Beard in Hiding, page 4
I thought about telling her to touch herself. I considered demanding she help me by petting that sweet button between her legs. But no. Not this time. Maybe stubbornly, I was determined she do nothing but enjoy herself. Plus, I liked seeing her like this, struggling, aching, wanting.
“I’m so close,” she moaned, her fingers flexing on my sides, her body restless beneath me. “Repo, I’m—”
“Jason,” I blurted, dipping my hips and rocking as I entered her.
Her gaze sharpened. “Jason?” she asked softly, almost lovingly, and her eyes searched mine.
“Yeah, Jason.”
My heart gave a painful squeeze and I near choked on a sudden flood of something unidentifiable. Damn. Damn. I liked that too much, my name on her lips, her knowing me, and the delicious tension building at the base of my spine threatened to release.
She should not say my name. That’s it. We’re done. Playtime was over.
“Ja—”
I kissed her again, shutting her up and increasing the speed of my invasion. Fitting a hand between us, I tapped her clit, quick and light, another tease, and her whole body tensed just before I felt the spasm of her release clench and release around my cock. Tearing her mouth away to gasp and cry out, her legs shook.
I gave my body permission to take over, take her how I’d wanted, hard and fast.
Inexplicably, I didn’t. Instead, I made certain to drive deep and careful, hit the tender, essential places within her body. My hand caught between us still toying with her clit to prolong her cresting gratification.
She came again, a strangled moan of surprise and chants of curses wrest out of her. Diane’s legs unlocked and her feet slammed on the bed, her hips pistoning in a careless, greedy rhythm. Then I told myself again to surrender to need. But even as my vision blinded and the coiling tension became an explosion of erotic fulfilment and primal satisfaction, something in my subconscious demanded that I persist in maintaining her pleasure.
I can make myself more than unforgettable. I’ll make myself essential—a drug, a craving. Then she’ll give me more than just one—no. No. I couldn’t think like that. I wouldn’t.
Diane’s moan seemed to go on and on until it became an uninhibited cry that slowly, slowly tapered. And I kept moving, wanting to give her every last second, wanting her to enjoy every last quake and tremor. And when the last of her cries abated, I yielded to the impulse to kiss her again.
My heartbeat now thunder instead of a drum, I took her mouth over and over, my hands greedy for the feel of her body, frantic for it, for her. And with each press of her welcoming lips, I couldn’t help but fear each kiss might be our last.
Chapter Three
*Diane*
“Midlife is the time to let go of an overdominant ego and to contemplate the deeper significance of human existence.”
Carl Gustav Jung
Mr. Repo fell asleep. I did not. It was the only thing I’d faked thus far tonight, other than maybe a bit of bravado when I’d walked in.
My slightly sweaty naked body tangled with Mr. Repo’s slightly sweaty naked body as he slept, and the heat between felt less uncomfortable, less mortifying, less shocking than I’d been expecting. And that confused me. The whole evening had been confusing.
Some examples include: he’d put his mouth down there and had seemed to enjoy the experience because he’d done it multiple times; we’d had sexual intercourse more than once; and being naked during and after sex had felt natural.
I’d never been fully naked with another person since my momma bathed me. My ex had called it sinful to be naked together, that our bodies were for procreation, not for recreation. Kip didn’t like sweat, or being dirty, or smells other than hairspray and suntan lotion for some odd reason. So, I’d been cool, squeaky clean, eschewing perfume, scented deodorants and flowery soaps at all times for twenty-eight years. I’m going to buy perfume this week.
Wearing perfume, using scented soaps and lavender bubble bath were on my to do list, my post-being-married-to-a-feckless-narcissist list. I’d made the list last week, and I’d already crossed off seven items. Granted, those seven items had all been related to eating tasty food, but I’d done it.
After tonight, I’d be able to cross off another three items: have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger, have an orgasm that was not self-administered, and have an orgasm during sex.
Other items on the list included various indulgences of a similar nature: buying myself antique jewelry, taking trips all over the world and staying in fancy hotels, going to Vegas and seeing one of those male-stripper shows, learning how to fly an airplane, learning how to ride a horse, learning to play the piano, learning how to paint. For years, I’d frequently wished I could just pack up, take Jennifer, and leave. I’d loved drawing when I was younger, before I was married, but Kip—
Mr. Repo shifted, his arm around my torso growing lax as he relaxed further into slumber. I nibbled on my bottom lip and squeezed my eyes shut, praying he wouldn’t wake up.
The reason I’d pretended to fall asleep earlier was simple: I didn’t know what to say. My throat felt scratchy and hoarse from how embarrassingly noisy I’d been, my mind frenzied and full thoughts I didn’t feel comfortable confessing to a stranger. I couldn’t think of a single appropriate thing to say other than, Thank you.
I felt so grateful. But also—as I mentioned—incredibly confused. Why had Mr. Repo done it? Because I’d dared him and badgered him into it?
Yeah. . . probably. I sighed. Even if I did badger him, the large, muscley, motorcycle gang member didn’t seem to mind that we both smelled like sweat and sex and both odors were being absorbed by the blanket covering us.
I’d thought—when Mr. Repo initially left the bed earlier while I fake-slept—that he was leaving me, period. And that would’ve been fine. I’d had no expectations of him, none at all! And now that he’d given me what I’d come for (several times), there was no reason to stay.
Instead, he’d spread a comforter over my body, gently fit a pillow beneath my cheek, then climbed back in to hold me.
To hold me.
Gathering my back to his chest, he’d slid one arm beneath the crook of my neck. His other hand, big and rough, had stroked from my bottom to my shoulder before grabbing a handful of my right breast. His wonderfully hairy leg had slid between mine, he’d sighed, and then he’d promptly fallen asleep. I’d never had to fake being asleep while someone touched me. It was . . . nice.
This is spooning.
Now, don’t roll your eyes. Of course I knew what spooning was. I’d spooned before. Not with Kip—never with him—but with my cherubs. When they’d had nightmares or just needed a cuddle, I’d always been Isaac and Jennifer’s big spoon. I’d never been the small one, with anyone, until now.
Has Kip been spooning Elena all this time? Is he her big spoon? Does he make her—No! No. No. Opening my eyes, I stared into the dim room, just one small lamp casting our sparse surroundings in greyish light.
Acid and irritation coated the inside of my mouth, congealing my sadness and confusion into anger. When I’d married Kipling, he’d been twenty-eight to my eighteen and I’d trusted him. My vows had included obedience. I’d kept my vows; I’d taken them seriously. I’d obeyed. I’d been so obedient, I might as well have been a dog.
My chin wobbled and anger morphed into a monstrous kind of frustration, the kind that stings your nose and clogs your throat, makes thinking and breathing at the same time a labor. God. I know vengeance is Yours, but if You could smite Kipling Sylvester and make it excruciatingly painful, I’d be very much obliged.
Despite the violent turn of my thoughts, my darn chin kept on wobbling.
I needed to leave. Now. Before the waterworks burning behind my eyes burst. Before I cried in front of Mr. Repo and likely reinforced his impression of me as pathetic and desperate. I didn’t care one way or the other if he thought I was pathetic and desperate—I was pathetic and desperate—but I’d promised myself I would always, always leave every room from now on with my head held high, no matter what.
Inching away from the man behind me, I drew a steadying stream of air into my lungs. He must’ve been real tuckered out because he didn’t wake up. Mr. Repo had, after all, just given me more than ten orgasms and had seemed to have at least four himself. No wonder he was exhausted, poor man. The last thing he likely wanted was an awkward conversation in the morning with the pushy woman who’d badgered him to prove his salt. The least I could do is leave him in peace. If I thought it would be well received, I would sent him a gift basket for his pains and trouble.
Actually, maybe I would. I didn’t have to sign the card, I could just send it along with a note of thanks. Unless he handed out a baker’s dozen of orgasms to several random women regularly—which, given his skill, I wouldn’t find terribly surprising—he would know who sent the basket.
More and more determined to follow through with the gift basket idea, I hunted for my clothes. Having so many employees, I knew folks needed to be told when they did a job well. Withholding praise wears a person down, makes them feel helpless and weak. Ask me how I know.
You mean, how you’ve treated your daughter?
I sucked in a sharp breath at the thought, biting my lip until it stung as I battled a whole dang mountain of guilt. Gosh darnit.
“No,” I whispered, sniffling and shaking my head. “No, you will not think about this right now.”
Ordering myself around these days never seemed to work and soon my heart and chest seized with self-recrimination because I’d been a terrible, terrible mother. I’d allowed myself to be a tool for my husband to impose his will upon us all. Worse, I was also beginning to suspect I’d taken out my own bitterness and frustration on my sweet, kindhearted, beautiful daughter. Obedience had been a vow I’d hidden behind, used to justify shameful behavior. And for what? Scraps of Kip’s approval while he lavished affection on—
“Stop it. Stop,” I said under my breath, wiping my eyes with suddenly shaking fingers. When I got home, I’d take a shower and cry. The best place in the world to cry is in the shower. I always cried in the shower. Always.
And then I’d make a new list entitled, Ways to spoil Jennifer and make up over twenty years of being a horrible person.
Despite the pragmatism of my plan, my eyes continued to sting and leak. I stumbled, nearly tipping over as I pulled on my clothes and shoes. I’d liked how I’d looked earlier in the evening, but now the leather of the skirt made my undies ride up and the tank top felt like wearing nothing at all. Fisting the edges of my jacket together at my chest, I peeked at the sleeping man in the bed, wanting to be sure he was well and truly in dreamland before working on the locks of the door.
. . . Goodness.
I drew in a shaky breath, my gaze wandering over the substantial shape of him, the chaos of tattoos on his impressive bicep and massive shoulder snagging my notice before my attention drifted to the angular lines of his face. His demand that I keep my eyes open and on him while he touched me had not been a simple matter. Mr. Repo possessed a devastatingly handsome face, one I’d never felt comfortable looking at for too long when I’d spotted him around town.
His was a face that always made heat rise to my cheeks and my chest get all fluttery. It inspired sinful thoughts that had always made me feel a lingering shame and a determination to be a better wife, a Godlier woman. Looking at him now, he resembled that famous British soccer player quite a lot, the one with all the watch ads in GQ. The man was just simply physically breathtaking in every possible way.
And I’d badgered him into having sex with me.
With me. A bossy, no talent, ignorant country bumpkin who always aimed too high for reasons unknown. A used up and bitter forty-something mother of two adult children, now alone and perpetually unloved after foolishly investing decades in a marriage to a cheater and a liar and an abuser.
Why had Mr. Repo done it? Why had he agreed? Being bossy must’ve been my superpower, that’s for sure. If folks required evidence, they need look no further than the beautiful, capable, sensually skilled man in the bed.
But there’s no badgering your way out of a miserable life, Diane. And your horrid choices.
My gaze dropped and I turned to the door, swiping at an errant tear rolling down my cheek. I turned the locks and numbly stepped out, shutting the door behind me with a soft snick. Looking left and then right, I frowned at the long, nondescript hallway.
The walls were black, and the florescent lights buzzing above cast everything in a harsh, raucous kind of anti-glow. Mr. Repo’s room had smelled like furniture polish and pine; Mr. Repo had smelled like whiskey and heat. But this hallway smelled like bleach and sick. I didn’t recall it being so . . . so . . . so this when we’d come in. Oppressively depressing and oddly terrifying.
I gripped the front of my jacket tighter at my throat, lifted my chin, and squared my shoulders. It’s just a hallway, Diane.
Pretty sure we’d come in from the left, I turned that way and strode forward, hesitating when I reached the end of this first hallway and encountered another one, identical in design and stench. My heart kicked up and I glanced over my shoulder, eyeing the bedroom door I’d just exited. This place was a maze. It would be incredibly foolish for me to continue onward without a guide.
But I didn’t want to wake Mr. Repo. I didn’t want to talk to him. I already felt low about myself, and even though I’d twisted his arm and pushed him into it, the during part of our interlude had been really nice. Really nice. It had felt like a gift, actually. A memory I’d cherish, something for me to take out and recall on cold, lonely evenings. An example of me being brave.
I had so little examples of me being brave over the course of my life. I needed it. There had to be another way. Ruining the evening now by talking to the man felt—
“Mom?”
I whipped around at the voice and gasped so hard I choked on my own breath. OH MY GOD!
Isaac’s open mouth broadcasted the extent of his surprise. My son’s wide and round eyes swept down as he took a step back, his eyebrows slowly pulling together.
“Uh . . .” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder, but then dropped it, my heart a jackhammer as my thoughts swirled. No, no, no. You weren’t supposed to be here! The man at the door as I’d entered the bar earlier in the evening told me Isaac wasn’t here and wasn’t due back for several weeks. I was going to be sick.
His shocked stare moved over my shoulder and then back to me, the sharpness of suspicion there tempered by the persistence of his disbelief and—unless I was mistaken?—a hint of concern. “Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?”
I shook my head. “No. Not at all.”
Confusion replaced disbelief. “Are you drunk?”
I shook my head again.
A severe glare took up residence on his features and he stepped closer, lowering his voice and making no attempt to veil his anger. “Then what the fuck are you doing here?”
Gasping at his language, the unsavory word a bucket of ice water to my senses, my motherly instincts kicked in. “Isaac Gregory Sylvester! Good heavens. Watch your words.”
He clamped his mouth shut, his jaw working as his glare shifted over my shoulder once more. “Which room?”
“Pardon?”
“Which room did you just leave?”
I stiffened my back. “That’s none of your affair,” I said, even though what I wanted to say was, I love you, I miss you. Won’t you come visit me?
If my brain was in chaos, my heart was an anarchist. I hadn’t seen my son in ages. He hadn’t acknowledged any of us—any of his family—since before he’d returned from deployment overseas and joined the Wraiths. I’d cried in the shower about it, about him, about the loss of my sweet boy, for years—every Tuesday and Thursday, as a matter of fact.
Isaac’s blue eyes, so familiar to me and yet not, sliced to mine, pinning me in place. I held my breath. What did he see, I wondered? Did he have any fond memories of his childhood? Did he remember the day we played hooky and I took him to the pumpkin patch an hour north and we’d raced through the corn maze, laughing our butts off? Did he remember—
“Come on.” My tall son wrapped a hand around my upper arm and pulled me down the hall, his jaw continuing to flex like he was grinding his teeth.
I swallowed the urge to ask if he was wearing his mouth guard at night. The dentist had been quite adamant about it after he’d had his braces off. Our son was a night-grinder and he’d wear his teeth down if he wasn’t diligent. And who was checking on him? Who was making sure he wore his mouth guard and had his clothes washed in hypoallergenic detergent? Did he have his tea tree oil? His skin had always been so sensitive.
Biting my lip to stifle a sob that tasted like despair, I blinked away silent tears. I couldn’t stop them. He was leading me out, I understood that, but I didn’t want to leave now. I wanted to sit and talk to him. Just for a minute. My heart ached so badly, my vision actually turned grey for a moment, blackness creeping at the edges.
My head swimming, I tried dragging me feet. “Could we—could we just talk for a—”
“No. You need to leave. Now.” His voice was so hard, whipping out like a lash.
I closed my eyes and let myself be led, wishing we were anywhere else. But then I opened my eyes again because—as painful as this moment felt—here he was. We were together. He might never want to see me, he might never want to know me, but that just meant this was a rare opportunity. I needed to pull myself together. I needed to make the most of it.
“Are they treating you well?” I asked as he turned another corner.
Silence.
“Your hair is so short,” I lamented, missing his blond baby locks, and his longer hair when he’d been a teen. I’d given him his first haircut on his first birthday. I still had the little baggie of hair. I’d intended to make him a baby book, but it was just too painful to contemplate these days. So, I kept it in my office at the Lodge. Sometimes I took it out on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
