She lifted her hand and brushed the backs of her fingers along his cheek. "I'm going to bed," she whispered. "Give me a few minutes?"
"Moll..."
Turning her hand, she pressed her fingertips to his lips. "Just a few minutes, Charlie." Her mouth replaced her fingers in the briefest touch and she was gone.
His head whirling in the cloud of jasmine she'd left in her wake, he Watched her go. Damn. She bewitched him now with her artless seductiveness, just as she had the raw, lanky, wet-behind-the-ears punk he'd been.
When he'd insisted that she marry him, he'd never really thought ahead, never gotten to quite this point He'd never considered what it would mean to bed her in what seemed no more than a business arrangement with no sweet words, no tender phrases between them. He knew if she showed the slightest reluctance, he wouldn't be able to do it.
But she didn't In some crazy way she appeared determined to make this as easy as possible. For him.
He capped what remained of the champagne and put it in the refrigerator. Rinsing the glasses they had used, he heard the bathroom door open and close. After a while he heard Molly leave the bathroom and open her bedroom door. For the first time since he had come to share the apartment with her, that door didn't close.
He wiped down the counter and hung the dish towel over the stove handle. He knew he was stalling. Then he remembered Molly's words. Waiting won't help. Rubbing a hand over his jaw, he headed for the bathroom. He used to shave at night when he and Molly had been together. Maybe it would be a good idea now. Another stall, he admitted to himself, but one that could have some advantages.
When he entered Molly's bedroom a short time later, he half expected to find her huddled in bed with the covers up to her chin. He should have known better. Molly was no coward. She stood at the front window of the darkened room gazing through the lace curtain, the picture she presented all in shades of gray except where the moonlight touched her hair and caught fire.
She wore a simple short gown that could have been a slip. Probably was a slip, as a matter of fact. Molly liked clothes that did double duty. She'd commandeered his undershirts for sleeping when they'd lived together. They weren't much longer on her than they were on him. He felt his body stir at just the memory. This particular garment she had on now made the most of her assets which, to his way of thinking, were considerable.
She turned when he came in, noted the white shirt he had bunched in his hand and gestured toward the clothes hamper near the closet. She watched him as he stuffed the shirt in the hamper and pulled his billfold from his pants pocket. He saw her start and look away when he removed the small square packets and placed them on the nightstand. He unbuckled the leather strap on his wristwatch and set it and his wallet on the pine dresser next to her earrings and the small bouquet she had carried. The sight of their everyday objects mingled that way seemed more intimate somehow than what they were about to do.
She was staring out the window again. Only her fingers picking at the delicate curtain gave away her agitation. Charlie sat down in the chintz-covered chair next to her and bent to pull off his boots and socks.
"I don't have any penchant for skittish females, Molly," he said quietly, tucking the socks into his boots. "That doesn't turn me on. If you don't want to do this, just say so."
He felt her fingers settle on his naked shoulder, stroking gently.
"I'm only nervous, I told you," she said in an even voice. "I'm not unwilling."
Her palm was warm where it touched him, her fingers trailing down over his collarbone to where his chest hairs started. Her hand slid lower, the middle finger seeking and finding his nipple and dallying there. He sucked in a breath, open-mouthed. It was a little unsettling, just how quickly he was ready. He'd been with more experienced women than Molly, but they hadn't known to do that. He doubted his reaction would have been the same even if they had.
He rose and stood facing her. His eyes had adjusted to the dimness, and colors were clearer now. Sepia tones, instead of gray. Warm, brown eyes, a pearly luster to her skin, her hair dark shades of red, deep and shadowed, like secrets. Molly by moonlight.
He didn't realize he'd said the words aloud until he saw her smile, her gaze soft and unfocused. "Til come to thee by moonlight....'" she whispered.
"'Though hell should bar the way,'" he finished.
Her smile widened and she touched her forehead to his chin. His lips burrowed their way into her fragrant hair.
"I'm embarrassed to admit," she said in a muffled tone, "how long it was before I learned you didn't make that up." She lifted her head and looked at him. "It sounded like something you'd say," she added in her own defense. "Except for the 'thee' part," she acknowledged with a shrug. "I thought you were trying to impress me."
"I was." He gave her a smile that reached the corners of his eyes and crinkled them. "A good line's a good line. I only steal from the best."
He'd looked like a highwayman that night, she thought, riding, riding to her out of the blackness. His steed a battered Harley. Cowboy boots instead of Wellingtons. She'd known he would come for her, would know where to find her. She'd waited for him on the tree stump, chilled by the grim reality of death despite the sultry night.
If he'd been born in an earlier time, she knew, he'd have been a troubadour, traveling the countryside on horseback with his mandolin and his songs, breaking hearts. As it was, he had ridden his motorcycle, his guitar strapped to the carrier. The soul of a poet in the body of a steelworker. Breaking hearts.
But he'd come to comfort her that night. The memory of his kindness warmed her, reminded her of why she loved him even if he didn't love her.
She threaded her fingers into the thick black silk of his hair, pulled his mouth down to hers, whispered against it, "It's okay if you don't love me, Charlie. Just pretend."
She'd caught him by surprise again. He hadn't anticipated her bold move, and he pressed hard against her before he had a moment to think. Then there was no room for thought His hands came up to grip her shoulders and crush her to him as his mouth opened over hers. His fingers grasped the thin straps of her slip, sliding them down her arms and baring her breasts.
He pulled away a little to look at them cradled in the hammock made by her slip suspended between her arms. They were just as he remembered, pale, firm and generous, the nipples a little darker, or maybe they only appeared so in the dim light.
He weighed one in his palm almost reverently and Molly arched her neck to him in silent invitation. Dragging in air, his hands unsteady, he cupped her face to make her look at him.
"It's been a long time for me, Molly. I'll go as easy as I can."
Finally, it seemed he had said something that pleased her. She smiled up at him, stepping back. Straightening her arms at her sides, she let her slip glide to the floor. Years ago he had thought she was the most perfectly formed woman he'd ever seen. This, when he hadn't seen any others naked and close up. He had more experience now, but it hadn't changed his opinion.
His gaze drifted slowly over the body she revealed to him. The slender rib cage beneath her lush breasts, the gentle swell of her belly—a little rounder than he remembered—the legs that went on forever. His eyes settled on the lacy scrap of her panties, the ones that were guaranteed to drive him straight up a wall, the ones that barely covered the springy triangle of hair, darker than the hair on her head, he knew, but still red.
He glanced up when she moved closer to help him with his pants. He needed help. He could manage the belt and the button all right, but she applied a gentle, kneading pressure to hold him out of harm's way while he eased the zipper over the bulge of his erection and down. Then her hands went around him to shove his pants and underwear down his backside. The slide of her warm hands over his buttocks, nudging him nearer, started a wildfire in his vitals that had him breaking a sweat and puffing like a steam locomotive. With the weight of his belt, his clothes settled to the floor and he stepped out Of them, leaving them where they lay.
/>
With the witchy-eyed look he remembered, part knowing and part shy, she brought her hand around and cupped him. This had always seemed easier for her when his hand covered hers, guided her, showed her what he liked, so he did that now. But he liked it too much. He wasn't going to last until they made it to the bed if she kept that up.
He brought her hands up to rest on his shoulders and eased her close until their skin made contact, head to toe. It was like coming home after a long absence. He sensed the welcome in her body whether she willed it or not, and it took the edge off his urgency. Helped him to go slow.
He wanted to kiss her. A real kiss, not one of those proper pecks they'd been giving each other for public display. A hot kiss, long and languorous, wet and deep. That was unusual for him because, generally speaking, kissing was his least favorite part of this whole business.
Not with Molly, though. There had been a time when they'd elevated kissing to an art form. Bringing each other right to the edge with just their mouths and his hands outside her clothes. That was how he wanted to kiss her now, with all the tenderness only she brought out in him.
He turned his head and opened his mouth on her neck, touching her with his tongue and, gently, with his teeth. He felt her breath come in hot pants, ruffling the hair near his ear. Her fingers gripped his shoulders hard enough to leave marks even with her skimpy nails. His mouth went searching for hers, their tongues mating, their moans mingling.
He brought his hands to her hips and rolled her panties under his palms till they slid down her legs to pool at her feet. Her knees bumped his shins as she stepped out of them and kicked them away.
Then she did something he couldn't recall her ever doing before. She raised herself up on her toes, lifting one leg and wrapping her inner thigh around the outside of his, placing her foot on his calf. That opened her to him completely, settled his rampant erection against her moist cleft. He heard her whisper his name, just the breathy catch of her voice at his ear. Then she moved upon him and he saw the red haze of her hair even with his eyes closed.
There would be no going slow now. He lifted her and eased her backward onto the bed she had already prepared. His mouth never leaving hers, he got himself sheathed. He did manage that. Then he got himself inside her. And there was only the blood beating in his ears, the frantic thrusts, the rush of pleasure, and the guttural cry of his release.
He hadn't learned as much as he'd thought.
Charlie pushed himself up higher in the bed, sitting next to Molly's sleeping form. He'd awakened from the best sleep he'd had in months just as dawn light sifted through the curtains. Molly slumbered on, her arms wrapped around the pile made by both pillows, her nose buried in the crook of an elbow. She was still a bed hog.
Of course she was used to having this one to herself. He knew that for certain now. Between his hands on her this time and eight years ago, there had been no others.
For which he was grateful.
She wouldn't feel compelled to give him a critique of that performance of his. Unlike other women he had known. "Slow down, Kick," they would say. "You're not done yet," they would tell him, and he'd learned. What the hell had come over him this time? Man his age prided himself on having a little finesse, a little technique, some control. And that hooey he'd handed her about going easy. What a laugh.
He tunneled his fingers into her tousled hair, resting the tips on her warm scalp. Somehow just that contact with her soothed him.
It hadn't been awful for her, he knew that. She'd been ready, slick. His entry had been tight, but easy. It just hadn't been mind-blowing for her, the way it was for him. "That was nice, Charlie," is what she'd say. Good God.
He stared down at her, letting his fingers wander through her hair to her nape and the shallow indentation there. She snuffled a little, burrowing deeper into the bedclothes, and he stilled his hand.
Maybe he should wake her up. It was possible he could go a little slower this time, give her some idea of what it could be like. He rubbed his hand on her silky, bare shoulder, and she heaved a contented sigh and settled her palm on his thigh.
But she didn't waken. Seeing her sleeping so deeply, he had second thoughts. She was in for a hell of a day. She really needed this sleep. And seeing those smudges under her eyes disappear would be better than sex. For her anyway, he laughed to himself. That was damn straight.
She squeezed his thigh and he nearly shot off the bed. He'd better put a stop to that or any good intentions he had would go up in smoke. He laid his hand on top of hers and their rings clinked, drawing his attention.
She still had his high-school ring. Not only had it, she'd known where to find it. He hadn't thought of it in years, wouldn't have been able to say what happened to it. But he remembered now....
He crossed the bridge after leaving the mill in Mingo Junction on the Ohio side of the river and headed his Harley south along Route 2 toward Wheeling. He'd heard the news at change of shift when he got off the evening turn at eleven. He hadn't even bothered with a shower. Just changed his steel-toed boots for Tony Lamas, his hard hat for a motorcycle helmet. Probably still had raccoon eyes from the goggles he wore near the blast furnace. Didn't matter. He had to get to Molly.
Brendan Doyle had pulled some prime stunts in his forty-six years, but tonight he'd outdone himself. Which was only fitting, Charlie figured, since this stunt would prove to be his last. He'd had the bad form to drop dead on top of one of his lady friends. This would be big talk in a small town. Molly was going to need help holding her head up, mourning the man she was ashamed to love.
He slowed his bike as he made the turn on the road leading to her house. The place was already dark. Her momma had probably retired for the night with a cold compress over her eyes. He wished he could feel some sympathy for her, but she'd always treated him like something she'd scrape off her shoes. That had only gotten worse since he'd really started seeing her daughter. Anyway, he hadn't come for her. And he knew where he'd find Molly.
She was sitting on the tree stuwp at the end of the drive. Poker-straight, knees clamped together, hands knotted in her lap. He cut the engine before he got to her so he could glide up without raising any dust or gravel. He brought the bike to a stop in front of her and straddled it.
Molly didn't look at him. She turned her attention to something off in the distance. "You've heard, I suppose," she said airily.
Oh, boy. She was going to act like she didn't give a damn. This was gonna be hell on a hickory stick. "I heard."
She brought her gaze to the hands in her lap, spreading her fingers, examining her nails. "This came as a total surprise. We never knew he had any trouble with his heart." She said this as if she were trying to decide between the Misty Lilac polish and the Mango Frappe.
Charlie yanked off his gloves, unhitched his chin strap and pushed his visor up. "Happens like that sometimes."
"Miz Willetts must have been very surprised."
Her voice keyed up a notch on that comment She was losing it. "Moll..."
"She isn't even pretty! How could he, Charlie?"
She clamped a hand over her mouth, and for a minute he was afraid she was going to be sick. He saw her swallow hard.
"Honey..."
She bit down on her bottom lip and shook her head firmly, side to side. Charlie pursed his lips and blew out a slow breath, allowing her time to compose herself.
"So," he said. "You want to go for a ride on my bike?"
She looked at him, licked her lips, sniffed once, but her voice was steady when she answered. "I've got a false tooth from the last time I went for a ride on your bike."
He lifted his helmet off, shook out the hair he wore too long just because it drove her momma nuts, and gestured Molly over. When she came, he adjusted the helmet on her head and fastened it.
"What about you?" she said.
"I've got a hard head." She still looked skeptical. "We won't go far." He helped her to mount behind him. "Hold on tight."
He could
have saved his breath on that score. She grabbed bunches of the front of his shirt with a fierceness that had him cursing chest hair. He could feel her forearms trembling where they gripped his sides. She was ready to fly apart.
He didn't take her far. Just to that little cove where
Eighth Street
dead-ended at the river's edge. He came here sometimes to think and dream. He never brought anybody else. Didn't trust himself to bring Molly. But tonight was different.
It was peaceful here, quiet. Just the gentle lapping of the water and the occasional low growl of the barges as they made their way up the river.
He pulled a blanket from the carrier and spread it on the stubbly grass under a willow. Molly toed off her shoes and sat cross-legged. Charlie stretched out beside her, resting back on his elbows. They were silent for a while, but Charlie sensed her tension.
"You wanna talk?"
She brought her knees together and up, wrapped her arms around them, rested her forehead against them. "No."
Charlie leaned his head back and looked up. He could hear the wind whispering through the leaves on the droopy branches a few feet above his head, but it was too dark to see them. He could barely make out Molly except for the pale glow of her white T-shirt.
"Do you wanna cry?"
He heard the hiss of her breath through tight lips. "I'm not going to the university in the fall."
He gritted his teeth. ' 'Sure you are. What would you want to stay around here for?"
"I'm not going to run away. Just because I'm a laughingstock..." Her voice quavered.
He pushed up to a sitting position. "C'mon, Moll. You've never let the talk get to you before. It's what small people do. Talk about other people." He'd wondered how much of the gossip she was aware of. She was well-liked. Hell, so was her daddy. That didn't stop the winks and the snickers.
"You're gonna go be my college girl. Forget about all this. Make me proud."
Bad For Each Other Page 8
