Southern Comforts (25 page)

His thumb parted the sensitive pink folds, searching for the taut nub above her vaginal lips. When he found it, he pressed down. At the same time he thrust his strong fingers in more deeply than ever before, so deep he was touching the back of her womb.

Her eyes flew open, wide with shock as she felt herself shattering into a thousand crystalline pieces. She cried out his name on a wail of wonder.

He held her, kissing her as the contractions that were
gripping at his fingers, like hundreds of hungry little mouths, slowly subsided.

She was limp. Boneless. The fire alarm outside in the hallway could have sounded and she could not have moved if her very life had depended on it.

“I never knew,” she managed to gasp on a ragged, labored breath. “It's never been that way before.” Her glazed eyes were puzzled as she tried to focus on his face through the shimmering mist still clouding her mind. “Not even with you.”

“And it's just the beginning.”

True to his word, he took her higher, again and again, until Chelsea was certain she had nothing left to give. And even then he proved her wrong.

When he finally claimed ultimate possession, surging into her, hot steel into velvet, she tightened around him, drawing him deeper, milking him, matching him thrust for thrust, rhythm for rhythm.

He lifted her spread legs so he could pound into her with a force that rocked the bed and caused fireworks to explode behind her closed eyes in fireballs of dazzling color. Although she would have thought it impossible, Chelsea felt him grow harder. And larger.

He called out her name and went rigid, the muscles of his neck standing out in stark relief. Chelsea felt the explosion deep within as he filled her with his seed, then immediately felt the inner spasms of her own release.

Groaning, Cash collapsed onto her. She wrapped her arms around his back, and her legs around his thighs, keeping him inside her, unwilling to surrender the feel of his hard moist body against hers.

His lips were pressed against her hair and he was murmuring soft, hypnotic words. But because of the wild pounding of her own heart in her ears, Chelsea couldn't hear them.

R
oxanne's only consolation was that it didn't take long. George's sour whiskey-and-cigarette breath, as he covered her mouth with his had made her gag, and his unkempt fingernails had scraped her skin, but after forcing himself inside her, he'd climaxed after two quick pumps. Cursing, he'd immediately passed out.

She gingerly left the bed, grimacing at the sticky semen trailing down her leg. The knife was lying on the quilt, where he'd dropped it sometime during the forced sex. She picked it up, moved it from hand to hand, and looked down at him, fantasizing for a long luxurious moment cutting off his flaccid penis and balls.

Reluctantly reminding herself that this bastard rapist wasn't worth doing hard time for, she instead took the knife and hid it away in her lingerie drawer, then opened the drawer of the bedside table and took out the Smith & Wesson revolver she'd bought last month for self-protection after someone had tried to break in.

She took the revolver into the bathroom with her, where she cleaned up, trying to wash away all traces of George
Waggoner from her body. Although she longed to take a shower, she didn't dare risk getting that far out of reach of her gun. Once he recovered, he would undoubtedly be back for more. And she intended for him to understand that the next time would be his last.

She dried herself, rubbing her inner thighs with a force that reddened her skin. She scowled at the teeth-shaped scrape on her breast. Dammit, he'd broken the skin. The human mouth was dirty at best; she shuddered to think what germs this man's might be harboring.

Deciding that she'd have to think of some reason to talk her doctor into a prescription for antibiotics—although rabies shots would probably be more appropriate in this particular case—she took her emerald green silk robe from the hook on the back of the closet door, put it on, then returned to the bedroom.

He'd rolled onto his back and was sprawled atop her mattress. He was snoring loudly, his mouth open wide. He reached down, unconsciously scratching his groin, which drew her attention back to that limp, flaccid sex. When she viewed her own blood staining her precious quilt, fury surged through her, burning away any lingering pain, searing away her humiliation.

He'd pay for this, Roxanne swore. When she could think up an appropriate punishment. For now, she just wanted him out of her house.

She leaned over him, and pressed the barrel of the gun against his scrotum. “Wake up you son of a bitch,” she said. “I want you wide awake when I blow your fucking balls off.” Her threat garnered an immediate response.

His eyes flew open. “Roxanne, sugar—”

“Don't you sugar me, you rotten, perverted son of a bitch. In fact, don't you say a damn thing. Unless you want to be singing soprano real soon.”

His jaw slammed shut. His eyes were wide, all whites and dilated black pupils. She knew his mouth was dry when he nervously licked his lips.

“You raped me, George.” She pressed the barrel deeper into his unwashed flesh. “And for that, you're going to pay. Big time.”

“Please, baby.” Sweat was pouring down his face. Off his nose, and from the tip of his shriveled penis, like a dripping faucet. His body was slick with the rank moisture. “Look, sugar, I mean, sweetheart—”

“Wrong word, George.” She cocked the pistol and smiled down at him. “It's Ms. Scarbrough, remember?”

“Whatever you say. But you used to like being called Mrs. Waggoner,” he whined.

“That's yet another thing you've got wrong, George.” She clucked her tongue. “This just isn't a good day for you, is it?” She shook her head. “I'm afraid I don't have any choice but to kill you.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” His eyes widened even further. He was shaking like a drunk coming off a bender. “You can't kill a man just for forgetting your new name.”

“True. But I can kill him for raping me.” Her eyes were blue ice, her smile glacial. “Say goodbye, George.”

Roxanne was still smiling when she pulled the trigger.

 

Chelsea couldn't remember ever being so happy. She lay with her head on Cash's chest, listening as his heart, and hers returned to normal. One of his hands was caressing her back, the other was playing in the damp curls of her hair.

“That was amazing,” she said on a soft, satisfied sigh.

He kissed her shoulder. “We aim to please.”

And gracious, how well he'd succeeded. Beyond her wildest imagination! “Wonderfully amazing,” she repeated, still basking in the afterglow of passion. “And surprising.”

“Surprising? Are you saying you didn't think I still had it in me to make you fly?”

“Oh, I knew from the moment I walked into Roxanne's parlor you could do that. I just didn't think you—we—could make love so slowly. So beautifully.”

She lifted her head and gave him a sweetly serious look that pulled at innumerable cords inside Cash. “I know this is going to sound like a horrendous cliché, but I've truly never experienced anything like that.”

“I'm glad.” He caught hold of her chin, leaned forward and kissed her. A deep, slow kiss that rekindled smoldering embers.

“I wonder why it was so different?” she mused when the heartfelt kiss finally ended.

Cash was not exactly in the mood for this conversation. He'd finally done what he'd been aching to do for weeks. And it was as good—better—than he'd hoped for. He would have preferred merely lying with her, enjoying the cooling aftermath of their passion. But knowing it was a woman's nature to want to discuss things, he sighed and turned his mind to her question.

“I think it was different because it was different. There's no big mystery involved, darlin'.”

“But didn't you feel it? How even though you were burning up, it was still somehow comfortable?”

“Comfortable?” Old shoes were comfortable. The battered, sweat-stained, decades-old cotton hat he wore fishing was comfortable. Old dogs and watermelon wine were comfortable. Sex with Chelsea would never fit that description. “Like boring?”

“Never.” She patted his cheek and gave him a benevolent, faintly patronizing smile. “You know what I mean.”

“No. I don't think I do. Are you saying you weren't turned on?” Let her just try to deny it, Cash thought.

“Of course not. I was merely trying to explain that in the old days, making love with you was always a little frightening. Tonight, as exciting as it was, I felt perfectly safe.”

Safe.
Shit. That was even worse than
comfortable.

“Well that sure gives a whole new meaning to safe sex,” he muttered.

“You're not even trying to understand.” It was Chelsea's turn to be irritated. She'd been so happy. She'd been floating on gilt-edged clouds of pleasure. Why did he have to ruin it by acting so much like a… She paused, trying to come up with exactly the right word. Man! she decided.

“Oh, I understand, sweetheart.” Before she knew what was happening, he'd reversed their positions, and was lying on top of her, his long legs entwined with hers, his body pressing her deep into the mattress. “I was trying to take my time. To let you get used to the idea of us being together again. To make tonight memorable.”

He was hard again. She could feel the hot rigid flesh pressing against her belly. He was using his superior strength to hold her to the bed in a way she found undeniably thrilling.

“It was.”

“Memorable, but safe.” He bent his head and bit her shoulder—not painfully, but hard enough she knew her skin would be bruised in the morning.

“Yes.” She'd begun to tremble.

He scraped his teeth down the crest of her breast, enjoying her sharp intake of breath. Then he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, which were darkening with rising desire. “I think it's time for you to understand that what I feel for you isn't always safe. And it damn well isn't always gentle.”

His mouth came down on hers, crushing, claiming. His
hands moved roughly on her body, pulling her off the love-rumpled sheets and holding her hard against him.

Then, before she could catch her breath, Cash dragged her into the whirlwind, proving to her that love and unbridled passion were not mutually exclusive.

 

She had made a tactical error, Roxanne decided grimly. Now her sheets were truly ruined. And unless she wanted her bedroom to reek like a goddamn outhouse, she was going to have to let George use her shower.

She made him leave the bathroom door open, so she could monitor his movements. Meanwhile, after stripping the bed, she changed into a pair of royal purple lounging pajamas with gold piping and a pair of gold mules.

Then she sat down in the wing chair, lit a cigarette, and pointed the revolver at the bathroom door.

“Would you put that goddamn thing away before you give me a fuckin' heart attack,” he complained as he came out of the bathroom with one of her monogrammed towels wrapped around his waist. “Besides, it's not even loaded.”

“If you think that, why don't you take it away from me?” Her tone was patient, her half smile sly. “Remember the night you got drunk and made me play Russian roulette?” She inhaled deeply on the cigarette, enjoying the harsh bite of nicotine and smoke in her lungs. “But that time, you were the one holding the gun. And I was the one begging you not to kill me.”

“Shit, I wouldn't have killed you, Cora Mae. Ms. Scarbrough,” he corrected quickly when her lips turned down into a tight frown. “I was just funnin' with you.”

“I was terrified,” she said on a billowing cloud of exhaled smoke. “The same way you were earlier. It isn't a very nice feeling, is it, George?”

“So that's what that little melodrama was all about? Payback time?”

“In a way.”

“Fine. Then we should be even.”

She shouldn't have let him shower, Roxanne decided, realizing she'd made another mistake. He'd been a great deal more docile and desperate with shit and urine all over his ass and thighs.

“Of course we're not,” she snapped. “Because you raped me.”

“You can't rape your wife.”

“The courts feel differently about that these days, George. But it's a moot point. Since we're divorced, dammit.”

“That's what you keep sayin'. But I notice that you still haven't dragged out the paper proving it.”

“I don't know where it is.”

“I've seen you work. You don't misplace so much as a goddamn paper clip. You sure as shootin' wouldn't lose a divorce decree.”

They were getting off track again. “You raped me.”

“That's what you say now. But I remember when you used to scream because you liked it rough. You couldn't get enough. Remember? Not even when you were pregnant.”

“I don't want to talk about that!”

She was on her feet, her hand trembling wildly. He shook his head, reached out and took the revolver away. “It's not exactly my favorite subject, either,” he muttered.

He opened the gun and spun the cylinder. “Empty. I didn't think you'd do it. A dead man in your bedroom might be a little difficult to pull off, Cora Mae. Even the rich, famous and glib Roxanne Scarbrough probably would have trouble getting out of that fix.

“Now, you can lie all you want, but you can't deny all
those fuckathons made us a baby, sugar. A baby you didn't want.”

“I couldn't be a mother,” she insisted. “Not then. I had things to do.”

“Like killin' your stepdaddy?”

“You know I didn't kill him. You did.”

“It probably don't matter which of us swung that hammer,” he said with a shrug. “Since in the eyes of the law, the other one would be an accessory after the fact. But there's no point in rehashing it, sugar. Because it's yesterday's box score.”

He tossed the unloaded revolver onto the unmade bed. “I'm your legally wedded husband, Cora Mae. And it's been a long time since I've been with a woman. And those punk fairies in prison aren't exactly my type, if you know what I mean. So other than my hairy ole palm, I ain't had a lot of sexual companionship these past seven years.”

“Seven years? What on earth were you in for?”

“Didn't I tell you?” He flashed a dark, evil grin. “I had sex with a girl on top of a pool table in a Phoenix bar. I say she was willin'. But the goddamn cops called it rape.”

He decided not to mention the little matter of the porno movies. If she thought he might have filmed her, the next time she'd make sure the gun was loaded.

“You really are sick, George.”

“Now that may be, Cora Mae.” His menacing old ways returned, in spades, as he walked toward her. “But the way I see it, you're stuck with me. For better or for worse.”

She whirled away, opened the dresser draw and pulled out the knife. As she held it out in front of her, the blade caught the light, making it look like a straight bolt of lightning.

“You're forgetting the line about until death us do part,” she warned. “You touch me again, George, and I swear I'll
kill you. Even if I have to spend the rest of my life in prison.”

“You'd never do it.” His eyes were beady little black marbles. “You've worked too hard for all this to throw it all away and end up on your knees giving head to a bunch of prison dykes in the shower room.”

Her eyes were cold steel. “Just try me.”

He gave her a long look. Then shrugged. “You were always a lousy lay anyway.” Turning his back on her, he strolled over to the smaller of the two closets in the room, opened the door and began looking through the rack of men's clothing that Vern had begun keeping at her house for his frequent visits.

“What are you doing now?”

“I need something to wear,” he said simply. “So I figured old Vern wouldn't mind sharing some of his clothes with me. Since I'm willing to share my wife with him.”