Living Wilder

by Leigh Tudor

  Tonight, she would pull out her dusty laptop and do some sleuthing as it pertained to Madame Garmond and le Docteur Russe, aka Vlad Petrov, dispelling any skepticism she harbored for the two people she feared could cause her family the most harm.

  Intentionally or unintentionally.

  And then tomorrow she would start her new job with a fresh attitude and clear mind.

  Loren was so relieved when the Thanksgiving potluck turned out to be a monumental success. Largely due to Madame Garmond and her iron fist when negotiating with the women of Wilder on those dishes she deemed “Thanksgiving potluck-worthy.”

  Madame vetted each listing, ensuring they passed the veracity test. Which was basically comprised of Mercy texting Becky Waterman, who gave it either a thumbs-up or thumbs down.

  Loren didn’t dare tell Madame that Becky allowed a few to slide as they were longtime favorites. Case in point: She seriously doubted the pilgrims fed on “beans and weenies” during the first Thanksgiving.

  That said, it was touch and go on a few questionable casseroles and side dishes. Madame and Lenore Sterling nearly came to fisticuffs when the English woman turned up her nose and lip to Lenore’s description of a mint Jell-O shrimp mold garnished with apple slices tossed in a mayo-based dressing.

  Madame countered that the dish did not align with the Thanksgiving theme.

  Lenore insisted it was a staple on her mother’s Thanksgiving table, and she had brought the shrimp mold to the potluck every year since her passing.

  Madame delicately inquired if her passing were at all related to the shrimp mold.

  After getting Emmy Lou Roberts involved as a mediator of sorts, neither Lenore nor the pastor’s wife proved to be a match for the Ingalls’ pretend, adopted-in-spirit-only grandmother.

  The shrimp mold was out, and homemade gingerbread was the strongly recommended substitute which fell under the category of dessert as opposed to where the shrimp mold landed, which Madame had named Gastronomic Atrocities.

  During the potluck, Madame sat at a checkered-cloth-covered foldout table with Cara, Ally, Samantha, and Amarilla.

  Loren sat at the adjacent table, surprised that the teenagers seemed more than okay with the seating arrangement as Madame regaled them with stories of American terms that drove the English, in her words, “Utterly mad.”

  “What’s the matter with the word ‘burglarized’?” Cara asked as she took a bite of the turkey roasted by Emmy Lou.

  Madame swallowed a bite of stuffing with a frown. “A home gets ‘burgled.’ Whereas getting burglarized,” she said, butchering the pronunciation, “sounds more like a chemical reaction.”

  “Sorry,” Ally said, squeezing ketchup on her plate. “But getting ‘burgled’ sounds a lot weirder to me.”

  “And then there is the word ‘jelly,’” Madame said before taking a bite of turkey.

  “What’s the matter with jelly?” Samantha asked. “Like, peanut butter and jelly.”

  “Jelly refers to a mold of sorts. That jiggles.”

  Amarilla piped up with, “Like Mrs. Sterling’s disgusting shrimp and apple mold.” She shuddered.

  “Well, yes, that is the proper use of jelly in a somewhat improper and forgettable dish. But it’s jam that you spoon out of a jar, not jelly.”

  “But we have jam. It’s like preserves,” Ally said.

  “That would be marmalade,” Madame said with an all-knowing tilt of her perfectly coiffed head.

  Levi sat directly across from Madame. “Well, I like how you say things,” he stated, wearing a freshly ironed shirt with what looked to be copious amounts of pomade to slick down what little hair he had. “Everything sounds prettier when you say it.”

  Madame twittered and Loren smiled as she eavesdropped on their conversation, content that all was going so well at their table, not to mention the potluck as a whole.

  Mercy, Vlad, and none other than Daniela, sat across from Loren and Alec, with Gus on Alec’s other side.

  Loren pointed with her fork at the amount of food on Mercy’s plate. “You going to eat all of that?”

  “No,” Mercy said, unfolding the napkin and pulling out the utensils wrapped inside. “I’m going to eat as much as I can and take home whatever’s left.”

  “Did you ask per-mis-sion?” Loren asked with a grin, referring to their most recent long-term authoritarian houseguest.

  “Noooo,” Mercy said, her expression that of one of the children sitting at the smaller table on the farthest side of the church basement, exhibiting more commitment to horseplay than eating. “She’s not the boss of me.” She looked up at Loren. “But if she asks, I totally never said that.”

  At that moment, one of the more aggressive boys at the children’s table began giving a fake series of uppercut punches to the boy sitting next to him.

  “Hey, Henry Calhoun!” Mercy yelled with her hands wrapped around her mouth, “Don’t make me make your mother call child protective services on me.”

  The room let out a communal chuckle as Henry’s hands flew to his sides with a theatrical grin that was missing a front tooth.

  Mercy was considered Wilder’s child whisperer, not so much because of her ability to nurture, but her capacity to bring the town’s feral children to heel.

  And the children loved her.

  Alec squeezed Loren’s leg, and she turned to him as he whispered in her ear. “You did a great job.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Madame was the henchman for the food, so the rest was just logistics.”

  He kept looking into her eyes until she began to fidget. “What?” she asked with a nudge to his shoulder, a great excuse for getting closer to his neck and panty-melting scent.

  “You happy?” he asked, with his usual stoic self.

  “Yes.”

  And then he kissed her on the forehead which she had learned translated as deep adoration from one of Mercy’s love-language books.

  She wasn’t sure he adored her per se, but he appeared to be in heavy “like.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “But mathematics is the sister, as well as the servant of the arts and is touched with the same madness and genius.”

  —Harold Marston Morse

  American mathematician best known for his work on the calculus of “variation in the large,” a subject in which he introduced the technique of differential topology now known as Morse theory

  * * *

  A few days later, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, they celebrated Thanksgiving at the Ingalls’ home.

  Loren stood on the front porch in a spice-colored skirt, a white, long-sleeved sweater and wearing knee-high gray suede boots. She crossed her arms loosely in front of her chest as she waited for Alec to pull into the drive. He’d just texted that he and Ally and their special guest were on their way.

  The weather was warmer than usual at sixty-plus degrees. Loren raised her eyes skyward and swore she could smell the bright colors of the cumulus, a surreal mixture of bright blue, warm yellow, and a tinge of pink.

  Thanks to her new job at the hardware store, an inviting brick walkway led to the front porch, a vast improvement from the cracked concrete path from before.

  The elaborate wooden arbor to her right led to a flower garden with a long row of fencing with vines entangled that would hopefully bloom next spring with grapes.

  She turned to her right and smiled at the half dozen hydrangeas that had grown twice their size since planting them with Mercy’s help, their gorgeous blooms providing a waft of fragrant air as you moved to and fro on the front porch swing. Earlier in the fall, they’d transitioned from milky white to soft pink and were now taking on a gorgeous red-wine tint. Soon the plants would go dormant for the winter, but for now, she’d enjoy every minute of them.

  She heard before she could see the four wheel-drive truck as it rounded the curve to the driveway. Her heart beat faster at the prospect of seeing Alec and their first-time guest.

  The instant the truck came to a stop
, Ally jumped out of the back seat, gave Loren a quick hug and ran into the house as if she hadn’t just seen Cara the day prior.

  And then Alec erupted from the driver’s side, giving her a lazy sexy grin. She waved at him, bouncing on her tiptoes as the passenger door opened and Jimbo’s head popped out.

  “Hey there, Half-Pint,” he said with a smile and a wave.

  “Hi, Jimbo,” Loren said. “Happy Thanksgiving. So glad you could come.”

  As he made his way up the brick pathway with his usual slight limp, Loren could see that he looked to have showered, wearing clean clothes and a light coat.

  He stopped at the foot of the steps. “You look pretty as sunshine, Half-Pint.”

  “Thank you, I’m so glad you could join us. And you’re looking quite spiffy yourself.”

  Alec reached Jimbo’s side, carrying a Pyrex dish.

  Jimbo lifted his thumb toward Alec. “Your beau here was kind enough to let me use his bathroom. Couldn’t come to Thanksgiving smelling like a goat.”

  Alec clutched the older man’s shoulder. “We’re just happy you’re here.”

  Thanksgiving at the Ingalls turned out to be a community event, a good bit smaller than the potluck but just as loud and boisterous. Madame, once again the faithful party planner, had invited Levi and Amarilla (Marybell was off on another tryst), Becky and Samantha (Becky’s husband, once again incognito, gaming becoming more and more of a priority, even during holidays).

  Daniela showed up, and Madame shrugged her shoulders at a suspicious Loren, causing them both to glance at a grinning Vlad, who kissed Daniela on the cheek and took her coat.

  And of course, Mercy, Alec, Ally, and Jimbo rounded out the guest list.

  A couple of times during the meal, Mercy would catch Loren’s attention, soft eyes communicating to one another how grateful they were without uttering a single word.

  While Madame and Mercy began to set aside the main dishes and pull out the various desserts, Alec looked at Loren and tilted his head to the side, indicating “follow me.” Loren moved her napkin to her chair and gladly followed his lead past the living room and through the front door.

  Loren was sure he would be sitting on the front porch swing, but caught him just as he was turning the corner. He seemed to be in a hurry, based on his relentless pace, and then she frowned as he stepped inside the new tool shed.

  Excellent. She was eager to show off the newly constructed structure. A steal with the company discount she got at the hardware store.

  She turned the door handle, but before she could shut it, Alec’s arm reached past her and slammed it shut, grabbing her by the arms and pushing her against the work-bench.

  She could feel her entire body tense at the perceived assault. But then a miraculous thing happened. Just when she hit that edge of no return, and was about to unleash her wrath, his signature scent held her sense of self-preservation hostage. And instead of reacting to a potential threat, melted against him and inhaled.

  “What?” she croaked as his mouth found her neck, and his hands were already making their way up her skirt.

  Once again, she breathed him in and then out.

  And. She. Melted.

  Like warm butter in a hot iron skillet, the heat wearing down her defenses while the hot liquid pooled mercilessly downward, reaching the sensitive area of her lady bits.

  “Alec,” she moaned, self-conscious of sounding like those hormone-addled women in Mercy’s romance novels. But honestly, his hands were everywhere, and just when she thought he was honing in on a single erogenous zone, he’d moved to another area of her body as his mouth licked and nipped its way down her neck and shoulders.

  “It’s the boots,” he stated matter-of-factly, as he twisted her around so his chest was against her back, and she had to grab onto the shelf just at eye level for leverage.

  “Boots?” she croaked as his mouth latched onto the back of her neck while his octopus hands multitasked, one dipping into the front of her panties, finding her clit as if assisted by a homing device, the other staking claim to her ass.

  His lips were now tugging at her ear. “You wore fuck-me boots for the sole purpose of teasing the fuck out of me.”

  “I wore boots to stay warm,” she argued, at the same time secretly promising to purchase the high-heeled, knee-high suede boots in every color as soon as she could find her breath and sanity.

  His hand pulled away from her happy place and undid the top snap on her skirt and then the second, the sound a sexy prelude of things to come. He slowly pulled the silky skirt down along with her panties, until he was on his knees.

  She looked over her shoulder as he worked her garments to the floor, lifting one boot at a time to free them and tossing them to the side to land on a stack of potting soil bags.

  He sat back on his haunches with nothing less than reverence on his face.

  Her body trembled as his eyes, full of naughty intentions, looked up at her through ridiculously long lashes that she knew the women of Wilder would pay good money for.

  “You ready to be punished for what you did?”

  Amazed at her pooling desire, with no concerns at all to her overall safety, she gave him a slight shrug. “I have no regrets.” And with what was pure instinct alongside sexual intent, she licked her lips.

  “Oh, now you’re just asking for it.” His eyes blinked slowly, never leaving hers. “Move back,” he instructed.

  She hesitated, as he moved to the side with one hand on her calf directing her stance.

  Aware she was naked from the waist down with the exception of her libido-inducing boots, she felt heat rise up her neck, landing on her face as she faced forward.

  “Open your legs.”

  Resting her forehead on her hands gripping the shelf, she felt him pull at her calf and she stepped to the side, conflicted at feeling both vulnerable and wildly excited.

  She glanced down between her arms, just as he sat on his haunches, his hand inching their way up her thigh and then sliding through her folds.

  “So wet for me.” He nipped her ass cheek, and she yelped.

  “According to online health sites, that’s perfectly normal.”

  “That’s . . . good to know.” His fingers moved her juices toward the front and over her clit.

  She swallowed as he moved painstakingly slow, coming up on his knees. She loosened one hand, grabbing the edge of the workbench at her waist to accommodate the awkward but oh, so satisfying position.

  She heard a guttural moan and then realized it came from her. “Alec,” she said, not sure what she needed but desperate to get to it.

  “Don’t move,” he warned, his fingers now moving not only forward but now back toward toward what she considered uncharted territory.

  “Is this normal?” he taunted.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know.”

  “Do you like how that feels?”

  “Oh, God, yes.”

  “Well then, you’re going to love this.” She felt his hands spread her folds open.

  And then his mouth, Was. There.

  What this man could do with his lips, tongue, and teeth was quite literally obscene. And where he moved his fingers, back and forth, he mirrored those same movements but with his mouth.

  And she loved it.

  He pinned the back of her legs against his chest, allowing her to lean back more, giving him better access for more licking and sucking and ravishing.

  She totally got what the word “ravish” meant now. She’d read it in books and would roll her eyes at what she thought was romance novel hyperbole. But as of today, she got it. Because the man was eating her like an overly anticipated holiday dessert and ravishing her.

  Her heart raced, the blood surging in places of her body she didn’t know existed, as his animalistic assault heightened. Clutching the shelf above and the workbench below, she could feel the pressure reach an untenable point.

  And then suddenly Alec stood, one arm wrapped around her waist as
she heard a snap and then a wrenched zipper. And before she could even look over her shoulder, he covered her mouth with one hand, the other on her hip, and thrust inside her.

  Before catching her breath, she came. Screaming into his calloused palm, acutely aware of handing over all physical control as he relentlessly pumped inside her body.

  She continued to hold on tight to both the shelf and the workbench. And without warning, the shelf began to tilt from the additional weight, along with the contents. Several small containers of screws and some paper towels came tumbling down, her quick reflexes deflecting them from doing any bodily damage.

  Alec continued his relentless thrusts, unaware of the shed carnage surrounding them.

  Alec’s moan followed, both hands clutching her at the waist, the pressure of his fingers sure to cause bruising.

  He jerked once, and then again, as her body milked him to the end.

  After taking a moment to catch their breath, Alec pulled away, giving her neck a last nip.

  She rose from her forearms and did her best to dust off the wood shavings and leftover potting soil from the surface of the workbench. One side of the shelving support was intact, the other bent and resting on the bench.

  “What happened?” Alec asked, pressed to her back and now conscious of his surroundings.

  “Collateral damage,” she quipped.

  “You okay?” He pulled her up, handing her the discarded garments.

  She grabbed one of the rolls of paper towels that was once on the shelf, removed an inner strip and handed it to a suddenly mute Alec. Then she took another strip and cleaned herself as well.

  She pointed at the plastic trash bin in the far corner, where Alec disposed of the evidence of their shed tryst, and she did the same.

  Silently they pulled their clothes back on. Loren found it difficult to look him in the eye. When she finally did, he stood before her, his eyes pensive.

  “That was . . . unexpected,” she said with a forced laugh.