Father of Two

by Judith Arnold

  “It’s okay, honey.” Murphy’s voice was lullaby-tender. He kissed her brow again, and held her tighter. “It’s all right.”

  “He was smart. He even had a bottle of water in his cruiser. He made me rinse my mouth out afterward. I was so grateful—I just wanted to get the taste out of my mouth. It took me a couple of years of law school to realize he’d been getting me to wash away the evidence.” She sighed at her own naïveté, at the fact that all these years later she was still having trouble forgiving herself for what had happened. “He warned me that if I told anyone they’d never believe me, because he was an officer of the law, he had the badge and they’d assume I was lying, that I’d made the whole thing up because I didn’t want to get a ticket. He wrote the ticket for the tail light and reminded me that he knew my name and address and he had a gun. Then he drove away.”

  “Did you report him?”

  “God, no. I was scared out of my wits.” She moved her head closer to Murphy’s chin. She felt more protected in the crook of his neck. “I told my sister. No one else. He was right. He was a cop, with a badge and a gun and my address. There was no evidence, just his word against mine. Nothing good would have come of my reporting him.”

  “So, instead,” he concluded, “you grew up and became a public defender, so you could nail cops in court.”

  “I know how they abuse power, Murphy. I know what it’s like to be going one on one with a guy in a uniform, wearing a badge and carrying a gun. I know what it’s like to have that gun pointed right between your eyes and there’s nothing you can do. It’s a feeling of powerlessness, complete helplessness.” She paused, nestling deeper against him. “So yes, I’m a public defender, trying to make sure no cop ever abuses his power with someone else the way a cop once abused his power with me.”

  “I’d still like to beat the crap out of him,” Murphy offered. “You wouldn’t remember his shield number by any chance, would you?”

  She laughed sadly. “It was more than ten years ago.” Falling silent, she heard the constant beat of his heart. She decided that telling him had been the right thing to do. He didn’t seem to hate her for the disaster she’d made of this night.

  “So,” he drawled. “It’s thanks to this cop eleven years ago that you don’t like men anymore.”

  “I do like men. It’s just...one part of them I don’t like.”

  He erupted in such a loud laugh, the ear she’d had resting against his chest nearly went deaf. “Just one part? Sweetheart, that’s my very best part!”

  In spite of all the torment that had just spilled from her—or perhaps because of it—she giggled. She felt released from her tension, and immeasurably grateful to Murphy for listening without judging her, without feeling pity or revulsion. She was even more grateful to him for being able to make her laugh after the pathetic tale she’d just told him, the memory she’d just relived in the telling.

  “I’m serious,” he declared, although his voice still sang with laughter. “That’s my very best part. How could you say you don’t like it? It’s so likable.”

  “Well—”

  “That part of me likes you. In fact, it’s practically obsessed with you. Just thinking about you keeps that part of me up all night.”

  She was laughing harder now.

  “That part of me doesn’t want to be judged by any other man’s part. It deserves a fair shake.”

  “A shake?”

  “Let it stand on its own.”

  “I don’t think it needs my permission to do that.”

  “Maybe not,” he allowed, “but it would like your respect.”

  “My respect, huh.”

  “Well, it would prefer your passionate devotion, but it’s willing to take what it can get.” He released her and rolled onto his side, easing her onto her back and gazing down at her. His eyes danced with amusement and hope. His smile made her pulse jump. “I want you to trust me, Gail. That part of me is never going to hurt you. I’ll keep it under control. I’ve been able to do that pretty well since I got out of my teens.”

  “I’m so glad.”

  “You just close your eyes and relax, okay?”

  “Close my eyes and think of England?”

  “I’d rather you thought of me, but if England does the trick for you, fine.”

  “Murphy—”

  “Shhh.” He pressed his index finger to her mouth to silence her. “Close your eyes.”

  She closed her eyes. He kissed each eyelid, his lips gentle. Then he kissed her upper lip, her lower lip, the hinge of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. The knot of tears there dissolved beneath his mouth, and she sighed.

  She felt his hands on her, luxuriously slow but insistent, gliding between her breasts, over and around them. He had broad, leathery hands—tthe hands of a man who could caulk windows, fix houses, hoist his son onto his shoulders, mend a woman’s broken spirit. When they moved on her so quietly, so dreamily, the last of her panic ebbed away.

  He lowered his mouth to one of her breasts, tasting, nibbling, licking a path to the nipple. As he sucked it, she felt a tightness deep inside her. She felt a pull in her hips and in her soul, dark and lush and...yes, relaxing. Relaxing and exciting at the same time.

  He savored one breast and then the other, and she let herself drift on the sensation. When he stopped, she opened her eyes. He had moved away from her to rummage in the drawer of the night table. “Shh,” he murmured. “Think about fish-and-chips. Think about warm ale and kidney pie.”

  She laughed until she saw what he’d pulled from the drawer: a handful of square foil envelopes. Her laughter faltered.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispered, then resumed kissing her breasts.

  His kisses were erotic, exquisite. They had nothing to do with that other part of him, the part he thought was his best. He was wrong about that, though. The best parts of Dennis Murphy were his heart, his mind, his humor and his kindness. Before tonight, she would never have placed him in the same sentence as kindness—or heart, for that matter. But for all his bravado, for all his cockiness, his daunting success... He was a good man. The first man she’d ever met who cared enough to drag the truth from her, to lance the wound so she could heal.

  He brought his hands to her thighs. She heard herself moan. He was only touching her, massaging the outer surfaces of her legs, kissing her knees. Bending her knees. Kissing her...

  The first stroke of his tongue jolted her. She jerked her head up, stunned. What was he doing? How was she supposed to relax when he was kissing her there?

  “Dennis?” she gasped. He knelt between her legs, his graceful, athletic body bent over her, his hair tousled and his eyes bright as he gazed at her.

  “Hum ‘God Save the Queen,’” he suggested, then lowered his mouth to her again.

  She began to shake, but not like before. These tremors were inside her, hot and drawn out, tugging her downward. The muscles in her thighs clenched painfully; her hips writhed, and he clamped his hands on them to hold them steady. She ached, she burned, everything hurt inside her, that same hurt she’d felt on her front porch, when he had kissed her until she wanted to weep. She wanted to weep now, but not from sorrow. From sweet, scary joy.

  And then, before she could begin to comprehend what he was doing, how it made her feel, what it made her want, he rose up and thrust into her.

  Her eyes flew open in shock. He peered down at her, his face the distance of a kiss from her. His gaze reached into her, questioning, yearning. “Are you okay?” he whispered.

  “Yes.” She could barely hear herself, but it didn’t matter. He’d heard her.

  “Forget England,” he murmured, dropping a kiss onto her mouth. “Think about you and me.”

  “Yes.”

  He withdrew and thrust again. And again. She felt the muscles of his body against her, felt the tension in his back as he arched and flexed. Felt the love illuminating his eyes, the passion burning in his soul, and her own sharp need crying out for him, for that par
t of him, all of him. Each time he moved, she felt more. Each time he filled her he took more, gave more, made her ache for more. She couldn’t close her eyes. She wouldn’t. She had to see Murphy, know him, feel him on her and in her and all around her.

  She wanted it to last forever. She wanted it to end. There was too much of that throbbing, craving, desperate want, and if it didn’t relent she would go insane. Too much pressure, too much need, too much...

  A hot shudder rose inside her, overtook her. She groaned, astonished by the awesome force of it. Think of you and me, he’d said, and her last thought was of her and him and this, this deluge of pleasure undulating down through her. She heard Murphy groan as well, his body pulsing inside her, his breath harsh against her hair as he cradled her to himself.

  She brought her arms around him. The skin of his back was damp, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. She grinned, thinking that this time she was panting, too, wet with perspiration and blissfully exhausted. This time, with this man, she’d made the past disappear.

  ***

  “I THINK YOU OWE my part an apology,” he said.

  She gave him a defiant smile. “You said no more apologies.”

  He grinned. He wanted to leap to his feet at the center of the bed and pump his fists in the air. He wanted to grab Gail and dance through the apartment with her, naked, singing bad disco songs at the top of his lungs. He restricted himself to easing off her, plumping a few pillows up against the headboard and sitting, then pulling her into his arms and holding her tight.

  Boring? This woman thought she was boring? Any more boring and he might have a heart attack from the excitement.

  “So tell me something,” he murmured, then buried his lips in her hair. It smelled like wildflowers.

  “What?” She sounded drowsy and sexy. More of the latter than the former.

  “How’s it going with those other hundred twenty two boyfriends of yours?”

  “It’s going better here,” she admitted, snuggling closer to him.

  Her body pressed along his, pliant and warm. He wanted her again. He wanted everything, now and forever. He was so jazzed, he could hardly sit still. The only reason he wasn’t off bellowing his joy to the world was that Gail was in his bed and he had to be where she was.

  “What do you say,” he suggested, only half in jest, “we throw on some clothes and drive up into the hills west of town and watch the sun rise?”

  She chuckled, a low, sultry sound that stroked his nerve endings to attention. “It’s, what? Ten o’clock? Ten thirty? The sun isn’t going to rise for hours.”

  “So we could drive up into the hills and make love for hours, and then watch the sun rise.”

  “Mmm.” Her eyes were closed, her hand flat against his chest. He felt the shape of her palm, the imprint of each slender finger on his skin.

  “Or we could drive to Hartford and beat up a cop.”

  “Now, that sounds like a plan,” she said. “Of course, I do that every day. It’s my job to beat up cops, although I beat them up in court.” Her eyes fluttered open and she pushed away from him. Her smile was so poignant it squeezed his heart. Her eyes were damp. “Thank you for wanting to beat up a cop for me, Murphy. Thank you for wanting to slay my dragons.”

  “Any dragon,” he vowed, sliding his hand under her chin and tilting her face. “Just point out the one. I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands.” He kissed her, slowly, hungrily, kissed her until his heart was drumming, his blood simmering. He kissed her until every cubic inch of his body, including but not limited to his best part, was hungry for her. His bare hands didn’t want to tear anything apart. They wanted only to feel her, to make her lust for him, cry out for him, climax around him.

  The phone rang.

  He skimmed his hands up to her breasts and kneaded them. “Ignore it,” he whispered when the phone rang again.

  “It could be one of your kids,” she whispered back.

  He swore under his breath, then sighed and hauled her back against him. Reaching around her, he grabbed the phone from the night table and lifted it to his ear. “Yeah?”

  “Daddy? It’s Sean.”

  Dennis sighed again, oddly pleased that Gail—this woman who had once insisted she didn’t like children—had recognized the ring before he had. She must have some maternal instinct in her, somewhere.

  He had to admit that, given the timing of this call, he wasn’t so crazy about his kids himself. “What’s up, buddy?” he asked.

  “Well, Matt found this copy of Animal House, it’s a movie, and it’s supposed to be really funny?” His voice curled into a question.

  “Yeah?”

  “Matt says there’s this scene in it where a guy stuffs pencils up his nose, so we decided we should watch it. But Mrs. Pereira said I had to call you first and see if it was all right, ’cuz it’s I think rated R or something?”

  “I don’t recall it being that adult,” Dennis said.

  “Well, Mrs. Pereira said it’s got sex in it and stuff, only you can’t see anything. Mr. Pereira said that means it’s tasteful sex, but Mrs. Pereira says there’s nothing tasteful about this movie.”

  “That much is true. It’s just a silly flick about a college fraternity.” Sean probably wouldn’t even understand the innuendoes, anyway.

  “Can we watch it?”

  “Sure. Except shouldn’t you be asleep by now? It’s way past your bedtime.”

  “Daddy.” Sean snorted at his father’s blatant stupidity. “We’re gonna stay up all night. You’re not supposed to sleep at a sleep-over. Okay, good-bye. Matt,” he shouted away from the phone, “my dad says we can—” With a click, the phone went dead.

  Dennis reached around Gail again to hang up the phone. When he settled back, she wriggled out of his arms and sat up. She drew her legs to her chest, wrapped her arms around her shins and rested her chin on her knees. She stared ahead, her eyes unfocused, her mouth curved in a pensive smile.

  Was she fuming because Sean had interrupted their evening? Or thinking about that sonofabitch cop who’d attacked her so long ago? Or coming to terms with Dennis, with what was going on here, now—not just physically but emotionally?

  He left her to her thoughts. The spike of adrenaline inside him had died down; he felt no great urge to chase into the mountains with her anymore. He was content just to admire the magnificent arch of her back, as pale and graceful as a ballerina’s. Her waist was narrow, her spine a delicate ridge that vanished beneath her hair above, and into the soft curves of her gorgeous ass below.

  The minutes ticked. Her back tempted him. He traced her spine with his thumb, and she sighed.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Just sorting some things out.”

  “I’m sorry about the phone call. You were right. It was Sean. A major crisis over whether he should be allowed to watch a video in which someone stuffs pencils up his nose.”

  She laughed vaguely. “Well, I guess when you’re a daddy, these things can’t wait.”

  He began to worry. He sat up as well, shifting forward on the mattress so their hips were even. Leaning forward, he studied her profile. “Talk to me, Gail.”

  She sighed again. Her gaze remained fixed on the wall across from the bed. A painting hung there, an abstract collection of shapes he’d chosen because he liked the way the circles and lines played off each other. “It seems so quiet here without your children. The last time I was here...”

  “All hell was breaking loose,” he recalled. “The kids were being their usual obnoxious selves.”

  “Erin lost her tooth.”

  “She probably yanked it out herself, just to cause problems.” He grinned. “The kids were the least of it. Here you were, the opposing side’s attorney, prepared to make my client’s life miserable...and I was trying really hard to convince myself I didn’t find you attractive as hell.”

  “Oh, please.” She laughed again, this time sounding incredulous.

  “I’m not kidding. I to
ok one look at you and thought, uh-oh, better watch it. She may be a knock-out, but she’s on the other side of the case. I was almost glad the kids were running circles around us. They distracted me from you.”

  “I thought they were brats.”

  “They are. But they’re my brats,” he boasted.

  “They’re adorable,” she admitted, then clamped her lips together and lapsed into thought again. After a while, she let out a long breath and shook her head. “I feel so strange, Murphy. I’m not supposed to think your kids are adorable. I really don’t like kids.”

  “Maybe that’s changed.” If only it were true. He wanted her to like his brats. He wanted her to love them as much as he did.

  “I’m still the same woman I was before, aren’t I?”

  Unsure of where she was heading with her ruminations, he only listened.

  “I mean, just because—I mean, what happened just now was very nice, but...”

  “It was very nice. No buts.”

  She flickered a smile at him. “For eleven years, I’ve been who I am. My sister—I always envied her, because she was normal. She loved children. She went on dates. But I wasn’t normal, Murphy. I knew that. And now...I don’t know anymore.”

  “You’re still the woman you always were,” he confirmed, brushing a lock of hair back from her face when it slid forward and obscured his view of her. “You’re tough and smart, and you have some unresolved feelings about certain male appendages. This is not a crisis.” The lock of hair fell forward again, and he carefully tucked it behind her ear. She had beautiful ears, he realized. “A crisis is when one of your kids gets the other one’s lunch at school. Or when one of them wants to stay up all night with his friend watching Animal House.”

  “A crisis is when the nanny walks out on your kids and leaves them home by themselves,” she said. “A crisis is when they’re all alone, and something terrible could happen to them.”

  Maybe she had grown fond of his kids. Just that morning he’d fantasized about her brushing his daughter’s hair, and now she was considering the that the worst thing in the world would be if his children were endangered. Maybe she actually did care about them a little bit.