. I can’t get enough of you,” he said, skimming his hands over her belly. “Hey, Elle, I owe you one. You really did land me that new account, you know. She wasn’t convinced until she met you.”
His acknowledgement made her stomach twist. “Take it out in trade,” she whispered. “For what happened with my grand—”
His mouth covered hers, keeping her from finishing the word. “In the past,” he said, sliding one of his hands over her swollen breast.
She savored the sensation of his mouth on hers. “I want to please you,” she said, even though what she really wanted to say was I love you. But she couldn’t say that. Not yet.
“You do,” Brock said.
“How?” she asked.
“Just by being here with me,” he said.
The following Sunday was Father’s Day. The day was always rough for Brock. Even though his father often had been out of town, the two of them had always talked on the phone. Brock would say how lucky he was and his father would laugh, but his gratitude and pride had been clear.
Since his father had died, Brock spent Father’s Day remembering his dad. Staring out the window as he sipped a cup of coffee, he felt Elle come up behind him and wrap her arms around him. Something inside him eased. He covered her hands with his.
“What are you thinking about?” she whispered.
He inhaled deeply. “My dad,” he said.
Silence stretched between them for several seconds. “Father’s Day,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding.
“Do you have good memories of how your father spent the day with you and your brother?” she asked.
“Not really,” Brock said. “But we always touched base by phone. I miss being able to give him a call.”
“Hmm. Understandable.” She gave him a squeeze. “I spent every Father’s Day indulging in fantasies about how a father would teach me to pitch and catch. Or swing a bat. Or play golf. Or read the Sunday cartoons. Or just tell me super-wise things about life.”