This was all I could think of from ten o’clock, when I slid into bed with a book I couldn’t focus on, to now.
I shouldn’t go, couldn’t go, I shouldn’t even want to go.
Even knowing this, I threw back the covers and went to my closet. I pulled out a long cardigan, my brain battling itself as I shrugged on the sweater and walked out of the room.
I headed to Keira’s room first. She was a heavy sleeper, like me. Nothing woke her and nothing used to wake me, at least when Tim was in the house, now I woke at the barest sound.
I pushed open her door and whispered, “Keira?”
I looked at her bed, no movement.
I walked in. She had the room at the front of the house, Kate’s room sandwiched between the hall and mine. Keira’s room was girlie, not frilly but full of pinks, purples, daisies and posters of boy bands and teenage vampires. Her clothes were strewn on the floor, her desk a mess. Her curtains were drawn but I could see the darkness of her hair against her pillow. Tim’s hair. Both of them got Tim’s hair, Tim’s eyes, Tim’s lean frame. They’d lucked out.
I stifled the urge to touch her hair, kiss her cheek, left the room and crossed the hall to Kate’s room.
Kate was like Tim, she slept light. She was a worrier, like Tim and now, like me.
When Tim was alive, I didn’t worry, not ever. I felt, if we were all together, nothing could harm us. We’d take our knocks but we’d survive them. This feeling had a lot to do with Tim taking care of most everything. This feeling was now gone because he was gone, not taking care of most everything and because we’d never be all together again.
I pushed open her door. Kate’s room couldn’t have been more different than her sister’s. Champagne colored walls, black accents, sophisticated except for the posters on the walls. They were for bands I’d never heard of but whoever they were they actually wrote their own music and played their own instruments. Her floor was clear, her stuff organized.
I only whispered her name when I was close to her bed.
“Kate.”
I saw her dark hair on her pillow and she didn’t move either.
I wanted her to move, to roll to her back and say, “Mom, stop acting like a slut.”
She didn’t, she slept and I left her to it.
I walked to the side kitchen door and slid on some Crocs. Then I unarmed the alarm. Then with my hand to the door handle, the sane, good Mom, good person part of my brain won out. I dropped the handle and walked toward my room but my feet took me right by my bedroom door to the sliding glass door at the back of the study. My fingers unlocked it, slid it to the side and I stepped out into the chill night air. I closed the door and walked to the steps of the deck, down them and into the grass.
I turned to Joe’s house.
Through the dark, I hurried to his house knowing this was wrong, it was stupid, he was probably asleep by now anyway.
But my feet kept moving.
His deck was deeper than mine, jutting out further, but it didn’t travel the length of his house like mine did. Mine was rectangular, his was square. The steps on mine were at the front, his at the side and I ran up them, counting them as I went, four steps, then I found myself standing at his sliding glass door.
There was no light on. If he was waiting for me, wouldn’t he turn on the light?
He would, anyone would. No one who shoveled a woman’s snow from her drive would make her meet him for a clandestine sexual assignation at his unlit dark deck. In fact, his whole house was dark.
It was clandestine but he wouldn’t want me to sprain my ankle, would he?
No, he was sleeping. Time to go.
I turned and headed toward the stairs and my heart skipped when I heard the sliding door open but my feet kept moving toward escape. I was almost at the stairs when I was caught with an arm around my waist and pulled back into the heat of his long, hard body.
His rumbly voice sounded in my ear. “Where you goin’, buddy?”
“Joe,” I whispered, my voice trembling and I could say no more.
He let my waist go but grabbed my hand and yanked me into the house. Sliding the door to, he turned to me and bent, lifting me at the knees and waist, he carried me through his living room, down the hall and turned right. Then he carried me to his bed and threw me on it. I bounced only once because, if there was going to be a second time, this was thwarted when his body came down on mine.
His hand was in my cardigan at the shoulder, pulling it down.
“I –” I began.
“Shut up,” he cut me off.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Then his mouth came down on mine.
* * * * *
I was on my knees, Joe underneath me, his hands at my hips, pulling them down to his face.
I had been bent over him, using my mouth and hand on his beautiful shaft at the same time his mouth was on me but what he was doing between my legs with his mouth took my full concentration so I’d given up and when I did Joe had turned me around and settled me back down.
Now I arched my back as the orgasm washed through me. He tugged my hips, his mouth kept working me, voracious, prolonging the climax exquisitely.
Even when I was done, Joe lapped at me and that felt so good, I had to lean forward and clutch the headboard or I would topple over.
Then he moved me, pushing me off but not letting me go, sliding me down his body so I was on top of him, my forehead in his neck, his hands moving on my skin.
He wasn’t done, which was so shocking it could even be record-breaking. I could feel him hard against me and that was impossible. Since I walked in (or, more aptly, been pulled in, carried in, then thrown on his bed), we’d gone at each other like teenagers. I’d had four orgasms, Joe, three. I’d lost count of the positions, lost track of the sensations. Each time we finished, his hands and mouth kept at me, that hollow feeling would come back and I’d need it sated. I’d need to feed the hunger that overwhelmed me, a hunger for him. I’d do anything to satisfy it and I did.
I felt no embarrassment once it started. I didn’t feel like a slut, a bad mother, a terrible person. I didn’t worry about my nudity or if he liked what I was doing. This shit was natural, like I was born to be in Joe’s Callahan’s bed and it was natural to him too, like Joe Callahan was born to be in me.
When his hand slid up my side and in, curling around my breast, I lifted my head to kiss him but caught sight of his alarm clock.
“Shit,” I whispered, maybe the first word I said since he caught me outside other than “Joe,” “Faster,” “Harder,” “Yes,” and “More.”
Joe hadn’t said much at all, then again, he was using his mouth for far better things.
Now his neck twisted and he looked at the clock then at me.
“What?”
“I’ve gotta get home.”
“Why?”
“I have two girls.”
“They awake at six o’clock?”
I smiled at him and, weirdly, his big, warm body stilled under mine and his eyes dropped to my mouth when I did.
“Okay, no, there’s no way they’re awake,” I answered. “But we also have nosy neighbors.”
His eyes slid up to mine and his hand slid from my breast, around my side, up my back and into my hair as he asked, “So?”
“So, Tina Blackstone is a bitch. She sees me coming from your house in the morning wearing a nightie and a cardigan, she’d talk.”
He didn’t respond but he didn’t need to, his face said it all.
Therefore I answered his unspoken repeat of, “So?”
“I know you don’t care but, like I said, I’ve got two girls. It wouldn’t be good if Tina Blackstone talked.” I pulled myself further up his body and touched my lips to his then said softly, “I’ve got to go.”
His hand fisted in my hair and the pads of his fingers dug into my hip, just for a second, then his arms went loose.
But that second counted.
It counted a whole hell
uva lot.
I slid off him and scrambled beside the bed, feeling suddenly conscious of my nudity. I gave him my back as I pulled my undies up then slipped my nightie over my head. I shrugged on my cardigan at the same time I twisted my feet, toeing my Crocs to right them and then sliding them on.
“Buddy,” Joe called and I turned to see him lying on his side, his elbow in the bed, his head in his hand not, obviously, conscious of his nudity or at least not self-conscious about it.
I didn’t blame him.
His body was far more beautiful out of clothes than in them. Like his face, its perfection not marred by the scars but instead made more appealing, his long, lean, muscled body was not spoiled by the long, jagged white gash that sliced diagonally across his tight abs and the creased, darkened circle of skin halfway between his right pectoral and his shoulder.
“Come here,” he growled softly.
My feet took me to him, I put a knee to the bed and leaned in and Joe did the rest. His hand, lying on the bed, came up, hooked me behind the head and he pulled me closer, so close, my mouth was on his.
“I want you back tonight,” he ordered.
He wanted me back.
I smiled against his mouth.
When I did, his eyes grew intense then his head slanted. I lost sight of his eyes when mine closed because he kissed me hard, open-mouthed and so long, he came up from the bed, his other arm curved around me and he pulled me to him. When I landed on him, he twisted me so my back was to the bed and kept kissing me.
His kisses were so good, I forgot I was supposed to be leaving until his lips disengaged from mine and his face disappeared in my neck.
“Don’t we have nosy neighbors?” he asked my neck.
“Shit!” I cried, rolled him to his back and tore out of his arms.
I was nearly on my feet by the side of the bed before I stopped, put a hand back in the mattress, one at his scarred cheek, leaned in and gave him a quick kiss.
Then I gained my feet and, not looking back, I ran from the room, down the hall, through his living room, out the sliding glass door and to my house.
I was feeling so fucking great, instead of running, I could have skipped.
* * * * *
The day passed like it was coated with molasses.
I’d thought to get a nap but once I got home from Joe’s, even though I’d had virtually no sleep for two nights, I found I was incredibly energized.
I stripped my bed. I put in laundry. I made a grocery list. I paid bills. I took a shower and did myself up like I always did, even after Tim died.
Tim liked my hair smoothed out with the hair dryer. He liked it when I put on makeup even if he preferred it light. Tim liked it when I made an effort with clothes. Tim said I was the sexiest cop’s wife in history and he said it in a way where I knew he believed it completely and was proud of that fact. He liked it when I’d come into the Station, he got off on the fact that the other guys found me attractive (or, at least, he told me they did). I was his, he told me, and he had something beautiful, he told me that too. Never, not once, not even when I was heavy with Kate and Keira, did he make me feel anything but beautiful.
It was something that I forced myself to do after he died, keeping up my appearance. It was for him but it was also for me. A way of not giving up when I wanted to do nothing but that, give up, give in, stay down, beaten.
Though that morning, I made a bit of an extra effort.
The girls got up and I made them pancakes. They did their chores, cleaning their rooms and I went to the grocery store. I was going to make my breaded pork chops and spiced rice, Tim and Keira’s favorite. It took forever to make but it would be a treat because Kate loved it too. Though Kate’s favorite was my seafood risotto, my favorite as well. They’d started as recipes from a magazine but, after years of experimentation, I made them both even better, therefore I considered them all mine. This was my thing, something else Tim would brag about. Our garden was the most beautiful one on our block (even I had to admit that) and Tim thought my cooking was the bomb and he bragged about both freely. He liked to have people over and we did all the time but he said it was so he could show me off.
The seafood would be too expensive, unfortunately, so it was going to have to be pork chops.
When I went to the grocery store, Joe’s truck was there. When I came back, it was gone. This made my stomach clutch with fear and it made me act like an idiot. As I put away groceries, vacuumed, folded clothes, loaded and unloaded the washer and dryer and did ironing, I found reasons to go to the kitchen window and look out to his drive, checking to make sure he came home.
But he had to come home, for me. I might have only ever had Tim but I wasn’t stupid. A man like Joe Callahan didn’t wait up for a woman until two o’clock in the morning; he didn’t throw her on his bed and have sex with her for four straight hours; he didn’t react that way, reflexively especially, when she told him she had to leave; and he didn’t want her to come back unless he wanted her.
Which, I told myself, all meant he wanted me. Not for a convenient fuck, there was more going on here and I knew it.
That bitterness and humiliation had washed away and something else replaced it. Something I didn’t expect, not from Joe, hell, not from anyone, but something that I liked.
Tim and I had great sex our whole married life. I was not his first, he had a girl before me, but I was his last. We’d taught each other everything we knew. We were open, honest, even adventurous and it was regular and often, not like clockwork but spontaneous, fun, sexy. We both had healthy appetites, Tim especially and he loved it that I met his appetite (though, he didn’t brag about that or at least not that I knew about).
But he’d never fucked me on the hood of a car, one second working on an engine, the next going at it with me like it was necessary for his existence. He’d never fucked me for four hours straight like he was just as hungry for it as I was, like he had to get his fill for fear the beauty of it would be torn away, never to be had again.
And I understood that now. God, did I.
I didn’t take anything for granted, not anymore.
I was going to get my fill.
When I went to the kitchen to start the pork chops, I saw Joe’s truck in the drive and instead of that settling inside me, my body electrified. I felt the specter of his mouth, his hands, his shaft driving inside me and it was so strong, I had to lean into the counter to hold myself up when my knees went weak.
Shit, he was like a drug and I realized I’d been jonesing for him all day.
I also realized, dumping the breadcrumbs and spices into the Ziploc bag, preparing the breading for the chops, that I liked him.
He shoveled my snow. He saw me outside shoveling my snow and he knew I’d given up the chore to see to Kate and Dane and he’d finished it for me, making it safe for me and my girls to pull out of our drive.
And he remembered the conversation about the condoms. And, even though I was guessing it was well out of character, he’d tried to explain his behavior with Kenzie and he’d had a good reason to be angry even though he took it too far in my opinion. But he was an aggressively masculine man, she had to know that and she’d played with it. She should have known better, she should have seen that coming.
And he’d waited up for me, until late, and he didn’t want me to go.
I liked that he didn’t talk much and I liked that he let his face speak for him. I liked how big he was and that he could carry me around and he did, that he could pick me up and plant me in his truck and he did. I liked that he was rough with me, no, I loved that. I wasn’t the mother of his children. I was a woman, a woman he wanted and he made that abundantly clear and I liked that too.
And I liked that sometimes he looked at me and there was something working in his eyes, something I didn’t quite get but whatever it was, it was about me.
And it was good.
I just knew it.
Joe Callahan couldn’t be more different than Tim
Winters and to my shock, I was okay with that. I wasn’t stupid enough to think after the last, two crazy days that Joe was going to be the next love of my life. But I wanted this, I wanted him, I wanted to explore what was happening and I wanted it a lot.
And I couldn’t wait to get back to his house, his bed, him.
Dane came over for pork chops and after, he helped Kate do the dishes (another checkmark on the good column for Dane) and then he and Kate settled in the recliners in the study to do their homework. I sat with Keira on the couch in the living room and read at the same time Keira was watching TV and I watched Dane and Kate.
They were cute together. Dane was a handsome kid and he complimented my pretty daughter. And he was gentle with Kate. I liked the way he looked at her when she was talking like there was nothing else he wanted to do but hear what she had to say. But I especially liked it when she didn’t know he was looking at her like he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and he couldn’t believe his luck.
So, okay, I liked my daughter’s boyfriend. I smiled to myself, tilted my head to my book, didn’t read a word and felt that hollowing out of my belly.
Just a little longer to wait.
* * * * *
I pulled on my violet underwear that was liberally dosed with black lace. In fact, the ass of the panties was all lace; there was only a lace-edged triangle at the front. The demi-bra had such a deep edge of lace you could see my nipples through it. The bottom of the cup and the straps were violet satin, however.
Over these I pulled on my black satin nightie, no lace or other adornment. It was just low cut so you could see the bra and had slits to my hips on the sides so you could see the panties if I moved.
I’d bought these for Tim about two weeks before he was murdered and never worn them. I was holding onto them for a special occasion like, say, when the girls were spending the night at his parents’ house. He’d liked my sexy undies and nighties and I’d made it a habit to wear only them for him.
After he died, I’d meant to throw the lingerie out.
Now I was glad I didn’t.
I yanked on the black satin robe that went with the nightie, not wanting to wear Tim’s robe to Joe’s. Tim’s robe could stay on the door when I was with Joe. It might be chill outside but Joe wasn’t that far away.
At Peace Page 7