by Dawn, Penny
"It might not make sense right now,” Luke said. “But try not to think about it. Just follow what feels natural. We all have needs, don't we?"
"Yes."
"I know what I need. And you know what you need, too. Don't you?"
"Yes."
"I shouldn't have to beg for intimacy, should I? She should want it, too, right?"
"I think so."
"And don't even get me started about what should be happening between your legs. If you were mine, you'd be on fire from the friction. You wouldn't be waiting at home for contact with a man too drunk to remember who he dropped a grand on the night before."
She dropped the polish brush back into the bottle and ran her free hand through his silky hair. He was right. She deserved a man who wanted to love her properly, and Luke deserved a woman who loved him, period.
"That feels good,” he said.
It certainly did.
"We all have needs,” he said again. “Diane doesn't meet mine, and Brennan ... Hell, he doesn't even know how fragile his situation is. He's got the greatest thing in the world waiting at home for him, and if he doesn't get there soon..."
She'd do something that would turn her life upside down. She'd cross the line Brennan drew in the sand the day he uttered, “Family-shmamily."
Luke's lips parted against her, and softly, he kissed her inner thigh.
Heaven.
Wrong.
"We shouldn't.” She attempted to pry his hands off her body, taking care not to spill the nail polish.
"Aren't you tired of doing the right thing?” he asked, his amazing biceps tightening against her thighs.
"I can't afford to tire.” She continued to pull at his hands. “And neither can you."
"I'll tell you what I'm tired of. I'm tired of not feeling wanted. I'm tired of Diane refusing to kiss me, let alone sleep with me. I'm tired of whacking off in the shower."
The mental picture consumed her—Luke, soaking wet, in the act of self-gratification. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
His hand pressed against her backside, and she straightened. “I'll ask one more time. Get off me."
He obeyed. Amid a sudden silence, she tended to a second coat of nail polish, refusing to raise her eyes to his. He was probably pouting those full, supple lips at her, and if she looked, she'd want to bite into his mouth.
She glanced anyway.
He rubbed his eyes with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand, looking tired, spent, and dissatisfied.
"I'm sorry, Luke, but—"
"It's not your fault."
"But I'm using you."
"What?"
"I'm using you. My husband may shake away a long, hard week at a sports bar. But I'm getting my fill of the devil with you."
"You want me to fill you with the devil?” Luke smiled. “You call this sinning? Because in your mind we're already doing it?"
"In my mind, we've already done it hundreds of times. Being with you is like being with Jason."
"Does Brennan know how you still feel about Jason?"
"I don't even know how I feel about Jason."
"You're hopelessly obsessed with him."
"I am not."
"Yes, you are.” Luke lay on his back, five inches from her pedicure, smiling full force. His blazing white teeth seem to illuminate the air.
"Luke, I assure you I'm not obsessed with my ex-boyfriend. I'm fixated on knowing that, once, I was a priority for a man, and that, once, I was truly loved. And now...” A lump formed in her throat and tears gathered on her lashes. Hormones.
"Now, what?"
It was such an absurd truth anyway. Did she have to admit it? Couldn't she continue to ignore it?
He brushed a tear from her cheek. “Kimberley?"
"Now I'm a birthing vehicle that holds less priority than a job he hates. I'm not as important than his friends, his games, or his highball glass, and I don't understand why.” Although her bawling had become hysterical, she continued with her pedicure, tightly capping the nail color and opening a bottle of quick drying topcoat. “And until he does something monumentally stupid, until he loses our house, or maybe his life, I'm supposed to be okay with things. I'm supposed to turn away."
With one steady movement, Luke stabilized her closest, shaking hand and pulled the tiny bottle from her fingers.
Luke's stare sizzled through her. “Relax."
"I don't want to relax. I want to be loved the way I deserve to be loved. I don't want to deal with repairing the garage door, hoping he doesn't kill someone on his way home from a bar, hoping he doesn't drink himself into a coma or wager Allie's college fund. I want this baby to be proud of his father."
"Kimber."
"What?"
"He's an addict. You have to give him time."
"Do you want to fuck me, or do you want to save my marriage? Make up your goddamn mind.” She wiped tears from her cheeks.
"I know what I want,” he said with a straight, serious face. “And I know it's worth the price, but I don't know if we can pay it."
"If you really want me, you'd want to leave her."
"It isn't her ... it's my boy. My kids. I stay up at night, wondering why I didn't find you back then, when I was without spouse, without child, and when you were working your way out of the same situation I was walking into. Things could've been so much easier for us."
"Why, then, did you find me when things can only be difficult? If we're soul mates, why did your good Lord put us together now? Why not eight years ago?"
"I don't know anything about why I found you when I did, but you're very pretty when you cry.” He smiled, touching her on the chin. “We all make choices, Kimber. But someday, we'll realize that choices are like beds. You make them, you sleep in them, roll around in them, try them out for comfort, but eventually, they need to be remade."
"I don't know if I can remake it today. Or next week, or even next year."
He gently peeled her hands from her face. “That's fine, beautiful girl.” He stared into her crying eyes, as if he had an eternity to swim in her gaze. “I'll wait."
CHAPTER 8
"Allie, hurry, or we'll be late.” Kimberley rinsed the breakfast dishes and glanced at the clock. Wednesday. Ballet day, errand day, and laundry day—the busiest day of the week.
Allison, dressed in the third leotard she'd tried on that day and with a full bun atop her head, scampered into the kitchen. She wore a light jacket and gym shoes. “I can't find Pink."
"What do you mean, you can't find him? He never leaves your hand."
"He's gone."
Great. Already five minutes after departure time, and they had to search the monstrous house for a beat-up rabbit Allison couldn't even bring into the studio. “Where did you last see him?"
"In the potty. When I went."
"Did you look there?"
"Yes. He's gone, Mommy."
Kimberley dried her hands. “I'm sure he isn't gone."
A look of distress crossed the three-year-old's face. “Yes, he is. He's gone forever."
"Baby, I'm sure he's here somewhere.” But after searching Allison's bedroom, her bathroom, and every square inch along the way to the kitchen, Kimberley still had not found him. “We'll have to look when we get home, Allie. We're late."
"No!"
"Allie, come on. I'm sure he's here, he's just—"
"Kim?” Elsie, Wednesday's hired help, appeared in the breakfast room.
"I know, I know,” Kimberley said. “I'm low on dryer sheets and color safe bleach. I'll pick some up on the way home."
"He's gone forever?” Allison wiped a hand over her cheeks, her eyes a stinging violet blue, much brighter with tears.
"Kim?"
"What, already?” Kimberley shoved an annoying, stray curl off her forehead and turned to her grandmotherly maid, who was holding the rabbit in question. “Oh, I'm sorry, Elsie. I'm nauseous, we're so late, and—"
"Someone likes the laundry basket.” Elsie smiled
and danced the rabbit over to a much-relieved Allison, who giggled and squeezed the stuffed animal tight to her chest.
"I want my other dance clothes, Mommy."
"Thanks, Elsie. And no, Allie, we're late."
"I want to wear my pink ones, not my black ones."
"We don't have time."
"But I don't like these tights."
"Get out to the car.” She opened the mudroom door, and a complaining Allison stepped into the garage.
With the touch of a button, the first stall door opened, and a beam of bright sunshine darted into the dim space. “Bright, Mommy. I need my sunglasses."
"They're in the car.” Kimberley slid her sunglasses from their post at her head to the bridge of her nose.
"No, I want my purple ones, and they're in on my vanity. I'll go in and get them. They're—"
"Allison Colleen, get in the car!"
"Who's that?” Allison asked, stopping in her tracks.
With a stutter-step, Kimberley avoided knocking her daughter over, peered over her Wayfarers, and spied a black pick-up truck parked in the driveway.
"'Morning, Mrs. Roderick,” Luke said with a smile.
"That's a repairman, Allie. Get in the car, or we'll be late."
"A repairman for what?"
"The garage ... now get in the car."
"What happened to the garage?"
"Allie, please."
"Okay.” Allison dutifully climbed into her car seat and began to fasten the buckle, while her mother approached the man in her driveway.
He whistled. “Cute kid. Kind of feisty. Does she get that from her mother?"
"What are you doing here?"
"Measuring. You need a new panel, but you don't have to replace the whole door."
She glanced over her shoulder. Allison was nearly settled. “So who hired you to do it?"
"Look, I'd appreciate the work.” He pressed a business card into her hand. “You said you needed it done, so here I am."
"Jackson's Home Services,” she read off the card. “Lucas K. Jackson, President.” She eyed him over her glasses. “Very amusing, Luke,” she said. Never let him see your emotion. Never let him know what you're thinking.
"So, do you want me to do it? Or don't you?"
"Yeah. Go ahead and do it."
"Think of something else for me to do on my lunch break, will you?” He laughed as she walked away.
* * * *
"You look exhausted,” Lauren said.
Kimberley sank to the chair next to her best friend's outside the ballet studio. “I am, honey. With Allie's unstoppable energy, and Brennan's being out of town all week, and now he's been staying over Thursdays...” She sighed and shook her head. “I don't mean to complain, but the first trimester is always the hardest."
"How's Bren?"
"He seems worse lately. Spending more, drinking more.” She studied the ring on her finger. “Has he always been this bad? Or am I exaggerating the issue because I'm pregnant and irrational?"
"Honey, has he lost more than you can afford?"
"Not yet, but—"
"Then don't worry. Use it to your advantage. When he loses eight hundred, it's a pair of Blahniks and a Kate Spade for you."
"But it's only a matter of time, and you should see the way's been coming home lately. Drunker than drunk."
"He's always been responsible with his drinking, Kimmy. He's been working triple duty. He's probably blowing off steam. It'll pass."
"He doesn't want anyone to know this, but he drove into the garage door last weekend."
"You know, he swears he always calls a cab."
"Well, he doesn't.” The rest of the story, about her trek to Elgin, hopped onto the tip of Kimberley's tongue, but wives like her gossiped only about their husbands’ trivial downfalls, such as his failure to lower the toilet seat or neglecting to put a pair of boxers into the hamper. Wives like her saved the ugly, torrential problems for the private confines of their own homes, and she'd already said too much.
Lauren placed a hand upon hers. “Go home. Take a bubble bath. Not a hot bath—think of the baby—but go jump in the tub. I'll keep Allie for the afternoon. Go."
While the uncontrollable pulse within her pleaded to be alone with Luke, the rational side of her put a damper on the thought. She had no business seeing him on a one-on-one basis in such an intimate setting, only four walls away from five beds inside an empty house. “That's not necessary. I'll be all right."
"Will you go? You're forgetting I'm the one woman who understands exactly what it feels like to endure an on-a-roll-and-smashed-out-of-his-gourd Brennan Roderick. You know, he would never scale down his gambling for me, Kimmy, but he's done that for you. And you're carrying another child for him, so take a few hours for yourself. Here.” She fished through her wallet and produced a coupon for bath salts. “Stop at Lyndi's and pick up a little something special for yourself. Two-for-one."
* * * *
Luke was gone when she returned from the ballet studio. Both disappointed and relieved, she made her way to the master bedroom, bumping into Elsie and a basket of dirty laundry along the way.
Elsie gave Kimberley a nod. “Did you remember bleach?"
"No, but wait a minute.” She raised a finger, slipped out of her clothes, and tossed them into the basket. “I think I'm already gaining weight. Nothing fits."
"You could stand to gain some. No one eats anymore.” Elsie carried on down the hallway. “I won't use bleach then."
Kimberley closed the door and paused before a full-length mirror. I look incredible. Her figure rivaled that of Jason's hourglass, and her hair seemed uncharacteristically tame. She cupped her full, tender breasts, rubbing her thumbs over her nipples. Her breasts, thanks to pregnancy, were amazing. Not large enough to lift to her mouth, but heavy and round. Made for Luke's lips.
She donned a short-sleeved, thigh-length, silk robe and grabbed the cordless telephone and a favorite novel. Maybe she'd actually finish reading it this spring, unlike all previous years of motherhood. With one of Allison's satin-trimmed blankets tucked under her arm, she headed out to the back yard and settled into a hammock in her underwear, feeling carefree.
Although no one seemed to be golfing today, their home was the hub of a two-acre lot off the ninth green. At any moment, a neighbor might tee off on the back nine and see her. Daring, provocative, sexy.
And nauseous.
She closed her eyes, rested her head upon her daughter's blanket, and waited for the surge of queasiness to pass.
Just think of something else.
Had she married Jason, would she be satisfied with her marriage? Would she be tempted to stray? Had the hourglass ever strayed? Did she know she had a goldmine of a man? Jason's lovemaking—so tender, so deep—would be enough to keep any woman, under any circumstances, safe at home.
While sex with Jason was never backward, sideways, standing, or upside down, it was always sober, hands-in-her-hair-while-he-kissed-her, romantic.
Over the past eight years, she'd been laid without being kissed at all. That fact once riveted her, but suddenly, it disturbed her. Why didn't her husband take the time to lose his hands in her hair?
* * * *
"Kimberley?"
"Yeah.” Her pretty, green eyes flickered open, and she yawned a breathy yawn.
"Did you sleep well, beautiful girl?” From his position on the ground next to the hammock, Luke caressed her bare abdomen—such soft skin—between the folds of the sexiest robe he'd seen since he'd caught a glimpse at a Victoria's Secret flyer. “I'll be back Thursday to stain it. But there you have it—one bona fide, cherry panel garage door."
"So you're a fix-it man."
"Trim carpentry, cabinetry, that sort of thing."
"I thought you were a plumber. Or an electrician."
"I'm surprised a woman like you knows the difference. A tradesman is a tradesman, right?"
"I wouldn't say that I'd—"
"I know how to wire,
and I know my way around a faucet, too.” He flattened his hand against her and let out a guttural groan. God, touching her this way was going to—
