Authors: Carol Pavliska
He came barreling into the loft before she could decide.
“Cleo!”
“Is everything okay?” she asked. He was drenched in sweat.
“Now it is.” He grabbed her, pulling her close. She stood stiffly, arms at her sides, doing her best impression of a startled manikin.
Did he just sniff her hair? “Baby, you smell so good.”
Did he just call her
baby
? And what was that pressing into her belly? Julian moved his hips and—
oh
. He was very happy to see her. What had brought about this change in temperament?
Tremors passed through his body into hers. “Hold me,” he whispered.
She put her arms around him with a sense of déjà vu. This was a synesthesia episode. Was it ever possible for both of them to be in their right minds at the same time? She lifted her face to his. Eyes slightly unfocused. Yep. The boy was going down. What could she do to help him?
He sniffed her hair again—weird—and his lips curved into a small smile. Maybe it was that easy. “Feeling better?”
“Mmm,” he moaned. “Please, Cleo, I want some more.”
He was like a heavily tattooed Oliver Twist, but he wasn’t asking for gruel. “More of what?”
“Of you.” Her heart pounded like a bass drum. He lifted her chin with his fingertips, bent his head, and kissed her. And he was just as good at it as he was the last time. She parted her lips in invitation, he accepted, and her knees went weak; it was a good thing he held her so tightly.
He walked her backward through her apartment, straight to the unmade bed, and pushed her down gently. “Cleo,” he gasped. “I need you.”
Needed her to do what? “Listen, you’re a little off. Or a lot, actually.
Muy loco
at the moment. The kissing was fun, but we should probably stop now.”
He pulled his shirt over his head, and Cleo lost her conviction. Good grief, she’d memorized every angle, plane, and tattoo on his beautiful chest, but she still couldn’t stop staring. She reached up to touch him, and he brought her hand to his lips. His tongue traced the lines of her palm, eyes searching hers, asking what she was willing to give.
Everything.
God, she was willing to give him everything. But first, he had to be brought back to the surface. She wanted him mind, body, and soul—and all three were not currently available.
He crawled onto the bed with her. The window was open, and a car drove by with its stereo blaring. Julian flinched, then buried his head against her breast.
She started the trick that had worked before. “This old man, he played one…”
He clung less tightly with each verse. The shivering stopped. For some stupid reason, her singing a nursery rhyme pulled him out of it. Crazy.
“This old man, he played eight…”
Julian’s hand ran up under her T-shirt, straight to her breast. He squeezed it gently and pulled the cup of her bra down, his fingers nimbly finding the nipple.
“He played knick-knack on my gate…”
His mouth went to her breast. He sucked gently before flicking the silver stud in his tongue across her nipple. She couldn’t have come up with a
knick-knack paddywhack, give a dog a bone
if her life depended on it.
“Feeling better?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Mmm-hmm,” he said, lifting his face from her breast. His eyes were perfectly clear, fully focused, and bright. “That’s a horrid nursery rhyme. You couldn’t sing a bit of the Cure, maybe? It has to be
give a dog a bone
with you?”
He was back. “Sorry. It’s weird, isn’t it? But that’s what comes out when I’m…” She searched for a word to describe how she felt.
“Horny?”
No point in denying it.
“You just invited me to play knick-knack on your gate,” he said with a devilish grin. “You’ll have to open it for me, though.”
He kissed her again, and she let her thighs fall open.
“What do you say, Cleo? Can this old man come rolling home?”
“Yes,” she said. “We’re both in possession of our full faculties, right?” She was on fire. And only Julian’s touch could put it out.
“I don’t know that our faculties are anything to brag about. And I need to give you something to do with your mouth. Otherwise, the two remaining paddywhacks might slip out and spoil the mood.”
Like she could possibly sing right now.
“Here, baby. Suck on this.” He slipped a finger between her lips, slowly working it in and out. “That’s better,” he said.
He went back to her breast with his mouth, and she used her tongue to caress his finger. It was strangely erotic, sucking on a finger, and when he offered another, she hungrily accepted. Just as she got used to having a full mouth, Julian’s fingers on his other hand trailed down to her shorts. He rubbed her gently, and she moaned, opening her legs wider. His fingers slipped inside her shorts, pushing aside the crotch of her panties. She thrust her hips forward, and he slid a single finger in.
“Cleo,” he whispered, removing his fingers from her mouth. “I want to make love to you.”
Okay, he hadn’t said,
Alice, I want to make love to you
. He’d said Cleo, and he knew what he was doing and whom he was doing it with. She’d wanted him so desperately and for so long, she only hesitated a second before saying, “Okay. But we need a condom.”
He groaned with frustration.
“I think I have one,” she said.
“Hurry.”
Cleo scooted off the bed and scurried the two or three feet to her tiny bathroom, where she scrounged around urgently. The corner of a foil pack poked out from behind a tube of antibacterial ointment. She snatched it up and bounded back to the bed, where Julian lay, stripped down to nothing. The bed was also stripped.
“There were cookie crumbs,” Julian explained. “Sorry.” He grabbed her and pulled her onto the mattress, now covered only by the soft fleece pad she liked to spread beneath her sheets. It felt good against her skin, soft and fuzzy and
ooh!
Something hard ran up the inside of her thigh.
“Oh, Julian.” She sighed.
He rose to his knees and fumbled with the foil packet before using his teeth to rip it open. He swiftly rolled the condom on, and with an impressive martial arts type of a move, had her ankles up over his shoulders.
Her shorts were still on. Julian finally realized it, and he ran a finger under the seamed crotch and effortlessly ripped it apart. Cleo yelped in surprise, then the tiny side seam of her panties received the same treatment. He held her legs open and took a good, long look.
She blushed under his intense gaze, waiting for the usual comment about her being a natural redhead. But all he said was, “Beautiful.”
Cleo tensed for a forceful entry. But Julian was surprisingly gentle, pouring himself into her. He groaned and leaned in, causing her legs to part and her heels to slip off his shoulders, sliding slowly down his arms until her knees were crooked at his elbows. She was at his mercy.
He drove a strong, hard rhythm with a measured cadence. Cleo’s body responded hungrily, seeking friction in that perfect spot. The fleece pad beneath her was soft, and the unrelenting man on top of her was hard. “You okay?” he asked, gazing down at her through strands of hair.
“God, yes,” she whispered. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
She was lost in the sensations. Gone was the mental self-talk that usually plagued her during sex, the endless internal ramblings and assessments as to her partner’s or her own peculiarities, the constant estimations of timeliness or ponderings over the likelihood of orgasm. She was immersed in the act of loving. This was making love. They were creating something. Could Julian actually
see
it?
Liquid warmth radiated from the center of her body. Cleo arched her back and let her legs fall open, tingling to the tips of her fingers and toes. Usually she needed more direct stimulation than intercourse to achieve an orgasm, but Julian had her out of her mind with pleasure. He knew what he was doing—no doubt about it—but it wasn’t his skill at pushing her buttons that had her about to come undone. It was the idea that it was
him
taking her over the top of the crest. It was Julian.
“Oh, fuck, baby. It’s so good,” he gasped. He moved faster, and Cleo’s heart sped up accordingly. Lifting her hips, she opened her legs as wide as she could, and her orgasm slammed into her like a tidal wave. It was so intense she cried out, bucking and writhing as a million bursts of lights and colors exploded in her head.
Julian’s eyes were wide open, taking it all in.
An instant later, he lost his rhythm, the muscles in his arms trembled and shook, and finally, he sank into her one final time before shuddering and collapsing on top of her.
He breathed raggedly into the pillow, skin slick with sweat, hair damp against her cheek. She wrapped her legs around him and melted into the fleece pad, feeling warm and sleepy. He stilled and rolled gently off her. Then he dropped his head to her breast, and she held him tightly.
She knew she shouldn’t do it, but she whispered, “I love you.”
Would he answer? She held her breath.
All was silent.
...
Julian stirred, coming slowly out of a dream. He looked around the room, waiting for the puzzle pieces to fall into place and hoping they’d do it quickly.
“My God,” Cleo said. She grabbed a pillow and covered herself with it. “You don’t remember a thing.”
Naked, alarmed, and angry-looking women were not among his favorite things. And this one looked as if she might kill him.
“Don’t freak. It takes me a minute,” he said. There was still some buzzing going on in his head. He’d been a mess, very upset about something…
What was it?
It smashed into him like a baby grand falling out of a window. Addie. Goddamn.
“My sister’s marrying Mitch Landrum.”
“Okay, so we had sex. I was kind of hoping that’s the part you would remember,” Cleo said. “And there’s no way Addie’s getting married. You’re delusional.”
Of course, he knew they’d had sex. He couldn’t remember the details at the moment, but he knew they’d had sex, like he knew his hair was brown and his name was Julian. He closed his eyes and silently counted…
one, two, three
…that’s all it took.
When he opened his eyes, Cleo was staring at his cock, which was rock hard.
“Oh, my. I do believe you just remembered.” She wore a little half smile, and her cheeks were pink.
He smiled back. “Oh, I remember all right. Every last detail.”
Even the bit where you said you love me.
He’d tingled with joy, but also with panic. She
thought
she loved him, but for how long? He wasn’t a big deal like Lou. He was nothing but a freak with a guitar. As for his feelings for her, what if he was only confusing the relief she brought him with something deeper? What if he was just…
using her
? He swallowed down that ugly thought.
“Every last detail?” Her blush deepened.
“I remember a certain someone repeatedly saying, ‘please don’t stop, don’t you dare stop, I’ll kill you if you stop,’ and a few other things that brought a blush to my delicate cheeks.”
“You must have been delirious. I don’t recall uttering anything even close.”
“Well, some of it was hard to understand. Because of the screaming and moaning and crying.”
“I know,” Cleo said, with feigned sincerity. “You were very noisy.”
He wasn’t going to win a jest of wits with Cleo.
“I meant what I said. Addie is marrying Mitch Landrum.”
Cleo shook her head. “That’s crazy. She admitted to having a boyfriend. But Mitch Landrum? She’d have said something to me or Sherry.”
“I just came from Mitch’s house in Austin. And they’re definitely getting married.” He tugged at the pillow. “Now let’s have a peek, Big Red.”
Cleo clung tightly. Her brows furrowed. “That’s so weird. Why would she keep it a secret?”
“Because of me. She thought I’d freak out.”
“She was right. You had an impressive fit. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Really? I’d have guessed you were certified in sexual resuscitation,” he said. “And did you just refer to my lovemaking as some sort of frothing-at-the-mouth fit?”
She smiled at him and dropped the pillow. Then she pulled his face down to hers. “Your lovemaking, Mr. Wheaton, gave
me
all sorts of fits. And if you’re up to it”—she pointedly dropped her gaze to the area of his body that indicated he was—“I wouldn’t mind a few more.”
“Nothing would make me happier,” Julian said, brushing a stray curl away from her eye. “And this time, we’ll take it nice and slow. I want to savor every inch of you.”
…
Cleo hurried across the lawn of the Guenther House to get to the restaurant. Normally, she might take her time, walk down the sloping green lawn to the San Antonio River, or browse through some of the rooms of the historic 1860 mansion. But not today. She was a woman on a mission. There was scoop to be had. Addie—the little devil—was coming clean.
She shot right past the hostess on the patio with a dismissive wave. Sherry would be seated outside at their usual table. White linen tablecloths, pink linen napkins, fresh flowers, blue-haired old ladies, and tourists…Guenther House on a Sunday.
Sherry and Cleo had been coming to what they called First Sunday Brunch Day since the seventh grade. On the first Sunday of every month, their mothers dressed them up and dragged them to the Guenther House for a main course of southern belle etiquette.
This is what a lady does…this is what a lady doesn’t.
Their moms had given up somewhere around eleventh grade, but Sherry and Cleo had continued with their own version, replacing the freshly squeezed orange juice with mimosas. Lots and lots of mimosas.
She spotted Sherry, waving unnecessarily, and hurried to her. “She’s not here yet?” Cleo asked, pulling out a chair.
“Nope. Bitch better show up.”
“She will.”
The waitress poured Cleo a cup of coffee without asking, put a menu in her hands, and walked off.
“I cannot believe she didn’t tell us,” Sherry said. “I mean, that’s weird, right?”