“Jesus,” he said, pulling his mouth away from hers, and lifted her up out of the water to sit on the concrete lip. She curled her hands around the curved edge, her feet still dangling in the water. Except for a pair of tiny black satin panties she was naked. Water poured from her body. She was leaning slightly forward; the round globes of her breasts sloped toward him. Her nipples stood out stiffly, hard from the cooling effect of the night air as it struck her wet skin—and from Tom. The rest of her, slim-hipped, long-legged, fine-boned, glistened milky pale in the moonlight.
Tom looked at her, a long, intent look that slid from the top of her still-elegant upsweep to her calves, and his face tightened until the bones were visible beneath his skin. Then he braced his hands on the blue overflow trough that ran around the inside rim of the pool and heaved himself up and out.
Water poured from him, too, as he stood, reaching down a hand to help her to her feet. Ronnie took his hand, scrambling up. Even as she would have turned
into his arms, he scooped her out. Held high against his chest, Ronnie smiled into his eyes, slid her hands around his neck, and kissed him.
She was still kissing him as he turned sideways to maneuver her through the creaky gate, still kissing him as he walked up the path to the pool house. The sliding glass door was unlocked; he pushed it open and carried her through it into a wall of air-conditioning.
Ronnie shivered, and lifted her mouth from his, to direct him to the bed or the thermostat or somewhere, anywhere, warmer.
“Damn!” Tom’s toe caught on something and he stumbled. As quick as that he went down, twisting as he fell. Ronnie squeaked as she felt herself dropping through the air, only to land hard on something cold and resilient and soaking wet that grunted—Tom.
For an instant she lay as she had fallen, stunned. She was on her back, her bottom on Tom’s thighs, her back and head on his chest, her legs splayed over the floor. She felt him move beneath her, and slid off him onto the floor or, rather, onto the two-inch-thick rubber exercise mat that had obviously been the cause of the accident.
Ronnie turned onto her stomach, her head up and her torso supported on her elbows, to check him out.
His eyes were open and looking at her. Ronnie met their narrowed gaze for a pregnant moment and started to snicker.
“Are you okay?” she asked between spurts of mirth.
“Aside from a badly bruised butt, a possibly broken tailbone, and some wounded dignity, I’m fine. How about you?”
“I landed on top. I’m not hurt a bit.”
“Good.” He turned onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. She was still lying on her stomach, supported by her elbows; his face was just inches from hers. A wry smile twisted his mouth. Looking at it, Ronnie remembered all the fantasies she’d had over the last few weeks about that mouth, and ran her index finger along the crease where his lips met.
Another snicker shook her.
He drew her finger into his mouth and bit down gently.
“Are you going to laugh all night?” he asked politely when he released her finger.
“Probably.” She grinned at him.
She was still grinning when he rolled her onto her back and loomed over her. They were both lying on the rubber exercise mat now; it was big and cushiony and surprisingly comfortable.
“I guess if you bruised your butt, that proves you’re not such a hard-ass after all,” she told him, and started laughing again.
“Funny.” He bent his head to kiss her. His tongue was hot, soft, and only faintly demanding as it explored her mouth. His hand found her breast, closing over it, squeezing, and suddenly Ronnie wasn’t laughing anymore. Toes curling, she closed her eyes and kissed him back, her hands threading through the silky hair at the back of his head.
She had imagined kissing him like this. Only her imagination was not nearly as good as the real thing.
He shrugged out of his coat without ever taking his mouth from hers. She ran her hands along the breadth of his shoulders, loving the feel of them beneath the smooth cotton, intoxicated at the luxury of being able
to kiss and touch him as she chose. The bottom two thirds of his shirt and his trousers were soaking wet and icy cold as he lay against her. His hand on her breast was hard and warm. Her nipple swelled into his palm. She arched her back, pressing her breast more closely into that possessive hand, as importunate as a cat wanting to be stroked. His breathing speeded up.
Then he pulled his mouth from hers, and eased a little away.
Ronnie opened her eyes to find that he was looking at her, his gaze moving slowly down the length of her body. Except for her panties, she was naked in his arms. Moonlight poured in through the wide glass door; her body was bathed in it. His hand on her breast looked big and bronzed against her pearlized skin. His arm slanted across her rib cage. The sleeve of his white shirt felt wet and clammy. The arm beneath was taut with muscle. He lay on his side, taking his time, making a leisurely appraisal. His formal clothes—white shirt with studs, a black bow tie and cumberbund, black trousers with a satin stripe down the sides, black socks and shoes—made an erotic contrast to her nakedness.
Ronnie looked up at his face. It was all hard bone and angles in the moonlight. She remembered thinking once that he would have no patience with sins of the flesh.
She’d been at least partially right. He had resisted until neither one of them could resist anymore.
His gaze met hers then, unexpectedly. His eyes were heavy-lidded, their expression sensual.
“I’ve had so many fantasies about getting you naked that I’m surprised my mind hasn’t suffered meltdown,”
he said, his voice husky. “Every time I’d see you, I’d catch myself mentally taking your clothes off. After a while I didn’t even have to see you. I’d be in the middle of a crucial strategy session with Matt Grolin, and I’d catch myself wondering if your navel was an innie or an outie.”
With a crooked smile he slid his hand down over her rib cage to her stomach to investigate the question. Ronnie caught her breath.
“That doesn’t sound like it was very good for business.” She stroked his cheek. The warm, masculine skin was only faintly rough; he must have shaved just before coming to the party.
“It wasn’t.” He turned his mouth into her palm. His legs shifted, and she realized that he was easing off his shoes. Her hands dropped to tug at his tie.
“Don’t move,” he said, getting to his feet, and began stripping with quick efficiency. His bow tie, which she had already untied, came off first, followed by his cumberbund. Ronnie’s heart beat faster as she watched him undo the studs that held his shirt, then shrug out of it. He looked better without his shirt than he did in it, she thought, and he had looked pretty darn good in it. His hands went to his belt buckle, and a hot melting began deep inside her. She lay on her back on the red rubber exercise mat, her fingers flexing deep into the foam padding as she watched him take off his pants. He wore boxers, she discovered, in a solid pale blue, and waited with anticipation while he stood first on one foot and then the other to pull off his socks.
Finally he wore nothing but his boxers. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and came out of them, too, his movements quick and impatient. The sight of
him naked made her mouth go dry. Her gaze ran over him from the wide expanse of his shoulders to the wedge of hair on his chest to his narrow athlete’s hips to the muscular length of his legs.
Her imagination had never looked this good.
She was afforded just a glimpse before he came back to her, but it was enough: He was hungry for her, big and swollen with desire, the proof of it jutting out stiffly from his body.
Her arms lifted to welcome him; her hands slid over his shoulders, marveling at the flexing strength of the muscles there. He settled down beside her, one arm easing under her neck. His other hand brushed a stray strand of hair from her face.
Ronnie smiled at him. He bestowed a quick, hard kiss on her mouth.
“Feel my arms shake,” Tom said, lifting his head. His voice was both rueful and amused. “The last time they shook like this, I was sixteen years old and about to try out the mattress in the back of my dad’s camper.”
“Did you try out that mattress a lot?” Ronnie asked softly, her hands trailing from his shoulders down over his upper arms. His skin was warm, and satiny smooth. The muscles beneath were bunched and hard. As he had said, they were shaking. She ran her hands back up over them to his shoulders, loving the idea that she could make him tremble.
“As much as I could, but it wasn’t long before I stopped shaking.” He was smiling down at her until her hands moved to caress his chest. As they flattened on him, then ran down the center of his chest to stroke
his muscled abdomen, his eyes darkened and he stopped smiling.
She closed her eyes as his mouth came down on hers.
The gentleness he had shown her before was gone. In its place was a fierce hunger that took her by surprise. She responded to his urgency with a growing fierceness of her own, pressing herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck, catching fire.
His hands were everywhere: on her breasts, stroking her stomach, running up and down her thighs. But he didn’t touch her where she most wanted to be touched, and that was driving her out of her mind. She clung to him, writhing as she wordlessly begged for what she wanted, to no avail. He was all but on top of her now, his head bent to kiss her nipple, his thigh flung over hers, the swollen proof of his desire butting against her leg. The hot dampness of his mouth kissing and nibbling and sucking on her breasts made her gasp. Her hands closed on the back of his head, pressing him close to her, guiding his mouth from one breast to the other, as a spiral of longing coiled tighter and tighter deep within.
Then at last, at long last, his hand stroked down over her stomach to slide beneath the edge of her panties.
Ronnie wanted his hand between her legs so much she thought she was going to die from the waiting. And he made her wait. His hand moved inside her panties at roughly the speed of a glacier, his long fingers caressing and exploring every millimeter of her flesh, occasionally dipping lower to tease her with butterfly
touches until she was lifting her hips from the mat in quivering anticipation of the next one.
He kissed her breasts, then her mouth, then her breasts again while her body wordlessly pleaded, and then finally, finally, his hand crept to where she most wanted it to be. He stroked the cleft between her legs, and she gasped. A scorching heat shot through her body; she moved to encourage that questing hand, silently begging to be invaded, to be possessed, until at last he gave her what she wanted. Moaning, she kissed his ear, his neck, his shoulder, anyplace she could reach, her nails digging deep into his back, her body burning. His touch was the slow-handed caress of a man who understood how a woman’s body worked; he teased, then delved, and repeated the process until she turned to liquid fire in his hands.
“Tom, please,” she gasped out finally, her eyes opening as she fought to hold on, knowing that she was going to explode at any moment and wanting him inside her when she did.
He looked at her then. His face was flushed, his eyes narrow and glittering. Like her, he was breathing in short, sharp pants. He watched her face as his fingers slid inside her again, and when she gasped and arched her back in response, his eyes blazed.
“God, I’ve wanted this,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. Then he was yanking her panties down her legs and rolling on top of her and kissing her with quick, savage movements that told her that he, too, had reached the limits of his control. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he slid between her thighs, so ready for him that she thought she would die if she had to wait another second.
He thrust inside her, huge and hot and hard, driving deep and fast over and over again until she was mindless, crying out at the wonder of it, gouging his back with her nails until at last she came with an intensity that she had never dreamed she was capable of, her preconceived notions of herself and the world shattering into a million pieces as she cried out his name.
Chapter
31
August 23rd
Midnight
POPE
“W
HAT ARE YOU WATCHIN’, MARLA
?” Jerry Fineman stood in the living-room doorway, looking at her as she sat curled in one corner of the couch, watching TV. He was wearing one of those old men’s sleeveless undershirts that he liked and the same pair of black beltless pants he had worn earlier. It was obvious he had just rolled out of bed and pulled them on again.
“Letterman.” Marla glanced up with a smile. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”
“Nah.” Jerry padded over to the couch and sat down beside her. The cushions sagged beneath his weight. He was fifty-one, a retired Biloxi police officer who had been divorced for ten years. He wasn’t handsome—he had a bald head and a beer belly, and he wasn’t much over five foot nine—but he was kind. Marla had met him when she had first arrived in Biloxi, desperate, and had been forced to resort to standing on a street corner to turn a few quick tricks to feed her kid. He had almost arrested her, but instead had taken pity on her, lent her fifty dollars, and driven her
back to the car where she was living with Lissy. He’d helped her get on her feet, and she had repaid him with sex, gratis, whenever he’d wanted it. When he’d left Biloxi almost two years before, neither had ever expected to see the other again. Yet there they were.
She’d told him the whole story, from the moment she had driven Susan and Claire to the Biloxi Yacht Club to how it came about that she ended up on his doorstep. He’d been skeptical when she had claimed that everybody who knew that Susan and Claire got on that boat seemed to have disappeared, or died. He’d even been skeptical that a man was out there who wanted to kill her.
But he had promised to check it out. In the meantime, if she was scared to go back to Biloxi, she and Lissy could stay with him. Sooner or later they would get the whole thing sorted out. That had been almost three weeks earlier.