Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  His lips quirked into a lazy grin as she fingered the button at his waist. “Looks like you’re all out of studs.”

  It was a layup for any romantic heroine worth her salt, but as drunk and horny as she was, Ruth couldn’t bring herself to deliver the cheesy comeback. Besides, Billy Joel’s final refrain of “You’re My Home” had just melted into the opening twang of “Wicked Game.” Bye-bye, brain cells.

  Zach would have his own version of their first time, but he’d be wrong where his memories deviated from Ruth’s. That one precious event had seared itself forevermore onto her brain, providing a library’s worth of full-sensory details Ruth had lovingly sprinkled across her stories though she was always careful to distort the facts just enough to keep the original sacred.

  Zach shyly closing the door of his tiny single. Heavy breathing, sloppy kisses, the random clang-clang of the ancient radiator. Kiss-walking together to the orange-crate stereo setup, Zach blindly slapping for the power button of the CD player behind his back, “Wicked Game” pouring through the speakers. The shallow rise and fall of Zach’s bare chest, quickening when she placed her hand over his heart. Zach’s soft trail of kisses from the base of her neck to the shell of her ear. His fingers fumbling at the clasp of her bra, sliding the straps off her shoulders, the soft brush of his thumb, Ruthie’s shiver. Zach’s eyes blazing with desire, the flick of his wrist at the button of his jeans, the slow unzip as if unearthing buried treasure. Mirror-image slides of panties and boxers down shaky legs. Zach gently drawing her hand to his terrifying, thrilling erection, the weight of his flesh in her palm, the power she wielded over him. His guttural grunts, narrowed eyes, the slow, sexy pump of his hips. The ache between her legs, falling onto the thin mattress together, his first touch. The pinhole of pleasure spreading, deepening, mounting . . . exploding into a burst of impossible bliss behind her eyes. Zach’s triumphant grin.

  Zach knee-walking between her legs, sheathed and ready, eager but so, so patient. Hands gliding up the insides of her thighs: “Are you sure you want this, Ruthie?”

  “God, I want you, Ruthie.” Zach bunched up her dress until he met the backside of his favorite panties. “I knew it,” he said with a smirk. His fingers plunged inside the elastic, and he tugged her into his hips with a firm squeeze.

  More. Ruth grabbed a handful of Zach’s undershirt at each side of his waist and pushed upwards until the material was trapped across his chest. Goose bumps jumped to life under her fingertips.

  “Zach . . .” she mumbled with an impatient tug, “. . . stuck.”

  He snickered as the message reached his brain. With a farewell tap, Zach withdrew his hands from her panties, made quick work of his cufflinks, and peeled off both shirts. Holding out his cupped hand, he wriggled his fingers. “Don’t want to lose my deposit.” Ruth dropped the studs on top of the cufflinks, and Zach turned to set the jewelry and his glasses on the nightstand.

  The rear view wasn’t half bad—Zach’s tush in the snug trousers and those two cute Venus dimples just above his waist—but when he turned around and faced her again, all she could see was the Bermuda Triangle of erotica.

  What would Thea do?

  Ruth stepped toward Zach . . . and closer yet . . . worked open the clasp and drew down his zipper. Zach grinned with delight and answered her uncharacteristic assertiveness by tugging open the bow behind her neck. The top of her dress flopped forward, baring her breasts to the cool air and Zach’s heated gaze. She didn’t question his desire; even an old, drunken fool like Ruth could read it in his eyes. Zach bent to kiss her, tender at first, then rougher. Ruth ran her fingers through his hair, lifted his head from her chest, closed her mouth over his.

  “Take me to bed,” she whispered between hard kisses.

  “Mmm.” Zach smiled against her mouth. “You know I love it when you talk dirty, Ruthie.”

  Zach took over his own de-pantsing, followed swiftly by her undressing, both of which suited Ruth fine. Zach was better at it anyway. They kissed, less frantic now that they were almost there.

  He tipped Ruth gently onto the turned-down sheets and lowered his head to her belly. She could have enjoyed that right now, buoyed by eighty-proof self-esteem and the magic of their reunion, but there was something urgent about the way she needed Zach tonight. She wanted everything at once—her whole husband: heart, body, and soul.

  She reached down and tapped his shoulder. He looked up, puzzled. If only she could have spoken all her emotions out loud. She crooked a finger instead. If any part of him was disappointed, she sure didn’t see it. He settled over her, his arms and shoulders bearing his weight as he pushed inside.

  In recent years, they’d so rarely made love face-to-face, the position of their passionate youth. How much better Zach and Ruthie knew themselves and each other now than their first breathless joining—what they would stand for, where time would wrinkle their faces and gray their hair, how life could be so much sweeter and so much crueler than two innocent, wide-eyed kids could ever have imagined. How the smallest challenges—or nothing at all, really—could drive a wedge between them, and how hard they’d have to fight for the love they were sure would always come so easily.

  She’d never been much for that romance drivel where the character shouted out her partner’s name in the throes of passion, but when Zach lifted his head, she saw him all the way back to December 19 of 1989, plain as day. There he was, the earnest boy who’d promised she was the love of his life two seconds before he deflowered her. She’d believed him then with her whole heart, and she knew it now with her whole life.

  “I love you, Zach.” She circled her arms around his neck and collapsed his push-up against her body.

  Zach found her lips and kissed Ruth until they couldn’t breathe. “Fuck, Ruthie”—he gasped for air and kissed her again—“I love you, too.”

  They spiraled up the steep cliff together, riding that razor’s edge between the highest expression of love and the basest form of pleasure. Zach drove into her, again and harder still. Greedy for more, she dug in her heels and forced him deeper. He blinked, surprised, before his eyes pinched shut against the mounting pressure. He crashed into her with all the finesse of a battering ram, spilling groans into Ruth’s open mouth.

  Zach drew a sharp breath, then snapped like a rubber band pulled too tight. She found her ecstasy a split second before he erupted into wild, erratic thrusts. They panted and quaked together, two bodies fused into one, until the last of the sweet aftershocks finished with them, and then they dozed.

  36

  Release

  Damn Pan’s supernatural hearing. Did Cupid really have to beat off at this fucking hour? Pan’s bourbon-soaked gut had only stopped churning a half hour ago, finally letting him settle into his much-needed beauty sleep. Judging by the volume, Cupid’s one-man show would soon be over.

  Pan flipped onto his belly and pulled one of the spare pillows over his head. It was no use.

  Was Q trying to drive him nuts? Some kind of twisted farewell gift to Pan: a soundtrack permanently etched into his memory or leaving Pan infuriated so he wouldn’t miss him. Fat fucking chance.

  Most likely, Q wasn’t thinking about Pan at all, but his precious Ruthie, off banging her husband in some faraway hotel room. Sure, that would make Q sad but wouldn’t stop him from pitching a tent. Couldn’t blame him there. For all they knew, this was Cupid’s last hurrah with the wonder cock. Jesus, there was a depressing thought.

  Fine, have at it, but couldn’t the guy at least have had the decency to keep it quiet instead of filling Pan’s throbbing head—actually, both of his throbbing heads—with unwanted arousal? He had half a mind to stalk across the hall and take Cupid’s cock into his own damn hand. He’d show his good buddy how to finish the job, and then they could both get some shut-eye. In Pan’s state of agitation and exhaustion, half a mind was apparently enough.

  Throwing off the co
vers, he bolted upright, knocking his equilibrium out of whack and nearly pitching headfirst to the floor. A brief but fruitful inner dialogue on the pros and cons of underwear followed. Modesty didn’t concern Pan, but self-preservation did—especially in the region in question. Did he really want to test his self-control by popping in, buck naked, on Cupid buttering the corn? No, that seemed like a very poor choice.

  He hooked a toe inside his discarded boxers and drew them deliberately up one leg, then the other. Planting his feet flat on the floor, he stood slowly and checked his balance. Vertical, for now. He pulled the underwear over his thighs and paused to marvel at the persistence of his full chub before tucking it under the waistband. Oh, to be a demigod.

  Sufficiently swaddled, Pan ventured into the hallway. The hullabaloo grew louder, Pan’s indignation more righteous. Cupid’s pre-orgasmic melody was godawful, really. Not sexy, bro. More of a keen than a moan, Pan realized as he lifted his knuckles to knock. In fact, Cupid sounded more like a wounded animal than one in heat.

  Oh . . . fuck.

  Pan burst into the room and bolted to the bed, where Cupid lay writhing in pain, thrashing at the twisted covers and clutching his heart through his T-shirt with both hands. “Q!”

  Cupid turned, his anguished face completely drained of color. Sweat spewed out his pores at an alarming rate.

  I am such an asshole.

  “Shit, shit, shit! Breathe, dammit!”

  “Trying,” he choked out.

  “Talk to me. What’s happening?”

  Cupid licked his parched lips. “I guess I did it.”

  “You did what?”

  “Ru—owwww—Ruthie.” A shadow of a smile crossed Cupid’s face, then vanished. “Liminal . . . they made it.”

  So this was the heart release Pan had missed witnessing the first time around. No wonder Mia had thought Cupid was dying of a heart attack.

  Pan checked over his shoulder for Mercury. This could be it, the exodos, Cupid’s final tragic scene. The clock was ticking, and there wasn’t a damn thing Pan could do about it. His own heart banged around inside his chest like a paddle ball ricocheting off cement walls. Watching his best friend suffer was horrific; watching him leave would be worse.

  Taking great care not to jostle Cupid, Pan perched at the edge of the bed, grabbed the water bottle on the nightstand, and twisted off the cap. “Drink. You’re dehydrated.”

  Cupid scowled at him. “Not my . . . biggest . . . problem.”

  “No,” Pan answered, “but it’s the only one we can fix.”

  Cupid lifted his head and made a half-hearted attempt to choke down a few sips of water before another seizure, the harshest yet, wracked his body. A hideous wail escaped him. Pan held his breath until the worst had passed.

  Cupid tipped the bottle into his mouth again, taking tentative sips at first, then guzzling down the rest. The empty bottle slipped out of Cupid’s hand as he sagged into the pillow and closed his eyes. “I think it’s over.”

  “Well, hallelujah.” Pan might have been more relieved if Cupid hadn’t looked so damn corpse-like.

  “Don’t forget, Pookie needs her eye drops in the morning.”

  “Shut up.”

  Cupid opened one eye and trained it on Pan. “Just in case.”

  “Fuck that.” Pan clambered next to Cupid and snaked a burly arm under Cupid’s sweat-soaked neck and the other across his chest. “I am not gonna keep saying goodbye to you, Q. I can’t. Do you understand?”

  Cupid turned his head and met Pan’s sad gaze with one of his own. “I do.”

  They lay quietly together, words completely useless. Pan ticked off the seconds in his head. No sign of Mercury, and they were coming up on the outer limit. Holding Cupid tighter wouldn’t change anything, but Pan refused to loosen his grip.

  “Am I staying?” Cupid whispered after what should have been a safe margin.

  “Looks like it,” Pan whispered back.

  Cupid smiled.

  Pan shook his head. “That’s nothing to smile about, you poor fucker.”

  “Yeah,” Cupid said, his mouth widening into an even bigger grin. “I know.”

  Pan dropped his face to Cupid’s shoulder so his friend wouldn’t see the tears. “Can we please get some sleep now?”

  37

  Pillow Talk

  A siren filtered through Zach’s snooze. I must be dreaming was Zach’s first thought as he eased into the here and now: the rumble of the city streets, the dull ache in his head, soft flesh beneath him.

  Microflashes of memory popped into his brain like tiny sunbursts on the black curtain of sleep: Glover. Hotel. Ruthie.

  His eyes flew open. She really is here.

  Ruthie slept soundly, pinned on her back by Zach’s entire right side. That happened. Zach hadn’t moved an inch since pulling out.

  Why would he? Ruthie had come for him—then come with him. They were going to be okay. Better than okay. They were a couple again but not the same couple they’d been in Tarra three days ago—all credit to Ruthie.

  Zach didn’t yet know this woman who’d stormed the fortress, guns a-blazing, willing to risk it all to save their marriage. She’d made him feel like a rock star, and he had to admit, her rose-colored view was contagious. How could all that adulation not make him feel like a sex god?

  How lucky was Zach, straddling the best of both worlds? Reliving the breathless passion of their first time while enjoying all the endearing qualities as familiar to him as the back of his own hand.

  I’m having an affair with my own wife.

  The adorable pout of her slightly open mouth, dragging in each breath with a soft snore she’d deny if he teased her about it. The uneven line of mascara she always cursed while applying and forgot to remove until it clumped in her eyes the next morning. The soft blond hair that had yet to show any signs of aging, unlike his own “distinguished” temples, scattered in twelve different directions on her pillow.

  Ruthie would never have let him get away with such blatant ogling if she’d been awake, especially of the “bowling pin” breasts she’d always found saggy and unattractive, an opinion Zach did not share. He especially loved how, at the lightest caress, her nipples would gather into tight little knots—well, hello—yes, just like that.

  “Are you taking advantage of me while I sleep?”

  Busted.

  “Your nipple woke me up.”

  Ruthie grinned. “You’re seriously blaming my nipple?”

  “Yes, but I forgive you.”

  A yawn forced Ruthie’s mouth open, rippled through her body, and shook her extremities like the end of a delicious orgasm. Zach needed to give her lots more of those.

  “Mmm. What time is it?”

  Zach twisted to check his phone. “It's 2:18.”

  Ruthie huffed. “So much for staying up all night.”

  “Just a brief intermission. We still have another four hours till sunrise.”

  He grazed his thumb back and forth across her breast, enjoying the hell out of her goose bumps and quickened breaths. Ruthie’s gaze met his, shifted to her nipple, and back; Zach’s did the same.

  He flexed his hips so she could feel his need against her leg. You sure are a cheap date tonight, Zach Miller.

  “Wow.” She quirked an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Can I help it if I get excited looking at my naked wife?”

  “Pfft! Who could possibly blame you?”

  “Exactly.” He popped his eyebrows a few times to counteract her sarcasm.

  She smacked her lips together. “I should probably brush my teeth.”

  “You’re really gonna make me move?” Zach tipped onto his side, spilling a sticky puddle between them. “Good thing you woke me. If we’d stayed like that much longer, we might have been glued together forever.”

 
Ruthie shook her head as she scooted toward the edge of the bed. Zach propped his head in his hand, surprisingly excited to watch her walk away.

  “Hey, don’t go putting on any clothes while you’re up.”

  “Oh shit!” Ruthie whipped around. “I just realized I left our suitcase at the Hay.”

  “Whoops. I guess we got a little carried away.”

  “Might’ve had something to do with the alcohol.”

  “And you showing up in a backless dress.”

  “You didn’t have to look so hot in that tux, mister.”

  “If you’re that excited about the tux, I’ll take the damn thing home. Screw the deposit.”

  “It’s not really about the tux, Zach.”

  He returned her warm smile. “Use my toothbrush. We’ll arrange for a courier in the morning, or we could just stay in the hotel room, naked, all weekend.”

  Ruthie nailed Zach with a once-over that set his skin on fire. “Let’s see how the rest of the night goes.” She was all talk, and they both knew it, but he’d take a flirty, naked Ruthie any day.

  He gave her a few minutes of privacy before joining her in the bathroom. Careful not to make her self-conscious, Zach tracked Ruthie out of the corner of his eye as she grimaced at her reflection.

  “I look like a raccoon who got into a bar fight.”

  Zach glanced over and grinned. “Ooh, you’re right. I think I’ll take you from behind next time.”

  “Rude!” She slapped him on the arm as she hurried back to bed, giggling.

  Zach grabbed a fresh hand towel and made a point of tossing it across the bed onto the nightstand.

  “Optimistic, aren’t we?” Ruthie said.

  “Always.” That wasn’t exactly true. In fact, it had been a long damn time since Zach had dared assume any action was coming his way, let alone twice in one night.