She raised her knees, wet and ready, and let him slide inside her. A slow, easy slide with a shuddered, drawn-deep breath as he settled on top of her, his weight on his knees, his hands gently cupping her head on the pillow. His thumbs brushed her temples while he stroked inside her. Kissed her nose, her eyebrows, her chin, stroking faster when her hips moved and she sucked his tongue into her mouth.
He was big but he was gentle, mindful of her size and her comfort, stroking fast, then slow, filling her gradually, letting her relax and revel and feel and taste, giving her his tongue whenever she wanted it. Petting her, touching her, snuggling his cheek next to hers on the pillow to gnaw her earlobe, rub his whiskered chin along her collarbone and make her giggle, chuckling deep in his throat when she did.
“Like that?” he murmured, or “How’s this?” Kissing her again when she sighed, “Yesss,” savoring her, warming her, cherishing her. He slowed his pace, then sped, stilled and rose on his hands and looked at her with deep, dark eyes, a pulse hammering hard in his throat, his hair all over his head in spikes she’d put there with her tugging and pulling.
“Ready, babe?”
“Past ready, you arrogant, pushy—”
“Oh honey, that’s the word.” He drove into her, lifting her knees and her hips higher, arching her head back, thrusting and building heat and heat and more heat till it exploded in the pit of her and she clutched his hips and—
Screamed. Actually screamed as the mind-bursting climax ripped through her. She felt it tear up her throat, in her breasts, even in her nipples. It was wondrous. So glorious she screamed again as Gus locked his mouth over hers and sucked the scream into his throat. His last thrust tore a cry out of him that made her teeth vibrate. She clung to him, let him collapse on top of her and press his forehead to the side of her neck. She rubbed his back, slick with sweat, and felt him shudder, his heart thudding against hers.
“Am I too heavy?” he rasped in her ear.
“No.” Cydney wrapped her arms around his rib cage, hooked her legs around his knees and snuggled. She rubbed her cheek in his chest hair, touched his flat, hard nipple with her tongue and felt him shiver.
He raised his head and smiled, stroking her temples with his fingertips. “Then I’d like to stay here a while.”
How ‘bout forever, Cydney wanted to suggest, but spread her arms out instead and smiled. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Gus drew the covers over them and snuggled down on top of her, tucked his arms under her and cradled her, rubbing his nose in her hair, settling her hips deeper into the mattress. He stayed inside her, full and pulsing, her arms around his neck, stroking his hair, feeling his breath slow till he snored, once, softly in her ear.
“He touched me,” Cydney sang softly off-key. “He put his hand near mine and then he touched me. I felt a—a—uh…”
“A sudden tingle when he touched me,” Gus filled in groggily. “A sparkle, a glow.”
Cydney laughed at the tickle of his breath on her collarbone, delighted that he knew the words. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Nope. Just resting up.” He wiggled closer and kissed the side of her neck. “Do you like Streisand?”
“Oh yes. Do you?”
“No. I just remember song lyrics. Now George Benson. That man can play the gee-tar,” he drawled, sounding like his friend Sheriff Cantwell. “Want to swing from the chandelier in the great room next time?”
“Too high up. I’ll get a nosebleed.”
“We’ve got the house to ourselves. We should enjoy it before your loony—” He pushed up on an elbow. “Whattya say we don’t go there?”
“Let’s don’t. How about the bathtub?”
“Great idea.” He kissed her and rolled to his feet. Cydney heard a lamp switch click and Gus swear. “Power’s out,” he said, then she heard a crunch and a yowl, looked over the side of the bed and saw him on the dark, shadowy floor, gritting his teeth and clutching his right foot.
“Oh no,” she mewed sympathetically. “Not again.”
“Whacked the table when I reached for the lamp.” He flexed his toes and winced. “I have got to remember to buy gas for the generator.”
“Well, darn. I was looking forward to a bath.”
“There should be enough hot water in the tank. But no heat.” He rolled up on his knees and kissed her. “I’ll light a fire.”
“You just did,” Cydney purred, winding her arms around his neck.
“I meant in the fireplace.” Gus chuckled and tucked the covers around her. “Keep warm. I’ll be back.”
Cydney peered at his backside as he walked away from her but couldn’t see much, just the paler shape he made against the darkness. When he disappeared into the bathroom—she caught a glimpse of the commode—she took her bra off and pitched it toward the clothes pile, hunkered down under the covers and pinched herself.
“Ouch,” she said, smiling at the ceiling she could barely see.
Yep. She was wide-awake. Gus hadn’t left her for dead in a snowdrift. He really had dragged her up his driveway, carried her up to his bedroom and made love to her. Next time she got caught in a blizzard she could just lie down in the snow and die a happy woman.
Oh boy. She couldn’t wait to write this scene in her book.
Her bones ached and she felt sore spots in her hips that would likely be bruises tomorrow, but on the whole she felt wonderful. Languid and loved, even though she wasn’t. Cydney turned her head on Gus’ pillow and gazed at the window, at the pewter gleam streaming through the glass that meant the snow had stopped and the moon had come out. Pewter gleam. Ooh, she liked that. She’d have to remember it. Maybe, she thought, just maybe I do have what it takes.
“You’ve got what it takes and then some, honey.” Cydney shot up in bed, hand pressed to her heart and blinked at the top of Gus’ head over the footboard. The footboard she hadn’t been able to see until now. Through its wooden slats, carved in what looked like Southwest Mission style, she saw the flicker of a flame.
“You startled me. Did I say something?” “You said, ‘Just maybe I do have what it takes.’” “Oh great. Now I’m talking to my little voice and myself.” “Don’t worry about it, babe.” She heard wood snap and watched the flame jump. “I’ve got one of those big-mouth know-it-all voices, too.”
“Really? Do you talk back to it?”
“When I can get a word in, which believe me, ain’t easy.” At last, thank God, something they had in common. A weird something, but a common something nonetheless.
The flame brightened through the footboard slats and glowed on the face of a stone fireplace with bookshelves on both sides. It was too dim to see what the jumble of shapes were on the mantel. A couple of baseballs, it looked like, and a Ping-Pong paddle, but she could see the bright reds and golds in the patchwork quilt she tugged with her as she walked down the bed on her knees and sat back on her heels. It was warm at the foot and bright enough to see Gus sitting on the carpeted floor feeding wood to the fire through a partly open black mesh screen.
She didn’t feel the least bit shy being in his bed or ogling his lusciously naked body. Maybe because he’d been so tender with her, which was the only thing her fantasies had gotten right. She’d been so wrong about so much else. He glanced at her, held up a cigar and wagged it.
“Do you mind? The only time I want a cigar is after sex.” “Not a bit. Go ahead.”
He lit the cigar with a strip of kindling and poked it back in the fire. “In case you’re wondering, this is one stale stogie.” Cydney laughed, folded her arms on the footboard and leaned her chin on her wrists. “The only time Max Stone smokes is after sex, too.”
“You have read my books.”
“I told you I was your biggest fan.”
“Hmmm.” He puffed on the cigar and squinted at her through the smoke. “I’m not gonna read about this on one of those Angus Munroe fan sites on the Internet, am I?”
“Heck no. I’m saving this for my memoirs.”
“Are you?” He stuck the cigar in his mouth, raised his knees and looped his arms around them. “What are you going to say about me?”
“Well, let’s see.” Cydney leaned her chin on her hand and tapped a finger on her cheek, making it look like she had to think about it, which she didn’t, because she already knew.
She’d say how much she loved him, how much it meant to her that he’d loved her—once, anyway, at least physically— and what a comfort it was to her, now that she was Bebe Parrish Munroe’s old-maid aunt with a dining room enshrined in her honor. But she couldn’t tell Gus that, so she parked her chin on her hand and gave him a wicked smile.
“I’ll say you have the best-looking balls I never saw.”
“How can you say that? Didn’t we just—”
“The power’s off.” Cydney waved her hand. “No lights.”
“I can fix that.” He sprang off the floor, squared himself in front of the brightly burning fire and spread his legs. “Ta-da!”
Cydney clapped a hand over the startled squeak that escaped her and laughed. So hard she shrieked and keeled over on her side, wound in the quilt and howling with laughter.
“Gotcha.” Gus bounced down beside her, chuckling, and gave her a playful slap on the rump. “Now you can’t say you didn’t see my balls.”
“Boy, that’s the truth.” She sighed and wiped her eyes on the quilt. “But I can honestly say our night together moved me to tears.”
He rocked back on his elbows, laughing, took the cigar out of his mouth and stretched out on his side next to her, smiled and touched a fingertip to a curl tangled on her forehead. “Have I told you that I think you’re absolutely adorable?”
Cydney could see by the soft curve of his mouth and the warmth in his eyes that he meant it. It wasn’t “I love you, be mine forever,” but it wasn’t bad. She blinked tears out of her eyes and told herself not to be maudlin, to be happy and grateful and enjoy this. She snuggled up to him and put a kiss on his chest.
“After our bath,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes, “do you think we could try that naked and screaming thing again?”
chapter
twenty-two
The last time he made Cydney scream—or had she made him scream?—Gus’ watch said it was 4:22 A.M. It was a Rolex and it lived on the table beside his bed because he rarely remembered to wear it. The next time he looked at it, cracking a bleary eye and peering at the 24-karat gold hands, it said 9:14 A.M.
That was his first awareness; his second, that he was drooling. He crept a hand out from under the pillow and wiped the corner of his mouth. That’s when he felt the chill in the sheets, realized he was alone and flung himself over on his back.
A laser beam of sun shot through the window and damn near pierced his skull. He clapped a hand over his eyes until the strobe light in his head faded, then spread his fingers and frowned.
He’d fallen asleep with Cydney cuddled on his chest, her hand wrapped in his on his shoulder, his thumb stroking her wrist. Now there wasn’t a wrinkle in the sheets, not a crease in her pillowcase.
Why wasn’t she here?
Gus kicked off the covers and rolled to his feet. Her clothes were gone from the pile on the floor. His were neatly hung to dry over the shower doors in the bathroom. The towels he’d used to rub her down after he’d licked her dry were draped over racks. The bubbles he’d used to sculpt her a pair of Dolly Parton breasts while she leaned back between his legs with her head on his chest, laughing, had been rinsed down the bathtub drain. She’d emptied the ashes out of the soap dish he’d used as an ashtray, washed it and left it on the sink and blown out the candles he’d lit on the edge of the tub. She’d even trimmed the wicks.
His bedroom and bathroom looked like he’d spent the night with Aunt Phoebe. Why had Cydney done this? Why had she erased every trace that she’d ever been in his bed?
Time to put his pants on, go find her and ask her.
Gus brushed his teeth and his hair first, wincing at his face in the mirror. He needed a shave—he looked like Sasquatch— but he zipped on a pair of jeans, pulled on a T-shirt and headed downstairs.
He found Cydney in the R&R room, in a beige cable-knit sweater and jeans, curled in the oversized brown corduroy chair. One of the afghans Aunt Phoebe had crocheted in bright stripes of leftover yarn covered her drawn-up knees. He could see her toes curled in beige socks through the fringed hem. A big red mug sat on the table, her laptop on the overstuffed arm of the chair. She sat staring at the screen with her elbow bent and her fist curled, her knuckles pressed against her lips. So intently, she didn’t see him when he stopped between the pocket doors she’d left open.
The floor felt warm beneath his bare feet, warmer than it should, Gus thought, until the furnace kicked on and Cydney sighed, so heavily he heard her clear across the room. She didn’t so much as glance at him until he sat down in front of her on the ottoman. Then her chin jerked up and she blinked, her almond-shaped almond-brown eyes full of tears.
“Oh—good morning.” She brushed quickly at her wet lashes with her curled index fingers and threw off the afghan. “The lights came on about an hour ago. I made coffee. What would you like for breakfast?”
“An answer.” Gus caught her feet as she swung them out of the chair. “Why did you clean up my bedroom?”
“It was a mess. Clothes all over and wet towels—”
“I was gonna bronze those towels. Why did you do your damnedest to make it look like you’d never been in my bed? Was I that lousy?”
“Oh no. You were incredible.” She put her feet on the floor, hunched forward and slid her hands into his. “I slept with you because I wanted to. I had a wonderful, memorable night and that’s all I want.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“I can’t tell you because it will start another fight.”
“The goddamn wedding again.”
“Not exactly.” She tugged her hands out of his and laid them on her knees. “I know how you feel about Bebe but I love her. She’s been the hub of my life. I feel like a wheel that’s had all its spokes ripped out. I’ve been sitting here thinking. And wondering—” She drew a breath and let it go in a teary sigh, her eyes filling again. “What will I do without her? How will I fill the giant hole Bebe is going to leave in my life?”
“Well, for starters, throw your camera away—”
“And finish my book. Why didn’t I think of that?” She clapped both her hands on his shoulders, picked up her cup and sprang out of the chair. “Thanks, Mr. Wizard. Problem solved, life fixed.”
“Listen, Miss Snippy.” Gus wheeled off the ottoman behind her and followed her out of the R&R room. “You asked me.”
“No. I did not.” She lofted a finger at him over her shoulder as she crossed the living room. “You asked me why I was crying and I told you.”
“Well what the hell did you want me to say?”
“I didn’t want you to say anything.” She pushed partway through the swinging door and spun around, sloshing tea out of the mug in her left hand. “But that never seems to stop you.”
The damn door almost did, flying back on its hinges straight at his nose from the shove Cydney gave it. Gus sidestepped it, stiff-armed it out of his way on its next swing and followed her into the kitchen. She wheeled away from the stove, a spitfire glint in her eye and a frying pan cocked in her hand.
“Bacon or sausage?”
“Sausage.”
“Pancakes or French toast?”
“French toast.”
She banged the skillet on a burner and grabbed a mug off the counter, filled it from the Krups machine and plunked it down on the island. “Orange juice or half a grapefruit?”
“Orange juice.” Better keep her away from knives, Gus thought, and swung himself onto a stool.
She poured him a glass from the carton in the fridge, slid it to him across the island and stalked back to the stove with a package of sausage. Gus watched her fork l
inks into the pan and adjust the flame.
“Ever ask yourself how Bebe got to be the hub of your life?”
Cydney ignored him, but Gus figured she would. She went back to the fridge for eggs, milk, butter and French bread. He waited till she’d cut a plate full of thick slices and tossed the knife in the sink. When she’d cracked the last egg and had no more to throw at him, he went on.
“It creeps up on you. One minute you’re you, with your own life and your own stuff, and the next minute there’s this little boy looking up at you. He’s scared and he’s confused, ‘cause he doesn’t understand why you’re standing in Mommy and Daddy’s place. He doesn’t know where they went and he doesn’t care. He just wants them back and he wants you gone ‘cause you aren’t them and you’re never gonna be, and somehow he knows that.”
She kept her back to him, poured milk over the eggs in a blue earthenware bowl, tossed in vanilla and nutmeg and snatched a whisk out of a crock. This whole thing was a crock. He was saying things to Cydney he’d sworn he’d never tell another living soul, but he was tired of fighting with her, weary of hearing about poor little obnoxious Bebe. And he was sick to death of Cydney’s condescension. She’d never said, “Look, bub. You’re a man. You just don’t get it,” but it was in her body language and the tone of her voice. Well yeah, he was a man but he got it and it was high damn time she knew it.
“You try to explain so he’ll understand, but he’s too little. The words you use scare him and make him cry. So you hug him and let him cry. That’s all you can do. You let him hit you and kick you and scream for Mommy and Daddy. You hold him so he won’t hurt himself and you let him cry till he falls asleep with his little arms limp and his soft, hot cheek pressed against your neck.”
She was listening. Her chin drifted toward her shoulder, and the whisk in her hand, furiously beating the eggs, started to slow.
“You put him in his toddler bed, on his stomach like Aunt Phoebe said,” Gus went on, “and you stand there looking at him. You’re scared to death ‘cause you’re just a kid yourself, but you’re all he has and you’ve got to stick this out. He’s so sad you can feel it seep into your hand when you lay it on his back. You feel helpless. You don’t know what to do but stand there with your hand on him. He whimpers in his sleep and you feel something inside you just—break. It hurts but you know it’s nothing compared to what’s hurting him.”
Mother of the Bride Page 23