Mine Until Morning

by Jasmine Haynes

  “Stroke me. I like it slow and gentle. Not too hard or forceful. Then when I tell you, I want it fast.”

  Cleo’s words heated him straight through. Walker’s pulse pounded in his ears. She was so wet, her skin hot, and he slipped inside her with two fingers. She moaned and rocked on him, deepening the penetration.

  “Man, oh man,” she said on a breath. “You are so good.”

  Sliding out, he circled her clit, spreading her moisture, caressing as she started to shudder. “Is this what you want?”

  “Yes, just like that.” She moved with his hand, rolling her hips in counterpoint.

  He gazed over the crowd, noisy and excited as Norman donned his mother’s frock. No one cared what Walker was doing to Cleo beneath the blankets. No one heard the sweetness of her moans or her soft cries. He enjoyed the noises a woman made. He loved hers. He liked the way women smelled, their perfume, their sweet scent of arousal. He savored hers. With her arm once again around his neck, she pulled him down, licked his cheek, bit his jaw, her breath fanning across his skin.

  “Come on, baby.” He circled her faster, but not harder, remembering what she said, everything she wanted. Her body quaked, her breath puffing. She arched, letting out a gentle growl before biting her lip to keep in her cries. Christ, it was good. Cleo. Coming apart in his arms. He hadn’t quite understood how badly he’d wanted it until he felt her shudder against him, his fantasies of her come to life. It was sweeter than any of the women he’d pleased in the last 104

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  three years.

  She came down from her peak, snuggling back into him, her ass cupping his cock.

  “You better take me now, Walker,” she whispered. “I’m gonna go crazy if you don’t.”

  Her voice hummed along his cock. “We’ll miss Norman.”

  She laughed, choking it off. “I’ll rent it and we’ll watch it again.”

  “My kind of woman.”

  “Now, put on a condom because I know you’ve got one somewhere in your little bag of tricks.”

  Like a Boy Scout, he was always prepared, condom in his back pocket. Yet for a moment, a hiccup of something blocked his throat. She wasn’t the woman who was supposed to be here. He didn’t have much of a conscience, but it seemed a little off to be subjecting her to another woman’s condoms. Walker hesitated. “Cleo, I—”

  Cleo had no idea why—maybe it was some orgasmic connection—but she could read him like a book. Or maybe it was that she’d seen him with so many women, and she knew she was a fill-in date. Or she was just punch-drunk with lack of sleep. Whatever. He’d hesitated, and something suddenly bothered him. She didn’t roll into his arms or kiss him or beg him. Cleo was a straight shooter.

  “Do it, Walker, because it’ll be hot and sexy and I really, really need hot and sexy tonight. I had a bad day and right now I don’t care about anything else.”

  She pushed a hand between them, squeezed his hard cock, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “So make me feel a whole lot better.”

  His chest rumbled against her back. “You really are my kind of woman.” He pulled her head back by the hair, all he-man-like. Her nipples ached with how hot and desperate he made her. “Tell me how you want it,” he murmured on a needy growl.

  “Just like this.” Back to front. She hooked her foot behind his calf. He shoved her skirt high over her hip. “Oh baby, I’m going to fuck you. You don’t know how bad I want it.”

  Oh yes, she did. She wanted it just as badly. He shifted and rustled behind her, then his fingers brushed her butt as he popped his button fly. She wanted to touch and suck and taste, and yet she wanted him inside her more.

  “Hurry.” Her desperation laced her voice and drove her even higher. The 105

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  orgasm had been good. She wanted more; she needed hotter. “Touch me.”

  She heard the tear and crinkle of the wrapping, felt the brush of his knuckles as he rolled on the condom. Then he pressed close, slid his hand along her hip, and ran his fingers over her pussy, her clit. “Put me inside you.”

  Her heart fluttered as if this were some sacred ritual. Walker made it special. She hadn’t felt special since Phil left. Why Walker of all people? Who cared?

  Maybe it was his slow lovemaking, the way he made it all about her. She rubbed him between her legs, wetting the condom with her own juice, then he wrapped an arm across her abdomen and pulled her down.

  “Oh God.” She barely breathed as he gave her an inch, then another. She knew she wasn’t tight—she’d had a child—but he groaned as he filled her. “You have such a sweet pussy,” he whispered into her hair. She’d been fucked. It wasn’t a bad thing. Walker made it more than mere fucking.

  Beneath the blankets, he pinned her hip, and pumped, slowly, deeper with each thrust. And he talked. Walker loved to talk. “Jesus, you feel so damn good. I knew it would be like this. I’ve dreamed about it.”

  Words were as important as touch. She soared higher.

  “I’ve dreamed of tasting your pussy.” He put his fingers to her clit. “Your mouth on my cock.” Stroking, circling, driving her to the edge. “Tasting my come on your lips.” He thrust high, forcing a gasp from her. “I want it all.”

  Cleo hung on as he rode her, filled her, touched her everywhere, not just her pussy or her clit, but deep inside. Stars burst behind her closed lids.

  “Wanna fuck you,” he whispered. “Wanna have you.”

  He pulsed inside her, throbbed, flexed, and, despite the condom, she felt the hot explosion of his climax. Groaning, he buried his face at her neck, held her with his teeth like a lion pinning his mate. He slammed home, grunting against her skin, and dragged her into orgasmic heaven right along with him. 106

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  4

  HIS COCK BURIED INSIDE HER, WALKER FELT CLEO’S BREATHING even out, slowing as she succumbed to the late hour. He tucked her close, wrapped the blankets around them, and relished the feel of her. Psycho had ended and Black Christmas had begun. A few moviegoers had given up the ghost, but most were still rocking out, flashing lighters, talking over the character lines.

  He hadn’t kissed her fully, hadn’t even faced her, yet Walker hadn’t experienced an orgasm like that in years. Hard to pinpoint the last time. Certainly not with any of his dates. There was always mutual attraction. He didn’t expect a woman to have sex with him if she found he wasn’t her type, and vice versa. He’d never been married, though he’d always planned on it. He’d bought his house with that in mind, a family. However, he’d hit the rat race running, and when he looked up, suddenly he was in his forties with no wife and no kids and no plans for it on the horizon. So, in all his loveless life—which wasn’t the negative it sounded, merely the truth—as of right now, he couldn’t remember anything that quite measured up to tonight.

  He wasn’t romantic enough to believe that love made sex better or that sex couldn’t be fucking fantastic without love. All he knew was that Cleo had fulfilled many of his fantasies. The reality had been better than anything he’d dreamed about her. His blood still simmered, and his body trembled with lingering orgasmic shocks.

  Another shock wave rolled through his mind. He needed more of this. He wanted to explore, learn more about her, know her, about her life, her daughter, her dreams. More than the bare minimum that acquaintances know. How long should he let her sleep? She’d been working. She was tired. It was late. Yet she was so peaceful. She brought him a sense of peace, too. He liked his life, but he’d been living on the surface. Tonight gave him a taste of what living deeper could be like. The sex itself had been vanilla compared to many of the things he’d done in the last three years. Not all the women he’d dated were nervous fillies like Estelle. There’d been a tigress or two or several who’d requested threesomes, foursomes, parties, girl-girl with him as voyeur. But sex with Cleo had touched him on the inside, more than the physical, 107

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/>   perhaps because she was fantasy turned reality. He couldn’t be sure of the reason; it just was.

  Though it felt like losing something essential, he pulled free of her. She muttered and mumbled at his movements as he disposed of the condom and fastened his jeans. Then he kissed her temple. “Wake up, sleepyhead. Time to go home.”

  She rubbed her eyes, rolled to her back. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Not long. But I’ll take you home.”

  She nodded, breathed deeply. “It’s been a long day.” Beneath the blankets, she wriggled her skirt and bra back into place. “Ooh, my panties,” she whispered, feeling around.

  Coming down over her, arms bracketing her body, he put his lips to her ear.

  “I’m taking them home with me.” They were already in his back pocket. He laid the wine, cheese, crackers, and glasses back in the basket as she stuffed the down pillows into their bags. Then he folded the blankets, shoved them under his arm to carry, and held out a hand. She slipped her palm into his, her touch warm. He led them, picking their way through the audience. With the crowd’s collective gasp, a college coed died some horrible death up on the gym wall.

  “Ooh, it’s cold now.” Cleo clung to his arm for warmth.

  “Want the blanket around you?”

  “No, thanks, I’ll turn the heater on in the car.”

  The top of his head chilled in the very early morning. Down in the parking lot, he walked her to her car. “I’ll follow you home.”

  She hesitated. “You don’t need to do that. I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t let a lady go home by herself this late at night.”

  She unlocked her door. The car was clean, but vintage, without even a remote alarm. “Honestly, Walker, I’m fine.”

  He held her arm. “Cleo.”

  She pursed her lips, shuffled her feet. “Look, it was great tonight. But I have a teenage daughter, and I really don’t like men knowing where I live.”

  It felt like a slap in the face. He was just some guy she’d fucked, and she wasn’t bringing him home to meet her mom and kid. Okay. Readjust. Good to know where the starting line was. He had a long way to go to get her to trust him. “I still need to know you get home safely. 108

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  Here’s my cell number.” He wrote it down on the back of the ticket stub. “Call me.”

  “Sure.” She didn’t meet his eye, though.

  He wanted to kiss her, but what they’d shared up on the knoll had vanished with the straightening of their clothes. Instead, he let her climb into her car, made sure the engine turned over, and stood watching her taillights disappear as she turned at the end of the row of parked cars. He was used to being a woman’s interlude. He’d chosen it. He liked the freedom of it. He just hadn’t realized he would want to be more than an interlude for Cleo.

  SWEAR TO GOD, HE’D LOOKED AS IF SHE’D HURT HIM, HIS JAW TENSING. She had Heidi to think about, though, and she couldn’t let a virtual stranger know where she lived.

  Oh, but she could let him fuck her. Jeez. Didn’t that make a whole lot of sense? Cleo shook her head.

  All right, he wasn’t a stranger, either. Nevertheless, she’d watched for headlights, and no one followed her. He might be kind to animals and babies, but he was totally the wrong kind of guy to depend on. She shivered.

  Still, it had been so good. He hadn’t rushed her. He’d teased her for more than two hours before . . . and really, would he have taken advantage of her if she hadn’t told him to?

  The lights were on when she pulled into the drive, and her heart started to beat faster in her chest.

  It was almost three in the morning. Oh God. Something had happened to Heidi. She patted her pocket; her cell phone was still there. Pulling it out, she checked the charge. Okay, no calls. Her mom would have called if it was really bad.

  The car rumbled for long moments after she shut it off. Not good. It was ancient, but well maintained. It used to be her dad’s car before he passed away. Heidi hadn’t even been born yet. Really, there was only so much maintaining one could do before the thing croaked. At the front door, her hand trembled fitting the key to the lock. She found her mother in the kitchen.

  “What are you doing up, Ma? Is Heidi okay?”

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  “Fine as far as I know.” Her voice gravelly with years of smoking, she stubbed out her cigarette. Her skin was like leather, her steel gray hair permed, and where once she’d been five foot two, she was now slightly under five.

  “I thought you were smoking outside, Ma.”

  “Not when it’s three in the morning, colder than a witch’s tit, and no one but me is inhaling.” She rose, leaning heavily on the table. Cleo could almost hear her bones creak.

  At the sink, her mom filled the kettle, setting it on the stove. The range was harvest gold from the seventies with four burners, a griddle, and two ovens, the smaller one for warming. It was scratched, the clock didn’t always turn over, the self-cleaning no longer worked, but heck, everything else did. The imitation-brick linoleum was also seventies vintage, but it was clean and unmarked. Cleo had regrouted the yellow tile counter herself and repainted the white cabinets.

  “Got a problem in the bathroom.” Her mom hooked a thumb over her shoulder.

  There was a small half bath off the back hallway. Cleo got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her steps slow, her boots seemed to echo on the hall’s hardwood floor. She shoved open the door.

  Oh shit.

  Plaster had fallen from the ceiling, revealing bare pipes and floorboards above. The second bathroom, the one Cleo shared with Heidi, was situated right overhead. Water beaded, then dripped to the sodden plaster below. Good Lord, how long had that drip been going on? She couldn’t tell exactly where the water was coming from. It didn’t look as if the pipes had actually burst. The kettle whistled as she climbed the second-floor stairs. In the main bathroom, she knelt between the tub and toilet. She didn’t see any water, but when she pressed on the linoleum, the floorboards felt squishy underneath, worsening the closer she got to the toilet. She turned the water off at the wall valve, then went in to check Ma’s bathroom, which was on the other side of the wall. The flooring felt fine, thank God. But the three of them would have to share it until she could get the other two fixed.

  God, she couldn’t afford this. Maybe the house insurance would cover the repairs.

  Back downstairs, she checked the half bath again and found the drips had slowed. Maybe it was just the toilet and not the pipes themselves. The leak had 110

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  probably been going on for a while and soaked through the plaster. How could she have missed that there was a problem like this? There must have been a mark on the ceiling, but she hadn’t paid much attention. What a freaking mess. Plaster covered the sink and stand, the floor, the toilet lid.

  “Ma, I need the mop,” she called.

  “It’s in the cupboard,” her mother yelled back. Cleo closed her eyes and sighed. Her mom had helped raise Heidi, cleaned more scraped knees and elbows than Cleo, wiped away more childhood tears. Ma married later in life than most women of her generation, and after Cleo, she couldn’t have any more children. Then Dad died of a heart attack when Cleo was in high school. Now Ma cooked and cleaned for Cleo and Heidi, did the laundry, the marketing, swept the leaves off the walkways, and weeded the garden. But she was slowing down and she refused to quit smoking. She said if she was going to get cancer, she damn well already had it. Her mom could be aggravatingly stubborn and obstreperous when she wanted to be, but she’d never let Cleo down when she needed her.

  So Cleo got the bucket and mop herself while her mom filled two mugs from the kettle.

  Her tea was cooling by the time she’d finished cleaning up the mess. The water had stopped dripping. Turning off the toilet had fixed that part of the problem, at least temporarily.

  She pulled out a chair. “I’ll cal
l a plumber on Monday. I think it’s the upstairs toilet leaking.”

  “The ceiling made an awful racket when it fell, woke me up.” Her mom toyed with her cigarette pack, but didn’t light up. “Where were ya? You didn’t tell me you’d be out so late.”

  She hadn’t told Ma much of anything when she’d dashed in earlier to change.

  “I went to the movies.” She’d forgotten she needed to call Walker and let him know she was home.

  Her mom snorted.

  “Really.” Cleo smiled. “We saw The Day the Earth Stood Still, the old version.”

  “Och.” Her mom waggled her eyebrows. “Michael Rennie was hot.”

  “Ma.” Cleo sounded scandalized.

  She shrugged. “Well, he was. And so tall.”

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  “Hmm, Keanu Reeves”—Cleo flipped over one hand, then the other—“or Michael Rennie?”

  “Definitely Rennie. Keanu is a pansy. I mean, honestly, his name says it all.”

  Cleo laughed. “I love you, Ma. Now I gotta go to bed.” She rose, brushed a kiss across the top of her mom’s gray hair.

  “What’ll we do about the toilet and the ceiling?” She held tight to Cleo’s hand a moment.

  “I’m up for that promotion at work. We’ll manage.” She’d applied for an accounts payable position. It was a pay increase over receptionist. She wasn’t holding her breath, though, in case she turned blue and died. Luck didn’t come Cleo’s way.

  But she wouldn’t tell her mom that.

  “Okay, sweetie. Sleep tight.”

  Climbing the stairs once more, she puffed out a breath. She could handle this; she could handle anything. Except the look of anger in Heidi’s eyes. It was so close to hate.

  She slept in the same room she’d used all her life. Once upon a time, there had been a lavender bedspread with purple shag carpet and lots of frills. After Heidi was born, she’d ripped out the carpet, refinished the hardwood, and stitched together two sheets for a duvet over the comforter. She was suddenly so tired all she could do was toe out of her boots and let her skirt and sweater drop on the floor.