Room to Breathe

by Liz Talley

  As she was about to toss the phone into the gaping yawn of her bag, a ding sounded.

  E. McCallum has sent a message.

  Her finger found the mail icon before she could start the car.

  Ellery clicked the browser shut because she wanted to read the email after she’d pulled on her jammies and tucked herself into bed. Then she could type a witty response, something that would make Evan smile and marvel at how humorous and sexy she was.

  Leaning forward, Ellery leaned her forehead on the steering wheel.

  What was she doing? But she knew. She was filling her loneliness with something . . . not quite naughty but in the ballpark. The intrigue, secrecy, and sheer pleasure she took in playing his confidant sucked her good intentions under every time. Exchanging harmless emails with a man wasn’t truly cheating on Josh anyway.

  Ellery started her car and her phone dinged.

  Josh.

  Don’t forget to pick up milk.

  Exactly.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The morning light slanting in the tiny crack of Daphne’s bedroom-window blinds landed right between her eyes, an insult normally borne when she hadn’t drunk an entire bottle of wine. But she’d drunk a lot last night. Too much, if her pounding head was any indication.

  “Nooo,” she grumbled, squeezing her eyes shut and turning over. The whomp, whomp of the ceiling fan seemed more pronounced than normal, and her mouth felt like someone had stuffed it with wool socks. She needed water . . . and aspirin . . . and . . . something else niggled her right as her big toe grazed something solid.

  Oh. God.

  Daphne cracked an eye and saw an expanse of tanned back at the same time she registered that she was naked as the day she’d been born.

  She hadn’t . . .

  No . . .

  But yes. She had. Twice, if she remembered correctly.

  “Clay,” she whispered, poking him and then immediately closing her eyes because when she moved too quickly, the room spun a little.

  The man didn’t move.

  “Clay,” she hissed, cracking an eye and peering at her bedside table alarm clock. It read 7:28.

  “Mmm?” he muttered, lifting his head slightly before letting it fall back onto her 450-thread-count sheets she’d splurged on when she’d taken Ellery to Dallas that past spring. His tousled brown hair and incredibly gorgeous smooth skin looked odd against the soft ecru-and-honey peach matelassé coverlet.

  “Wake up.” She poked him again.

  Clay raised his head and waggled his eyebrows even as his eyes remained closed. “I’m up.”

  “No, you’re not. Your eyes are still closed. We have to get up. Eller—”

  His hand slid up her thigh and curved around her backside.

  Daphne squeaked as he dragged her to him. “No, no. Stop that. We have to—”

  Clay opened bleary eyes and then kissed her naked shoulder. “One more round?”

  Beneath the covers, his hands were busy, cupping her butt and squeezing. Daphne, even though she felt dizzy and slightly nauseous, felt her body respond. That yummy, gooey warmth began to spread in her pelvis as he dropped kisses on her collarbone, moving toward the curve of her breast. His erection pressed against her stomach as he nudged her with his pelvis and pressed her onto her back.

  His lips circled her nipple just as he used a knee to nudge her legs apart.

  “No, Clay. We have to get . . . oh. Oh . . . mmm,” she said as he sucked her nipple into the heat of his mouth.

  “Come on, nothing starts the day better than—” He dipped his hips, and his erection slid against a part of her that obviously wasn’t connected to her damned brain.

  Daphne pushed hard against his chest. “No.”

  Clay flopped back, taking the sheet with him, leaving her naked in the morning light. Daphne squeaked and grabbed at the sheet. Clay held it tight with a knowing gleam in his sleepy eyes. “Nu-uh. If I can’t touch, the least you can let me do is see what I’m missing.”

  He rolled over and looked at the body she was trying desperately to cover. “And it’s a nice view. I mean, these tits are—”

  “Stop it,” she said, covering her breasts with an arm as she cupped the other hand between the legs she’d squeezed together. “This is . . . crazy. I can’t believe we did what we did.”

  Clay grinned. “Twice. And as you can tell”—he looked down at the tented sheet barely covering his hips—“I’m more than willing for a third round.”

  Daphne covered her eyes. “We can’t. We just . . . oh.”

  Clay had rolled over and started kissing her stomach, sliding down, dipping his tongue into her navel. “Oh, but we can. I’m not supposed to be at work for another hour. Oh wait, I’m already at work.” He slid a hand up her leg to her thigh, making her nerve endings tingle.

  She grabbed his hair and made him lift his head. “Ellery will be here in twenty minutes. You have to leave. If she sees your truck . . . oh . . . my . . . goodness.”

  His hand squeezed her hip. “So how many times do you want to come this time?”

  Orgasms. Yeah, she’d had multiple orgasms both times they’d had sex. Like an engine with a head of steam, once started she couldn’t seem to stop. She’d lost track of how many times her body had stretched and then shattered against his mouth, his fingers, his hips. Never in her life had she felt so incredibly alive as she had last night.

  But last night was over, and even though she’d finally solved the mystery of female arousal, what they’d done had been a colossal mistake.

  “Oh God, I think I may vomit,” Daphne said, jackknifing to a sitting position and pushing Clay off before running toward the half-finished bathroom. Then she remembered the water was still shut off, so she reversed directions and steadied herself on the chest of drawers. The room spun a little, and she was certain she should be appalled that she stood naked in front of a twenty-five-year-old guy who could model underwear. She pointed at him. “Close your eyes.”

  “What?”

  “Your eyes. Close them,” she said. She swallowed down her nausea and scooped up the robe draped on the chair in the corner.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Clay asked.

  She looked over at him. His eyes were closed.

  “Hold on,” she said, taking deep breaths and willing her stomach to settle. She shrugged into the robe and jerked the belt tight, as if that could fix the mess she’d gotten herself into. “Okay.”

  Clay opened his eyes and slid out of the bed.

  “Oh God,” Daphne said, averting her eyes from the gorgeous naked perfection. Clay tugged the ecru throw at the foot of the bed and wrapped it around his hips. He looked rumpled and beautiful. Her personal Greek god. The giver of orgasms.

  Somewhere in the bowels of the house, a door thumped against a wall. “Morning!”

  Daphne gasped. “No! No, no, no, no. She’s never early.”

  Clay blinked. “What? Who?”

  “Hide, you fool. Ellery’s here,” Daphne whisper-yelled, glancing around the bedroom at Clay’s jeans crumpled at the foot of the bed. Boots had been dropped by the dresser, and a pair of boxer briefs were wedged in between the footboard and the mattress. Holy hell.

  “Yoo-hoo? Mama? Are you still in bed?” Ellery called. Daphne heard the thump of the office door. “I’m going to start on the new promo for the Mardi Gras book. Mark Anderson sent some comps . . . Mama?”

  “You have to get out of here,” she said to Clay, trying to find some measure of calm and utterly failing. Ellery could not find out what she’d done. Absolutely could not. “I’m going out there to keep her from coming in here. You get out.”

  “How?”

  “Uh, the window,” she said, pointing at the one that would drop him into the backyard.

  “This is stupid. I’m not climbing out the window. You’re a grown-ass woman.”

  Daphne turned toward him as she heard the click of Ellery’s shoes coming through the living room. “Please, Clay. I can’t deal w
ith this right now. Please.”

  He shrugged, picked up his jeans, and whispered, “Okay, but this is crazy, Daph.”

  “Mama?” Ellery called through the thankfully locked door.

  “Just a minute, honey,” Daphne called.

  “Are you sick?” Ellery asked, and Daphne envisioned her backing away from the door. Ellery was a classic germophobe and kept hand sanitizer in every bag. Her worst nightmare was a stomach virus.

  “No, no, I just slept in. Had trouble sleeping last night,” she said, noting that it wasn’t a lie. She hadn’t slept much, but when she had, it had been hard sleep, cradled in the arms of a man who’d worn her out.

  Clay gave a soft, sexy laugh.

  Daphne shot him a quelling look and jabbed her finger at the window.

  Okay. She could do this. Get Ellery away from the door. Give her something to do. “Hey, sugar, would you mind putting the kettle on? I desperately need tea. I’ll get dressed and be right out.”

  “Sure,” Ellery said outside the door. “If you certain you’re okay? You sound weird.”

  “I’m fine. Promise.”

  “Well, Clay left his truck here, but I don’t see him. You should tell him not to do that. People will get the wrong impression,” Ellery said, her footsteps sounding as she moved away from the bedroom door and back toward the kitchen. Thank heavens.

  Clay actually had the gall to laugh again.

  “Shh!” Daphne’s mind raced as Clay tugged on his jeans and looked around for his shirt. Clay’s truck was here, but what else had he left behind? She’d left the plates in the sink and the glasses on the coffee table. Would Ellery notice? She would. Daphne knew she would.

  “Uh, Daph, I think my shirt’s in the living room,” Clay said, grabbing his boots and then snagging the socks he’d toed off when they’d tumbled into bed.

  “Oh shit,” Daphne breathed. Last night during their make-out session on the couch, she’d tugged his shirt off him and tossed it somewhere. Where had she tossed it? The back of the couch? She couldn’t remember.

  “Don’t worry. I have an extra in my truck,” he said, sitting on the bed and pulling on his boots. His hair was mussed, and he looked even younger in the morning sunlight streaming through her linen drapes. Lord, what had she done? She’d slept with a man-child merely because she’d needed to get sexed up. She was a horrible, horrible person.

  Clay sprang from the bed and pulled the cord on the drapes. Quietly as he could, he unlocked the window and eased it up. Daphne walked over and peered out. The house was pier and beam and sat a good four feet off the ground. The window made it six feet at least. What if he broke an ankle? “Be careful.”

  Clay hooked an arm and pulled her to him. He kissed the indentation in her throat, his tongue coming out for a small taste. She closed her eyes at how good it felt. “Last night was awesome. One of the best I’ve had. You were incredible.”

  Daphne could do nothing more than nod because it wasn’t a lie. Then she gave him a little nudge. “We’ll talk later. Go.”

  Clay swung his legs out and, with a grunt, landed on the ground beneath. He looked up at her and winked. “See ya in, like, five minutes.”

  Daphne closed the window, lowered the blinds, and then leaned against the wall. The ramifications of her stupidity slammed into her. She’d slept with her daughter’s ex-boyfriend like some horny old slut. What had she been thinking?

  Well, she hadn’t. That was the problem.

  After the kiss at the table after dinner, she’d cleared the table and brought the pie and newly opened bottle of wine to the living room. Her intentions had been clear . . . at least to the rational part of herself. She would have a slice of pie, one more glass of wine, talk about the weather, and then send her hot contractor on his way. No problem. She was a woman in control of her life, decisions, and traitorous body.

  But Clay had patted the seat next to him. “Come on. I won’t bite you. Unless you want me to.” He lifted his eyebrows, the ever-consummate flirt.

  “See?” she’d said, choosing the chair farthest away. It had been her grandmother’s, and she’d had it reupholstered last year. “You say things like that, and it means I can’t sit there.”

  “Aw, come on, Daph. You’re acting like we can’t sleep together if we want to.”

  “Exactly. We can’t.”

  Clay made a face. “Yeah, we can. We’re both adults. I want you, and I know you want me, too. And, Daph, I want to do dirty, dirty things to you.”

  He knew what he was doing, damn him. She watched while he swirled his fork in the meringue and then licked it off the tines. The entire action was Intro to Seduction 101. Daphne’s girl parts woke up and started chanting, “Do it, do it, do it.”

  “You sure are cocky,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

  He smiled at her then, and it was so devilish that she couldn’t help returning the smile. “Okay, so I’m attracted to you. I’d have to be dead not to be, but it would be foolish for us to throw caution to the wind and . . . engage in . . .”

  “Fucking our brains out?”

  Daphne covered her face with her hands and groaned. “You’re too young for me.”

  She uncovered her face and tried to level a no-nonsense glare at him, but he dipped his fork into the chocolate pie and took another bite. “No, I’m old enough to know exactly what you need and smart enough to understand that it’s just about sex.”

  “Complicated sex.”

  Clay shook his head. “Sex isn’t complicated. It’s natural. Lady, you’ve been turning me on for days. I watch you, and all I can think about is touching you, kissing you, tasting every inch of your body.”

  At those words, her girl parts stopped chanting and applauded wildly, but it wasn’t just those parts of her that needed his words; it was the part of her that had been so hurt when her husband left. Rex had made her feel dowdy, unattractive, and worthless. At first when he left, she thought he would come home the next day and say he was sorry for acting like an idiot. But he didn’t come back. A month went by. Then another. A holding pattern that suggested he was waiting for her to do something. The more time went by, the more Daphne knew they were over. Still, her heart hurt, and her ego felt shattered. Especially when Rex took Cindy out for dinner. He’d professed it was because he needed someone to talk to, but Daphne knew.

  The next day, she filed for separation.

  Rex didn’t want her unless she went back to being the doormat she’d been before. Unless she gave up the joy her career had brought her. The signs had been there even before she’d signed the second book deal, but she’d been blind to Rex’s neediness, to his snide asides about her career, to his covert jealousy of her success. On the outside, Rex had been a supportive husband. On the inside, he writhed with pettiness over her getting the accolades. At times he was plain mean, talking about her gaining weight or how her author picture made her look older than she was. Other times he moped around, talking about how he should have done something more than AC repair. How he should have gone to college and majored in law like he’d always wanted. Before he screwed up his life having sex with her after formal.

  So Daphne wanted to believe the words coming from Clay’s mouth because she needed them the way parched earth needed rain.

  Clay watched her as he ate another bite of the pie. The way he ate was like he was making love to the damned fork. His perfect lips sucked the chocolate off before his tongue darted out to rescue a tidbit of the flaky crust. Daphne felt herself lean toward him.

  Setting the half-eaten pie on the coffee table, Clay leaned back and patted the couch once more. “Come on. I won’t touch you.”

  “Unless I want you to?” She said the words before she could stop herself.

  “Exactly.”

  “Fine. I’m not afraid of you,” she said, scooping up her wineglass and plopping down next to him. She had to prove to herself that she wasn’t going to do what her body wanted her to do. She was not. No way.

  “Th
ank God, because that would be a travesty,” he said, lifting the bottle of wine and filling his own empty glass. He arched an eyebrow and looked at her half-filled glass, and though she’d already had 2.5 glasses of wine, she held out her glass.

  “So what should we talk about?” she asked, taking a gulp. Then another. And then another. The room had already started tilting a bit, and her thighs felt oddly numb. Okay, so she was a little drunk.

  Clay watched her, his mouth twitching. “I don’t know. I proposed that we don’t talk, but since you’re still clinging to the notion that sex would be wrong, we’ll find another topic. How about football? Do you watch football?”

  “Nope. Not a fan.”

  “Okay, politics. You a Democrat or a Republican?”

  “Neither. I’m an Independent,” she said, taking another drink. Clay wasn’t drinking and looked oddly relaxed.

  “So do you like to take a bath or shower? Me? I like to shower, but a bath’s sexy if I’m with someone else. All that slippery, wet skin and soft parts fitting right up against my hard parts. Some of them harder than others, mind you, but still—”

  “Stop,” she breathed, swallowing hard. Her mind went to the two of them in that new bathtub. She’d fit right between his legs, and he’d curl his hands around to cup her breasts. Oh, it would feel amazingly good. “Next question.”

  “Have you ever masturbated in front of a guy . . . or a girl?”

  Daphne swallowed wine at the same time she tried to breathe. She plopped her glass down on the coffee table as a fit of coughing ensued. Clay thumped her on the back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen. I was trying to be funny, not kill you.”

  Daphne coughed and wiped the tears streaming from her eyes. “That’s not funny. I don’t masturbate . . . in front of people.”

  He watched her, something in his eyes that she both loved and dreaded. “We could fix that. You could do it for me. Right here. I wouldn’t have to touch you like I promised, but I would enjoy the hell out of it.”