Keeping Secrets Crane

by Cindy Crane

  But first she wanted to taste him, to lick and tease. And as she dropped to her knees, Jake remained paralysed, his breath short and ragged as he revelled in every touch and every whisper of her breath as her lips kissed their way down his belly, leaving their imprint on every hair curling there, until she was taking him in her mouth.

  He wanted to catch her head between his hands, twist his fingers in her hair as her tongue and lips worked their magic. But he didn’t. He just squirmed against the wall, raising his hips towards her face, knowing he really ought to stop her before things went any further. But ready to explode, as she flicked her tongue over his tip, all he could do was stand there and enjoy the attention.

  A long, low growl rumbled up through his body. She was taking him fully into her mouth once more, running her teeth lightly along his throbbing erection. His heartbeat was all over the place, his legs boneless and his head full of stars.

  God , where had she learned to do that? The sweet, sexy, sixteen-year-old he’d known had morphed into a hot, sensuous siren—brazen, wanton and more fuckable than ever.

  She straightened, suddenly releasing him, and looked him in the eye.

  “That’s enough for now,” she teased, licking her lips. “It’s your turn now.” If he didn’t shag her soon, and quick, she was liable to explode body parts all over the hotel room walls. And even when he did shag her soon, she’d still be exploding body parts all over the room. Her memories of Jake’s lovemaking hadn’t been consigned to the loathing department, like everything else. Who couldn’t forgive her for wanting a one-night stand for old time’s sake?

  She pulled her chemise over her head, tossing it to the floor, leering at him through the tousled hair now covering her face. She flicked it back as she reached round and unclasped her bra, a white, wispy bit of lace that cupped her breasts so perfectly. She slipped the straps from her shoulders and allowed her impromptu striptease to titillate him further.

  Titillate . Not only was he well titillated, still standing against the wall, dick hanging out, his tongue was fairly mopping the floor. Her breasts, now free, smooth and creamy, were crying out to be fondled; their dimpled tips, tightly contracted, begging his mouth to nibble and tease. He moved his arms, ready to oblige, all self-restraint disappearing fast.

  Taking a step back, she turned, offering him a view of the long, perfect line of her back and rounded buttocks. Then sliding down her skirt zipper, she let the garment fall to the floor. Stepping out of it, he saw the luscious curves of her bottom, clad in only a tiny piece of floss that had the audacity to advertise itself as a thong. Her long legs were encased in a pair of shiny, sheer, hold-up stockings. And their lacy tops were mere inches from the warm, wet place she was enticing him to explore and possess.

  She threw him a saucy glance over one shoulder as she made her way to the bed, climbing onto it on all fours, her cheeky little bum wiggling at him.

  Jesus. How much self-control was a man expected to exercise? He slid his jeans down over his thighs and nearly tripped up as he stumbled out of them.

  He regained his balance to see Frankie had turned around. She was lying flat on her back, arms outstretched above her head in flagrant abandon. Her delicious breasts were slightly flattened, begging for his hands to caress and stroke them; her legs parted slightly, inviting him to explore and enter.

  He groaned inwardly yet again.

  “Forgive me, Frankie,” he murmured. But he was going to have to screw her. Screw her senseless. Screw himself senseless. He’d never gotten over her. And he needed to have his fill of her before life tore them apart again.

  He knelt astride her. Her eyes were closed, a serene smile painted on her lips. He bent and brushed his own against them. She mumbled something, and then gave a little twitch.

  He raised himself up again. Her lips had suddenly relaxed. Her mouth was slightly open and her jaw loose, her tongue in the corner of her mouth.

  “Frankie,” he said softly, almost a question.

  Nothing.

  “Frankie,” he repeated, a little louder.

  Her head moved a fraction and a little grunt grumbled deep in her throat. Jake gave a short, soft, guttural laugh and shook his head in both relief and disbelief.

  She’d passed out.

  Bending once more, he planted a long kiss on her forehead before whispering,

  “I love you, Frances Richardson. Always have. Always will.”

  Chapter 6

  Daylight filtered its watery light through the nets at the window. Frankie gave a little grunt and peeled her eyelids open. There was a dull ache in the centre of her forehead, and her tongue was stuck like an old piece of carpet to the roof of her mouth.

  Yuk! She felt like shit.

  Just how many glasses of wine had she poured down her stupid throat last night?

  She wrestled with the quilt. Her bladder was fit to burst and her alcohol-fuelled sleep had made her toss and turn, entangling her in the damn thing. Hot and sticky with disgusting, alcohol sweat, she was glued to the polyester cotton cover. She had to fight her way out of it.

  She staggered groggily to the bathroom, wondering at what point she’d actually crawled into bed. The last thing she remembered was stumbling out of Jake’s car and struggling with the key. After that, everything had disappeared into a weird sort of blur.

  She sat on the loo, eyes closed, head in hands, exhaling a long sigh of relief as she gave an enormous yawn. Thank goodness she’d made it without peeing herself. And thank goodness there was no one here to see her like this. She yawned again and ran her tongue across her teeth, trying to create some spit in her dry mouth. But she could only pull a face at the vile taste in her mouth instead.

  All done, she flushed the toilet and poured herself a glass of water, wondering how she’d even made it out of her clothes. She was totally naked. She looked at her reflection in the mirror: puffy eyes, scarecrow hair. She stuck her tongue out to inspect the nasty coating that was squatting there and had bred in abundance overnight.

  Urgh! Never again.

  Then she half-laughed, wincing as the effort caused that dull ache to pound a little more strongly. How many times had she said that? Thank goodness none of her old pals were around to see her looking like this—especially Jake.

  She padded back to the bedroom. She had some painkillers in her bag. If she took a couple now before breakfast, she might even feel a bit more human again before starting her long journey home.

  What a waste of a day coming here.

  Okay, she’d sort of enjoyed it, but she’d been so tense about the whole bloody thing. Especially after she’d found out Jake was going to be there too. And all she had to show for her little outing was a bloody hangover.

  She perched on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hand over her face and into her hair, stimulating some life into her dozy brain, while trying to ignore the weird, sickly feeling that was suddenly engulfing her. A pulse flickered in her throat, making her even more light-headed.

  Too much alcohol, she told herself firmly, again trying to ignore the nauseous emptiness gnawing at her gut, curling its way up into her throat. It squeezed its clawing fingers inside her chest, crushing her lungs and compressing her heart. It was an emptiness that went further than hunger and too much wine. It was deep, hidden, suppressed emptiness. Emptiness that was telling her something was missing from her life, something that had been missing for a long time.

  Jake.

  She caught her breath.

  Shit. Was she a total moron?

  After all these years; after all he’d done.

  Stupid cow.

  Why, he’d not even stuck around after bringing her home.

  Her eyes fell on her clothes as she swallowed the last dregs of water from the glass. They were still strewn all over the floor, right where she’d dropped them last night.

  Oh, fuck.

  It came flooding back like a river bursting its banks. Swiftly, unexpectedly, the memory overloaded her pulsating
brain.

  Double fuck .

  Now she remembered: a striptease to lure her ex into bed, and performing a very intimate sexual act for him as her piece de resistance.

  She screwed her face in pain and humiliation at the memory, mortified.

  No-o-o, she couldn’t. Her inner voice was in full wail.

  She must have dreamed it.

  Yes, you di-id, that voice whined back; and enjoyed it too-oo.

  She went hot.

  Then what?

  She remembered reaching the bed, then...nothing. The flow had stemmed, not quite allowing everything back. The remainder was hidden in the dark corners of her brain where she couldn’t quite reach it.

  She grabbed her bag. The condom packet she’d finally succumbed to buying was still intact.

  Shit, had they had unprotected sex?

  Her mind was a blank. There was no memory making reassuring pathways back this time.

  She ran her hand over her upper thighs and across her groin, feeling for the tell-tale signs of dried semen. Then she flung back the quilt cover to double-check—nothing.

  She gave a sigh of relief.

  So had he come prepared—just in case she couldn’t resist his charms?

  Despite dumping me without so much of a by-your-leave twelve years before , she thought as sarcastically as her foggy brain would allow.

  The bastard.

  Her heart hammered erratically in her chest, playing a painful tune across her ribs. Conflicting emotions rampaged inside her: hating Jake, cursing Jake, missing Jake.

  Jesus. She wished she could remember. Had he helped her out of the rest of her things and screwed her while she was unconscious, then done another runner?

  The dull ache was now in full pound. New pulses throbbed painfully in her brain.

  Doh, if she had a brain.

  How could she be so stupid? A lump rose into her throat, leaving a new emptiness in the pit of her stomach.

  But surely not—not Jake; he wouldn’t. He wasn’t like that.

  Was he?

  But she’d been hot for him and had tantalized him without mercy. She remembered that bit now—very clearly.

  Had she no self-respect?

  Even after twelve years, she still craved him, like a drug habit she’d never quite managed to kick. And he’d taken advantage of it—while she was drunk.

  She wanted to cry.

  What was worse, she couldn’t remember a thing about it.

  She snatched the painkillers from her bag, taking them back to the bathroom with her, swallowing them whole while she ran the shower. Then she closed her eyes, shutting out the thought as hot water trickled through her hair and onto her shoulders, following the curve of her spine until it reached the crease of her bottom and finally filtered away down her legs, pooling at her feet.

  She allowed a modicum of relaxation. Her shoulders and neck rotated in blessed relief. Then, turning, she repeated the process on her front, allowing the spray to wash away the sting of tears in her eyes.

  Damn the man. She didn’t even know where he lived; she didn’t have a number to ring.

  After stepping back into her life again, this morning he’d disappeared as thoroughly as he had twelve years ago.

  Chapter 7

  Jake half-closed his eyes and spit a flake of rust from his mouth as he turned the wrench underneath the car chassis. He’d barely slept a wink, and he’d opened the garage early. No point in tossing and turning any longer than necessary.

  After lifting Frankie into bed and covering her with the quilt, he’d gone into the bathroom and given himself a hand job, fantasising that he was making slow, passionate love to the sexy, comatose woman now snoring loudly from beneath the cover.

  Twelve years older than the fresh, young girl he’d bumped into one Saturday afternoon in the park, she was still one serious piece of hot totty. And she still drove him wild; consumed him totally. And if her little performance was anything to go by and it wasn’t just the alcohol talking, then surely she still felt the same. He just wished life wasn’t so damned complicated.

  Afterwards he’d sat on the edge of the bed for a while, just watching her sleep, listening to the little grunts and louder, alcohol-fuelled snores. He’d smiled. She’d go ape if she knew. Ape, then laugh, then try to kiss him to death—just as she had when they’d walked through the door.

  Just as she used to, all those years ago.

  His heart squeezed, overwhelmed with emotion.

  If only he could tell her and put everything right without hurting her more. If only they could spend the rest of their lives together; grow old together.

  If only.

  She’d rolled over, taking the quilt with her, her nylon-clad legs sticking to the cotton. She looked so uncomfortable. So he pulled it back gently, careful not to disturb her, and rolled each stocking down her long legs and from her lovely feet. Her toes were perfect, painted in metallic blue. He’d wanted to stroke them and feel the smooth, silky skin, then kiss them, suck them, drive her wild with his caresses. But he didn’t. He laid them gently down instead and was about to cover her once more as he saw the string of her thong cutting into her hip. There’d be an uncomfortable weal by morning if she didn’t get them off.

  But he couldn’t, could he?

  But he had. First of all he drew the quilt over her, covering her naked body before removing the offending garment. He could still afford her that bit of modesty. Anyway, he didn’t need to look. He already knew every square centimetre of it, remembered every freckle, every mole on that soft, creamy skin.

  She was still beautiful. And he’d give anything to be lying there naked with her. But not like this. He had standards, values, despite what others said. He only hoped he’d have come to his senses before going any further had she not passed out. Craving her with a vengeance was no excuse for taking advantage.

  He knew he had to go—but not before reassuring himself she wasn’t so drunk she was going to be sick and choke on her own vomit. So he sat with her for a couple of hours, resisting the urge to stroke tendrils of hair gently from her face; to run his fingers across her brow and down her cheeks until he reached her chin; to lift her face to kiss those tender lips, as he had so many times before. Instead, he just dreamed. He dreamed about how different things could have been, allowing all the ‘what ifs’ he’d long consigned to the far reaches of his brain to surface once again—and to fill his aching heart with hope that perhaps she might have forgiven him after all.

  He then slipped from her room in the early hours, leaving a business card with his address and phone number on the dresser. He knew he was risking a lot by leaving it. He’d already had a phone call earlier that day warning him.

  Ignore her.

  Don’t even think about contacting her when she gets back in town.

  He’d even had a visit this morning before his other mechanics arrived.

  He knew it was a plain clothes police car even before Detective Sergeant Turner climbed out, reminding him of the bargain they’d made twelve years before and that the only reason he still had his freedom was because of their agreement. And Turner was so disappointed he’d not taken yesterday’s phone call seriously.

  So, Jake had been followed last night.

  Jake knew Turner was only the messenger boy, although boy was a loose euphemism. With his thick-set physique, cold eyes and hard mouth, he’d have fitted in more easily with the criminal fraternity he put away.

  Jake looked at him with the disdain of a man, not the fear of the nineteen-year-old kid he’d once been. He wanted to punch the supercilious smirk off his face but that would have been playing straight into his hands—and her father’s.

  He couldn’t believe Richardson still had his finger on the pulse; that he was still trying to control his daughter’s life, and his life, even after all these years, even with all these miles separating them and even working for a different constabulary. The man had been a control freak then—and he still was.

/>   Poor Frankie; it would break her heart to know what a manipulative bastard the man was.

  And Jake had already broken her heart once.

  He couldn’t do it again.

  Chapter 8

  Sam nudged Jake’s shoulder with the toe of his steel-capped boot.

  “Don’t look now, but we’ve got a customer.” He paused. “Mmm! Nice car.” He gave another pause. “Mmm! Nice lady.” He nudged him again, a little harder this time. “In fact, stop there. I’ll deal with it.”

  Jake watched Sam’s boots step away from the side of the car he was still working beneath and listened to the clip clop of high heels on the concrete floor heading towards Sam.

  “Yes, love, can I help?” Sam asked. By his tone of voice, Jake could imagine the gleam in his partner’s eye and the cheeky little-boy smile women seemed to love. The bloke was a serial bird-puller, and there was nothing he liked more than a fresh challenge.

  “Is Jake here?” a female voice replied with another question.

  Well, the lecherous git wasn’t pulling this one .

  Jake pushed one foot firmly against the floor and, still lying on the trolley, rolled out from beneath the car with such ferocity he bumped into Sam’s feet, leaving him no option other than to jump back in surprise.

  Jake grinned up at the pair of them from his horizontal position. It had taken less than a second to follow the path of her smooth, shapely legs from her shiny heels towards the hem of her knee-length, chocolate brown pencil skirt, and upwards over the cream, lightweight sweater that was slipping tantalisingly from one shoulder. He reached her face, scouring it with his gaze. The pleasure he felt at seeing her here doubled, as he could tell it was equally matched by the twinkle in her eyes.

  After her initial start of surprise, Frankie smiled back. She was feeling much better. Surprising what a couple of painkillers and a good hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs could do. She’d opted out of the silly continental breakfast the hotel provided and had walked down to the greasy spoon café she’d spotted the previous day. The fresh air had done her good. And a huge bread-cake full of cholesterol-fuelled calories proved to be the best hangover cure she knew. She’d even impressed the waiting truck drivers with the size of her appetite.