The Keeper

by Quinn, Jane Leopold

  "…I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it…"

  Oh, yeah.

  "…now go, walk out the door…"

  "Not a chance, baby!" he mouthed, watching a smile bloom on her face. She raised her hands to her hair, threaded her fingers through the long strands, and closed her eyes in what looked like ecstasy. The little witch was driving him insane, and he loved it. The song changed to Slow Hand. Oh, fuck, he wasn't going to make it.

  "…come and go in a heated rush…"

  Oh, yeah, he was heating up all right but had no intention of rushing. He plowed his way to the dance floor and swept her possessively into his arms. "I want you out of that dress," he growled the minute he held her close enough to press his lips against her ear. Her light, flowery scent, combined with the unmistakable heady musk of arousal, dizzied him. Ripe breasts rose sharply against his chest with her gasp, and he nuzzled at her neck, biting her earlobe, then sucking it just the way he'd do to her nipples. Her silky hair, loose and flowing around her shoulders, tickling his nose, would look fantastic spread out on his pillow. Or, if she liked to be on top, the heavy mass of it would float around his chest, his cock, and caress his balls.

  He was no longer in any kind of control. He couldn't stop himself from stroking over her lush hips to fill his palms with her ass, wanting the round, firm cheeks in his hands. His groan drowned out by thumping downbeats, but her shiver proved she heard it.

  Her face, lips pouty, moist, and open, eyes wide and glittering with sensual promise, tipped up to his. Shit. There was nothing but a soft, thin, cotton dress over her ass. He traced the narrow bands over her hipbones. A thong. She was wearing a God-blessed thong.

  It almost drove him to his knees. He stopped moving, other couples bouncing off them. She flicked a questioning gaze up at him, but it quickly turned into a heavy-lidded, smoldering, knowing gaze. They were at the same place, at the same time. She'd done half the work arousing herself with the dancing and all the work arousing him. He leaned down to feather his breath over her ear. "Let's go."

  She nodded, but her expression was oddly uncertain and serious. She wrapped her fingers around his biceps, caressed under the tight sleeves of his T-shirt. After a moment of intense scrutiny, she finally whispered back, "Yes."

  Chapter Three

  Sharon had no idea why she was so frightened. Not of Pete. Of herself. Maybe they'd better get things straight, like Hank had at the beginning of their short relationship.

  "Pete?" It barely came out. She had to clear her throat and say it again. She tried to pull out of his arms, but he wouldn't let her go.

  "Yes, honey?"

  Oh, crap. Now she didn't know how to say it. She wanted so badly to kiss him again. They sat parked in his car at a river overlook. Thank goodness no teenagers were there. It wouldn't look good to catch a deputy sheriff making out at the historical marker of the town founder's grave.

  He pushed his seat back. "Come here," he invited, holding out a hand for hers and patting his thigh. "There's plenty of room."

  "Pete," she started again. "This is just casual. I mean, between us."

  His lips tightened. There wasn't much light, just a faux flame lantern commemorating the grave, but she could see his expression well enough. Plowing on, she said, "I just broke up with Hank and don't want to move too fast."

  "We don't have to move fast, Share, but will you come here?" He smiled. "I want very much to put my arms around you."

  "I want very much to have your arms around me," she admitted with a sigh, shifting over to his seat. He grabbed her waist and helped hoist her the final inches to sit on his lap, on his hard, muscled thighs. His chest was hard, too. He was hot, almost steamy, and she forgot what she was worried about.

  His big palm roamed from her waist to the side of her breast. She stiffened again. She didn't understand why she was so uncertain. Men had touched her breasts before. Quit thinking he's different. He's just another man.

  "Relax, honey." He nuzzled her neck, but stilled his hand. "You're so beautiful." His lips skimmed her skin.

  Her mouth opened in a soft moan. He turned her face and took her lips, tenderly at first. When she increased the pressure, he deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She drove her fingers into his hair, holding his head steady, imprisoning it. She'd been kissed before, kissed well, but Pete was in a class by himself. He was confident and skilled, although, from his fractured breathing and the little sounds in his throat, he seemed to be slightly out of control. Like she was.

  He pulled her closer. She pressed her breasts against the warm, firm wall of his chest, suckling his tongue. They joined in rhythmically undulating, rubbing their bodies against each other's.

  He broke the kiss, trailing his lips and tongue down her neck and cupping her breast in a possessive hand.

  She easily fit in his grasp, though she'd had implants a couple years before. Her nipple poked the center of his gently kneading palm. "Oh Pete, yes."

  With his other hand, he lowered the strap of her tank dress, pulling it down her arm far enough to release her breast, baring it to his gaze. She watched him balance her, watched him flick his thumb over, back and forth, teasing her hard nipple. Shuddering, squirming in his lap, her head lolled back. Her hand covered his, and she raised her other hand to grip the hair at the back of his neck.

  His thumb flicked.

  She moaned his name.

  He smoothed the sensitive skin surrounding her nipple. "Do you like that, baby?" He sounded choked.

  She couldn't see his face, just the side of his cheek. His gaze seemed locked on her breast. "Yes." She sighed more than spoke.

  His finger and thumb compressed.

  "Oh, yes."

  "Yes," he murmured.

  "More," she begged.

  "More," he agreed. He pinched and rocked her. "So sweet."

  When his fingers released her, she had only a second to cry out before his mouth took their place. The surge of her body pushed her breast into his face. All she felt was his tongue, the rhythm of his lips drawing on her. She hissed her pleasure.

  He tipped her back to make it easier to get to her and feasted, at the same time pulling the remaining strap down to free her other breast. "God, Share," he intoned reverently.

  She released his hair and lay draped over his arm, the straps at her elbows, unable to lift her arms for any reason. Imprisoned. She could only feel and enjoy. He took turns wetting each nipple. Jolts raced over her skin, roiled through her blood, and settled in the lips of her pussy, in the softened and sensitive tissues. Her clit throbbed each time he drew on her, each time his tongue swiped the tip. Her hips jerked, the movement quickening her arousal.

  His hand slipped under her skirt, pushing it to her thighs. He found the silk panel over her mound, traced it to the edge where it no longer covered anything, and pushed aside the strap of her thong to stroke her soaked pussy. Then he speared his long, thick fingers between her lips, rubbing her clit, circling the drenched, swollen nub.

  She whimpered. Her hips bumped, shoving at his hand.

  He settled into suckling her nipple, hard, then gently, then deeply. To double her torment, he persistently teased her vaginal opening.

  "Pete, Pete." She was trapped, her arms plastered to her sides. His mouth on her breast. His hand in her pussy. He rimmed her, around and around, thrusting two—it had to be two—fingers inside her. Barely inside, but stretching her. Pulsating in and out, only the tips, driving her crazy. "Pete! Please—!"

  He interrupted the sucking of her nipple to murmur, "Please what, sweetheart? What do you want?" His fingers never stopped stroking.

  "Fuck me."

  "You mean like this?"

  Two fingers. Jesus God. Two fingers pushed all the way inside her. She opened her mouth in a scream that died on the way out. It didn't take much. All he needed to do was to caress the sweet spot deep inside, and she started coming. Quickly, so quickly. She squeezed his arm between her thighs, sending a message to
stay where he was.

  "Baby, I want to get you in a bed." He kissed her, his mouth eating at hers, his tongue thrusting, hers thrusting back.

  Coming down from the high of climax, she shook, realizing she was half-naked in the town make-out location. She moaned and buried her face in his neck. "Oh, my God, Pete. I can't believe that just happened."

  "Believe it, Share. I hope you want it to happen again, but next time, I want a bed. With both of us naked and my cock buried so far up inside you it won't find its way out."

  All she could do for a moment was whimper.

  ***

  Pete slipped his twitching fingers from the sweet, hot embrace of her cunt and savored every tauntingly slow inch of the journey. Gazing into her eyes, he put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them clean. He laughed out loud at the look on her face. So surprised. "Oh, baby, your look is priceless."

  "It's just that I've never seen anyone do that."

  "Any time, my dear. You taste delicious."

  She placed her palm along his jaw, rubbed her thumb across his lips.

  Jesus, he wanted her. She had to feel his cock on her ass. Every wiggle, every squirm rubbed him the right way. However, crazy as it sounded, he was enjoying her reactions. He shifted in the seat.

  "Oh, Pete, I'm sorry if I'm too heavy."

  "You feel just fine right where you are, honey," he responded, pulling her in close again.

  "Do you want me to do something for you?" She ran her fingers up and down the center of his chest and caressed his nipples through the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

  He hissed in response. "Man, do I ever, but this isn't the place."

  "Do you want to go back to my house?"

  He jerked roughly when he heard the chirp of his cell phone. "Shit." He had to juggle her to lean forward to where he'd put the phone on the dashboard. "Rayne." He listened for a few seconds. "Okay, Mol. Yeah, I'll be there."

  He wrapped his hand around her neck and tipped up her chin. Then he ran a finger down the furrow between her brows. "I can't tell you how sorry I am. I have to go, when I'd rather be doing this." He brushed his lips over hers, back and forth. When she started to moan and amp up her response, he knew he'd better quit, or they'd start up again.

  "What happened?" she whispered, her voice none too steady.

  "Zayboh's on call, but he didn't answer his cell. He's gonna get his butt kicked. Luckily for me, I answered," he said, the sarcasm clear in his voice. "I'm really sorry, but I have to take you home."

  "I understand. It's okay."

  "No, it's not okay," he said as he settled her back on her side of the car and started the engine.

  "We'll have another time. I hope."

  "You bet we will." He leaned over and gave her another long, gentle kiss. "Shit," he muttered against her lips. "I've gotta go."

  When they reached her house, he gave her one final kiss. "I'll call you tomorrow. Okay?"

  Chapter Four

  The minute Sharon got inside her place the phone rang. She hardly had a chance to catch her breath before answering. Glancing at the kitchen clock, her stomach clutched with worry. There was only one person who would be calling her this late. "Hello?"

  "Sharon, you gotta come home right now."

  She leaned on her counter and took a deep breath, biting back her automatic irritable response of what now? Focusing her attention on the Hunks of HGTV calendar hanging on her kitchen wall, she finally said, "Mom, what's the matter? Why are you calling so late?"

  "Your father's back."

  She doubled over as if the breath violently punched out of her lungs. Her head reeled. Her legs folded, and she had to plop down onto the floor.

  "Did you hear me? Are you there?"

  She tried to make her voice as even as possible. "Yes, I heard you."

  "Well, he wants to see you."

  Breathing deeply, her mouth wide open to take in as much air as possible, she fought the nausea and anger roiling in her stomach. "Is that so?"

  "Can you come here?"

  She caught her mother's anxiety. "Is he standing there right now?"

  "Yeah."

  "Why did he come back?" She was asking questions to delay thinking or acting.

  "Here, he wants to talk to you."

  Sharon clicked the phone off and sat there, shaking. There was no way she wanted to talk to him. The very last time she saw him she was ten years old. Sixteen years without him, without any word about or from him. She tried to repress the nausea, the tears, the pain, and the reminders of the despair at his rejection so many years before.

  As an adult, she'd read enough to realize his leaving wasn't her fault, but the chubby little girl still inside her feared it was. Damn it, she didn't care. Let her mother handle him. She didn't care if she ever saw him again. He wasn't going to get another chance to hurt her. Her phone rang again. Her first thought was to let it ring, but she answered.

  "I can't talk right now. I'll call you tomorrow." She hung up again. And in case that didn't get her message across well enough, she unplugged the phone.

  Oh, God, what if this had happened when Pete was here? He would have been out the door in a second, never to see her again.

  She spent the rest of the night in her dancing clothes, huddled on the couch. Every time she dozed off, she jerked awake in a heart-thumping state of anxiety. This would spell the end of any relationship, even short term, with Pete. What guy would sign up for this kind of personal trauma? Son of a bitch, Alan Timmons did it again. He took something good in her life and trashed it. Again.

  In the morning, after a long, emotionally raw night, she made coffee. She wasn't ready for reality yet, but she plugged her phone back in.

  She heard it ringing when she was in the bathroom. Showering and washing her hair went a little way toward making her feel half-way normal. She didn't have to work that day, so she put on lightweight, long, drawstring pants and a tank top. She might as well try to be comfortable physically, since emotional comfort would be impossible. Eventually, she couldn't put it off any longer and listened to her voice mails. Sure enough, her mother had called again. Her father wanted her to come home.

  Well, she wasn't going to jump to do his bidding. He'd been gone sixteen years and didn't deserve to boss her around. She called her mother. "I'm not running back there to see him. You know where I live. He can find me if he wants to."

  "Baby, don't be like that. He really wants to see you."

  "Does it make any difference to you that I don't want to see him?"

  "Will you at least talk to him on the phone?"

  "No." It sounded like her mother had been crying. God, when would those two figure it out? Then a thought hit her. "Mom, is he back for good?"

  "No. I don't know. Maybe. What am I supposed to tell him?" Linda Timmons whined.

  "Mother, I'm sorry for you, but I don't want to see him. Now I have to leave. I have things to do," she said definitively.

  "But Sharon—"

  "Sorry, Mom, I've gotta go." She hung up. To keep from getting any more calls, she grabbed her purse and car keys and slammed the door shut behind her. Just when her life was in order and a great guy like Pete was in it, this had to happen. She barely tolerated her mother, let alone the thought of her long-missing father.

  ***

  Pete had been thinking about Sharon all day. The combination of her sexiness with the surprising sweetness and vulnerability was what kept him intrigued. He'd bet his last dollar she wasn't as sexually easy as the guys thought. Sure, she'd hooked up with Hank, but they'd been steady for a few months.

  She was off work today, so he decided to swing by her place in the afternoon. Maybe they could make plans for later.

  When he pulled up in front of her house, she was standing in the open driver's side door of her car, looking over the top at a man and a woman. For some reason, she looked like she'd barricaded herself behind the car. Her tense facial expression and her body language said stay away. The standoff aspect of t
he scene was familiar to a cop. Domestic disputes were dangerous, and he forced himself into the proper frame of mind.

  As he sauntered over, he scrutinized the couple. The woman looked similar to Sharon, enough to be a relative. A trashy version of Sharon: big, teased up hair, lots of makeup, tight Capri pants, and an off the shoulder blouse. Even though the woman was trying to look young, he figured her for Sharon's mother rather than a sister. The man's clothing was clean, but he looked scruffy and gaunt, like an aging rocker.

  What was alarming was Sharon's face. It was beet red, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes wide in anger. He called her name in a cool, calm voice, giving her warning he was near. He repeated it, as he got closer. On the third time, she straightened and finally spared him a glance. It seemed to take her a minute to recollect who he was, and that broke his heart.

  Sharon opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the woman said, "What'd you do, Sharon? Call the cops?"

  "No. Pete, what're you doing here?" she asked defensively.

  "I came by to take you out to dinner. Are you all right?"

  "Um…I'm fine."

  It was an obvious lie. He strode up next to her and slid his arm around her waist. She was shaking, cold even in the heat of the summer day.

  "Sharon, we came to talk to you. Alone," said the woman.

  "Honey, what's going on? Do you want me to get rid of these people?"

  "Tell him who we are," the woman demanded.

  Sharon turned stiffly toward him, her gaze frightened and unfocused.

  "Come on over here. Let's talk," he suggested, urging her away from the car and the people who were obviously upsetting her. "Stay over there," he ordered the couple, using an authoritative voice that you learned in his profession. When he got her to the other side of the street, he turned her so they were out of her sightline, but he could keep an eye on them.