Her climax was sudden and intense, and he held her hips down to ride it out. He stayed to play long after she’d stopped shivering against him. She pulled at his hair, the tingling pain only intensifying his need. He shook off her hands and knelt. Her legs were spread wide, and her back arched, begging him without words.
Part of him wanted to take her face-to-face again. He wanted to see what secrets she held close, but in turn she might see his, and he wasn’t ready for that. He might never be ready for that.
“On your hands and knees.” His voice was too rough, too commanding, for the tenderness they’d shared, but he couldn’t help it.
He thought she might argue or tease him, but as if he’d snapped a whip she moved to her hands and knees, wiggling back until she cradled his erection. He fit himself to her and pushed forward, the tight pull of her body even more amazing than before.
He’d planned to close his eyes and chase his pleasure. Instead, he curled his body over hers, his mouth at her temple. Words compressed from his lungs with each hard thrust. They barely registered.
He needed her to come with him. Her pleasure heightened his own. He snaked a hand between her legs and stroked. He wasn’t a beginner in knowing how to bring a woman to climax, but with Monroe it was effortless. She was completely in tune with him and incredibly responsive.
As soon as the shudders took over her body, he bucked into her until he too came in a rush that left his body weak. He collapsed on top of her, driving her flat to the bed, his face buried in her hair. What was supposed to be detached doggy-style sex had turned intensely intimate.
Some of what he’d whispered in the dark rolled back through him, firing an embarrassed heat. He’d told her she was beautiful and sexy. True. Sweet and strong. True again. The word “love” hadn’t passed his lips, but the word “forever” had. As in he’d wanted her forever, wanted to stay in her bed forever.
Less than three weeks, she said earlier. He’d been back mere days. His years in Seattle seemed a dream. He’d been living the life of a ghost, leaving his soul to wander Cottonbloom. The steamy heat must be driving him crazy.
He rolled to her side and more cuddling commenced. She nuzzled his neck, pressing kisses against his damp skin. The rain had turned to a drizzle, only the occasional ping against the window breaking the silence. He should leave. He would leave.
She took his bad hand and pulled him over to his side so she could massage it with both her hands. “Everything still feeling tingly?”
The question surprised him. He expected her to bring up his runaway tongue. “Even my toes. I haven’t come that hard since I was a teenager.”
Her laughter bubbled out and she leaned up to kiss him, her lips curved in a smile. “I meant the nerve damage in your hand, silly, but you made me feel pretty tingly, too.”
Silly. No one had called him silly since he was a kid. “I’m learning to ignore my hand.”
“Grip my wrist.”
He did, and even he could feel the improvement he’d made even though his fingers sometimes refused to cooperate. His knee barely even twinged now. It was time to head back to Seattle. Instead of relief, dread with a fair amount of irony bit him in the metaphorical ass.
She continued to minster to his hand. Her warm, soft, naked body sent him sneaking toward sleep again. He’d rest his eyes for ten minutes, let her drift off, and tiptoe out. Facing her in the light of morning seemed too daunting.…
The clang of a pan startled him awake. Filtered sunlight traced dust motes through the air. Clutching the sheet to his chest like some virtuous maiden, he sat up. There was no sneaking out in the light of day with Monroe awake and between him and freedom. He was screwed.
He pulled on his still-damp jeans and his boots. His shirt was somewhere on her den floor. He sidled out of her bedroom, but the open floor plan put him in view before he made it a handful of steps.
“Morning,” she said in a too-chipper voice considering the time. “I’ve got pancakes and bacon ready.”
He turned slowly. Her blond hair tumbled down her back, messy and sexy as hell. His white T-shirt hit her mid-thigh, and she wore nothing else if her pert shadowed nipples were any indication.
She slid a plate piled high with steaming pancakes onto the bar, melting butter spreading over the top. He took two steps toward the kitchen as if expecting a booby trap.
The flash of a memory rocked him. Waking up in his childhood bedroom to the smell of bacon and the murmur of his parents’ voices punctuated by the occasional laugh. How different would his life have been if they’d lived?
A loss two decades old suddenly felt immediate. His parents gone in an instant. The trajectory of his life skewing like a satellite out of orbit, spinning out of control. He mourned what might have been.
Monroe’s smile fell, and she stepped from behind the counter. “What’s wrong?”
He had spent years turning himself into a fortress, impenetrable. Yet she could tell something was wrong in two seconds without a single word. Panic and claustrophobia heated him.
“Thanks, but I have to go help Sawyer. I didn’t mean…” He swallowed and backed toward the door.
Her face clouded, but he couldn’t tell whether she was hurt or angry. She had a right to be both. The door turned into his enemy. The injured fingers of his left hand couldn’t maneuver the chain lock.
Her hand covered his, her warmth at his side, her scent winding around him like a caress. She flipped the dead bolt and slipped the chain free, their hands brushing. He hoped she put his trembling hand down to his injury and not the emotional deluge swamping him.
The door swung open, and he gulped in great breaths, making a run for his truck. It felt cowardly and wrong all the way around, but he couldn’t help it. He drove off with her standing on her porch in his T-shirt. He watched her in his rearview mirror until he made the turn off her street.
Chapter Twenty-four
“Ohmigod, you had sex?” Regan’s voice veered high and loud.
Monroe shushed her and glanced around Regan’s interior design studio. The only customer was Nash’s aunt Leora, who had the hearing of a hawk even into her seventies. Monroe hadn’t meant to tell Regan anything, but the anxiety that had built over the past few days with no word from Cade needed an outlet, and she needed advice.
“You would not believe how awkward it was in the morning. First of all, I’m pretty sure he planned to leave two minutes after we did it the first time.”
“The first time? You go, girl!” Regan held her hand up for a high five.
Monroe slapped her hand absently. “Yeah, well, so the next morning I’m feeling pretty awesome, wearing his T-shirt, making pancakes, and here he comes out of the bedroom doing the walk of shame. As soon as I put the plate down, he tried to bust out my door like the Kool-Aid Man. He left without a shirt on.”
Regan held her fist against her mouth. Monroe wasn’t sure if she was stifling shock or giggles. “I’m sorry. I know that sucked. How mad are you?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. Kind of upset, but then his face … Something was upsetting him. He tries so hard to stay impassive, but it was almost like he wasn’t even there with me. He was somewhere else.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend in Seattle? Or a wife?”
While Monroe knew little about his life in Seattle, she almost wished the problem were another woman. Whatever had sent him running was even scarier. A flesh-and-blood woman was less intimidating than the host of demons he fought.
“Regan, dearie, can I get your opinion?” Ms. Leora’s voice wavered to them. She held up a floral upholstery in blues and greens. “Wouldn’t this make lovely pillows?”
Regan cocked her head. “Indeed, and they would go well with the upholstery we had your living room couch covered in last fall.” She led Ms. Leora to the counter to write up a ticket.
“Hello there, Monroe. I heard your fund-raiser did well.” Ms. Leora plunked her pocketbook down on the counter.
> “It did, thank you, Ms. Leora.” Monroe pasted on a smile.
“And how is planning for the tomato festival going, Regan?” Ms. Leora clutched her pocketbook close, her fingers thin.
“It’s great.” To anyone else Regan’s smile appeared sunny, but Monroe recognized the strain.
“I hope it won’t end up being a waste of time and money. Who’s paying for the fancy gazebo in the meadow?”
“The lumber came wholesale, and Nash is kindly donating his time to help frame it.”
“So he informed me. At least he’ll get outside. I worry he’s not making friends now he’s back.”
Monroe couldn’t help but smile over the coddling statement. “Nash is doing fine. We all hung out the other night, as a matter of fact.”
Ms. Leora flashed an assessing gaze over Monroe and hummed before turning distinctly lemony and returning her attention to Regan. “You’re aware, of course, the city is reassessing the properties along River Street and raising taxes. Poor Martha is feeling the strain. Elizabeth, bless her heart, didn’t leave the Quilting Bee in the best shape for her daughter.”
Martha was a generation younger than most of the women who gathered and shopped at the Quilting Bee. Her mother had a fatal stroke in the middle of a stitch, leaving the shop to her only child. Martha had never married, and as the years passed the Quilting Bee seemed more a burden than a joy, her mother’s legacy in Cottonbloom a yoke around Martha’s neck.
“It’s been a decade since the last assessment, and with the revitalization of downtown everyone’s businesses are worth more. It’s a good sign for owners and the city.”
“Cottonbloom does not need revitalizing. It’s perfectly fine.”
“You’re more than welcome to voice your opinion at the next council meeting, Ms. Leora.” Regan concentrated on the order form. “Let’s see … the pillows will be ready in a week or so. I’ll call you.”
While Regan finished with Ms. Leora, Monroe retreated to Regan’s office, moved a pile of fabric samples off an armchair to the desk, and plopped down. The screen of her phone didn’t show any missed calls or texts. Her confusion and worry was skidding into angry territory. She got that men didn’t usually call after a one-night stand, but that’s not what they’d had, was it? Too much had been said. It had been too intense.
The front door bell tinkled and a few seconds later Regan walked in and went straight to a wooden filing cabinet. “I closed up a little early. There are no more appointments on the books and it’s too hot for much foot traffic.” She pulled out a bottle of Black Label Jack and two glasses.
“Is that filed with the Js or Ws?”
“The Ms for ‘Medicinal.’” Regan flashed a smile and waggled her eyebrows. This was her real smile, not the one she used to trot out for pageants or during her job as mayor.
“I really shouldn’t.”
“You have to. You can’t let a friend drink alone.” Regan’s voice was teasing as she poured.
Monroe stared at the glass filled with an inch of brown liquor. Hadn’t she been as closed off as Cade in her own ways? She pushed the glass back toward Regan. “Actually, I don’t drink.”
“Since when?” Regan took a sip, her lips curled slightly, her eyes on Monroe.
“Since forever.”
Regan put her glass on the desk in slow motion. “You’ve never turned down a beer or glass of wine.”
“No, and I don’t know why I didn’t.” Monroe tipped back in the chair, focusing on the pocked ceiling tiles. “That was a lie. I never turned down a drink because I didn’t want anyone to guess the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
“I don’t drink because Mother’s an alcoholic. I’ve spent years holding full bottles of beer and glasses of wine so no one would ask any questions.” Monroe raised her head to gauge Regan’s reaction. A pensive seriousness settled a frown on her face.
“So it’s more than her going out and having fun?”
“Much more. Has been since we were kids. I tried to talk her into a rehab in Jackson, but she’s afraid of the gossip.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Not a thing. Mother drinks to escape, but you can never escape yourself.”
Regan twirled the glass, uncertainty in the movement, hurt feelings in her voice. “Why didn’t you tell me? Lord knows, I’m the last person who would judge you on your mother’s behavior.”
Monroe sighed. “Habit. Shame. You’re my best friend, Regan, but for too long the secret’s felt too big to face and if I’d told you … Please don’t be upset. It seems like the longer you keep a secret, the harder it is to talk about.”
Regan turned her face to the far wall, but seemed to be looking beyond it. “That I can understand.” She turned back. “I could help.”
“I don’t need help. I’m just tired of pretending.”
“I can’t believe you fooled me for so long.” Regan shook her head and raised her glass to her lips but stopped an inch short. “Do you mind if I have a drink?”
“Of course I don’t. Drink up.”
The tension between them eased, and Monroe relaxed into the chair, feeling lighter than she had since Cade had run out of her bed. They spent the next few hours talking about everything and nothing. Celebrity gossip, their crazy families, Cottonbloom politics, Sawyer Fournette’s idiocy, Cade Fournette’s foolishness.
Monroe ended up on the floor, her feet propped up on the chair with fabric samples over her bare legs like a blanket, an AC vent blasting in her direction. Regan had kicked off her heels and sat with her legs hanging over the side of her leather armchair.
Monroe covered her face with her hands, her fear surfacing. “I think I was Cade’s booty call. The one man I—”
Her heart accelerated. Cade Fournette was the one man she could love. Might already love. Maybe had loved forever.
“You know what we should do?”
Monroe recognized the zealous enthusiasm in Regan’s voice. It was the same tone she’d used to talk Monroe into skinny-dipping in the neighborhood public pool at midnight and into buying fake IDs and into spending five excruciating minutes kissing Kit Wannamaker in a closet in ninth grade. None of those endeavors had turned out well. She and Regan had gotten caught in the pool and with the fake IDs, and Kit had come out of the closet the next year—literally.
It was also a tone Monroe was unable to deny. Anyway, one of Regan’s harebrained schemes might distract her from thinking about Cade. “Dare I ask?”
Regan was up and riffling through a box in the corner of her cramped, messy office. She came up with two cans of spray paint and an evil smile. “We should have a little fun, and what’s more fun than showing the Fournettes up?”
Regan had finished off her drink and the one she’d poured for Monroe and at least two more. While she was far from sloppy drunk, her thought process was obviously impaired. She slipped on her heels, but her shirt was untucked over her pencil skirt and her French twist had come half-untwisted.
Monroe caught her arm before she could get the front door unlocked. “This is a terrible idea.”
“You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”
“You’re tipsy with two cans of spray paint. Nothing good can come from that combination.”
Regan made a phishing sound and got the door open. Darkness had fallen while they’d talked. Monroe debated a moment before running to catch up with Regan. At the very least, Monroe would keep Regan from doing something dangerous.
They crept toward the footbridge that led to the Louisiana side. It was a popular place for graffiti. “How’re you going to reach the side of the bridge?”
“We’re not painting the bridge.” Regan crossed over.
Streetlights reflected off the newly painted yellow wall. Regan pulled the cap off one of the cans and shook it. Monroe grabbed her arm. “Are you serious?”
Regan answered by drawing an enormous letter T on the wall, red rivulets trailing down like blood. Monroe loo
ked around, waiting for someone to pop out, point their finger and yell, Aha! While not dangerous, what Regan was doing was certainly foolish and not mayoral in the least.
Monroe tried again. “You’re going to regret this in the morning.”
Regan continued with her message. She dropped her spent can and took the one hanging uselessly in Monroe’s hand. When Regan was finished, they stood back to take in the wall in all its glory. Written in huge block letters was “Tomatoes Rule, Crayfish Drool. Labor Day.”
“I’ll have to admit, the red on yellow is a standout combination,” Monroe said.
The whine of a siren sliced through the humid air. Adrenaline rushed her body, and she took off at a run back across the footbridge. Unfortunately, Regan couldn’t keep up in her heels and tight skirt. A spotlight caught her halfway across the grassy common area on the Mississippi side. Still mostly in the dark, Monroe could have made the corner of the buildings and ducked back into Regan’s studio, but she couldn’t leave Regan hanging.
Monroe walked back over to where Regan was talking with the Cottonbloom Parish sheriff, her hip jutted out and her arms crossed over her chest.
“Wayne, it wasn’t me,” Regan said as sweet as pecan pie.
“Then why do you have a big red paint streak on your cheek?” The fortyish-year-old veteran officer pointed with the pen he was using to make notations on an electronic tablet.
Regan gave herself away by rubbing even more paint across her cheek with stained fingers. Wayne turned to Monroe, tutting. “You’re part of this, too, Monroe? Have you ladies been drinking?”
The threat of a ticket or worse had Monroe shifting and chewing on her lip. “I don’t suppose you’d let us loose and we’ll make sure the wall is repainted as soon as possible?”
“Repainted?” Regan put her arm around Wayne’s shoulders and turned him toward the wall. “I think it looks fabulous. What do you think, Wayne?”
“A work of art,” he said with a hint of amusement as he made more notations. “Look, I need to give Commissioner Fournette a call and see how he wants to handle the situation. That is town property, you know.” Wayne slipped into the driver’s seat of his squad car.
Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel Page 24