But nothing could warm her insides.
“Let him do it his own way,” Nick’s gentle murmur wafted against her ear.
“I always let him do it his way.” If the wall had been within striking distance, she’d have smashed her fist through it. Instead, she glared at Nick, aiming her fifteen years of rage straight at him. “He was in love with Cookie in high school. She left him. I helped him find her. So that he could get over it.”
There was so much more to it, but Nick didn’t ask. He simply took her wrath unblinkingly. She looked down at her hands, avoiding the pity in his eyes.
“We subscribed to a search service and wrote every woman who fit the age range.” And she’d pathetically kissed Warren every time a letter came back unopened. “I never told him how much it hurt to help him look for her.” She clutched her stomach, the ache fresh.
Nick’s hand twitched, as if he wanted to touch her but decided against it. “So, you helped your husband look for his old lover?”
God, this was like admitting to ax-murdering your family. Then going into all the gory details just so they’d know how really really evil you were. Or stupid.
“I know how bad that sounds. But it’s not like you think. He was going to this psychiatrist, and she said that Cookie’s abandoning him was just some sort of symbol for how worthless he felt he was.” Roberta hadn’t been just your garden-variety stupid; she’d been colossally stupid. Brain-damaged.
“The doctor said that if he faced Cookie and found out she wasn’t this big monster—” She laughed then, feeling on the edge of hysteria. The Cookie Monster. Oh, that was rich. “What I mean is, if he faced that Cookie’s dumping him didn’t mean he was this awful person who deserved to be abandoned, he’d be able to get over her.” Deep down, Warren was afraid she’d be a rich woman with a wonderful husband and that she really had done so much better than she could have with him.
Nick moved, hunkering down in front of her. Pulling her hands from her knees, he engulfed them with his own. “So you helped him find his old girlfriend. That doesn’t make everything your fault, Bobbie.”
“You don’t understand. I was desperate. I would have done anything. He was on those drugs, and he hadn’t made love to me in—” She cut herself off, digging her teeth into her lip as if the physical pain could outweigh the emotional. “The psychiatrist said it was the drugs. Decreased sexual desire, side effects and all. But—”
Oh God, she couldn’t even bear to think about it, yet she couldn’t stem the tide of words pouring out of her mouth. “But I never told him how much it hurt. How abandoned I felt. I let it go on and on until I just sort of convinced myself I didn’t need sex anymore. I’m one of those terrible people who lives with the status quo because they’re afraid that whatever is out there has to be worse.” She let the tears flow freely down her cheeks. “Do you know how long it’s been since a man has made love to me?”
Had a man ever made love to her? She wasn’t sure what she and Warren had done even qualified.
Nick shook his head, put his hands on her shoulders and stroked.
“Five years,” she whispered. “Five years. What kind of woman lets her husband avoid making love to her for five years? And never even does anything about it?” Begging didn’t count.
She should have made him go to marriage counseling with her. Something, anything. Instead she patted him on the back when he got depressed, made him a cup of tea, and handed him more pills.
“I was afraid he’d leave me if I made a fuss. But he went off the damn drugs for her and left me anyway.” A tear dribbled past the corner of her mouth. Nick whisked it away with the pad of his thumb.
She drew a shaky breath and risked looking at him. “Isn’t that the most pathetic thing you’ve ever heard?”
His hands dropped to her legs, rubbing her from knee to thigh while her hands twisted in her lap. “Not the most. A few of my own stories would sound worse.”
Nick didn’t get it. Nothing could be worse. She set out to show him, as if revealing every pathetic thing she’d done, thought, or felt would somehow release her. “He kept this box of mementos. One of those little Hallmark books that talks about loving and never leaving. Cards she gave him. She even made him this jean shirt that had a big tiger embroidered on the back. He asked me to wash it, and I made all the colors run.” Talk about passive-aggressive. “But he didn’t throw it out. I think he took it with him when he left. Maybe he thought she could fix it. Or make another one.”
Nick gripped her fingers again. “Your hands are cold.”
Her hands had been cold for fifteen years, as if all the feelings turning her insides to ice spewed out her fingers. “I just wanted him to stop talking about her,” she whispered. “I was so sick of hearing about her and the things they used to do togeth—” She sliced through the word. God, there were some things that should never see the light of day.
Nick’s grasp tightened almost to the point of pain. “Why didn’t you just leave him?”
“Because.” She stopped for a big sigh and a little sniffle. More pathetic truth she hadn’t wanted to face. She told Nick anyway, just to get it all out. “I didn’t want to be alone.”
He chafed her hands. “Did you ever think that you wouldn’t be alone for long?”
Now that was a thought. It had never occurred to her. “No.”
“Maybe you were wrong about that.” He tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear.
She tried not to compare him to Warren, to compare Mary Alice Turner to Cookie. She concentrated on confessing.
“I’ll never know. All I do know is that I let him make some very bad choices for our marriage. I let him. He was a crazy person on drugs. And he’s still crazy. I’ve got nothing left to lose but my self-respect.” God, had any self-respect even survived? “If I let him go to prison”—she shut her eyes—“or die, because I don’t think I can make a difference, or I’m afraid of the consequences, or because I want to make him pay for hurting me, then I’ll just keep on being pathetic Roberta Jones Spivey for the rest of my life.” She opened her eyes to look at Nick. “I can’t do that.”
His irises had softened to warm brown. Dark hair fell across his forehead. His gaze rose from her lips to her eyes. “You call yourself pathetic. But I don’t think I’ve ever known a more loyal woman.”
Kind words. Her fingers trailed his jaw, then his lower lip. For now, she’d let him believe what he wanted to. “I don’t intend to sacrifice you either. I’m going to prove Cookie masterminded it all. She’s the one who killed Jimbo, then she told Warren some big lie to get him to confess. She’s the one setting you up, too. I’m going to prove it even if it kills me.”
Which it might very well do. But then she’d only been half alive for the last fifteen years.
Chapter Thirteen
Her husband was a freaking bastard. Five years? Nick found it hard to believe. Bobbie must be damn near ready to explode. But now wasn’t the time to think about it.
Or maybe it was. Tears stained her cheeks. Confession, while good for the soul, had left her eyes bleak and a tremble on her lips.
Roberta Jones Spivey hadn’t had a man make love to her in five years. He might not be good for a hell of a lot else, but that, Nick could give her. Maybe even restore a little of the self-respect she was looking for. Damn Warren Spineless Spivey for taking it away from her in the first place. The asshole should rot in jail for what he’d done to his wife. Or hadn’t done.
Nick framed Bobbie’s face with his hands. “I want to make love with you.” He could have called it any number of things, but there was only one she really needed to hear.
“You do?” The tone of a nonbeliever desperate to be convinced.
“Yeah. Real bad.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Couldn’t you tell Sunday night?”
She thought she was weak, a failure. He knew better. She was devoted, tough enough to stick it out, optimistic. There was nothing he could do to make her see that. He could, howe
ver, show her what an idiot her husband was.
He started with her shoes, the slip-ons plopping to the carpet when he tugged on the toes.
Still hunkered before her, he spread his legs along the outside of hers and dropped his hands to her knees. Stroking up her thighs, he reached under her to squeeze. “You’ve got a gorgeous butt.”
She blinked, then let her gaze fall to his thumbs tucked in the crease at the tops of her thighs. He knew she wanted more.
He lifted a finger to trail from the hollow of her throat to the vee between her breasts. Then he toyed with the fourth button of her uniform, the one she’d kept buttoned. “Your breasts are perfect.”
She took what he gave, no more questions asked, no more doubts raised. Her hands sank into the bedspread. He slipped the button loose, found the front clasp of her bra, then bypassed it for the next button. The starchy material spread to reveal the edges of lacy white. She stared at him, eyes wide, a deep bottomless green he could lose himself in.
He slipped another button, then another, until the top half of her uniform sprang open. She sat up straighter, sucking her stomach in self-consciously. He bent his head and kissed her abdomen just above the apron, giving her flesh a lingering trace with his tongue. “You smell good.”
“It’s mango.” Her voice, barely a whisper, shivered down his spine.
Her fingers clutched his mother’s ancient spread, her knuckles almost white. She waited. He wanted her an active participant. “Undo your bra.”
Watching him, her hands unfurled, rising slowly to further push aside the material. His gaze greedily followed her progress. The clasp undone, the bra eased, but didn’t reveal her breasts. “Let me see you.”
He leaned in to prod the lace with his tongue, then retreated. Her nipples peaked. His mouth watered. One ripe bud beckoned. He teased with the tip of his tongue, encircled her with his lips, nipped. Not quite a moan, her intake of breath became a gasp as he sucked hard. Then let go.
“Take it off.”
She did, arching back to push the sleeves of her uniform and bra straps down both arms. As the scrap of lace fell to the bed, he swatted it to the floor. “What do you want me to do to you?”
Her glance flashed over his face. Uncertainty. Trepidation.
“Tell me.” He’d do anything and everything she asked.
Her pupils dilated to fill her eyes as she drank in the rough demand, his quaking voice. “Kiss me.”
“Oh that’ll be so easy, sweetheart. For as long as you want.”
The squat started an ache in his knees. He planted one on either side of her feet and rose above her. Taking her face in his hands, he covered her lips. First a taste, then a lick along the seam, then he slanted over her mouth, forcing her to open.
Tongue to hers, he sucked, licked, cajoled until she put her hands to his shoulders and leaned against him. He rubbed his cotton T-shirt across her breasts, the nipples pebbling. She moaned and tugged at the shirt still tucked in his waistband. He pulled back enough for her to raise it to his armpits, then dragged her close for skin-to-skin contact.
He took his tongue out of her mouth long enough to say, “Christ, that feels too damn good.”
It wasn’t like he had to lie either. All he had to do was make sure she knew what she was doing to him. Words were as important as action. Maybe even more.
“Is it better than with Cookie?” she murmured against his lips.
“Shit.” He pushed back, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, cupped her face. “She was just a lay.”
“What am I?”
He could lie, tell her he loved her. But lies weren’t what she needed. “I don’t know what you are, Bobbie. But you keep me awake at night. You make me take my cock in my own hand as I lay in the dark thinking about you. I’m not going to let you walk out that door before I finish what we started Sunday night.”
In the heat of the moment, sometimes being wanted and desired was more important, more powerful than love. She drank it in. “Kiss me again.”
He did, willing to give her anything. The kiss was voracious, an attack, a bonding, their lips sealing his desire.
He reached back and pulled his T-shirt over his head, flinging it across the room. Then, kissing her again, he went for the tie of her apron and two more buttons of her uniform. She had to help him to pull the tight material down over her hips, lifting for him. Her panties came off as well, though he would have liked to linger over their removal.
The curls didn’t match her hair. Dark, damp, inviting, he smoothed his hand over them. She held her breath as he spread her legs scant inches. Wanting to draw out the pleasure, his, hers, he slid a finger along the pink slit, not entering, merely testing.
“You’re pretty down here, too.”
She laughed, muffled it against his shoulder.
Then he did enter, just the tip of his finger, first gliding over the bud of her clitoris. She tugged her lip between her teeth.
“Did you like the orgasm I gave you the other night?”
“Yes.” Her eyes darted from his to his hand between her legs.
He grinned. “I can do better.”
An answering smile curved her lips. Her body heated, clamped his finger. “You can?”
“Much better. And more than once.”
She parted her lips and leaned back on her hands as he eased further inside. “That would be okay.”
He spread her legs for a fuller touch, then put two fingers inside her.
“God, you’re wet. And warm.” He’d never talked much during sex, but the words seemed to turn him inside out, the way he wanted to do to her.
He buried his fingers, then retreated, easing over a sweet spot that made her breath rush out. “Do you like it?”
“Mmm. Yes.” She licked her lips, panted, then took one deep breath and settled.
He put his thumb to her clitoris as he worked her with his fingers. She fell back on her elbows, her legs splaying further. He leaned over her, manipulating her, savoring the change in her breath, the slow fall of her eyelids. Then she arched her back and let out a long, low moan.
“Come on, sweetheart, come for me. Scream. I want to hear you scream.”
He quickened his fingers and thumb, not realizing how close she was until her back bowed off the bed, and she cried out. Her hands went to her face, ran through her hair, and her hips bucked at his fingers. He didn’t let her go, didn’t let her throw him off, just kept sliding through the slick folds, holding her at the peak as long as he could.
“God, you make me hot,” he murmured. “I could watch you do that all night.”
She finally wrenched away, one knee caught at his waist, her hands pushing at his. He bent forward to kiss her, his belly at the juncture of her thighs, her body slippery against his.
“That’s just the first one,” he promised against her lips.
“Your pants are still on.”
“You can take them off when we’re ready.” Hell, he was ready, his cock a hard rock against the zipper of his jeans. But she’d come only once. “I’ll keep them on until you’ve reached the fifth orgasm. At least.”
“I’ll die before then.” She laughed. She believed. Thank God.
He’d kept his finger on her button, now he flicked it. Her body jerked in response. “Ready?”
“Yes, please.”
He got her off twice more with his fingers. He wanted to use his tongue for the fourth, craving the taste of her. Coaxing her farther up the mattress, he shoved a pillow beneath her hips.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure I taste every bit of you. It’s a very delicate process.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Something wavered beneath the surface, a tinge of fear. She pushed at his shoulders between her legs.
“I’m going to die if I don’t do it.” He put his hand on her chest, tweaked one tight nipple. “But I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
She bit her lip, brows drawing together. That f
ucking husband, excuse me, nonfucking husband. He’d never done this for her. She’d wanted him to, but he wouldn’t. Or if he had, he’d made her feel his distaste. If the bastard hadn’t been under lock and key, Nick would have beaten him up.
“Let me do it,” he whispered. “Let me kiss your pretty pink lips.”
She stared at him a moment longer, almost wild-eyed. Then her head fell back to the mattress, her hips rising to him. “Oh God, please. I do want you to.”
He didn’t give her a millisecond to change her mind.
His tongue delved to her clitoris. Lips smothering her, he suckled. She moaned, writhed. He pulled her legs over his shoulders and held her hips to the pillow. And made her go wild.
* * * * *
Bobbie hadn’t thought he could wring another orgasm from her, her body spent, replete, beyond satisfied. But he did. He used his tongue on her and his fingers inside her, and she prayed to God the windows were closed because when she came the fourth time, the fifth close on its heels almost as if they were one, she screamed the way he’d told her to. An ahh and an ooh. Long and loud. She tossed her head, hair flinging across her eyes.
“Oh my God, please don’t stop, please never stop. Oh my God.” A voice echoed in the room, hers, but not hers. So different, almost guttural. Wanton. She’d always dreamed of being a raving sex lunatic, and Nick turned her into one with his clever tongue and skillful fingers.
His enjoyment couldn’t be faked. The way his fingers dug into her bottom couldn’t be mistaken for casual involvement. He’d said all the right words, done all the right things. She didn’t want to doubt him, didn’t want to doubt herself. Not now, when she felt this wonderful, marvelous, stupendous. Damn, she was good. So was he. He held her to his mouth until the last of her shudders faded away, his tongue massaging, gentling.
He raised his head, dark eyes gleaming in moonlight. “Okay, that was five.” He didn’t have to ask, he knew the one had quickly followed the other.
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 20