by Anne Marsh
The night outside wasn’t any too quiet, either, although she liked those sounds. Crickets sang up a storm, and guys called to each other faintly, truck doors slamming and motors gunning to life until there was nothing but crickets again. She was alone in the dark with Evan. Being wrapped up in his arms and more than half naked should have been sexy as hell, and yet she also felt comfortable. For the first time in months, she didn’t feel alone. Getting him to talk to her had been like pulling teeth, true, but he’d done it. He’d opened up, and she’d opened up, and now there was all that emotional sharing hanging in the air between them and a new kind of silence that all the crickets in the world couldn’t fill up.
Right now, there wasn’t anything more to say, and yet he was still there. He was under the sheets with her, and he wasn’t leaving. Not tonight. Those were his boys leaving Ma’s, heading back to the fire camp in their trucks, and he’d made his choice. For tonight at least, he was with her, and yet she was almost too damn tired to do anything but listen to the crickets and wonder how insects could be so damn loud.
He slid a leg over hers. She could feel him watching her through the shadows, as if he was searching her face for some kind of clue. She didn’t know what he was looking for. His leg was a heavy, warm weight, anchoring her to the mattress as she drifted toward sleep.
His hand was still at her neck, rubbing away the tension before dropping to her shoulders. She relaxed into him, into the warmth and lazy, sleepy desire. They didn’t have to have sex, but they could. If they chose. Or, if she wanted to, she could slip into sleep easily from here. The desire for Evan was there, but this time it was no raging fire. Tonight the heat and the need was all slow burn.
“I figure we’re both done talking.” That deep, gravelly voice did something to her, something that made her insides go liquid with heat. “So let me hold you for a bit, Faye.”
“Stay with me?” She hated the plea in her voice, but she’d already given him so many secrets tonight, the little sting of shame seemed small in comparison. He knew more about her now than Mike ever did.
Wasn’t that strange? This man she’d met just a few days ago knew her better, knew her more intimately, than the man she’d been married to for three years and had dated for twelve months before that.
“Absolutely,” he promised. “You want me to stay, I stay. Although next time we should take this to my cabin.”
“You think so?” Her head was all muzzy cobwebs that had her sinking into the bunk’s too old, second-rate mattress. A few coils pressed into her side, because this wasn’t memory-foam territory, but she didn’t care. If she wanted, she could let her eyes drift shut, and she’d float off into sleep in Evan’s arms.
“Yeah.” A kiss brushed the side of her forehead. She could hear the grin in his voice. “My bed’s bigger. You go to sleep now if that’s what you want. I’m going to hold you.”
For long minutes, that was what he did, too. Held her, surrounding her with strength and heat. The night was all lush stillness except for the crickets, cooler air pushing in through the open window. It was just the two of them, squeezed into a too-small bunk.
She wasn’t alone. He was right there with her.
His mouth rested against her temple, where she could feel the soft in-and-out of his breath. The rough stubble of his jaw was a blunt reminder of how different they were. That, and the heavy leg pinning hers to the bed like the best kind of anchor, his coarse hair against her skin.
His fingers brushed briefly against her cheek as he slid her hair away from the sensitive skin at her nape, gently massaging what he’d uncovered.
“Good night, darlin’,” he whispered. It had been a good night. She wanted to sink into the bed, let the exhaustion take her, and yet she wasn’t ready for the night to be over yet.
She turned over, stretched and pressed herself against him, enjoying the feel of him.
“Darlin’.” His husky groan said he liked that move. He wasn’t sleepy, either. He wanted to do more than hold her. Lots more.
“We don’t have to go to sleep right away,” she said. The thick ridge of his erection pressed against her, trapped beneath his boxers, and all she had to do was reach between them and let him out. So simple and easy. Tempted, she moved against him. Slow and sweet with no rush now to be anywhere else.
“We don’t have to do anything.” His voice rumbled in her ear. “You’re tired. You should sleep.”
“I should have you, Evan. That’s what I’m thinking.” She slid against him again, and, yeah, she was definitely teasing him now. She was tired, but she wasn’t dead, and she wanted him.
His hands touched her gently. Stroking carefully like she was something precious, something soft that felt real good beneath his fingers. At first, he only petted her shoulders and her forearms. Eased the cotton up to find her belly. There was nothing naughty about his touch, just a deeply sensual appreciation of having every inch of her tucked up against him.
She mattered to him.
His fingers found the bare underside of her breast and followed the curve. He was melting her from the inside out. Those big hands loved her and held her and made everything all right in the dark.
“This okay?” he asked hoarsely.
“Yeah.” She hummed softly, a little note of pleasure. “Too good, Evan. You’re too good.”
“I’m not good enough,” he said fiercely. “I don’t deserve you. I know that. But you let me give you this tonight, okay? I’ll make this good for you.”
When her whispered yes and please filled up the space between them, he went back to touching her, his hand moving down her belly. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. All night long.
As soon as her breathing picked up and got that hitch that said maybe she wasn’t sinking into sleep anymore but something else, he explored further. Moved his hand, and the muscles of her stomach tightened in anticipation as he went down.
He covered her pussy and rubbed, slow and undemanding. “I love feeling you.”
Still no rush, still just the warm anticipation spiking through her. He touched her there, over her panties, soft and slow. His thumb gently pressed down and found her in a long, slow stroke. Up. And then down again. Heated bliss.
Long minutes later, foil crinkled as he rolled on a condom and then slid her panties down her legs, tucking himself against her back and slid into her slowly. A little push and she gave around him, took him in. She was tired, but this was so good. Somehow, he’d connected the two of them, and now he was wrapped around her in one sensual bear hug.
The words were on the tip of her tongue—I love you—but he wasn’t ready to hear them, and she wasn’t quite ready to say them. Words were for tomorrow, and tonight was for doing, so she pushed back against him, taking him one slow inch at a time.
He moved in and out of her in slow, steady strokes, and she held him to her, clutching the arm wrapped around her waist as he coaxed her into melting around him. She relaxed, drifting away into his touch and not expecting anything, and then the orgasm was right there, a delicious surprise.
Her heart pounded against his, and she wasn’t sure whose heart beat harder. Beating together. “Come with me, darlin’,” he whispered, and she did, the sweet, sharp clench of her pussy pulling him over the edge with her and down into sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
The cheerful strains of the CD Mary Ellen had popped into the player were still going strong. Ben liked Sousa marches fine, but two hours of the stuff was a recipe for Tylenol. Maybe it was time he introduced her to iTunes. Evan and Faye had wandered past a good hour earlier. The pair had hit the porch at the firehouse and disappeared inside quickly. If he’d been them, he wouldn’t have wanted an audience, either. Now the lights were all out over there, and he figured things were heating up between those two. He wanted Evan to be happy, and maybe Faye Duncan was exactly the woman that boy needed.
Him, on the other hand, well, he’d been working the paintbrush for the last hour, and the
re wasn’t much thrill to be had from that kind of work. Nonna—Mary Ellen—had clearly read every home-renovation handbook the hardware store stocked on those racks by the checkout, because she’d dictated a course of sanding followed by priming before even a drop of paint hit her chairs. Hell. They were forty-year-old Adirondacks, and she ought to be worrying about wood rot or termites, not a perfect finish.
Or going crazy from the shrill, marching-band shit she liked to listen to.
Nevertheless, he’d sanded and primed like a madman because he wanted her happy. That was crazy right there, but so was the truth. He had paint on his cheek and probably in his hair. His favorite jeans looked like a paint sample, and his wrist hurt because he was too damned old for this much up-and-down.
And yet, thinking things over, he wouldn’t change a minute of this night. Mary Ellen had her hair up in its usual loop, a neat little twist and tuck that made him want to reach over and let the whole thing down. One quick flick and she’d come undone. She wore it up unless she was headed to bed, and that was the problem, wasn’t it? He wanted to be headed to bed with her. He wanted to thread his fingers through her hair, trace where the brown met silver. He wanted to kiss her.
No, this wasn’t working out for him.
His Mary Ellen had dug into his heart good and deep over the years, but she was keeping the friendship line firmly between them. He understood why. He’d been thinking this over for years, and she’d only had a few weeks. He didn’t know if he was ready himself to put a label on what he was feeling, but he had his suspicions. This had love written all over it, and he wasn’t going to kid himself anymore. It was time to take the offensive. Time to hop that line and show her exactly how sweetly fire could burn.
The band switched gears—loudly—and that was a cue he wasn’t ignoring. Apparently, the CD was serving up the full menu of Sousa tonight, and they’d hit one of the guy’s few waltzes. The woodwinds got into it, pumping out a cheerful, light tune rather than a hell-bent march. All good. He tossed his paintbrush aside.
“The bristles will stiffen up,” she protested, carefully setting down her own brush on a neat little square of newspaper. “I need to wash that, Ben.”
“The brush will keep,” he growled. “This won’t. Dance with me, Mary Ellen.”
She rocked back on her heels, looking at him as if he was pure crazy. Maybe he was, but he was pure crazy for her. He held out a hand. That part of him was paint-free—mostly—and it had to be a sign.
“You want to dance, we can go down to Ma’s,” she suggested. She bit her lower lip, and he loved that little feminine gesture. His girl was nervous. Maybe, just maybe, she’d finally decided to take a good, hard look at him.
“I want to dance here.” He wiggled his fingers. Take the bait.
“All right,” she said finally. “But if you bump me into those chairs and smear that wet paint, Ben Cortez, you’re the one starting over.”
“Deal.”
She put her fingers into his, and he tugged gently upward until she came right into his arms. They’d danced together before, and sometimes during those dances he’d wondered. Wondered what it would be like to hold her as a lover rather than as a friend, but he hadn’t pushed. He’d done his dancing, and then he’d let go and walked away.
Not tonight.
He pulled her toward him, palm to palm, his fingers threading through hers. They fell into the familiar rhythm, him guiding her forward and back again, her right in step with him. Sweet and easy, they did a slow two-step on her porch, and Sousa had never sounded so good. Each step they took smelled of fresh paint and newsprint, the sheets she’d spread beneath the chairs crackling under their feet.
“The chairs look good,” she said, filling up the awkward silence. The clarinets in the band segued into something unhurried, deeper, and he slowed his steps to match.
Maybe awkward wasn’t a bad thing.
Maybe, she’d been too comfortable with him before.
He twirled her around in a leisurely circle, maneuvering her closer. His hand closed around her waist, and he could feel the heat and softness of her through the cotton shirt she wore. His other hand slid down her arm, and he counted off the steps, grasping her wrist when they moved apart to promenade down the porch.
She looked up at him, and there was that laughter he loved so much in her eyes. His Mary Ellen had pretty, pretty eyes. Those eyes had kept watch over him for years. They reached the end of the porch, started back, and then finally that laughter of hers bubbled up and out.
“You’re crazy, Ben.” The music picked up speed. He’d better pick things up here, too, or he’d end up trying to dance to a march. He might not have dated in years, but he could imagine how that would end. Epic fail. “We’re two old coots. The boys see this, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
He had her closer now, their legs brushing as they danced. Would she admit to the sexual attraction between them? Maybe she wanted to keep the friendship and the sure thing. Or maybe he could convince her to explore something new.
“I’m not too old, Mary Ellen.” The sudden stillness in her body said she knew where he was taking this. “All that crap about age being a state of mind? There’s something to that.”
“Ben . . .” He heard the warning note in her voice loud and clear.
“I want to see you. Date,” he clarified. Maybe more. He was done treading water. He wanted this woman.
“Ben . . .” she said again. He didn’t know if she didn’t know what to say—which would be a real bad sign—or if she was trying to remind herself of who he was. Well, he was done overthinking things. His feet stopped moving, and he slid a hand up along her shoulder. He cupped her neck, then feathered his fingers over the back of her neck, where she was so sensitive.
“You don’t need to give me an answer tonight, Mary Ellen. I’m just giving you some food for thought, okay?” He wouldn’t push—much—he told himself. And yet his fingers stole upward, finding the clasp on her barrette. The hook was easier to slip free than he’d thought it would be. The metal popped open, spilling her hair into his hand. The long strands smelled fruity from her shampoo and, beneath that, something indefinably her.
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“Then it doesn’t work. But I want to give it a shot. I want us to have a shot.” He moved her back, taking the last steps in this dance of theirs.
“Why now?”
“And not before?” Hell if he knew. For whatever reason, the two of them had lived parallel lives. That was part of the past, though. He wasn’t interested in reliving his youth—he was interested in now. He wanted the woman she was today—not who she’d been before. “I don’t know.” He was no psychologist. All he had to offer her was the truth. “This just feels right. It’s what I want. Question is, honey, what do you want?”
The music picked up speed like a train shooting right off the track, racing to a raucous crescendo, and he twirled her in a fast, hard circle, her hair whipping around them in a soft cloud. Their feet hit the porch together, beating out a rhythm he could hear even over the shrill complaint of the woodwinds and the newspaper shuffling underfoot. Mary Ellen looked at him when they reached the edge, and it was stop or fall off.
“You want to change it all?” She puffed out her cheeks in frustration. “You have so many friends that you can chance this, Ben? This is crazy.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Mary Ellen.”
“Then don’t do this,” she snapped.
“I have to.”
“You have to.”
He tightened his grip on her fingers before she could pop right out of his grip. She was going to make this difficult. Fire had hopped the line all right, though. He’d doubled back and surprised her.
So maybe Mary Ellen had put her sex drive on hold while she’d raised her boys and earned a living for the four of them. That hadn’t been a bad thing—it had been her choice, and she’d never regretted it. Sure, she was older now. They all were, and that wa
s the price you paid for living. You got older until the day you died, so she’d always made a point of enjoying the living part. Even now, twenty years after she’d opened the door and met the three boys standing on her front porch, she didn’t feel different inside. This aging business wasn’t so much a slowing down as it was like a drive in the car, where you suddenly realize that what’s outside the window is beautiful, and you want more of it. She’d spent a lifetime getting somewhere, and that somewhere was a good place. Now she wanted to treat herself. Take a look around. Why not have a new dream?
Why not have Ben?
He was a handsome man and always had been. From the little creases around his eyes to the sureness of his hands, his body and his face were a map of where he’d been and what he’d done. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but she liked what she saw. So why not give this thing between them a chance?
“You want there to be an us?” she asked him. He hadn’t moved. Simply stood there like her rock, waiting for her to decide. Her call. He’d put the words out there, and now he was standing by them even as he hung on to her.
“I do,” he said, and he stepped closer still. His jeans brushed against hers. One more breath and they’d be chest to chest. He’d be kissing her, unless she took that step backward.
An us. Two people pairing up, pairing off. But what would they do together? He’d run a firehouse for years; she’d run a successful veterinary business and raised her boys. Sure, they’d always been part of each other’s lives, but not front and center, not living and striving side by side. That could change.
Still, she was old enough to know, she told herself, that sex was about far more than a penis and a vagina. Sex wasn’t just a little in-and-out. Sex had to be adventure and romance, where you set out on a journey with the man holding you and you holding him. She wouldn’t settle for less.
She looked him in the eye. “I want there to be an us. I want us to do something together. Something more than two people in a bedroom,” she warned. “Although maybe that, too.”