"We've both grown up a lot," she replied softly.
"Learned a lot, have you?" He lowered his head and gently eased his lips and teeth over the tip of her nipple. The touch of his tongue sluiced like hot honey to the juncture of her thighs. Reaching for his hand, she slid it between her legs, groaning at the luscious intrusion of his fingers.
Then he pulled away, his flesh moist from the steam that was fast turning the room hazy and hot. "Don't tempt me, Leah. This house is too damn small for us to get too carried away. The guys like their sports, but given the opportunity to listen to a lot of fast breathing
and moans of ecstasy they would choose the ecstasy part every time. Get in the tub and soak for a while. If you need someone to wash your back, let me know."
Standing, he turned for the door, hesitating as he took a couple of long breaths, the obvious ridge in his jeans making Leah giggle like a naughty schoolgirl.
The water felt unbearably hot at first, and she eased into it cautiously, allowing her skin to become accustomed to the silken heat before sinking up to her armpits in it. She didn't bother with Neil Diamond; the masculine sounds coming from the other room were music enough to her ears—especially those of her son: laughing, talking, being treated like any normal boy of seven years.
The all-too-familiar lump rose to her throat, and Leah turned the cooler up to her lips and drank deeply, the instant lethargy it produced making her sink into the mounds of white bubbles and lay her head back against the tub.
She thought of Shamika out at Mojo's Truck Stop, laughing and dancing with lonely truckers, listening to their sob stories of frigid wives and empty marriages—all ploys to entice her back to their cubbyhole cots for hire. She would not go, of course. Shamika enjoyed the laughs and an occasional free meal, but that was as far as it went. She was so level-headed and dedicated to Val that she often made Leah feel guilty for devoting so much time to her job.
Then Shamika would remind her that Leah had little choice. While the annuity check she received from the lawsuit was enough to pay for Val's medications—Tegretol for his seizures and Baclofen for his muscle stiffness—there were the costs for therapy and the scores of specialists who poked and prodded at Val in hopes of somehow helping his situation. Then there were the extras: AFO boots that cost seven hundred dollars. Wheelchairs that ran four thousand—unless she decided on the electric one, which would run her an easy ten thousand. Occasionally the annuity simply would not stretch far enough to pay Shamika's salary, any unexpected doctor visits, or food, clothing, and lodging.
Leah closed her eyes. When she opened them again she found Johnny looking down at her, his dark eyes soft, his lips curved ever so slightly.
"Water's cold," he said gently, reaching for the towel and offering her one hand. "The guys are gone. I read
Val
a story and put him to bed. If you don't get out of there soon there won't be anything left of you to make love to."
Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Leah glanced at her water-wrinkled hands. God, how long had she dozed? The water felt uncomfortably chilly, the bubbles all gone flat. Its label partially off and disintegrating, the wine cooler bottle floated on its side, resembling debris from a sinking ship.
Johnny eased the towel around her as she stepped from the tub, then swept her up in his arms and carried her to the semi dark bedroom lit only by the light of the bathroom behind them, to the bed where he had already turned back the blanket and sheets and fluffed the pillows. She sank with a sigh onto the mattress, her eyes drifting closed with pleasure as he gently dried her body, then tossed the damp towel on the floor.
He unzipped his jeans and eased them down his hips.
Leah gave him a sleepy smile. "Where's your underwear, Mr. Whitehorse?"
"I don't usually wear them. Remember?" Kicking the jeans aside, he eased onto the bed, sliding one knee between her thighs, rolling her to her side, her stomach against his, her breasts against him, his hard arms holding her fiercely as he whispered in her ear: "I love you."
"Is that the Budweiser talking, or you?" She laughed, feeling ridiculously breathless. She wasn't a kid anymore, she reminded herself, yet the expansion in her chest felt no less thrilling than it had the first time he murmured those words in her ear.
"Both." He nuzzled her ear, teased it with his tongue, lightly nipped it with his teeth. "I'm drunk and crazy as hell about you."
"You always get a little loose-tongued when you've had too much," she teased, wrapping her leg over his hip and drawing him closer, so close that his penis felt like an iron rod against her belly, hard and hot, a throbbing velvet-skinned erection that made her ache unbearably.
"Would you like to see just how loose my tongue can get?" Grinning wickedly, he squeezed her buttocks then slid his hand between her legs, cupping her mons, easing his long fingers between the folds of her flesh, making her groan and arch against him.
Sliding down her body, he lifted her knees over his shoulders, surprising her at first, then rousing in her a shameless pleasure that made her bite her lip to keep from crying out as the first flick of his tongue inside her streaked like jagged lightning down her legs. Her hands flailed, twisted into the sheets, then grabbed the headboard; her body arched into him; his hands slid up her body to caress her breasts as his mouth moved on her, tongue swirling, diving, dipping, teasing until she felt mindless and a scream clawed at her throat that she feared would explode at any moment.
She writhed, twisted.
His body sweating, he fought his need to drive himself into her—deep into her: he'd been too caught up in his grief and anger those nights before to enjoy what once, so many years ago, had brought him such emotional and physical pleasure. The taste of her in his mouth sluiced through his raw senses like a sweet, floral fire and he was caught between his need to make slow, passionate love to her and his raging lust to fuck her harder and faster than she had ever been fucked. To show her that he wasn't a timid boy any more too afraid of hurting her to really enjoy her.
As the first quivering of climax made her grasp his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, Johnny pulled back, leaving her gasping, her teeth clenched, her body hurting with the desperate need for him to finish pleasing her. He considered taking his time, drawing out the pleasure…
"To hell with that," he murmured, then slid his body up hers, sliding inside her, to a place once dark that erupted suddenly like bright colorful Roman candles.
The midnight wind whipped the window curtains back and spilled over Leah's and Johnny's damp bodies as they lay with arms and legs tangled, her head resting on his chest, his heart a racing murmur against her ear. Her eyes closed, Leah nuzzled him with her cheek.
"I think every woman alive, at one point in her life, dreams of reuniting with her first love, hoping to capture the magic again that once swept her away, wondering if the reality could ever live up to the memory."
He hugged her close, but said nothing.
"I'm happy to say you more than lived up to the memory." Raising her head, her lips smiling, she said, "Hey, do you realize this is actually the first time we've made love and didn't worry about getting caught? Unless, of course, there is a photographer from the
Enquirer
hidden under the bed. I wonder what's worse? My father or the paparazzi."
Still, he did not reply, just stared at the ceiling, his body relaxed, his hand stroking her back absently. Finally, he looked down at her.
"I want to marry you, Leah."
A look of surprise crossed her face but she did not look away, as she might have many years ago, when even his slightest compliment unnerved her. "Is that a proposal?"
"You and Val and Shamika should move in with me immediately. That way my people can control the situation, the fans, the media, et cetera. I'll have my agents handle all the arrangements for the marriage. It'll have to be done quietly. I don't want a circus—not so soon after Dolores's death. We'll fly my plane to
Las Vegas
and get married there. Later, if you want, we'll have a formal ceremony with your friends and family in attendance."
"You're serious."
"I don't intend to lose you, Leah."
"You're not going to lose me, Johnny."
Gently taking her face between his hands, he looked into her eyes that reflected the moonlight spilling through the window. "That's what you promised me last time … just before you told me to get lost. I don't intend to let that happen again, Leah. I won't let you walk away from me again."
Word arrived at the
Inn
of the Mountain Gods, where Johnny's agents and attorney had been staying during their sojourn to Ruidoso, to meet Johnny at ten sharp at Whitehorse Ranch. Always punctual, Edwin Fullerman arrived ten minutes early, looking sharp in his Armani suit, constantly checking his watch as he paced the foyer, mind worrying over the phone conferences he had been forced to postpone due to the impromptu get-together. Jack Hall pulled up five minutes later, his face concerned as he mounted the steps and waved a copy of the
Enquirer
under Ed's nose.
"Read it and weep, Fullerman. If this is true our client is up you-know-what creek without a paddle."
Ed focused on the headline:
JOHNNY
WHITEHORSE
COKE ADDICT DA OFFERS ULTIMATUM
Admit Himself to Betty Ford or Go Straight to Prison
Rolling his eyes and groaning, Ed shook his head.
"I'm not finished," Jack announced, and unrolled another tabloid showing a blurry photograph of Johnny holding Leah Starr on the dance floor at Randy's Bar and Grill.
NEW LOVE DRIVES
WHITEHORSE
FIANCEE TO FIERY DEATH RAINWATER WAS HEARD TO CRY ONLY MOMENTS BEFORE TRAGIC ADDIDENT:
"I'd Rather Die Than Lose Him to Another Woman!"
"What a lot of hooey." Edwin slapped the tabloid aside.
"Yeah? Then how about this one." Jack held up the
Washington Post
and recited, "'Will scandal foil Foster's plans for reelection? It will if Johnny Whitehorse has anything to say about it.' Seems there is a leak in the DA's office. Word is out that Johnny has proof of Foster's involvement with Formation Media."