He retreated toward the door, but Monroe caught his hand. “Thank you … for everything.”
He chucked his chin up and disappeared.
She got her mother changed and tucked back into the bed. At least she hadn’t thrown up all over the sheets. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Monroe tucked the covers around her mother’s body and dropped a kiss on her head.
Her hair reeked of stale smoke, her body of alcohol. How many nights had she leaned over to give Monroe a good night kiss and smelled like a bar instead of face lotion? Too many times. She stayed until her mother’s restlessness eased and her breathing deepened.
Monroe returned to her bedroom. The storm had settled into a soft, plinking rain against the window. Cade’s jacket was gone; the only traces he’d been there were the rumpled sheets where they had lain together.
It wasn’t surprise but disappointment that tumbled through her. She couldn’t blame him. Any man with half a brain cell would run from the ugliness he’d uncovered tonight. Pulling out the combs and pins, she finger combed her hair out of her face and fumbled the clasp of her pendant necklace open.
Her mother would have one hell of a headache come morning. Monroe headed downstairs for ibuprofen and to check the locks. Halfway down the stairs, she registered the low hum of a sitcom laugh track on the TV.
Cade was sprawled across the couch in the den, the remote in his hand, his bare feet propped up on the ottoman. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s going to be hating life tomorrow.”
“No doubt. Uncle Delmar was a bear after his binges.”
Her steps stuttered on her way to the couch. Cade remained relaxed, his face impassive. “Delmar drinks?”
“When I was a kid, he would go on a bender now and again, not show up for work for a few days, get fired. Daddy used to take care of him; then afterward I did.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I did my best to cover for him. He was officially our guardian. If the state got wind, we’d have been shuttled to foster homes. Sawyer says he’s better now.” Questions pinged, but before she could put any to voice he asked, “You staying here tonight?”
“Yeah. In case she needs me.”
“Want some company? I cued up a movie.”
“Sure. Okay.”
His brows rose as if he had expected a fight, but polite protests were beyond her ability. She wanted him to stay.
“Which movie did you pick?”
“Picked one I’d never seen. Figured you’d watched all of them. Dead Poets Society?”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“Didn’t have much time for movies growing up.” His voice took on an edge she recognized.
The same edge had cut her when she was left to take care of her mother when it should have been the other way around. Life hadn’t been fair to either of them in different ways.
“It’s excellent, but not very happy.” She sank on the edge of the cushion, tension holding her straight and still.
As the opening credits rolled, he snagged his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him. Her head settled onto his shoulder, her hand on his chest. She had needed him to force her to lean on him. So many years she had been adamant she would never depend on a man for anything—not for money, not for protection, not for happiness. But around Cade her staunch independence felt more like an aching loneliness.
At first, the movie was background noise, her focus on his hand playing with her hair, the caress of his smooth chin along her forehead, his clean scent. As the movie progressed and her body grew comfortable with his so close, the sad story pulled her in like it always had.
The ending always made her misty-eyed, but with her emotions exposed like severed wires tears flooded her eyes. She tucked her head down, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but it wasn’t long before her nose got into the act and she snuffled.
He shifted, his hand cupping her chin and tilting her head up. She closed her eyes, but a tear trickled out. Instead of questioning her or, worse, laughing at her, he pulled her fully onto his lap and hugged her tight, her face mashed into his neck. She cried. Not manipulative tears or sentimental tears, but a full-on ugly cry.
All he did was rub her back and hold her tighter, even when she had to wipe her nose on the collar of his shirt. Finally, the storm abated, leaving her exhausted. The anxiety, the worry, the resentment, had been washed away.
She pushed up off his chest. He was frowning, the crinkles around his eyes deep with his squint. “I’m not a crier.”
His lips twitched. “Obviously.”
A giggle snuck out followed by a hiccup, which made her laugh even harder. “I mean, not normally a crier. I must look terrible.” She rubbed at her eyes and patted her cheeks.
“You look…”
“Don’t say beautiful, because I know you’d be lying.”
“Red and swollen.” His mouth drew into an apologetic grimace-smile, but the way he spoke didn’t make her feel self-conscious.
She pushed off him, but he caught her waist, pitching them both forward. She wiggled and he shifted until they lay face-to-face, her back pressed into the cushions. The soft fabric of his pants caressed her skin. He kissed her cheek, and her eyes drifted shut with the sensations.
“But still beautiful. Nothing can mask that.”
“When did you turn into such a smooth-talking hero?”
Chapter Eighteen
Her words pried themselves into Cade’s consciousness. He levered himself to an elbow. “I’m not a hero.”
Her eyes opened, still glossy from tears. “All right, what are you then?”
The intimacy of the evening set off tornado sirens. Pursuing a goal of sexual satisfaction for them both was one thing; holding her while she cried for her mother was another. And the ache in his chest and the need to wipe all her childhood pain away and replace it with happiness wasn’t even on the table for discussion.
Afraid his answer would give too much away, he kissed her. Her lips were soft and salt tinged from her crying jag. Her fingers played in the hair at his nape. Maybe having sex would sever the odd bond born of the past. Maybe memories of their full moon nights together only confused the lust that had bloomed between them as adults. Sex would clear the air so he could see clearly again.
He skimmed his hand up her waist to span her rib cage, an inch below her breast. His thumb followed the path of her bare skin, hooking under the edge of her dress and glancing across her already-peaked nipple.
Her inhale stole the air from his lungs. He slipped his hand under the fabric to cover her entire breast, her nipple pressing into his palm. Like studying Sawyer’s engineering books, Cade had studied the mechanics of pleasuring a woman, but in the past bringing a woman to orgasm had been about ego and his body’s goal of its own satisfaction.
Her soft skin under his fingertips was like a tonic to his confusion. The scary truth presented itself like a flashing neon sign in Times Square. Sex would only strengthen their connection. The need to lay hands on her was more than he could deny.
Light from the muted TV flickered. She arched, pressing her breast farther into his hand. Her fingers left his hair to wrap around his wrist, but she only pressed his hand tighter against her body. When he moved his hand away from her breast, a sexy whimper emerged from her throat and her fingernails dug into his wrist.
He pulled the dress off her shoulder and pushed the fabric aside, baring one of her breasts. She loosened her hold. The juxtaposition of his tanned hand against her pale skin and his rough calluses against her softness made him achingly aware of her femininity.
Her breast wasn’t large but was perfectly shaped for his hand, the nipple small and pink. He thumbed the point, drawing it even tighter before pinching it lightly. She writhed and moaned, her eyes squeezed closed. Was every part of her as sensitive?
“Look at me,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Her eyes shot open, huge and blue and still swollen from her crying jag. She looked
innocent. Hell, she was innocent compared to him. Or was she? She’d dealt with a different set of demons growing up, but they rampaged through her dreams. He understood that.
He shifted down to lick over her nipple. Her pelvis circled against his erection. The pressure wound tighter and ached for release. He’d been battling the damn thing since he’d stepped into her room earlier. Outlined by the lightning of the storm raging outside her window, the swaths of her pale skin had glowed.
He pushed her deep into the cushion and sucked her nipple into his mouth. Her hips bucked, and her leg snaked over his.
“Cade, please.” The desperation in her voice spoke to him more than her words.
“Let me take care of you,” he whispered while his tongue flicked at her distended nipple. Although he’d meant sexually, deep inside him a seed he’d thought had shriveled and died took root with the words and flourished.
True to form, her hand came between them and tugged at his pants. He took her wrist and pressed her hand into the back cushion. Slower and harsher than he intended, so she wouldn’t argue with words or spirit, he said, “Let me take care of you, dammit.”
She tossed her head back, her neck working with her swallow, her hair fanned around them. The tension threading her had faded, although her body strained toward his with a different purpose now. Her pose was one of supplication.
A primal sense of ownership went hand in hand with the need to protect her. How many men had she allowed to take control of her pleasure? None, if he had to wager.
He let go of her wrist and her hand stayed put, neither encouraging nor denying his access to her body. He pulled at the other side of her dress, baring both breasts. While he licked and sucked and kissed one, his fingers played with the other, pinching and rolling.
Rubbing his cheek across the soft slopes brought her hand to his shoulder; she grasped at the fabric of his shirt as if she wanted to pull him inside of her. He situated her flat on her back and levered himself over her, careful not to put all his weight on her.
She spread her legs to accommodate his hips, and he pumped in a mockery of what his body screamed for. The position was too much of a temptation for him, and he shifted to her side, keeping a leg draped over hers.
While he caught her closest nipple between his teeth, he trailed a hand up her thigh, bringing the voluminous fabric of her skirt with him. Blue fabric bunched at her waist. A tiny G-string made a weak effort to hide his ultimate destination.
He plucked the side string where it made a slight indentation into her soft hip. “This is quite possibly the sexiest, most useless item of clothing I’ve ever seen.”
She hummed and wiggled her hips. He took his time, trailing his fingers along the strings. When he finally pulled the scrap of fabric to the side, he found her smooth and wet.
He pressed his erection into her hip, the contact satisfying him enough to keep his focus on her. For long moments, he stroked and explored, discovering what she enjoyed and what drove her crazy.
He eased his middle finger partway inside of her, trying not to let his mind imagine what the tight hold would feel like around his erection. His thumb rubbed her slicked apex while he sucked her nipple into his mouth.
Without warning, she went off in his arms like fireworks. Her movements forced his finger deep, her walls pulsing in rhythm to her circling hips. He raised his head to watch her in her climax. Her breasts and cheeks flushed pink.
The blue of her eyes lasered into him. He wanted to look away but couldn’t. Her vulnerability rocked something deep inside him. He removed his finger as her body went lax.
The intensity turned to tenderness. She stroked fingers down his cheek and across his lower lip. He kissed the tips. He broke eye contact first, gathering her close and hiding his face in the hair at her nape.
Her hands moved down his back and over his buttocks. “Your turn,” she whispered in a dazed, husky voice.
He wanted his turn, but more than that, he wanted tonight to be about her. He wanted her to trust him with her body and her soul and her dreams … with everything. Her earlier accusation pealed in his head. He wasn’t staying in Cottonbloom. Was it fair to ask for everything and walk away? “Not right now. Later maybe.”
He turned them on their sides and held her close, his hands caressing up and down her back, one shoulder of her dress still down, the skirt bunched around her upper thighs.
He didn’t know how much time passed before her body went limp and her breathing deepened. Sleep eluded him. Eventually, he slipped out of her embrace and off the couch, looking down on her. Her dress only half-covered her, the curve of her bare thigh and one perfect breast exposed. She was the picture of innocent and sensual, guarded and open, strong and vulnerable.
He lifted her into a cradle hold, and she emitted a throaty hum but didn’t wake. After laying her on her girlish twin bed he pulled the pink flowered comforter over her body, but the devil in him left her dress in disarray.
He hoped she’d wake in the morning with no regrets, but in case she did harbor them, he didn’t want to be around to see them cloud her blue eyes.
Monroe’s mother was asleep and snoring and not likely to wake anytime soon. He retreated to the den to put on his shoes and shut everything off. Taking the rusty key, he let himself out and relocked the door. The rain had stopped, leaving everything washed clean and the air cool. He stared back at the house wishing he had X-ray vision.
Since he’d left Cottonbloom, he hadn’t invited complications into his life. He didn’t do complicated. He’d kept things simple. Nothing about Monroe was simple. Nothing about the feelings roiling in his chest was simple. Cottonbloom seemed to inspire complications.
Chapter Nineteen
Cade spent Sunday morning searching for a distraction in the intricate, logical workings of an engine. His thoughts stole to Monroe so many times, he was lucky the motor’s fix was simple. With Sawyer at church—a necessity when you were an elected official—he had the house to himself, which meant no awkward currents to navigate. Tensions between them had only seemed to grow after their disastrous trip upriver.
After a quick, cool shower, he pulled on a pair of cargo shorts and grabbed a Coke out of the frig. The crunch of wheels on gravel drew him to the front window. Monroe. She climbed out in Sunday summer garb—a yellow sundress and strappy high-heeled sandals that did something spectacular to her legs. He flashed to the evening before and the feel of those legs clamped around his hips.
A long drag on the icy Coke did little to stem his sudden arousal. He had a feeling only one thing would alleviate his need and that was to bury himself inside of her.
His tuxedo jacket was draped over one of her arms, and he reined in his more primal urges. She was circling to the back and he met her at the kitchen door. She wasn’t here to finish what they’d started last night.
“Hi.” Her voice was probing, her smile tentative, and her gaze on his chest. A sharp pain twisted in his gut. She was uncomfortable.
“Hey yourself.” Shifting on his feet, he wanted to force her to look at him, wanted to ask hard questions about regret, but he didn’t, afraid of the answers.
“Do you think maybe” she swallowed hard, and he tensed as if expecting a blow “you could put a shirt on? This is all very, very distracting.” She waved toward his chest, her gaze finally rising. Instead of regret or awkwardness, amusement lit her, and like the sun banishing the clouds a warmth flooded through him that had nothing to do with sex.
“I think I like you distracted.” He took a step closer, and she pushed the tip of her index finger between his breastbones.
“Cade Fournette, if you come one inch closer I might throw you over the kitchen table and take wild advantage of you.”
His breath got caught somewhere in his windpipe, making his words come out hoarse. “Yep, distracting you is the best.” He tried to move closer, but she spun around him, the skirt of her dress brushing his knees.
“Nope. Not in your brother’s h
ouse with him due home any minute.”
“All right, fine.” He retreated for a T-shirt but didn’t pull it on until he was back in the kitchen. Her gaze seemed to devour him and he couldn’t recall a woman who had ever been so blatant in her desire. Although there were undiscovered depths to Monroe, she didn’t play games, and he appreciated that about her. Along with about a hundred other things.
“How’s your mama?” he asked once his shirt was on.
“Feeling about as crappy as you’d imagine. Full of apologies and promises as usual.” Her worry cleared quickly. “You left your jacket last night.”
“Thanks.” He took it from her outstretched arms and hung it over a kitchen chair. Only a ticking clock and the faint tap of her heels as she shuffled her feet broke the silence. She was right, Sawyer would be home soon, and Cade wanted her to himself. “You got plans for lunch?”
“None.”
“How do you feel about a picnic on the river?”
“The river?” She spoke the words cautiously.
“You scared of the water?”
“Of course not.” Her gaze skated away from his, and hidden meaning lurked behind her denial. Was she afraid of the river? The thought was somehow unbearable, as if he and the river were somehow joined and fear of one would lead to fear of the other.
“Would you go out on the river with me?” It was a question of trust and grew in importance. He stilled.
“I’m not really dressed to go tramping through marshes.” She gestured down her dress.
“No tramping necessary, scout’s honor. I’ll bet Tally even has a pair of water shoes you could borrow.”
“Were you even a Boy Scout?” She glanced at him under her lashes, the gesture flirty, already slipping her strappy heels off.
“I was a Cub Scout for three months. Quit once I figured out they weren’t going to teach me how to start a fire or survive a zombie apocalypse.” Her laughter relaxed him. “I’ll pack some sandwiches. There’s sunblock in the medicine cabinet, and Tally keeps some things in the middle bedroom.”
Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel Page 20