Luna Exposed

by Kristin Leigh

  I bury my face in his neck and blink rapidly, against the emotion his words inspire. Every time we’ve been together, he’s complimented and thanked me afterward, making me feel warm and toasty inside…making me feel cherished.

  He puts me down in the bathroom and tears his shirt off before stepping into the shower to turn on the water and adjust the temperature. He jumps a little when the water hits him, and I giggle when his nipples pebble from the cold. Once the water is warm and steam starts to rise, he steps out of the shower and strips me before urging me gently inside.

  He bathes me. Fucking bathes me, like a child. But it doesn’t feel childish in the least. It feels like he’s worshipping me with a loofah and body wash. I don’t even think he breaks the “no touching” rule—with the exception of shampooing my hair—since he doesn’t technically use his hands.

  When I’m as soapy as I can possibly get and the conditioner has had time to set in my hair, he disconnects the showerhead and rinses me. He follows the trail of water with his hands, a light touch that I barely feel. He kneels at my feet and looks up at me with a mischievous grin when the suds are all gone. Twisting the showerhead to a different setting, he urges my legs apart with a hand to my thigh. Then he directs the narrowed stream directly at my clit.

  It’s too much, far too intense, and I squeal and step away. Try to, anyway. Gabe slides a hand to my butt and holds me, murmuring “be still,” as he redirects the stream. It’s not directly on my clit this time, more to the side, and it’s far more bearable. My eyes close and my head falls back. The stream circles my clit several times before making a pass directly over the top again. I suck in a sharp breath and twitch. But Gabe’s hand holds me still, and the too-good pressure fades as he moves on.

  “One leg on my shoulder.” I glance down to find him looking up at me as he circles my clit with the wicked, wicked showerhead. “So you don’t fall,” he clarifies with an innocent smile. And oh, that smile on his face makes me want to smack him. That too smug, superior smile that tells me he knows I want to break my own rules, have already started breaking them.

  But if I slug him he’ll stop, and he knows that too, knows I won’t stop him. Bastard. So I just lift one leg and slide it onto his shoulder, opening myself fully to him.

  “So sexy,” he whispers. “I want to taste you here.” The stream of water hovers over my clit just a moment longer than I can stand before moving away. “And here.” He directs the stream to my opening and the water separates me slightly. It feels almost like a finger parting me without pushing inside. It’s teasing, and I clench, fighting the impulse to tell him to forget the rules, just fuck me. He continues in a low tone, “But no touching means no tasting, doesn’t it?” I don’t think he expects me to answer, because the water crosses my clit again, wringing a little cry from me at the agonizing pleasure.

  He clucks his tongue. “Such a shame, too. Both of us got tested.” Another pass over my clit. “And you’ve got that nifty little implant.” The passes are coming faster now, and I look down. His dark head is bent as he continues to croon in the sex-at-midnight voice that means he’s turned on. “I wanted to come in your mouth, feel your throat squeeze me when you swallow.” He starts to wobble the showerhead back and forth, so that there’s less than a second between each shot of water to my clit. “I was really looking forward to spending most of the weekend inside you, making you come over and over.”

  The leg I’m standing on collapses as I come. Gabe drops the showerhead and yanks my limp leg over his shoulder, sliding his hands up my back to support me as his mouth latches onto my clit. He sucks hard, flicking the little bud over and over while my thighs tighten around his head and my fingers yank his hair. He gradually slows as the tremors fade, until the licks are slow and soft.

  Sanity returns as he lowers my feet to the floor. I blink and look around. The showerhead is whizzing angrily, spraying water in every direction as it spins and dances. The bathroom is so steamy that even the glass of the shower enclosure is foggy. A lingering shudder passes down my spine, one last nerve firing after all the others went limp.

  Gabe grabs the showerhead and readjusts the spray before replacing it. With a soft nudge, he pushes me toward the little shower seat and says, “Sit, sweetheart.”

  I sit down and stare, still dazed from the quick but powerful orgasm. His dick bobs in front of me, fully erect and jerking as he washes his hair. I’d like to look up and appreciate the firm muscles flexing in soapy water. But I can’t look away. He broke my no touching rule when he dropped the showerhead, and for a moment I want to break it. I want to slide onto my knees and swallow him whole, see if I can coax that guttural moan from him again, see if his entire body will tense and jerk if I suck him hard and fast.

  Then I remember why I made the rule: because he doesn’t feel intimate enough to kiss me. Blowjobs and sex are pretty fucking intimate to me, so he’s going to have to wait. If he doesn’t feel we’re ready for a kiss, then what the hell makes him think we’re ready for anything? He’s separating sexual pleasure completely from emotional attachment, and while I could do it one time, I can’t do it on a daily basis.

  So there, asshole. No blowjob for you.

  If it bothers him that I don’t rise to the bait, he gives no indication. Without even looking at me, he squirts shampoo in his hand, reaches down, and starts to jack off.

  I can’t watch this again if I’m going to stick to my guns. I dart out of the shower and grab a towel before sprinting into the bedroom to find clothes. Bellowing laughter follows me.

  Chapter 14

  Gabe drops me off at home before lunch on Sunday, both of us horny and grumpy beyond belief. Because fate is a fickle, mean old bitch, Corey pulls in directly behind Gabe’s Roadster. What are the odds that he would just happen to pull in at the same time? Slim to none. He’s probably been parked at the end of the street, waiting for me to get home so he can forego being a father a few hours early. Fine, fuck him. He’s a shitty father anyway.

  I end up stuck with the dual conundrum of not introducing Gabe to the girls and avoiding Corey. Gabe and I are halfway to the front door, his hand resting in the small of my back, his body so close to mine that the fabric of his shirt occasionally brushes my arm. There’s no way anyone can mistake what our relationship is, not the way we’re standing. Even though it’s not time to bring him into the girls’ lives—might never be time—it looks like I’m not going to be able to avoid at least a small confrontation.

  “Luna,” Gabe says, breaking me out of my tumultuous thoughts. “What do you want to happen here?”

  I look back and forth between Gabe and the girls. Hannah’s eyes are huge behind her glasses as she climbs out of the car. She recognizes Gabe, I can tell. With all the research she’s been doing, she could probably discuss zoning and regulations with him much more eloquently than I can. Carmen couldn’t care less though, and my heart drops when I see her tear-swollen, red-rimmed eyes.

  She’s saying something to Corey and he’s completely ignoring her as he climbs out of the car.

  “Luna,” Gabe whispers urgently. “Tell me what you want to happen because you probably won’t like what I want to do.”

  God, I don’t know. “They’re going to see you no matter what. Um, just…wait a second. Okay?”

  Gabe jerks his head in a nod, his jaw tight. I don’t know if he’s angry or hurt…or something else. But I can’t pamper him right now. I pull away and head toward the girls, who are both trailing after Corey, probably hoping for some sign of affection.

  Reptiles don’t show affection, but they’ll learn that soon enough without me telling them.

  “Hi, girls,” I greet them softly as I approach, holding my arms out for hugs. Carmen rushes to me and buries her face in my stomach, her little shoulders trembling with misery. Hannah just leans against me silently, her emotions tucked carefully away so I can’t see them. I pull away and lean down to whisper, “That’s my friend Mr. O’Malley by the door. I want you
girls to go inside and get a snack. Tell Mr. O’Malley hello as you go by and shake his hand. I’ll be inside in just a minute, okay?”

  Their little heads bob and Hannah whispers, “Mom, is that Gabriel O’Malley? The ‘king of green’?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, and I promise you can talk to him later. But not today, okay? He’s very busy.”

  Wordlessly they turn and head to the door. I watch them go, getting more pissed with every step they take. This happens every fucking time they go to their father’s and I can’t make them do it anymore. They always come home quiet and dejected, like puppies that have been screamed at and ignored a little too much. I’ll call my attorney tomorrow, as soon as his office opens, and contest Corey’s weekend visits. This can’t continue.

  “Guess you got a sugar daddy instead of a real job,” Corey gripes, his voice nasty.

  I open my mouth to snap back at him, but a deep, angry voice behind me responds before I can. “Go inside, Luna.”

  I whip my head around, ready to tell him that I can fight my own battles. I’ve been battling Corey for eleven years, ten of them as his wife. But Gabe wraps an arm around my shoulders and turns me toward the house, whispering in my ear. “I know it’s not what you want, but let me do this. Let me stand up for you, protect you.” I tilt my head back and look up, trying to figure out if it’s a good idea to let Gabe fight the battle, just once for me. It would be so nice to step back and let him take over. But dangerous, too. What if I get used to it? I can’t afford to rely on him, not when I don’t know how long he’ll be around. He drops a quick peck on my lips and I’m so startled that I let him push me in the front door and close it.

  I hadn’t even noticed we were walking that way.

  I can hear the girls in the kitchen, talking quietly about pudding cups and Kool-Aid squeezies. I pull the curtain back from the window next to the door and look out, trying to figure out what Gabe is doing. Part of me feels guilty for letting him handle Corey.

  The other part though is hoping Corey leaves with a fat lip, two black eyes, and a broken nose. What a waste of human flesh. Even though Gabe offered to beat him up for me, I know it was a joking offer. Gabe’s better than that.

  They’re just standing by Corey’s Trailblazer, talking. Gabe looks pissed, Corey looks surprised, and neither of them have their fists raised. Corey nods and says something before climbing in the SUV and backing out of the driveway. Gabe watches until he’s out of sight before facing the house.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and watches me in the window. I let the curtain fall back and head out the front door. He meets me halfway, and I ask before he can speak, “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing you’d be mad about, and nothing you should worry over.” He takes a deep breath and pulls me into his arms. I rest my cheek on his shoulder, close my eyes and inhale, immersing myself in his scent. Just for a minute, I tell myself, and then I have to send him away and go cheer up my girls. “You know, Luna,” he murmurs. “Intimacy is a two way street, whether it’s children or a kiss. Don’t demand it from me and expect me to be happy when you won’t return it. We’re not there yet, I know. It’s just something to think about.” He kisses the top of my head and releases me to head for his Roadster. “I’ll call you this week.” He climbs in and backs out slowly, waving before he pulls away.

  I stand and watch until he’s gone, then put him from my mind so I can concentrate on my girls. There’s damage control to be done, and I can focus on Gabe’s statement about intimacy later tonight, after I’ve taken care of my kids and when I’m alone with my thoughts.

  * * * *

  Sierra stops by the restaurant Tuesday and sits in my section. It’s after ten p.m. and there’s almost no one else there so late. Since she’s my only customer, I get her a sweet tea—I don’t even have to ask—and sit down at the table with her. She thanks me for the tea, but doesn’t speak again for a while. I wait. Sierra will get to it once she gets her thoughts straight. She’s never been one to bite her tongue when there’s something she wants to say. But she will try to be tactful with those she loves. She stares into her glass and bounces the straw nervously.

  “Luna, Gabe’s all kinds of fucked up.”

  I blink at her. That was unexpected. Of all the things I thought she would say, I didn’t expect her to tell me that. I uncap my bottle of water and take a sip. “Everybody’s fucked up in one way or another. What makes him so bad that you’d decide to come all the way down here to tell me?”

  Sierra stares out the window and bites her lips. “Has he told you about his mother?”

  No, and now I’m curious. But that’s not the point. “No, he hasn’t. But how would you know about Gabe’s mother?”

  She looks back at me, chocolate brown eyes sadder than I’ve ever seen them. “He was tried for her murder seventeen years ago.”

  Shock freezes me for an instant before I’m able to organize my thoughts. Seventeen years. He would have been twenty-two, a young, passionate man, probably with a hot temper. But murder his own mother? No, I can’t picture it. “Tried but not convicted, I take it?”

  Sierra shakes her head, clinking her beads. “No, all the evidence they had was circumstantial and there wasn’t a body. Hard to get a murder conviction without a body. There’s not much information to be found on it. It was all kept hush-hush. But Brad remembered hearing something about it and he asked Dan. I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t think you’d ever even see him again. Dan was planning to set you two up, but I never thought you’d actually go for it. So…” She shrugs and sighs. “Dan swears Gabe worshiped his mother. And maybe he did. But…” She looks back out the window and takes another deep breath. “But girl, tried for killing your own mother is pretty fucked up. And that’s not even all. His…”

  I hold my hand up and bark, “Stop. You shouldn’t have told me that much. Don’t tell me anything else, Sierra.” She presses her lips together and I lean forward to whisper, “If he wants me to know, he’ll tell me. What the hell is wrong with you, coming in here after I’ve been seeing him a couple of weeks, trying to tell me things to scare me? You, more than anyone, should know how much things can get blown out of proportion.” I stand and whip my ticket book out of my pocket, trying to keep from snapping at my best friend any further. “What can I get you?”

  Sierra recognizes the gesture for what it is; me pulling away to deal with what she’s told me. But she doesn’t let me, as usual. Standing, she hisses, “You know damn good and well I wouldn’t tell you unless I was scared for you. And your babies. They’re the closest things I’ll ever have to kids of my own.” I sneer and turn away, too pissed for words. She grabs my shoulder and jerks me back before I can walk away. “No, listen to me. He might not have killed her. The law says he didn’t. But what if he did? Can you take that risk? Are you gonna take that kind of person around Hannah and Carmen?” She wraps her arms around me for a quick hug and whispers in my ear, “You guys are the only family I have besides Brad. Excuse the fuck out of me for being worried.”

  She lets me go and leaves without a backward glance.

  I head to the bar and pull a cloth out and start to wipe it down, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold onto the soft cotton. I’ve never been afraid of Gabe, not really. And the calm, rational part of me knows that he probably didn’t hurt his mother. But that teeny, tiny niggling doubt is still there, whispering that someone thought he was capable of murder enough to accuse him of it.

  I can understand why he hasn’t told me. It’s been almost two decades, and it was probably a very painful time in his life. If he’s innocent, not only did he lose his mother, but he also had to stand trial for her murder. If he’s guilty…well, he’d hardly want to talk about it, either way. We haven’t been seeing each other long enough to share those kinds of intimate details.

  I make it through the rest of my shift in a sort of trance, unable to take my mind off of Gabe and his mother. My tips are shit, barely above mediocr
e, and I feel bad about that, not because it’s less money, but because it means I did a crappy job.

  Once I get home, I sit in my car in the driveway for a good ten minutes, just staring at my phone. It’s after two a.m. and I know Gabe’s probably asleep. And it’s not like I can text him and ask point blank if he murdered his mother. Even if I wanted to break up with him over it—which I don’t, because dumping someone for something you’re not sure they even did is idiotic—I couldn’t do it via text. That didn’t work out so well for me last time.

  But I want to talk to him, even if it’s just with a stupid text message. I’d like to hear his voice before I go to sleep, if for no other reason than to remind myself that we’re not exactly serious yet. We’re just testing the waters.

  But in the end I don’t text or call. I just climb out of the car, go inside, shower, and go to bed.

  * * * *

  After the divorce, I saw a counselor who told me being a single mother is a lot like making a sandwich. The support network is the bread holding it all together, keeping me from falling apart. The kids are the main ingredient, which is what makes the whole sandwich worthwhile. Everything else is just extra: job, school, romantic relationships…and the counselor stressed that sandwiches with too many extras tend to be messy and fall apart.

  Now personally, I like a messy sandwich. Nothing beats a Philly cheese steak sandwich with the onions and peppers practically dripping with melty, gooey cheese and the shaved beef sliding every direction with each bite. But the sandwich I eat and the sandwich I want my life to be are two different things, and I think Gabe may be one extra too many. Of course, the next semester doesn’t start for another six weeks, so I have a little time before the extras on my sandwich begin to cause issues.

  I stare out of the window above the kitchen sink at Hannah’s compost pile and sip my coffee, thinking about sandwiches. My stomach rumbles and I glance at the clock. Five forty-five. It’s too early to start cooking breakfast since no one will be up probably for another hour and a half. I spent another sleepless night tossing and turning, thinking about murdered mothers, sheltered children, and prohibited kisses. My eyes are gritty, and the coffee sits heavily in my stomach, making me feel almost nauseous.