Rolling in Clover

by Dawn, Penny

  Even through the downpour, she heard Luke's heavy sigh. He'd probably caught sight of her thong panties. She continued onward in the rain, pretending not to see him, and disappeared into the breakfast room.

  By the time she'd reached the kitchen window to steal a glance in his direction, he'd gone, but the sensation in her clitoris remained.

  Instantly ashamed of her actions, of the insatiable craving between her legs, she hung her head.

  She loved her husband.

  She adored her daughter.

  She was carrying her husband's second baby...

  She placed a hand around one a breast, enjoying the feel of thin, wet cotton clinging to her body. Fantasizing about gorgeous Luke hiking up her skirt against a drenched maple tree, entering her hard amid a ruthless downpour, that mysterious scar near his eye crinkling with a determined squint.

  Her other hand traveled to her damp panties.

  ...but what she really wanted was the stranger who wanted her.

  * * * *

  "Put away the Play Station, Caleb.” Luke strummed his fingers on the painted pine molding—standard issue in homes like his—that framed the family room doorway. Diane glared from her chair across the room, where she read. Luke dodged the daggers and looked back to his son. “Bedtime."

  Caleb glanced up, neglecting to follow orders. “Where'd you go, Dad?"

  "Nowhere."

  "Your hair's wet."

  "Just an emergency call for a sump pump. Now put the games away."

  Diane rustled the pages of a romance novel, noisily interfering with his parenting.

  "I have one more guy left.” Caleb's tongue appeared at the corner of his mouth, his trademark position for concentration.

  "Caleb, I'm not going to say it again.” In two steps, Luke was close enough to turn off the television.

  "Dad!"

  "It's way past your bedtime. Go upstairs."

  "But I—"

  "I'll be right up to tuck you in. Go."

  Within moments, his boy stomped up the stairs, muttering about the unfairness of growing up, and Diane sneered behind this evening's reading material.

  "What's so funny, Diane?"

  "Nothing. Interesting that you'd lie to your son, but I wouldn't say it's funny."

  "I don't lie to my children. I was over at Middlefork, checking on a sump pump for Mr. Randall.” Luke shoved his hands through his damp hair. No need to tell her—or his son—about the detour down Hidden Creek Lane

  and the tremendous body he'd seen through wet cotton. “And what's he doing still awake? It's almost nine."

  "I'm tired of being the bad guy today. Nice of you step in."

  "Hey, I worked my ass off today. I do my share."

  "You don't know what a share is, in this place."

  "You want me to help out a little more?"

  "Put your damn clothes in the hamper, take them out of the dryer and fold—"

  "All right. Laundry's mine from now on."

  She gave her head a shake and curled her sweatpants-clad legs under her bottom, refusing to look up from her book. “I don't want to reciprocate with blowjobs."

  "Did I ask?"

  "You didn't have to. I know you."

  "How about a kiss?"

  "I know where that'll lead."

  "I guess that's all there is to say then."

  "Guess so."

  "The house looks nice. Thanks for straightening.” He tapped a fist against the molding, keeping time with the rain, staring at his wife, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

  "Do you mind?” She turned the page. “That's awfully distracting."

  He'd give her “distracting.” Kimberley Roderick, glowing and soaking wet. Bending over. God, it had taken everything he'd had not to pounce on her, claim her lips, and have his way with her; thus, the quick exit. And thinking about her now wasn't doing him any favors.

  After one last look at his wife, he left the room and charged up the stairs. Tucked a pouting Caleb into bed. Peeked in on a sleeping Rachael. And hit the shower, more engorged than a senior on prom night.

  Warm water streamed over his body, and he gripped his more-than-ready penis, stroking with gentle pressure the way he imagined Kimberley would. If he closed his eyes and ignored the sensation in his palm, it wasn't impossible to pretend the beautiful girl stood next to him.

  He imagined her full, pregnant breasts tickling against his chest. Her feminine fingers working over the length of him from balls to tip. Her soft, sweet voice asking him to fill her, to love her, to let her love him.

  He remembered the sight of her beautiful ass through her wet nightgown, her pretty, pink nipples peeking at him, begging for kisses. He needed to be with her again, to lay her down in satin, work her over good. Her mouth wouldn't miss an inch, swallowing the whole of his cock, and he'd blanket her with his hands, show her the reciprocity he was missing at home. He'd enter her slowly, feel her shiver.

  His hand beat against his shaft without a sliver of patience, without the delicacy of a woman's touch. And, God, he missed the tenderness, but just thinking about her had to be enough. Those thighs tightening at his cheeks, the sweet drip of nectar flooding over his tongue. That's it, that's it.

  * * * *

  At one in the morning, the telephone rang a disturbing shrill. Kimberley rolled over and reached for the receiver before Allison stirred. “Hello?"

  "Love you,” Brennan sang through the phone line.

  "Where are you?” She climbed out of bed and headed toward the kitchen, where she could have a conversation without waking her daughter.

  "Missed the last train."

  "Where are you?"

  "Don't know.” He yawned. “Some street."

  "What street?"

  Only the subtle sounds of his breathing hissed through the phone line.

  "Are you alone?"

  No answer.

  "Brennan?"

  "Damn it, that's my ear."

  "Look at the street signs, and tell me where you are."

  "Ohio and...” Another long yawn. “Ohio and Dunston."

  Ohio and Dunston. Ohio and Dunston. Ohio and Dunston. Think, Kimberley.. What's at Ohio and Dunston?

  She opened her laptop and logged onto Yahoo! Maps.

  "It was a bad night, Coco Bop."

  "What'd you lose?"

  "You don't want to know."

  She keyed in Ohio and Dunston. “Oh. There's a Marriott just off the southwest corner. Can you see it?"

  "Um...” A deep sigh resonated in her ear. “Yeah."

  "Check in. Get a room, and come home tomorrow."

  "If you were stuck somewhere, I'd come for you."

  "Allison's asleep, Brennan, and she's sick. I can't put her in the car for a two-hour excursion at this hour. Check into the hotel."

  "That's exactly what I need. Another hotel room."

  "Well, what do you propose to do about your situation?"

  "If you cared, you'd be here."

  "Brennan."

  "I don't know. I'll get a cab or something. Or I'll hitch a ride with these guys."

  "Which guys?"

  "I don't know, some assholes on the street. Hey!” He yelled, she assumed, to some passersby. “Where ya headed?"

  "Find a taxi, but don't hitch."

  "You don't give a fuck about what I'm doing.” And again, speaking to someone on the street. “All I'm trying to do is get home to see her, and the bitch won't get off her ass to come get me. Tell you what. Heads, I give you fifty to take me to the North shore. Tails, we'll make it a clean one hundred."

  "Bren, don't—"

  "Come get me, and I won't flip the coin."

  "Fine. I'm going to hang up and call you back on my cell when Allison and I are in the car."

  No reply.

  "Brennan?"

  "Love you."

  What a life. “I'll be there in an hour, all right?"

  "Love you.” He broke the connection.

  She pulled off her nig
htgown, stiff from its earlier soaking, and stepped into sweats. She gathered blankets, medicine for upset stomachs, soda crackers, and a bucket—Who knew what she might need, should Allison awaken along the way?—and rushed to the garage.

  With the car packed and running, she dashed back into the house to retrieve sleeping, sweating Allison and Pink the Rabbit.

  "Mommy,” Allison whimpered in her sleep.

  Kimberley carried her to the car, carefully fastened the buckles of her car seat around her tiny body, and dialed Brennan's cell number.

  "Brennan, I need you to stay on the line with me. I'm on my way, but I don't want you to fall asleep."

  "I'm tired. It's been a long week."

  "Don't fall asleep. Are you still at the same intersection?"

  No answer.

  "Brennan? Are you still at the same corner?"

  "Yeah, me and the bag ladies."

  "Keep talking to me, Brennan. Tell me about your day."

  "Nothing special. Just work. Won one-fifty for Gretchen."

  "But you lost overall?"

  "I'm too tired to think about it."

  "Well, so am I, but we have to keep each other awake."

  "I want to tie you up tonight.” He snickered.

  "Good.” She shuddered with the thought of it. “Tell me what else you want to do me."

  "I want to videotape you."

  "What else, Brennan?"

  "I'm tired."

  "Don't go to sleep."

  No answer.

  "Brennan?"

  No answer.

  "Brennan!"

  No answer.

  Within seconds, the connection broke.

  "Mommy."

  Kimberley reached into the backseat and comforted her daughter. “Shh, Allie, it's all right."

  On the way to Elgin, constantly hitting redial, without reaching her husband, Kimberley assumed the worst. Being drunk, alone, and half-asleep, he was an easy target for a mugging. He was probably unconscious somewhere. Bleeding and as broken as her heart.

  When she arrived at Ohio and Dunston, nearly an hour later, Brennan was nowhere to be seen. Drained, she bawled in defeat. “I can't do this anymore,” she whispered into her hands. “I'm done. It's been happening for too many years. I can't, I can't, I can't."

  What else are you going to do? Suck it up and find him, or go home without him. For twenty minutes, she circled the neighborhood, her nose stuffy and eyes raw with tears. The empty streets showed no sign of her husband; it was time to check hotels. The only parking available was in the darkest, dankest lots, so she stopped the car in a tow-away zone in front of the Marriott.

  Allison weighed heavy in her arms by the time she approached the front desk. A sullen ache spanned across the small of Kimberley's back, and her head pounded, a combination of dehydration and surging hormones.

  "Did Brennan Roderick check in this morning?” She hiked Allison higher on her hip. “It would've been about an hour ago."

  The reservations clerk met her gaze and quickly looked back to his computer screen. “I don't recall registering anyone after midnight, but I'll look for you.” He tapped the keyboard and shook his head. “No one under that name. I'm sorry."

  "Thank you.” Her tears intensified and she rested Allison's bottom on the counter.

  "Can I do something else to help you? Get you a room?” He glanced out at her car, parked illegally. “A valet, maybe?"

  "Can you call the police?"

  "The police?” He handed over the receiver and dialed from behind the desk. “I hope everything's all right, ma'am."

  The dispatch officer connected her with a sergeant, she relayed the entire fiasco, and the officer replied, “What exactly do you need from me?"

  "I need help finding my husband. I have a sleeping three-year-old in my arms, I'm pregnant, and—"

  "Look, go home and wait for him to turn up. You're in a reasonably good neighborhood, and—"

  "Has anyone matching his description been arrested?"

  "Near the riverboat?” The officer chuckled. “A lot of men have been arrested tonight, same as every night out there. Is your husband the type to cause trouble?"

  "No, but he's intoxicated, and—"

  "Why was he intoxicated?"

  "That's the question of my life. My God, if I could answer that, I'd—"

  "Ma'am, I'm sorry for your situation, but it is, in fact, your situation. I can't do anything for you."

  She hung up the phone, shifted Allison's dead weight, thanked the clerk, and headed back toward the car. Allison awakened when she placed her into her seat. “Mommy? Where are we?"

  "We're going home, Allie."

  "Why are you crying?"

  "I'm not crying.” She sniffled, buckled her in, and began to settle into the front seat, when suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brennan.

  Less than a block away, he wandered aimlessly, looking both exhausted and irate, with half-closed eyes.

  "Bren!” She drove toward him, and before long, he spotted the car. “Brennan, thank God."

  Reeking of whiskey and with ice-cold skin, he shoved her hand away. “Lost my cell phone, lost two grand, lost my jacket."

  "Daddy."

  "Hey, angel pie.” Brennan's drunken, glassy gaze shifted to Kimberley. “You brought Allie? What the fuck were you thinking?"

  "What was I supposed to do with her, Bren?"

  They spent the ride home in silence, save the occasional serenade of the music box embedded in Pink. Once parked in the first stall, Kimberley and Brennan simultaneously opened the back doors to retrieve their daughter. “I'll get her,” she said.

  "I can do it, Kimmy Coco Bop."

  "No, you can't. You can't even walk right now."

  "I'm fine. I can—"

  "Don't you touch her."

  He glared at her before slamming the car door and turning away.

  Her arms laden, she managed to open the mudroom door. Two seconds later, the motor of Brennan's luxury sedan turned over, and before she could stop him, he drove away.

  Not fifteen minutes later, he announced his return with a crash.

  * * * *

  "I thought you'd be asleep by now.” Diane pulled a unisex T-shirt from her braless torso and tossed it into the hamper.

  The rare sight of her body—though only a shadow of what it used to be—tantalized Luke from the inside out. “Diane,” he whispered.

  She stepped out of today's sweatpants. Grey, stained with grape jelly. Her bony rear beckoned, calling for him to reach for her, pull the briefs from her body, and get her from behind.

  In high school, she'd leaned over the hood of his car in Rutger's cornfield. He'd pulled her skirt up behind her, yanked aside her imitation silk panties, and they'd done it so fucking well, her ass grinding against his thighs.

  "Diane."

  "Oh, please. Do we have to go through this every night?"

  "Do you love me?"

  She shook her head. “You make the concession this time. You could've had your way last time."

  "What, if I'd forced you?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you love me?"

  She yanked a jersey-type nightgown over her head. “I don't think so.” She plopped into bed, turned her back to him, and reached for this week's book, The White Knight, a heaving-breasted woman in the arms of a man with a rippling chest on the front cover.

  "When did it happen?"

  "What?"

  "When did you stop loving me?"

  "I don't know that I've ever loved you."

  "That's not true."

  "No?"

  "If it is ... why? Why do we sleep in the same bed? Why do we come home to the same house?"

  She dropped her book onto the nightstand and turned toward him. “Why do you always come back? Why don't you get it over with? And stay gone?"