Bad For Each Other

by Kate Hathaway

  She moved to accommodate him. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I didn't—"

  "That's all right. Don't pay it—"

  "No mind. I know, it's just being a hound," she said, teasing laughter in her voice. She settled back into his arms.

  "Exactly." He groaned as he found a spot for himself against her hip. She was getting real loose. Giggly. He traced a finger down her neck, across her collarbone, over the slope of her breast, to where the nipple broke the surface of the water, waiting for him. At his lingering touch a gusty sigh escaped her.

  He lifted his gaze from her and was confronted with their reflection in the mirror above the sink. Molly, with her head thrown back on his shoulder, her arms dangling at the sides of the tub, her breasts glistening as the water lapped them.

  He laid his hand on top of one of hers, lacing their fingers together and bringing both to cover her breast. Gently he guided her hand upon herself.

  He felt her immediate resistance and her eyes met his in the glass, distressed. "I can't do that, Charlie!"

  He released her at once, letting her hand swing back to the side. His own remained to cup and stroke her breast. "Then don't," he whispered. "It's not important. I'm just trying to find out what you like."

  She bit her lip, turning her face into his neck. "I'm sorry...."

  He tore his gaze from the mirror to look at the woman in his arms. What need did he have for a reflection when he held Molly in the flesh? "Don't, Molly. Come on, honey, don't." He brought his hand up to cradle her jaw when she kept her eyes squeezed shut. "We have the rest of our lives to find out what pleases us and what doesn't. Don't be embarrassed."

  Her features relaxed somewhat, though her eyes remained closed. With two fingers under her chin, he tipped her face to his and opened his mouth on hers. "Kiss me back, Molly," he whispered, gliding his tongue over her lips. "Kiss me back."

  Her lips parted and her tongue met his, tentatively at first, and then with sweet demand. He'd forgotten the pleasure to be had in the sounds of loving. The gentle suction of lips seeking and clinging. The catching of breath after breath-stealing kisses. The soft whimpers that escaped when desire heightened and was too intense to suppress. Molly's sounds of need, yearning.

  Swirling his tongue in her mouth, he covered her breasts with his hands and repeated that pattern with his wet palms on her nipples. He lifted his head when her breathing was choppy and shallow, moving his mouth to her throat, keeping his touch gentle though the need was riding him hard, too. He laved the tips of her breasts with cupped hands, allowing the slapping of the water to intensify the sensation until her nipples pearled. Under the water he spread his legs with hers upon them, opening her to him and his questing fingers.

  And very slowly he slipped his hand between her thighs and covered her.

  She arched to him, her beautiful throat, her slender torso, and below, where his fingers stroked. Her whole body strained for his touch. Her head rolled side to side on his shoulder as without her conscious thought her hips began a rhythmic undulation. An unmistakable invitation.

  He slid one finger into her. She was wet, slick, and not from the water. At that realization, he closed his eyes against his own ravening hunger. She was at the point he'd promised her, where no logical decision was possible, but he found himself unable to watch.

  He slipped his finger in and out while his thumb explored her wet curls for the only rigid place on Molly's soft, yielding body. The keening moan that poured from her when he found it nearly undid him. He had to still his hand to regain his own control. Molly's impatient thrusts let him know how little that pleased her.

  He opened his eyes to her then, and saw her sweet need revealed to him, honest and total. He began the motions she craved and watched the deepening flush of desire spread over her. Watched her fingers alternately grip and release the rim of the tub. Watched the frantic rise and fall of her breasts. Watched her in the extremes of her passion as her lips formed soundless repetitions of his name.

  And at her peak, when she was mindless, heedless of any other presence down the hall, he covered her mouth with his own and absorbed the cries of her ecstasy.

  He held her to him while the last tremors of pleasure shuddered through her. He held himself rigid, hoping he'd get a grip, hoping she wouldn't move, hoping he'd manage to get past the next few moments without humiliating himself right there in the tub. She turned in his arms and he almost lost it. Pulling away from his shoulder, hair floating out behind her, she twined her arms around his neck and tried to straddle him. His hands went to her hips when he realized what she was about, but whether to pull her to him or push her away, he couldn't have said.

  The water sloshing around them and over the edge of the tub brought him to his senses. "Honey, no! Moll—" Her openmouthed kiss stopped his protests for a moment. Then he tore himself away. "Honey..." He pressed her face into his shoulder. "We've got to get out of here." He grabbed her seeking hand. "Molly, we will drown!"

  He helped her to stand, though he wasn't especially steady himself. Holding her close, he reached for towels and half lifted her from the tub. Her hair hung in a dripping mass down her back. "Look what you did, honey," he said, trying to soak up the excess water with a towel.

  She put her hands on top of his, halting his motion. "I don't care, Charlie." She took the towel from his hand and let it fall to the floor. "I don't care." Reaching for him, she ran her fingers over his chest, feeling him shake with his desire, his skin so hot he should have sizzled.

  His fists clenched at his sides, he closed his eyes, unable even to look at her. "I've got nothing left, Moll. No control, no finesse, nothing. I just need you, honey."

  Her hand coasted lower. Her palm closed around him, cupped him, welcomed the thrusts against her he couldn't have held back if his life depended on it. Standing on her toes, she whispered at his ear, "Charlie, it's been so long. I want to feel you inside me."

  Those had to be the sweetest words under heaven. As he reached the bedroom, he lifted her still wet body against him and was inside her, his thrust strong and sure, before they hit the bed. He felt her arms and legs go around him, cradle him, and, paradoxically, that seemed to calm the madness in his blood.

  Just to be inside her, to feel her moist heat clinging, welcoming, wanting, gave him the measure of control he needed. Raised up on arms propped on either side of her head, he gazed into her face. She was illuminated only by the faint light from the bathroom, but he could tell her eyes were open and looking directly into his. "Molly." The word was a whisper, a groan, almost a prayer.

  She put her hands on his upper arms, sliding them along the damp skin, feeling the power contained in the muscle and sinew as well as the vulnerability he made no effort to hide. She lifted her hips to him, inviting him deeper and moaning as he obliged with a push that stretched and filled her even more. Her tender parts were so sensitized to him, just his slightest movement sent pulses of pleasure skittering through her.

  He saw her response and marveled at it. This woman who feared she was unresponsive was making herself ready for him again. He knew the subtle hints, the cues that signaled sexual excitement. He'd learned them with other women who were about as subtle as a blow to the head. He'd had a lot to learn, so he appreciated the lessons. But as he looked into the eyes of the woman lying beneath him, even as he recognized the signs of her arousal, he realized that this was utterly different.

  This was Molly.

  There was tenderness, affection in her expression as well as desire. It tapped a wellspring of emotion in him he hadn't been aware existed. Gently he brought his mouth to hers and probed with his tongue, smiling at the breaking of her breath. He pushed up on one arm and reached for a pillow, then turned her a little, arranging it under her shoulders.

  When he rolled her to her back again, she gasped at the position she found herself in. Her neck arched over the pillow, completely exposed to his plundering kisses. Her breasts jutted, inviting the lingering ministrations of his tongu
e and his teeth. To ease the pressure on the small of her back, she'd raised her knees and set her feet flat on the bed alongside his hips. She couldn't so much as take a breath without his stimulating some portion of her anatomy.

  And stimulate and stir and arouse, he did. With his mouth and his hands, his whispers and his groans, his words, vulgar and sweet. And transcending it all, the constant, insistent, drugging penetration and withdrawal.

  He watched her, his Molly, as she approached the brink. Her arms flung up above her head, her upper lip pulled back, eyes closed, breath coming in ragged pants, and her belly, her hips rising in rhythm to meet him.

  Wanting desperately to take her that last short distance, he withdrew and rubbed himself, slippery with her body's dew, against that swollen knot of sensation at the apex of her thighs. She came apart in his arms, her expression one of ecstasy that was close to pain. He plunged into her once more, pushing her over the precipice. And this time, when she soared, he went with her.

  He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, only that his waking wasn't comfortable. The bed was a mess, covers every which way, only one pillow to be found and that one under Molly's back. She couldn't be too comfortable, either. He sat up and ran a hand through hair that still surprised him when he found it so short.

  "Molly."

  Her answer was a barely audible sigh. "Honey, this bed's all wet."

  She rolled to her stomach. "Don't be grumpy," he thought she mumbled.

  He gave a short laugh, got up, and padded to the bathroom. This wasn't a pretty sight either. He slipped on the jeans he'd dropped on the floor, zipped them halfway and left them unbelted. Then he pulled the plug in the tub, shut off the light and left everything else where it lay.

  On the way back to the bed he grabbed his shirt from the chair. "Come on, sleepyhead," he said, propping her against himself in a sitting position. He pulled the shirt down over her head.

  "What are you doing?" she asked drowsily.

  "Now who's being grumpy?" He helped her poke her arms through the sleeves. "I'm paying for eight bedrooms here. I can use a couple of them if I feel like it." He stood and lifted her into his arms.

  "Charlie." She yawned widely. "You don't have to be a caveman about this. I can walk."

  "Oh, hush." He moved toward the door.

  "Charlie! This shirt is gaping," she said, feeling air on her bare bottom. "Tobie might—"

  He turned back to the bed. "Grab the top sheet. It's dry."

  She did as he told her and wrapped it around herself, giggling.

  "Now, hush! You're gonna wake him." They eased out into the hallway. Moonlight from the landing windows was sufficient for them to see by. "Which room?" he asked her.

  She pointed to a room at the end nearest the stairs. "How about that one?"

  He stood for a moment, considering. "That's right above my folks," he said finally.

  She laughed into his shoulder. "Charlie, they had nine kids! Do you think we're going to give them ideas?"

  "I don't care," he said, laughing with her. "I don't think of my parents in those terms."

  "I suppose you believe all that stopped when you were born."

  "Well, I'd like to think so, but they had Lucy, so I guess they kept at it."

  "Do you suppose—" "Molly, don't even suggest it."

  But she cupped his jaw, turned his face to her, told him with a look that she couldn't imagine a time when she wouldn't welcome his touch, his kiss. Years wouldn't matter. He was so affected, he had to lean against the wall and kiss her soundly. When he raised his head, their breathing was a little less even and their desire to find a room a little more urgent.

  "How about that one?" Molly indicated another door with a nod of her head.

  "That's right next to Tobie, honey." He gave her a wicked smile. "You get a little carried away."

  She looked chagrined, then pleased. "Oh, are we going to again?" She clasped her arms around his neck, legs swinging.

  "Uh-huh. Unless you'd rather sleep." He grinned at her hoot of laughter and opened the door to the room closest to the second bath. This one would do nicely, he thought, his eye catching the gleam of the brass headboard. Good handholds.

  He carried Molly into their cocoon and closed the door on the rest of the world.

  * * *

  He wasn't going to be able to sleep. Here he was in the fat part of the night, wide awake, with a woman who, judging by the way she'd sprawled all over him, considered him just another part of the bed.

  He couldn't see Molly, but he could smell the jasmine in her hair where it tickled his nose. He could feel the soft breezes of her even respirations blowing through the hair on his chest. He was conscious of the hand she had snuggled right up into his armpit, and the way her thigh draped over his belly gave him access to her most private, feminine secrets. He was aware of her body's invitation, but too thoroughly drained to respond.

  That was the problem.

  He'd emptied himself into her, unprotected, without any regard for what her feelings might be on the matter. Oh, he figured that first time, he could plead extreme duress. But not this time. This time they'd shared lingering kisses, leisurely touches, slowly heightening pleasure. There had been time to savor each brush of skin on skin, each contact of tongue to tongue, each sigh, each moan, that built to the mindless explosion they both sought.

  And his neglect of any precautions had been deliberate on his part. He just didn't want anything between them.

  He'd taken the time to dump the packets in the nightstand drawer in their room earlier in the day. He'd even given a thought to stuffing a couple in his jeans before he'd carried her to this room. Just a thought, and he'd quickly discarded it.

  The truth was he'd like to have another child. With Molly. He hadn't given a lot of consideration to the matter before, but the fact remained he'd be thirty-two by the end of the year, and he wanted to be young with his kids. Tobie appeared to be doing fine and as for himself, well, this was the only marriage he would ever enter into.

  But he should have checked with Molly.

  He cringed, remembering his words to her when they'd married. Questioning her about birth control, telling her he'd take care of it. As if it was too big a responsibility for her to be trusted with. What a pompous ass. He'd been happy enough to let her be the responsible one years ago.

  She rubbed her nose into his chest as if it itched and then settled herself again. He wrapped his arms around her and caressed her bottom.

  He'd like to be there this time to see her belly swell with his baby. He didn't know the simplest things about Tobie's birth. Did she have morning sickness? Had she breast-fed him? His hand went to stroke that part of her that he'd always considered most especially his. What the heck. He wasn't a selfish guy. He could share.

  Another thought shook him to his core. Had she been alone when Tobie was born? Had she gone through labor with no one beside her? He'd seen enough of his kick-butt brothers shaken by that ordeal with their wives to realize it was no walk in the park. Had anyone been there for Molly?

  Maybe her mother had softened enough to come up and be with her. He knew women shared a special affinity at that time. Maybe she'd been able to overcome her aversion to that no-good Cochrane boy in order to support her daughter. Charlie uttered a fervent promise that he would never entertain an uncharitable thought about the woman again if she had come through then.

  He tightened his arms around Molly and she stirred, patting his shoulder, as if he were the one who needed soothing. He made an effort to relax and stared into the darkness. When had it been, exactly, that she had her period? He tried to do the figuring, but math was never his strong suit and counting backward gave him a headache. He'd have to talk to Molly.

  "Honey?" He tangled a hand in her hair and she batted her fingers ineffectually against his face. He kissed her fingertips. "I need to talk to you, Moll."

  He thought she was still asleep and was going to speak again when she whispered, "What?" />
  He ran his dry tongue over dry lips. "I didn't use any...when we...made love. I didn't use...any protection." He hissed a breath through his teeth. Just get it out, Kick. "I didn't use a condom."

  He knew she opened her eyes. He could feel her lashes flutter on his chest. Then he felt her stiffen. Every inch of her, from her fingertips to her toes, stiffened and withdrew from him. God, did she think he was regretting it now? He was really making a hash of this.

  "What I mean is—" he put his hands on her back to hold her to him "—I’d like a baby. I want us to have one." Her hand settled on his chest again, combing through the hair. He started to breathe a little more easily. "But it has to be all right with you." Just as he'd felt her stiffen, now he sensed her gradual relaxation. Her thigh came back up over his to wrap around him. Her arms circled his neck and she burrowed her face in the curve at its base. "Would you like that, Moll?"

  She didn't answer him directly. Just snuggled in real close, kissed his ear, and whispered, "Go to sleep, Charlie," against his skin. He'd take that for a yes.

  Chapter 12

  Molly shifted and Charlie woke, missing the warm blanket of her body. He opened his eyes to daylight, though it was still early judging from the long slant of the gauzy shadows in the room. He went up on one elbow to look at his sleeping wife.

  Her hair was a bright tangle on the pillow, enticing his fingers to sift through it. Her lips were slightly parted and the fingers of one hand curled near her chin.

  He lowered his eyes.

  The bedsheet was twisted around her legs, crossing her abdomen just below the shallow dimple of her navel. The rest of her body was bared to his gaze. Crooked red streaks patterned her breasts, remnants of having been smashed on top of him during the night. With a twinge of guilt he noted the flushed areas near her nipples, light abrasions that reminded him he hadn't shaved before they'd gone to bed last night. Even with the wrinkles and the redness, she was beautiful.

  The flat discs of her nipples beckoned him. They were so sensitive. He knew it would take just a whisper of his breath, just a nuzzle with his nose to bring them to peaks. He'd heard there were women who could be brought to release just from loving attention to their breasts, but that was outside of his experience. It wasn't something he'd ever given much thought to. Before Molly.