The Parent Plan

by Paula Detmer Riggs

“Mmm.”

  His lips curved, then parted, and she felt the slow sweep of his tongue between her lips. Tasting. Tempting. She moaned and sucked his tongue into her mouth. This time he was the one to moan before breaking off the sensual duel.

  “Don’t you dare stop now,” she demanded in a husky tone that seemed to shiver like the most sensual caress in the silvery air.

  “Not a chance.” His mouth brushed her cheek with moist, testing kisses, then slid with a gentle pressure to the hypersensitive spot behind her ear. At the same time his hand stroked down the curve of her hip, the restraint in him almost palpable.

  “Good, so good,” he whispered hoarsely, even as she rubbed against him, annoyed at the layers of cloth between them. Need was like a hot, slick fist inside her, slowly relaxing fingers that stretched relentlessly deeper.

  She struggled to get closer and felt him groan. A shudder ran through him, and she dug her fingers deeper into the resilient flesh cushioning the hard chest. His mouth found hers again, his tongue demanding access. Eagerly she met his demand with her own, her nails now raking where they’d only tested before.

  Awash in his own raging need, Cassidy heard the soft sound of pleasure escaping from her elegant throat and wanted to shout. Instead, he reminded himself that he was on shaky ground, only one stupid mistake away from that black pit where he spent most of his nights lately.

  With a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, he ignored the pain in his head and the even greater pain throbbing in the hard ridge of flesh wedged against her belly, and made himself concentrate on the small signals she was giving him, once as familiar to him as the sound of his breathing.

  “Touch me, please, Cass,” she pleaded, squirming against him. He gritted his teeth and eased backward, knowing he was close to exploding.

  “Where?” he demanded, waiting.

  “Everywhere,” she panted. “Anywhere. I need to feel those rough cowboy hands on my skin.”

  The emotion that shot through him felt perilously close to hope. Wild, irrational, mind-numbing hope that he might be able to break free of the prison of his past, after all. Before it could take hold and weaken him, he fought it off and focused his attention on pleasing her.

  “Seems like I recognize that shirt,” he teased gruffly, sliding his hand beneath the soft material to caress the smooth skin above the curve of her bottom. Just the feeling of her warm flesh against his callused palm was almost enough to override his determination to go slow.

  “My blouse was, ah, muddy,” she whispered between soft little moans.

  “Jeans, too?” He forced his mind away from the small forays her quick hands were making over his body.

  “What?”

  The bemused sound of her voice had him smiling, even as his body began sending urgent signals. “You’re wearing my best Wranglers, honey.”

  “Your…oooh…your what?”

  She was rubbing her pelvis against his thigh, and even through the sheet, the friction was an exquisite torture. He forced himself to block out everything but the need to please her. “Jeans,” he said, kissing her forehead, her cheeks. “My jeans.”

  He drew up one leg in a desperate need to ease the pressure in his groin. At the same time he found the hook of her bra and prayed he remembered how to slip the hooks free.

  “Help me, honey,” he demanded when his rough fingers fumbled and failed.

  She uttered a small sound of protest, and he felt the moist warmth of her breath on his chest a split second before her teeth scraped over one tiny nipple. He felt a hot pleasure shudder like fever through him, and his control frayed. Teeth gritted, he resisted the violent urge to flip her onto her back, rip open the fly on those damn jeans and surge into her with all the pent-up need of a man at the ragged end of a short rope.

  Not yet, he panted silently, drawing her on top of him. Though the sheet, a layer of denim and—if fortune was generous—silk lay between his throbbing flesh and the hot, moist entrance to her womb, he felt an almost unbearable rush of pleasure before he tamped it down.

  “Tell me what you want, honey.” He damn near cried in relief when the bra gave way.

  “Everything,” she gasped out, between nibbling bites of his chest.

  “This?” he demanded, cupping her breast with his palm.

  “Yes, oh yes.” He tested the hard nipple with his thumb and forefinger.

  “And this?” He shifted his attention to the other soft breast and heard her breath hiss through her teeth. He allowed himself a fierce moment of satisfaction, only to gasp as her hand began a slow, deliberate exploration of his belly, apparently following the line of dark hair toward his navel.

  Muscles jerking, he arched, then fisted his free hand in her hair. He couldn’t seem to get enough air in his lungs, no matter how hard he tried, and his concentration was graying dangerously at the edges.

  “Kari, wait…oh, baby, don’t.”

  “You’re so strong, so beautiful,” she whispered, her breath hot against his chest. At the same time she insinuated her thigh between his, and he nearly came apart.

  Forgetting his pain, he did flip her then, and at the same time jerked down the zipper that was keeping him from the warm, sweet treasure he needed so desperately. Using his hands and his mouth, he pushed the bunched denim over satiny thighs, past cute little knees, over world-class calves.

  Between frenzied kisses, he rid her of the shirt. Panting, she tugged and twisted until her bra joined the rest of her clothes.

  “The sheet,” she demanded, tearing at it with both hands until it slipped free, leaving him naked and exposed. Vulnerable, as he’d never been vulnerable before.

  Freed from restraint, his body sprang free, a throbbing shaft of hot blood and nearly unbearable need. He almost came off the bed when her hand closed over the rigid flesh. Release beckoned, tearing at his resolve. One quick, hard thrust against those small fingers and he would find relief from the agony that rode him unceasingly. It took every last scrap of control left to him to cover that hand with his, staying the maddening friction.

  “You’re not ready,” he muttered through a clenched jaw as she lifted her head and looked at him with glazed, reproachful eyes. In spite of her protesting moans, he slid down her body, his tongue hot as he tasted satin skin, until the craving for more sent him lower.

  Karen tossed her head on the pillow, her chest heaving, her mind fragmenting by the buffeting of sublime pleasure so intense she forgot where reason stopped and sensation began.

  She heard herself pleading, felt the silken thickness of his hair against her clutching fingers, and still he licked and suckled, the suction of his mouth hot against her belly.

  A gasp tore from her as he swirled that clever tongue into the tightly curled hair below her navel. She felt the exquisite rasp of whiskers as he sensitized every inch, leaving her quivering, her body soft and aching inside.

  She heard a sharp intake of breath, felt his big hands nudging her thighs wider. And then his tongue was burrowing between the damp curls. Belatedly aware of the door that stood ajar, she buried her face in the pillow that smelled like him and bit her lip to keep from screaming.

  When his mouth closed over the hot little nub, she splintered. Wave after wave crashed and swirled, and she sobbed in release and exhilaration. Then, only then, did he lift his head and move to cover her. She felt the hot lash of his need, the desperate hunger, the fierce drive as he slowly pushed into her, his hardness forcing her body to accommodate him. Through dazed eyes, she saw the flash of triumph in his eyes, a rare moment of yearning, a wild joy before his lashes swept down.

  Cassidy felt the little tremors begin again, deep inside her body where he’d always felt safe and whole and wanted. Where the accusing voices stopped and his soul quieted.

  He moved slowly, filling her, withdrawing to the limit of her moist heat, filling her again. And then she was convulsing, choking out his name, clutching at his shoulders.

  He shuddered her name as the world ga
ve way and he, too, convulsed, spilling deep. And for one precious shattering moment, hell went away.

  * * *

  Cassidy hated mornings. The loneliness was worse then, clawing at him. Taunting him with his own inadequacies. Aching and sore, every muscle reminding him of Lucifer’s revenge, he lay very still, his eyes half-closed and staring at the ceiling, waiting for the pounding in his head to ease, for his mind to clear. For the energy to start another day.

  It was then that he sensed a difference in the cloying thickness of dawn seeping into the bedroom. A presence. He turned his head so fast a wave of dizziness swamped the pain, and for an instant he froze. It hadn’t been a dream, he realized, afraid to breathe, afraid to believe as he stared at the small, cuddly body, curled in tumbled bedclothes only inches from his outstretched fingers.

  He felt his chest swell with an emotion he refused to name.

  It wasn’t love. Even he, in his wildest dreams, knew that was beyond him. He simply didn’t have the courage to take that risk.

  Slowly, he lifted a hand to the raw wound on his temple and ran his fingertips over the prickly stitches that were already beginning to pull and itch. It didn’t surprise him that she’d taken care of him. Or that she’d stayed. Kari had a way of taking care of hopeless cases.

  She did not, however, sleep with them. That she’d slept with him gave him the first sliver of hope he’d had in weeks. The why didn’t matter. Not anymore. She was here, that’s all he cared about. In the bed they’d shared, with the scent of her on his hands and the taste of her on his lips.

  Inch by inch he made himself relax. Between bouts of sodden oblivion and brutally hard work, he’d come face-to-face with a lot of hard truths. Some he could handle. Some he couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  One thing he knew now, absolutely. He would slice open his own belly and bleed out his life before he’d let himself hurt her again. God help him, he would work day and night to give her the moon and the stars and some of that fairy dust she’d told him about once, when she’d been tipsy on a few sips of honeymoon champagne.

  With a slowness that cost him, he inched closer until he felt the warmth of her against his skin. He let the smile in his mind curve his lips as he bent his head to gently brush a kiss over her pale lips. Still asleep, she smiled, then snuggled closer, her hair tickling his chin and her small hands folding over his arm.

  “Hey, wife,” he whispered, watching her curly lashes flutter.

  As though annoyed, she drew her golden brown brows together and murmured something unintelligible.

  “C’mon, honey, open those gorgeous eyes for me.”

  Her frown deepened, and her tongue made a fast little trip along her lower lip, sending fire straight to his belly. His body stirred, and he bit off a groan as he folded his body over hers and pulled her closer.

  “You’d tempt a dying man,” he murmured against the sweet-smelling warmth of her neck.

  Karen woke to find herself lying on her side, entangled in the prison of her husband’s strong body. He was nuzzling her neck, and she was already half aroused. When she stirred, his arms tightened and he murmured something against her skin. It took her a moment to realize he’d just made an extremely suggestive comment.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” she whispered, even as a smile broke inside her.

  Somehow she managed to twist around until they were nearly nose to nose. The bruise on his temple had spread to include his eye socket. That and the dark blush of black whiskers on his jaw gave him an extremely roguish look that she found utterly enchanting.

  “What?” he demanded, lifting one arrogant eyebrow.

  “You look like a pirate,” she murmured, lifting a hand to gently touch the edge of the truly magnificent shiner.

  His eyes crinkled. “Never been on anything bigger than a rowboat in my life.”

  “I know. You’d rather risk your life on an insane horse.”

  His mouth quirked as he ran a slow hand through her hair, then fisted his fingers in the thick mass. “If it means I get to wake up with you in my bed, yeah.”

  Karen heard the possessive note in his graveled voice and felt the first pang of uneasiness. Making love had solved nothing. In fact, she had a terrible feeling it was only going to make things worse.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, letting her gaze assess and gauge.

  “Ready to take on that demon son of a bitch again—and before you start, I know exactly who I am and where we are.” Though his voice had a teasing quality and his mouth had soft corners, he looked tired and just a little tense. His eyes were clear, but the lines framing them were disturbingly deep, and his skin was still too sallow.

  The result of injury, trauma and pain? Or of something more dangerous? Like the first stages of alcoholism?

  “What time is it?” she asked, stalling.

  But his eyes narrowed, and she realized her voice had come out a little too sharp. “Dawn, or near to. Why? You got something you got to do?”

  She hesitated. “I’m off today.”

  “All day?” Buried deep in the gruff tones was an echo of a little boy eager for a treat. Her heart turned over. How could he be hostile one minute and adorable the next?

  “All day,” she confirmed warily. “And lose that devil’s gleam in your eyes, Sloane. Your day is already planned.”

  He lifted one eyebrow, his eyes suddenly wary.

  “It is?”

  It was silly, really, but she was almost positive that if she just kept talking, she could keep Billy’s words at bay.

  “First breakfast, and then you’re going to take another antibiotic.”

  “I was thinking more in terms of a picnic. Out by the old line shack. Just the three of us. Vicki is always bugging me to take her out there to look for arrowheads.”

  She sat up, realized she was naked and blushed. “Cassidy, you’re in no condition to get out of bed, let alone sit a horse.” She made her tone brisk, but the impact was sadly diminished when she leaned down to scramble for the sweatshirt lying in a heap by the bed and nearly toppled over before he caught her.

  He watched her with eyes that were suddenly hooded. “Karen, if you don’t want to spend the day with me, say so.”

  She fought a sudden impulse to wrap herself around him and hold on tight. “It’s not that,” she denied, before wrestling her arms into the shirt. When her head popped free, she saw that he was now sitting up, his back propped against a pillow he’d mashed against the headboard.

  The sight of those faded rosebuds had another spate of tears pressing against the backs of her eyes. Detachment, she intoned silently. It was becoming a classic stimulus-response cliché, she realized, and didn’t care.

  “I didn’t force you to make love to me last night,” he said very quietly. Suddenly the room seemed darker somehow, in spite of the rapidly brightening daylight streaming through the window.

  “I know that, Cassidy. And I’m not sorry.”

  Cassidy allowed himself a moment to think about that. Whenever something didn’t feel right to him, he tended to slow down. “You’re afraid I’ll hurt you again.”

  She bit her lip and looked down at her hands. “I…saw the bottles. In the trash bin outside the back door.”

  He’d kept himself from being snake-bitten once by freezing until the danger slithered past. He had the same urge now. “Counted ‘em, too, I reckon.”

  She lifted her gaze. Her eyes were liquid with misery and something else that ripped him open all the way to the bone. Pity. He nearly gagged on it before he made himself go cold.

  “Cassidy, listen to me. I’m no expert, but I understand—”

  “Do you? I doubt it.” He took comfort in the brittle sound of his anger.

  “Your father was an alcoholic. It’s an inherited trait. You’re susceptible.”

  “Probably.” He saw the beautiful gray eyes that had glazed with passion when he’d thrust into her now fill with frustration, and allowed himself a moment to mourn the los
s before shuttering that away, too.

  She tried again. He gave her credit for that. “There are programs—”

  “No.” Not even the pride that had protected him for so long could deflect the shame that was pouring into him with each word she uttered.

  “I can talk to Lindy Chung. She could recommend a therapist.”

  “No programs. No therapists.” He’d thought he’d reached the limit of the torment a man could take and remain sane when she’d walked out. Now he knew better. This was worse. Much worse. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to push it away this time. To survive.

  “I won’t give up, Cassidy. No matter how many insults you hurl my way or how much you glower or threaten, I’m not going to let you drink yourself to death like your father did.”

  “My father shot himself.”

  She glared at him. “Is that the next step, then?”

  He nearly reached for her then. Nearly crushed his arms around her and buried his face in the curve of her neck where he wouldn’t have to face her. “What about Vicki, Cassidy? Are you going to arrange it so that she walks in after you’ve done it?”

  “Shut up!” he shouted, lashing out, knowing even as he did that she had every right to be concerned. A man who drank himself into oblivion every night was lousy father material.

  “Not this time, Cassidy. This time you’re going to listen to me.”

  The shame was like a cancer, eating at his insides, and the pain was unbearable. Worse than the anguish of watching his brother die. Worse than the whiplash agony of his mother’s loathing. Far beyond anything he could ever have envisioned.

  She thought he was a drunk.

  His beautiful, brave wife looked at him and saw a sodden, slobbering weakling. A miserable whiner with a death wish. And she was right. He just happened to be sober at the moment.

  But he would soon take care of that.

  He was already pulling back the sheet, already steeling himself against the agony in his head that the movement stirred to life. “Get out of my way, Karen,” he growled with a leashed fury when she moved to block him.

  “Or what? You’ll knock me over?”