Night Moves

by Thea Devine

  The sexy lady embraces every facet of her sensuality and tries new things. She heard the words so clearly in her mind. Hadn’t she written them?

  Without missing a beat, she reached for him.

  IF ONLY there didn’t have to be the moments after, she thought, when the excitement died down and the heat dissipated. But how could you sustain that kind of high in the midst of sorting through your underwear and clothes and trying to get dressed without looking clumsy?

  It never worked for her, even though Truck was unusually graceful at it. Because he was so experienced?

  The sun was now down on the horizon. Truck was packing everything up and securing it with a tarp. Words seemed superfluous. Carrie climbed down from the roof first, hanging tight, not trusting her quivery legs.

  She didn’t wait for him either. She wanted to flee from him, and she wanted to run to him, and she hated those contradictory feelings.

  “Carrie...”

  She stopped and turned to face him, lured by that delicious little break in his voice.

  Truck stood just by the ladder, his T-shirt slung over his shoulder, his fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans, as dangerous as the devil, and twice as devious.

  “Here’s the deal,” he said, his eyes glimmering with a positively wicked light. “Sex for dinner.”

  She froze. “I’ll make sure I’m never hungry,” she said tightly.

  “And I’ll make sure you’re ravenous,” he countered. “Today was just the appetizer. I haven’t even begun to whet your appetite.”

  “I’ll starve first.” She knew exactly what he was doing.

  He smiled that awful complacent arrogant male smile. “How long will that satisfy you? I think you’ll be famished in a day, Carrie. I think you want it just as much as I do. So I guess we’ll see who craves nourishment first.”

  He swirled his shirt off of his shoulders and yanked it over his head. “Me—I’m hungry. I’m going out to dinner.” He flicked his hand at her. “See you, Carrie.”

  MEN! Fine. Truck had no conception of what she was going through, no idea about the choices she’d had to make. No clue what her life had been like before she’d come back to town or how much she’d given up. Just as well. A sexy lady could get a man like him out of her system in no time. And good sex didn’t have to have anything to do with it.

  Right. Or love.

  On the other hand, after spending the afternoon in his arms, her bed seemed awfully cold and lonely. But Carrie didn’t like the alternatives either: ignore him—impossible—or get involved with him—impossible.

  The next awful step was to suggest they could be friends.

  Actually I thought we were in love...

  Heat washed her face as she remembered his words. What did he think they were in now?

  Heat. Sex. And she’d desperately wanted him, so what did that do to all her fuzzy logic about involvement?

  This was involvement.

  Okay, I won’t fight it. I’ll be involved. I just won’t go out to dinner. I’ll do the sexy lady bit: How could any man resist?

  HE MIGHT AS WELL be a thousand miles away as just up the road from her, Truck thought as he maneuvered his car into the garage at the back of the house. She wasn’t going to let him any closer than he’d gotten already.

  God, Carrie was something. Now he knew why he had waited, why no other woman had ever done it for him, why he’d come back to Paradise. He didn’t believe it was fate. He was beginning to think it was inevitable.

  The problem was, he still had to capture the castle. And his warrior princess had pulled up the bridge across the moat. She was not making it easy. Oh, she was worth it. Truck was still wrung out from this afternoon, and he already craved more. He was not going to let her just walk away either. Not this time. Not ever.

  He dropped onto one of the chairs on the enclosed porch and stared out across the road at the pond. There wasn’t much to see at this hour. just the clear, starstudded sky, the looming trees across the road, the flick of a lightning bug. And it was quiet, except for the crickets, the faint honk of a duck, a distant engine as a car raced up the Pond Road.

  Truck liked the quiet, the peace, the sense of space and containment both. He liked working with his hands and caring for Old Man. He liked the town, the people, the life he’d chosen far from the fast lanes of Chicago where he’d first started out.

  Where he’d almost been devoured by his resentment of Carrie’s rejection and his suppressed feelings of abandonment; where he’d become utterly self-destructive and out of control.

  The career had gone first—his abortive desire to be a journalist. You couldn’t cover a beat when you weren’t sober. And half the time he hadn’t been.

  He hadn’t been much different than Carrie, he thought. He couldn’t count how many women he’d had, how many meaningless encounters, how many nights he’d spent in someone’s bed whose name he couldn’t remember the next morning, women he eliminated from his life without a shred of remorse, women from whom he’d run away.

  A man found his soul in the strangest places.

  In the bathroom of a plane, throwing up his guts, on the way home to deal with his father’s tragic accident. In a hospital room, praying for Old Man to live. In the kindness of strangers who transferred their affection for Old Man onto his worthless only child and forced him to become a man.

  In the depths of the pond on a quiet autumn day as he paddled a canoe out to the center and watched the sun go down. In the heft of a tool precision-crafted to do precisely the job you needed it to do. In the joy of fitting the pieces of a puzzle together and making it whole, whether it was plumbing, making love or your life.

  This he had learned sometime somewhere in his twenty-seventh year, when he returned to Paradise to take over the business and take care of Old Man.

  Truck heard the unmistakable sound of Old Man’s wheelchair rolling across the living-room floor.

  “You out there?”

  “Yep.”

  Old Man appeared on the threshold. “So, you finished up in Searsport?”

  “Yep.” Truck knew that wasn’t what Old Man wanted to know.

  “Been working down at Carrie’s then?”

  Bingo. “Uh-huh.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s fighting every inch of the way.”

  “It’s hard to keep ’em down on the farm, that’s for sure. There’s nothing like the pull of the big bad city. You think she’ll leave eventually?” Old Man asked idly.

  “She thinks she will.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Things change,” Truck said softly.

  “Change is hard,” Old Man said.

  “We all change,” he said to Old Man.

  “One way or another,” Old Man agreed. “Bring Carrie up to dinner sometime soon. I’ll tell Jolley.”

  “Ill do that,” Truck said.

  Old Man reached out and touched his arm. “Good night, son.”

  Truck squeezed his hand. “Night.” He listened to the wheels in the darkness as Old Man returned to his room He felt the knife edge of desire cut into him, but he wanted to feel the tormenting ache, the desire. It was his secret, his insatiable hunger for Carrie, and it was his to revel in. He felt the heat, the thickness of the night air. More than anything he wanted to climb in Carrie’s bedroom window right this very second. She’d wake up, she’d want him and she’d take him, and then she’d let him ride her hard.

  Fantasies and dreams—

  ...Actually, I thought it was love...

  IT WAS HOT, it was late, and Carrie was wide awake, her body covered with a sheen of perspiration.

  This isn’t fair. I don’t want to think about him, I don’t want him, I don’t...

  I do. If he came in that window right now—if...stupid fantasy... if—I would...

  She drew in a hissing breath. She had never felt so voluptuous. That was the thing that awakened her, her body swelling and stretching with this intense ye
arning, priming her, making her wet, hot and ready before she was even aware of her need.

  Ready for what? Fantasies and dreams?

  He could have been with her now. He could have stayed the whole night right in this bed.

  If she knew magic, she’d conjure him up in a heartbeat, naked and throbbing, and blinded by his overwhelming need for her body.

  What was he thinking? What was he doing? Why didn’t he come?

  Dangerous feelings. Shameless desires, especially for one as determined as she was not to have a relationship, not to make a home here.

  It was crazy to want him. Insane not to consider the ramifications.

  Wasn’t it enough she had spent that glorious afternoon with him on the roof, for heaven’s sake?

  She didn’t want to answer that question.

  It wasn’t enough. She shook herself. The truth was, living in Paradise was making her stir-crazy. She had too much time on her hands and too much libido.

  She wished he would come...

  She awakened again hours later, joltingly aware that there was someone else in the room, and that for some reason her arms were immobile.

  She pulled against the restraints, twisting and bucking her body, fear coursing through her. Then her eyes became accustomed to the dark, and she saw him, standing at the foot of the bed, watching, and she stopped her writhing as he waited, looking dark, sensual, hungry, driven to the edge...

  Yes... Her breath caught as she pulled at the restraints, feeling the soft stretch of the material, and the dawning comprehension that she was fully in control. Yes.

  Her excitement grew. He wanted her. He couldn’t help himself. He was over the edge...

  He wore nothing under his jeans but his rampaging desire for her. He climbed onto the bed, his naked need joining with hers.

  “I’m hard for you.” His voice was barely above a breath. His body was slick with sweat, burningly aroused.

  She made that helpless little sound as he rocked against her.

  “Is this what you want, Carrie?” He pushed deeper and she gasped. “And this?” He pulled this time, a long lingering stroke outward. “You want what I have?”

  Her body liquefied, expanded, took him deeper as he braced himself above her at just the angle to watch her undulations and her pleasure.

  He pushed farther, rotating his hips, squeezing himself tighter and tighter against her so she felt the unmistakable mating of their bodies.

  “Don’t move.” Did he say it? Did she?

  She was so open to him, so connected; she couldn’t conceive of another reality but this sensual joining in the dark.

  He was positioned at her very center, the rock on which she rooted. He didn’t have to move; she took him, bearing down on him, writhing back and forth, against him.

  And the thing that made it even more exciting was the binding of her hands so that the movement of her body defined her pleasure; and the way he lay canted over her, watching her, moving with her in short, little strokes so she could just feel his pumping hips.

  Just right. Just...right—as she bore down on the rhythmic thrusts. Just right...how did he know—of course he knew...her breath came faster as the tension built, as sensation piled on sensation like whipped cream on cake, and just a firm swipe of the tongue would do it—there...and there; her body quickened, she held suspended for one fraught moment and then she let go.

  He caught her, driving into the waves of her climax, pulling it from her and pulling it from her until she begged for mercy, until he could pull no more and the only thing left was to give himself up to her desire.

  OR HAD SHE DREAMED the whole thing?

  When she awakened the next morning, she was alone. No Truck. No bonds. No sign that anyone had been in the house. Had been in her bed.

  And only the expansive sense of well-being she felt told her that maybe, just maybe, fantasies did come true...

  7

  SUNDAYS IN PARADISE consisted of going to church in the morning, visiting family and friends in the afternoon, and in the spring and summer browsing through the local flea market and garage sales.

  The big Segers outdoor flea market was a seasonal event that ran from May through October on four acres of undeveloped land about a half mile out of town. Since anyone could set up a table for two dollars a shot, the flea market was an amiable mix of people cleaning out attics and garages; dealers of coins, cards, comics; collectors looking for a profit; and dealers looking to get rid of slow-selling items.

  You could find clothes, used paperbacks, baby items, cookware, records and CDs, tools, furniture, dishes and sometimes even an ancient car.

  It was one of Jeannie’s favorite places to come on a Sunday after church, and she roused up Carrie with promises of treasure and sun and fun.

  “I’d rather go to the lake,” Carrie grumbled.

  “You can do that too. Come on. I bet you haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

  “Just barely.”

  “And I suppose you wouldn’t call yourself dressed.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Shoot You know you have to get there early to get the best stuff.”

  “I’m not looking for stuff,” Carrie said.

  “You will be,” Jeannie said confidently.

  Jeannie was at Carrie’s within an hour. As Carrie dressed, Jeannie waited for her in the living room.

  Carrie was having trouble coming to grips with Jeannie’s new sexy-lady image. The whole time she was dressing, Carrie was debating whether she should say something to Jeannie about the fact that perhaps she was overplaying the sexy-lady thing. Jeannie wore one of the new bodysuits with a sweetheart neckline that displayed her cleavage, one of the long button-front skirts, unbuttoned almost to her thighs, new sandals, new jewelry, and her hair was swept up off her neck. On top of all that, she had on makeup that emphasized her eyes and mouth, a bolder look that so disconcerted Carrie, she finally decided to say something...at least just about the makeup.

  “Oh this? I went to Portland the other afternoon, and fell for the line at the makeup counter at Lorstan’s. I think it looks pretty good.”

  “Pretty different.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” Jeannie said, eyeing Carrie’s black jeans and tiger-print tank top. “And it’s not as if you don’t load up on eyeliner and lipstick yourself.”

  “That’s true,” Carrie acknowledged. “It just takes some getting used to on you.”

  “That’s what Eddie said.”

  “Oh—Eddie—” Carrie motioned her out the door. “How is Eddie taking all this?”

  “He doesn’t understand it, and he doesn’t like it.”

  “Because—?”

  “He doesn’t understand it. And I say—good.”

  Carrie thought it best to leave the subject alone for now, and changed the topic.

  “You know,” Carrie said as she opened the car door, “I keep thinking you dream up these little side trips to prevent me from zooming around town on my cycle.”

  “You’re right,” Jeannie said. “When you’re right, you’re right. But—if you ever went to a flea market and found the perfect, oh, lamp, how would you get it home?”

  “I’d call on my friends, of course,” Carrie said lightly as Jeannie backed the car up the track and turned onto the road.

  “So how’s Truck doing?” Jeannie asked casually after a few minutes.

  Carrie’s heart started pounding. She wondered if Jeannie knew anything, if Jeannie could have seen anything from her house. Oh damn. It was probably the most innocent question. Still, if such an innocent question could make her feel so guilty, it was yet another reason not to let herself get much more entangled with Truck.

  Oh? Much more? She kept pushing down the rising desire she felt every time she thought about last night—assuming she hadn’t dreamed last night...

  “Truck?” Her voice sounded normal, if a little high. “He’s doing fine, I guess. He was away last week, did you know?”


  “Yep, I did. Story about it in the paper. They pulled in a dozen companies from all over the state to salvage that pipeline.”

  So what did you mean by that question, Jeannie?

  They were rolling through the main street of Segers, past the bank and post office, the auto store, and the radio station. Jeannie turned left, and immediately they came upon a line of cars that stretched up the road.

  “Whoa. A lot of people today. We might just as well try to park where we can and walk over.”

  The field was covered with vendors’ tables and people wandering around. Jeannie, it turned out, was an avid collector of kitchen accessories from the fifties, and she was off and running the minute they got to the edge of the field.

  Carrie drifted up and down the aisles, looking at books, crafts, a booth selling old jeans. Old jeans! She who used to shop in designer stores for casual clothes....looking at used jeans?

  Well, it was time to learn to be frugal, she thought as she bought a pair of worn bleached-out jeans that were as soft as a baby blanket. She bought some paperback novels, and a large shallow bowl because she liked its shape.

  “That’s beginning to look a little permanent.”

  Carrie wheeled around, her heart pounding.

  Truck. Right over her shoulder. Looming. Luscious. No man had a right to look that good this early in the afternoon. He was dressed all in blue today, wearing a cotton shirt tucked into his jeans with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, cursing the tremble in her voice.

  “Meeting and greeting the neighbors. And I collect old tools. I don’t expect you knew that.”

  “No.” Carrie noticed that other women, old and young, were also looking at him, and why not? He was so magnetic, he radiated such a sensual aura she almost couldn’t stand it. Her mind suddenly went blank and she couldn’t think of a thing to say to Truck. Nothing that would keep him by her side or that would give her any clue as to whether she might see him later.