by Liz Crowe
She bit her lip. Love was was not a word she’d had occasion to use very often. She wasn’t even sure she understood its full meaning yet or if she could associate it with this man. “I … I don’t know what to say.” She circled his neck with her arms and snuggled close, feeling every inch of him, including the press against her hip of something she wanted. “I don’t know what to do, either, Anton. Will you show me? Please?”
He kissed her again, cupping her breast through the sopping wet, now-ruined dress. Fumbling, unsure and yet somehow sure, she reached for his belt, keeping their lips locked, loving his touch and wanting to finish it. To do the deed, but not with Will, with Anton.
“Not here,” he said with a sigh, grabbing her hand before she could get him unzipped. “I won’t do this here.”
“Then where?” She was practically panting. She felt on fire, burning up, aching and empty and confused. “There is no place else.”
He bracketed her face between his rough hands. She stared into his eyes and sensed something in her melting. Tears ran down her face. “I don’t know if I love you. But I … I …”
“Shh …” He kissed her softly then let her go, wincing and adjusting his zipper in a way that fascinated her. “We should take the horses home. Storm’s passed.” He slid the door open wider so the remaining rain could cool their faces.
She turned to study him. His shirt was molded to his body, hugging his torso, and making her mouth water.
“I don’t want to go home. I’m never going home. Shut the door.”
He shook his head. “No, Lindsay, don’t be childish.”
The rage she’d been holding off for days came roaring out of her, ripping at her throat as she shrieked and slammed the door. She turned, chest heaving, staring at him while she took hold of the drenched silk dress and yanked it off her shoulders to the floor. Stepping out of it, she shed her panties, stockings, and bra, all the while watching his eyes widen and his mouth drop open.
Finally she stood in front of him, naked as the day she was born. She reached for him, pulling him close by a belt loop. Quickly she unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped him. But when she reached for his shorts, he stayed her hand. “It’s not like I’m this, uh, expert or anything. I’ve only ever … oh, shit.”
She smiled and lifted the waistband of his underwear away from his erection. It was a glorious thing, it was all hers, and she meant to have it. Right now.
He shuddered when she smoothed her palm, and then her fingers, up and down it, loving its length and heft, its heat, the moisture at its tip.
“Oh, God,” he groaned when she reached lower, cupping the warm flesh below, feeling it contract at her touch.
He grabbed her legs, lifting her up, kissing her while he moved toward a hay bale. All Lindsay knew were his mouth and hands and the heat below, between her legs, which urged her forward in ways that scared her. “Please, please, please,” she sighed as he sat, settling her on his lap, her legs on either side of his. He latched onto a nipple, sucking hard and making her shudder.
Lightning had resumed. It lit Anton’s face as he looked up at her, gripping her ass, his eyes shining. She combed her fingers through his thick, wet hair. “I’m not scared. I want this.”
He nodded. She lowered herself slowly, gasping at the new sensation, of being penetrated, spread by the part of his body that was inside hers. He sighed, then put his lips to hers, moving down her neck to her breasts. Her hips seemed to move of their own accord. She pressed all the way down. It hurt, but in the most glorious way possible. She ground against him, finding friction while at the same time igniting something new, deep inside her, that made her move faster.
He let her set the pace, licked and suckled her breasts, fingertips digging into her hips. A tornado of sensation rose in her, heating her from between her legs, where she felt every inch of his length and girth, to her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her face, even making her scalp tingle, while she moved faster and faster, racing toward … it.
“Oh … oh … oh, yes!” She yelped while her entire body shivered and seemed to pulse with a new and wonderful sort of energy.
Anton had his face against her chest. His breathing came in ragged gasps. “I’m … gonna …” He arched up, and she reached over him to prop her hands on the wall, watching his face, fascinated by his expression as a sudden warmth filled her below. His hips kept moving. He kept groaning. She kept watching. Knowing that her life would never, ever be the same again.
Chapter Ten
Lucasville, Kentucky
One year later
“You can not be serious,” Kathy stared at her from the messy kitchen table. She had baby Antony on her knee, entertaining him with a set of rubber rings he kept gnawing on before tossing them to the floor with squeals of delight. Lindsay poured them both a glass of iced tea, then sat with a sigh.
“You are serious.”
“As a heart attack,” Lindsay said, pressing the cold glass to her temple.
“Oh, honey,” her friend said, handing the baby his toys once more. “This one is such a handful, and you have all … this.” Her gesture encompassed the kitchen of the quad level house that required, among other things, a new air conditioning system. “Plus that brewery.”
Lindsay observed her oldest friend from her fresh perspective. She had, indeed married Anton, about two weeks after that first encounter in the storm, concocting a lie about her being pregnant. Which, ironically, turned out not to be a lie. It had been a somber affair, but one her father insisted on, wedding dress, mostly empty church and all.
She’d been ecstatic, not least because she was making her parents perfectly miserable.
Anton’s parents had been there, of course. His side of the room had overflowed with family. Her mother had barely spoken to any of them, leaving immediately after the ceremony, Lindsay’s morose father in tow. Her brothers had warmed up to the Loves at the small reception they’d hosted at their modest home on the other side of Lexington. Lindsay knew Anton’s mother did not approve of her, felt she was too big for her britches, and completely unable to function outside the protective circle of mansion, servants, and money.
“And the hips,” she’d tsk-tsked the first time Anton had taken her home to meet the family. “Not good for the babies.”
But Lindsay had been bound and determined to prove her wrong on every count. They’d been forced to spend the bulk of her pregnancy as tenants in her mother-in-law’s basement. Luckily, they had hours and hours to explore each other’s bodies, coming up with more ways to have sex than Lindsay ever dreamed possible. She learned she was insatiable when it came to Anton. His ardor matched hers.
So, after days spent sitting and staring out the basement windows and sharing stilted conversation and lunch with her in-laws and whatever cousins happened to have joined them, she’d greet Anton when he got home, bringing their dinner down to their miniscule space that held a bed, a shower, toilet, and sink, with just enough room left over for a large, overstuffed chair. And they would fuck each other silly until they fell into sweaty heaps and would feed each other the now-cold pasta or steak or whatever else his mother had prepared.
Lindsay had been operating in a fog, more or less on autopilot, since their strange farce of a wedding. She barely registered her humble, slightly damp, surroundings. The fact that Anton’s mother couldn’t seem to find a truly nice thing to say to her didn’t make much of an impression. She even attended their Catholic church in Lexington, but drew the line at conversion and setting a christening date for their baby. The ritualistic nature of their weekly services did soothe her, and she appreciated the young priest who always had a kind word for her in his soft Irish brogue.
But when the days stretched to weeks, the weeks to months, and she got bigger and more unwieldy, things took on a much less rosy hue. One late-spring, humid night near the end of the pregnancy, when it felt as though breathing the air in the dank basement apartment would finally suffocate her, she started crying and co
uldn’t stop.
Anton was summoned home, smelling of brewery and smoke, frantic, thinking the baby was coming.
Once she’d convinced him that wasn’t it, that she was miserable and wanted to go home, he’d knelt beside her, taken her hands in his and said, “My love, my Lindsay, we are home.” She’d stared at him, sniveling and hiccupping and swollen all over, and burst out with a string of curses.
He’d helped her to her feet, then up the rickety steps to the overheated kitchen. Anton’s mother was always cooking it seemed, and the house was always full of neighbors, cousins, and the one grandchild from Anton’s oldest brother Leo and his wife.
Nodding and smiling to everyone as they passed, Anton kept pulling her out of the house. Once he had her installed in his truck, he drove all the way to Lucasville while she continued to sob hysterically.
On the southwest end of town, he turned down a dark road, then into the driveway of a house she could barely see. He got out and helped her down, then led her up a few steps to a plain white front door with a small window at the top. “Where are we, Anton? I’m tired. I need to lie down.”
“Shhh,” he said, opening the door with a key and flipping on the lights in the foyer. He’d been grinning from ear to ear. She sniffled and looked around, taking in the up or down staircase choice. Going up, she walked into a large, shabby kitchen, then through to a good-sized eating area attached to a living room. Up a few more steps were four bedrooms and one bathroom.
Anton stayed put in the living room and let her roam. She found a wood-paneled lower level that had a sliding door out onto a small concrete patio. Another even lower level boasted a used washer and dryer set and a lot of empty space. She turned and plodded up the steps, hand to her back.
“What is this place?” she asked, letting him take her into his arms and press his knuckles into the small of her back where it hurt the most.
“Your home, my love.”
She leaned away to look him in the eyes. “What’s the rent?” She knew what they could afford, and it was, in short, not much.
He grinned and kissed her, running a hand under the curve of her stomach then up to cup her full breast. “No rent,” he said. “I bought it.”
“You bought this? With what?”
“With a loan from my rich uncle. We’ll have to take whatever furniture my parents will spare.”
“No, I won’t take a damn thing from them.”
He sighed and draped an arm across her shoulders. Lindsay studied the place. There were water stains in the ceiling, and it smelled faintly of dog, but it wasn’t Anton’s mother’s basement, so she was happy with it.
“Thank you,” she leaned her head on his shoulder, content for the moment and eager for the challenge of setting up her new home. A pain grabbed her then, making her grunt and bend over. A gush of fluid hit the floor between her legs.
Anton looked at her, then down at the floor. “Oh shit,” he said.
She nodded, gripping his arm. “You got that right.”
And now, almost six months to the day from that first glimpse of their quad-level money pit of a house, she’d realized she must be pregnant again. The symptoms were too obvious. She rested her palm on her stomach that had not returned to its flat state since giving birth to Anton Ian Love less than a year before. Kathy sighed and put Anton in his playpen. She gave Lindsay a quick squeeze, promised to come by again real soon, and left. Lindsay watched her go, figuring she’d not see her again.
She picked up the phone and called the brewery, telling Lorenzo to tell his brother he needed to come home.
Kieran Francesco was born eight months later, a squalling little mite with a cap of light red hair, the polar opposite of his dark-haired brother. Lindsay let herself relax, easing into life with, essentially, a set of twin boys, believing that the Lord had blessed her, most days. At least on days when she’d managed more than a few hours’ sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Lucasville
Three years later
“I can’t, honey. I have got to get to the brewery.”
Lindsay glared at her husband while he inhaled the breakfast she’d made—an actual one for a change, with eggs and bacon and toast. Antony was whamming on his high chair tray with a toy car, his new favorite activity. Kieran was fussing in the playpen, gripping the rails and gnawing on them, his new favorite activity, and one that had Lindsay frantic about germs.
“Anton,” she said, using every ounce of her self-control to keep from joining Kieran and chewing on a nearby object in frustration. “This house needs your undivided attention. Not to mention your sons.”
She noted the deepening ridge between his dark eyes when he frowned. He finished his coffee, got up without a word to her and plucked Antony from his seat, making him squeal in delight. After settling the boy on his shoulders with warnings to “sit still,” he picked Kieran up and kissed his flushed red cheek. “My boys,” he said, making Lindsay’s heart beat a little faster.
He took them both into the living room, where almost every available surface was festooned with toys, blankets, sippy cups and other random detritus. She leaned in the kitchen doorway and watched him ease fluidly to the floor, Antony still gripping his hair and hollering “Da! Da! Da!” over and over. Kieran, always a much quieter child, sat across from him, mirroring his cross-legged pose.
“Quiet, boy,” he said to Antony, tugging him down and setting him next to his brother. They looked at each other, confused by this direct paternal attention. Their experience of their “Da” was mostly limited to quick kisses goodbye in the morning and occasionally a little face time while they bathed at night.
Mostly, thanks to the quality of the beer and food at the brewery and newly opened Love Pub, Anton was never home. She understood it on a certain level. The brewery was their only real source of income, now it was actually producing income. They’d lived on Anton’s rich, drunk uncle’s largesse for the better part of three years. Frank and JR had tried to help out, to slide them money from their father, but Anton had flatly refused to consider it.
“Play cars!” Antony yelped—at ear-splitting levels, as usual. “Da, let’s play cars!” He got up and dashed about the room, collecting his precious plastic and metal toys on wheels while Kieran sat and watched with his thumb in his mouth. She worried a little about Antony’s lack of volume control, and wanted to have his hearing checked. The nursery lady at church had clucked at her more than once about it, mentioning that it could account for his vocabulary, which she said was limited for a three and a half-year-old. But there was no money for ear doctors unless it was an emergency.
Figuring the boys were content for now, she returned to the kitchen with a sigh. The place was an absolute wreck, which made her insane most days. She’d learned how to can vegetables from a neighbor lady, who found her one day weeping at the kitchen table with one baby at her breast and the other one squalling in the playpen with a diaper full of shit. That day had been the first in her recent memory that anyone had taken an interest in her well-being beyond asking “how were the boys?”
The woman had come right in the door after knocking and hearing all the noise. She’d changed Antony and put him down for a nap, then taken Kieran, burping and changing him, while she encouraged Lindsay to go take a shower.
When Lindsay emerged from her first shot at personal hygiene in almost a week, the woman—Marianne—had put the kitchen in order and was making a fresh pot of coffee while humming to herself. Lindsay hadn’t had the time nor serious inclination to make friends with neighbors, or anyone much beyond the few young mothers she knew from the Episcopalian church located a ways out from town that had been their religious compromise after Antony was born.
“Cop a squat, hon. I brought cookies.” Marianne had poured them each a cup of the most delicious coffee Lindsay had ever tasted, and encouraged her to eat a couple of her homemade snickerdoodles. “You look done in.”
Lindsay had nodded, embarrassed by the tears
that formed. “It’s all right,” Marianne said. “I only have the one, my sweet little Rosalee, and she’s off at her grandma’s for a week at the lake.”
Marianne had stayed awhile that day, and returned the next with vegetables from her garden. Lindsay had stared at all the fresh bounty—green beans, tomatoes, zucchini—in utter dismay. “We can’t eat all this before it goes bad.”
“I know. I’m gonna teach you how to put ‘em up.” She’d given Lindsay her first canning lesson, promising that once she had her own garden going, she’d be glad of it come winter when she could pull her own vegetables from the basement to make for Sunday dinner. Lindsay had reserved comment on “her own garden.” She could barely manage “her own house” at this point.
But last year Anton and his brothers had put in a small kitchen garden, near where they planned to build a pole barn. She’d even managed to put up a few of her own things, and did enjoy the fresh cucumbers, peppers and tomatoes. It had been a bumper crop this year. There were vegetables coming out her ears, but she was bound and determined to eat every last one of them, well into the fall and winter months … which meant she was canning and freezing every single day just to keep up. She ached all over, between lifting the boys and the heavy steamer off the stove. And the kitchen was a complete disaster.
A loud bang and a shriek of pain from her youngest brought her back to the present with a jolt, and sent her scurrying to the living room. Anton had Antony by the arms while Kieran toddled over to her, holding his forehead and wailing. She picked him up. “What happened?”
“This one,” Anton said, his jaw clenched, “thought it was a good idea to throw a car at his baby brother.”
“Anton, calm down. They’re boys. They’re rough.”
But she was worried about the huge goose egg on Kieran’s forehead. He jammed his thumb into his mouth and buried his face in her neck. It was blistering hot already. She tried not to run the leaky AC much, since it made the electric bill almost too high to pay during the summer. But at that moment, she was so sweaty, her back hurt so badly, and her son was sticking to her, sliming her neck with tears and snot, she didn’t care about the next month’s electric bill.
