Lori’s Little Secret

by Christine Rimmer

  “Can I go, Mom?”

  She sent Tucker a look then, slightly questioning, including him in the decision. He shook himself and nodded and tried not to look at her mouth, not to think of her kisses and the way her body had moved under his hands, the way she had sighed and shuddered and pressed herself closer…

  “Yes,” she said to his son. “You can go.”

  Brody beamed. “Sweet. We’ll sleep out, like we did when everyone was here. And Peter’s dad will cook cheeseburgers and we’ll tell scary stories and not freak out when we hear strange noises, not go running inside in the middle of the night like a bunch of big babies…”

  Brody chattered on.

  Tucker poked food into his mouth and nodded at what he hoped were the right places and counted the hours, the minutes, the seconds until bedtime—which was much too long in coming.

  After the meal, Brody whipped Tucker’s butt at the space-invader game. The fact that Tucker lost was nothing new. Brody usually beat him; a grown man didn’t have a prayer against a kid when it came to a video game. But most times, Tucker could at least hold his own.

  Not that night.

  In his ten-year-old way, Brody was polite about cleaning Tucker’s clock. “It’s all right, Tucker. Maybe Sunday night, after I’m back from Peter’s, we can play again. You might even get past level one before you totally wipe out. I could give you a few hints on strategy. But you would have to really listen, because you seem kind of, like, out of it tonight. You just can’t be out of it when you play Alien Aggression—Tucker? D’ja hear me?”

  He blinked a certain graphic erotic image of Lori from his mind and grinned at his son. “I heard you. Every word.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Right…” Brody waved a hand and flattened his lips—and something about the gesture and his expression reminded Tucker of Tate.

  Mine, Tucker thought again, love and pride arrowing through him; love and pride and a fierce determination to be the kind of father he and Tate had never had: a real father, one who was there, every day, one who showed how much he cared. A dad a kid could turn to when things got tough.

  Brody shook his head. “I’ve tried to be nice about it. But you got to face it, Tucker. You really sucked tonight.”

  “Hey!” Tucker assumed an expression of mock-out-rage. “Don’t be dissing me, man…”

  Brody snorted. “It’s not dissing you. It’s just the truth.”

  “That does it.” Tucker reached out, grabbed Brody and started tickling him.

  Brody shouted—in laughter and surprise. They rolled together on the game room rug, Brody squirming, laughing, shouting, “No, stop, argh!” as Fargo ran around them in a circle, barking and wagging his long, wiry-haired tail.

  When they rolled apart, panting, both of them laughing by then, Tucker looked up to find Lori standing over them. She braced her hands on her hips. “Having a good time, boys?”

  Fargo plunked his skinny butt down and let out a final, gleeful bark. And Tucker and Brody looked at each other and laughed some more.

  Brody went upstairs to take his bedtime shower at nine. As a rule, when he was ready for bed, he’d wander out of his room in his pajamas, sleepy-eyed, smelling of soap and toothpaste, his cowlick standing straight up at the back of his head. He’d say goodnight—usually to Tucker first and then to his mother.

  That evening, Tucker waited in his study for Brody to come and find him. He spent the time staring blindly at his computer screen, pretending to play Spider Solitaire, but really long gone in fantasies of the night to come. Twenty-five minutes crawled by.

  How damn long did a kid’s shower take?

  After thirty-one minutes, Tucker decided to find out why the hell Brody had chosen that night to be the cleanest kid in Texas. He shut down the computer and headed for the main stairs.

  He found Lori in the upstairs hallway. She stood in the doorway to her room, leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed beneath those breasts he intended to be kissing soon—and one foot crossed over the other, toe to the hardwood floor.

  He wanted to grab her and haul her close, but somehow he restrained himself and muttered darkly, “He drown?”

  Her eyes made promises he intended to see that she kept and one side of that soft mouth lifted in a teasing grin. “I knocked on his bathroom door a few minutes ago. He’s still breathing, believe me. He’s doing just fine.”

  “Doing what?”

  “He’s having a bath.”

  “But he likes a shower…”

  “Every once in a while, he wants a bath. He’ll sit in there for up to an hour sometimes, floating Lego boats, relaxing. He even sings while he’s in there…” She cocked her head. “Listen…”

  He strained to hear. His son’s voice came to him—so young, slightly off-key. He recognized the song. “Yellow Submarine?” She nodded. “There’s an oldie for you. Way before my time.” He listened some more. “Sounds like he knows all the words.”

  “Henry taught it to him.” She looked at him levelly, as if she dared him to say a word against her precious dead husband.

  He tamped down his bitterness that she’d let some other man teach his son bathtub songs. As he’d already told her, whatever he thought of Henry Taylor personally, he was willing to admit that the man had done well by Brody.

  And he didn’t want to talk about her husband, anyway. He didn’t want to talk, period.

  He moved a step closer. And another. She didn’t move back. Her scent came to him, warm and fresh and sweet, bringing memories of a night so long ago, of a young, eager girl, a girl he had called by her sister’s name. Of a pink gown and a prom queen’s crown and the armful of red roses they’d given her when they set that crown on her head.

  Memories…

  Of that night two weeks ago, when she wore pink again and he’d held her in his arms and told himself that his mind was playing tricks on him. She wasn’t the same girl, the girl he would have given up the world for, if only he could have the right to hold her through all the nights to come—all the nights that were lost to him, as his son had been, for way too many years.

  “Tucker…” She said his name softly—in warning? Or invitation? Or maybe a little of both? That tiny pulse was beating, a slight flutter, so tempting, at her long, white throat.

  He lifted a hand. Again, eyes wide, mouth trembling, she held her ground. He touched her, laid the back of his index finger, lightly, against that beating pulse, felt it leap in response.

  She shuddered and sighed, unable to hide her need for him, as he trailed that finger down along the silky flesh of her neck. He traced the wings of her collarbones, slipping his finger beneath the soft cotton fabric of her top, feeling the straps of her bra, thinking that he would get it off her right away, the minute he had her alone in his room.

  Alone, he thought. Just the two of us…

  Beneath the zipper of his slacks, he was one long, hard ache. It was an ache made pleasurable by the sure knowledge of satisfaction to come. He spread his hand around her neck, clasping—lightly, carefully—thumb and middle fingers to either side, feeling again the agitated flutter of her pulse.

  “Oh, Tucker…” She wasn’t warning him now. And she was far beyond invitation. All the way to outright surrender…

  Good, he thought. Yes.

  He dipped his head a fraction closer to her uptilted mouth—but he didn’t kiss her. Oh, no. Not yet. Her warm breath flowed across his cheek. Her breasts rose and fell, the rhythm agitated. Needful.

  The silky waterfall of her hair flowed back over her shoulders. He took himself a handful of it—warm and alive and scented of her—and he brought it to his mouth, rubbed it against his lips.

  Her control broke. With a low cry, she surged against him, offering her mouth.

  He took it, smoothing the strands of hair out of the way, kissing her, spearing his tongue into the liquid heat beyond her lips. Her tongue came to meet him, sliding and slipping along his, tasting him as he tasted her.

  He gathered
her close, thinking way back in some still-rational corner of his mind that he needed to keep the brakes on. He couldn’t afford to start tearing off her clothes. Brody might find them like this…

  And then he forgot Brody. He worked his hips against her, his erection past an ache of pleasure now, so hard it was hurting, so hard that his mind spun with the need to open his fly, yank up her skirt, rip off her panties and bury himself deep in her silky heat.

  Incredibly, through the dense, clinging fog of his own sexual hunger, he stayed just aware enough of where they were—and who was nearby. It came to him, vaguely, that Brody had stopped singing.

  She must have noticed, too.

  They pulled apart at the same time, he with a groan, she with a tiny cry of loss. He stepped back, so he wasn’t touching her, though his senses clung to the remembered feel of her, soft and so willing, rubbing all along the front of him. His whole body burned.

  Their eyes met, held. And then her gaze skittered on, past his shoulder, toward the door to Brody’s room. She whispered, “It’s okay. He’s still in there…”

  He started to reach for her again—and somehow stopped himself. He shut his eyes, took another step backward and swore beneath his breath.

  She promised, so softly, “It won’t be long now…”

  He sucked in slow, even breaths. He counted to ten. Through sheer teeth-gritting will, he made his erection subside enough that it stopped tenting up the front of his slacks. He was barely in control again when he heard bare feet padding toward them.

  Lori said, a little too brightly, “Well, Brody. Ready at last?”

  “Yep. Came out to say g’night.”

  “Sleep tight,” Lori said.

  Tucker ordered his grimace into a smile and made himself turn. He tried to look easy and relaxed, raising a hand in a gesture midway between a salute and a wave—a casual gesture, he sincerely hoped. “See you tomorrow, big guy.”

  Brody frowned, cowlick on alert, sharp eyes tracking—Tucker to Lori, back to Tucker again. “You guys look weird. What’s going on?” And then, very slowly, he grinned. “Okay. I get it. It’s a boyfriend and girlfriend thing, huh?”

  A definite snorting sound escaped Lori. “No comment, mister. Get to bed.”

  Still grinning, Brody turned and left them alone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As soon as Brody shut his bedroom door behind him, Tucker grabbed Lori’s hand. “Let’s go.”

  Lori didn’t hesitate. Every nerve humming, she followed him downstairs to the master suite, to his beautiful bedroom, with its maroon walls and soft recessed lighting. The steel-blue duvet on the king-size bed was already turned down—by the capable hands of Mrs. Haldana, no doubt.

  Tucker wasted no time getting her out of her clothes. Off went her shirt and away went her bra. He kissed her, a hard, quick kiss, and then he took away the skirt she’d put on that afternoon after her shower. She stepped free of it and he tossed it on a chair. She kicked off her sandals, shoved down her panties. And there she was, standing in front of him without a stitch on.

  Strange how very natural it seemed, to be naked with him. He took her shoulders, so gently, and smiled into her eyes.

  She reached for his belt.

  He let her undress him, let her slide the belt off and away, lifting his big arms so she could push his shirt up over his gorgeous washboard belly and his deep chest. He stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed and she knelt and took off the soft leather mocs he liked to wear around the house. Grinning, she stood, grabbed his hand, pulled him upright again, and got rid of his cargoes and the boxers beneath them.

  When at last he was as naked as she, they stood facing each other, bathed in the muted light from above. She thought how very beautiful he was, a fully mature man now, broader and more imposing than she remembered him from that long-ago night, his body filled out, the muscles so strong and hard, along his arms, at his chest, down his ridged stomach and his powerful thighs. His manhood jutted, eager and ready, from the dark nest of hair at his groin.

  Another smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “At last.”

  In complete agreement, she sucked in a long breath and nodded. He offered his hand. She took it. It was only a step or two back to the bed.

  He guided her down and rose above her, straddling her. He stroked her body, slow, arousing caresses, all along the length of her.

  And he lowered his mouth and he kissed her—first her lips and then lower. And lower still…

  Until, once again, she was tossing her head on the pillows, pleading sounds rising from her stretched-back throat, as his endless, intimate kiss worked its special magic, until her body shimmered and shook and her mind flew away and there was only sensation, a rolling, sparkling river of it, flowing all through her, out along every quivering nerve.

  She called his name as she went over and she was still shaking with the wonder of it when he slid up her body and reached for the drawer in the night table.

  “Oh,” she cried. “Let me…let me…” She took the condom from his hand and tore the wrapper off. Then she wrapped her fingers around him, squeezing, sliding her hand up, over the silky head where a drop of moisture clung, and down to the thick base jutting from that wiry nest of hair—and slowly back up again.

  He caught her wrist, spoke through gritted teeth. “Just…do it. Put it on. Now, or I’ll lose it…”

  She obeyed, sliding the sheath over the thick, hot length of him. He straddled her once more. She guided him to her.

  Her body took him—all of him—in one smooth, even glide. He settled between her cradling thighs, bracing his forearms on the pillows, tangling his hands in the wild spill of her hair.

  “So sweet,” he muttered. “So wet and hot and sweet…” He whispered her name, hoarse and low, and then he buried his head against her shoulder.

  She wrapped her legs around him. They moved together, the rhythm changing and then changing again. All the while the pleasure was building, the world falling away to nothing. Now, at last, it was only the two of them—no anger, no hurt, no wrongs to be righted.

  Just a woman and a man, fitted perfectly together, sharing a rolling, hot pleasure that built to fever pitch and then spun out, hovered on the edge of a vast darkness—and burst wide-open, lighting the night in a shower of stars.

  They rested, but not for long. He couldn’t stop touching her, kissing her, pressing himself tight to her willing body.

  And she touched him, too, every sleek, hard inch of him. She kissed him—all of him. She pushed him to his stomach and she licked the sweat from the small of his back, her hand caressing, sliding over his lean waist and under him, until she clasped him with a greedy cry and he rolled to face her with a deep, hungry moan.

  That time, she took the top position. She slid down onto him slowly, gathering him in by aching degrees. Once she had all of him, they moved together lazily, like waves lapping a smooth, sandy shore.

  In the end, she collapsed on top of him and he gathered her close. She felt the deep, strong beating of his heart against her ear as fulfillment claimed her all over again.

  After that, he settled the gray satin sheet over them and pulled her close to his side. She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling limp and wonderful and thoroughly satisfied, safe in the circle of his arms.

  He pressed his lips against her hair and whispered, “We should do this more often. I’d suggest at least a dozen times a day.”

  She snuggled closer. “Excellent idea—though Brody could get a little lonely, if we’re always off in a bedroom somewhere, with the door locked.”

  “Brody…” She could hear the smile in his voice. He stroked her shoulder, trailed a finger lightly down her arm. She made a low, pleasured noise and smiled to herself, feeling like a purring cat. And he asked, “What do you think he meant by that last remark tonight—the one about you and me and a ‘boyfriend and girlfriend thing?’”

  She shrugged and ran her hand over the sculpted contours of his ch
est. Dark hair grew across his pectoral muscles and down the center of his belly. She followed that silky trail, out to each side and then down along his solar plexus…

  He caught her hand before she could go too low. “Watch it.”

  “I’d rather feel it.”

  He laughed then, a low, sexy laugh. “Lori Lee. You are definitely all grown up now.”

  “That’s right.” She nipped his earlobe and made a growling sound.

  He turned his head and kissed her nose. “But seriously. Brody thinks you’re my girlfriend?”

  She tipped her head back so she could meet his eyes. “Kids can surprise you, the things they pick up on. And I suppose I am your girlfriend—as of now, anyway, aren’t I?” She asked the question and then her heart skipped a beat as she realized she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear his answer.

  What if he said no? What if he told her that the last thing he needed was a liar like her for a girlfriend? What if he said flat out that just because he’d had sex with her didn’t mean she had any kind of claim on him?

  And then she caught herself. Well, if he said that, so be it. Better to find out now. Better to get the painful truth right out there. Truth, after all, was the best way. She knew that from firsthand experience.

  He didn’t answer for the longest time. Finally, he said, “Yeah. I guess, from Brody’s perspective, that you’re now my girlfriend.”

  It was hardly what she’d hoped for—but not nearly as bad as she’d feared. “So, all right then.” She was proud of how matter-of-fact she sounded. She lowered her head to his shoulder again. “There you have it.”

  “But how the hell did he know it, that’s what I’m wondering? Until today, we haven’t been near each other. And he’s never said a word before to me, about the two of us.”

  “He’s smart and observant, that’s all. He sensed that we’re, um, attracted to each other.”

  He tipped her chin up. “Has he said anything to you about it?”

  She recalled that conversation at her parent’s breakfast table the week before. “Yeah. He has.”