When she didn’t answer, he finally turned around to discover she wasn’t there. He grabbed a beer out of the fridge, popping the top off, then heading into the living room. She was looking at the pictures on his mantel. He stood quietly for a moment and watched her.
She made her way from one end of the mantel to the other. Beginning with a photo of him and his brother when they were young—he’d been about five, making Roland twelve. It had been taken on Christmas morning, and while the holiday never meant a great deal to them since there was very little money for gifts, that year Roland had done jobs for other tenants in the building—getting their mail from the lockboxes downstairs, taking their garbage to the Dumpster in the parking lot—and earned ten dollars. He’d taken that money and bought Teague a little Nerf football that Teague had wanted. In the photo, Teague stood clutching the toy as if it were a bar of gold.
She moved to the next photo—of him with his mother at his college graduation. He wondered if she remembered that she’d taken that picture, smiling at him and blowing him a kiss as he wrapped one long arm around his much shorter mama and pulled her into his side while his graduation cap tried to slide sideways off his head.
But it was when she reached the next photo that he saw her tense, her whole body stiffening as she stared at the framed eight by ten of him standing with her and her family next to the Thanksgiving dinner table.
“I keep it to remind me,” he said, walking farther into the room, closer to where she stood, her back to him so that he couldn’t gauge her reactions. “It reminds me that people can take you into their homes, but it doesn’t mean they’ll ever take you into their hearts. It reminds me that no matter how comfortable I get, I can’t ever forget that I’m that guy in the picture—the black man in the midst of a white world, and they can turn on me when I least expect it.”
Her intake of breath was sharp, and it cut him to the quick.
“Jesus, Teague,” she said softly before she turned, her eyes showing her anguish even from several feet away.
“I don’t say that to make you feel bad, only to be honest.”
She nodded, swallowing hard.
“Why did you bring me here?” she finally asked, crossing her arms in front of her protectively.
He rubbed a hand across his jaw before unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling them as he talked.
“I want to know what the hell that was in your paper this morning.”
“You’re kidding me, right? What possible issue could you have with that article? It was like a cluster of factoids, about as objective and insignificant as a bio piece could possibly be.”
There she went with the funny collection of words again. Damn, she made this hard. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Exactly. What the hell were you thinking?” he asked, his voice rough because he really wanted to shout at her—or fuck her, something like that.
She gaped at him.
“I never asked you to pity-fuck me in the press. Just because you don’t tell the world about my brother doesn’t mean you need to treat me like some goddamn debutante doing a fashion show. Dig around, question my views, tell the world what my flaws are. In short, do your damn job so I don’t look like your charity case.”
She exploded, all fire and heat, and he jerked back in surprise at her vehemence.
“Screw you, Teague,” she snapped. “You don’t like how I wrote about you? That’s too damn bad. You don’t get to have it both ways. You want me to protect you, I can, and I will. I have no problem with that, but you don’t get to dictate how I do it. There are any number of other journalists in this town looking into your history, your viewpoints, your experience. Any one of them can rake you over the coals. And I can too—if I choose to. But if I choose not to, you don’t get to come at me for it.”
“And why would you choose not to? Huh? Because you’re riddled with guilt, right? You can’t stand the idea that you caved to your racist parents and dumped me twelve years ago. You think somehow giving me a free pass when I’m being vetted for the Supreme Court of the United States will make up for it all?” He didn’t even realize he’d moved until he was in front of her, looming, his flesh hot and tight.
Her eyes flared as she met him glare for glare.
“No,” she said softly, her words precise and sharp. “I know full well that there is nothing I can do to make up for what I did. I’ve chosen to protect your secret because I truly believe that you’re the best man for the job, and I also know that if anyone finds out you have a brother in prison, they’ll never accept that you can be impartial in some of the most controversial cases of constitutional interpretation that exist.”
She breathed in, her body softening a touch as she continued to gaze at him.
“But I can’t protect and not protect you at the same time. My boss is breathing down my neck, chomping at the bit for any little salacious detail I can find. He’s out for blood because the paper is getting hammered by the cable networks on stories like this, and he’ll take any bit of rumor I can find and try to turn it into a tabloid nightmare.”
She turned and walked back to the mantel, running a finger along the frame of the picture of him and his mother. “I can’t go after you even a little or he’ll take it and run. If he does that, it might eventually lead to your brother.”
And suddenly, just like that, he was the asshole. She wasn’t coddling him; she was displaying an exceptional level of thoughtful loyalty. She was going beyond simply keeping his secret, and risking her journalistic reputation by actively protecting him in the face of a direct threat.
His anger evaporated, and he realized that all he was left with was want. Never-ending, soul-piercing, gut-wrenching want.
“Dee…”
She turned, watching him with distrust.
He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, but not the distance. Not yet.
“I’m sorry. I…” He chuckled bitterly. “I’m like an insane person since I saw you in that press conference.”
He began to pace up and down in front of her. Two strides one direction, two strides the other.
“I can’t sleep. I can’t think straight. I want you gone forever one minute—” He stopped and let all the heat that was burning him up inside show on his face. She gasped softly. “And the next minute, I want nothing more than to bury myself so deep in you that you’ll never leave me again.”
She put fingertips to her lips, her eyes wide and soft.
“I don’t see how you could ever forgive me,” she told him. “And without that, it’s just sex. I can’t be with you like that. It’s about the only thing that’s clear to me in all this.”
He approached her—slowly, carefully, fearful that she might bolt if he moved too fast. Her hair was like silk ropes, and he reached out a hand, gently running his fingers along a lock, so entranced by it, he couldn’t stop himself.
“Maybe,” he said, rough and hot, “forgiveness isn’t something that happens all at once. Maybe it’s in bits and pieces, part of rebuilding trust, part of remembering all the good until it washes away the bad.”
“Teague…”
He leaned closer. “Maybe the fact that I want to forgive you is enough for now.”
His lips brushed over hers, and she made a tiny sound, deep in her throat. It was almost more than he could bear. “Let me try to forgive you. I want to so much.”
She gave in, molding herself to his body, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing him as if her very life depended on it. Her mouth opened to his, and he slid his tongue inside all her lush sweetness. He flicked, and sucked and nipped until they were both panting with need.
“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he growled, slipping his hand under her top and cupping one breast. She was voluptuous, full and soft, and his cock hardened like steel, aching to thrust inside all the warm wetness he knew would be waiting.
She moaned, arching her back so that her breast pressed into his hand. He toyed with the n
ipple through the satin of her bra, running his lips down her throat and nipping at the delicate skin at the juncture between her neck and shoulder.
Then the need for skin to skin became too intense, and he pulled away, taking the edges of her blouse in his hands and pulling, sending buttons flying, then shrugging out of his own shirt nearly as fast.
She frantically kissed his cheeks, his throat, his jaw, as she reached down and began to work on his belt buckle. He unhooked her bra and tossed it aside along with the ruined blouse.
She got his zipper undone and stroked his rigid cock through the fabric of his boxer briefs.
“Fuuuck,” he hissed, thrusting once into her palm.
They stumbled backward until he had her pinned against the wall next to the fireplace. He reached up under her skirt and gave a hard tug to the small elastic bands that held her panties together on each side of her hips. The tiny pieces of satin fell to the floor. She wrapped one leg around his hip, pressing her core against his nearly bare cock.
“Just a minute, baby,” he whispered, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He extracted a condom before rucking up her skirt more and pulling his cock out of his underwear. He sheathed himself and then stopped, looking down into her liquid blue eyes.
“This isn’t everything,” he told her softly, stroking her cheek. “But it’s the start.”
She nodded before he lifted her other leg to wrap around his waist as well. She bowed her head over his shoulder as he pressed into that perfect spot between her legs. “Are you ready for me,” he asked, running the tip of his cock through her folds, coating it in her wetness.
“So ready,” she gasped. “I’ve been ready for twelve years. Do it.”
He plunged in, and they both cried out.
He pushed her into the wall hard, pinning her with his body weight while his hands moved to her breasts, massaging and kneading the plump flesh while his hips began to piston in and out, slick heat surrounding his cock and suffusing him with an ache so deep, it traveled to his very soul.
Need. It was a need like nothing he’d ever felt with anyone else.
“Harder,” she cried out, and he remembered just how rough she liked it. She was the only woman he’d ever met who was completely in tune with him in that regard. He grabbed a hank of her hair and pulled it tight, forcing her neck to arch.
“You want it hard, baby?” he asked as he thrust so deep he could virtually feel her heart.
“Yes,” she growled, her nails furrowing his back.
He pulled her hair even harder with one hand while digging the other into the fleshy part of her hip, putting bruising pressure on the soft skin as he held her still. Then he thrust hard and fast, over and over. Her head knocked against the wall, and she cried out each time he pumped in.
It was hard, fast, and within a minute, she was screaming his name, squeezing his cock so tight, he wasn’t sure he’d ever get it back. But it didn’t matter, because he was coming along with her, pulsing ecstasy flowing from his spine down to his balls. His cock was tight with the ache, each spurt bringing incremental release until he was bled dry.
Her head fell forward onto his shoulder as he spun them and collapsed on the sofa, her on his lap, his cock still lodged inside her.
He gently rubbed his hands up and down her back, relishing the feel of her hot skin and delicate bones.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice raspy.
He felt her nod, then heard her muffled voice. “I don’t think I can move—ever again.”
“Tell me about it.” He chuckled. “But I need to deal with the cleanup, so you have to let me go for a minute.”
She sighed, levering up on her knees before crawling off his lap and collapsing on the sofa next to him. He flashed a grin at her, and she rolled her eyes as he stood, removing the condom and going to the bathroom to dispose of it.
When he came back, she’d readjusted her skirt, found her bra, and was looking forlornly at her blouse.
“You going somewhere?” he asked, arms crossed, looking at her with one brow raised.
“Oh! Um…” She squinted at him. “No?”
“Good answer,” he said, walking to her and nudging her in the direction of the staircase in the foyer. “That was only the appetizer, baby.” He smacked her on the ass. “Get upstairs so we can have dinner.”
She looked at him over her shoulder, a sexy smirk on her face. “You’re bossy as hell, Roberts.”
“Never bothered you before,” he said.
“Just make sure that dinner’s prime rib. I never got lunch, I’m hungry.” She winked at him.
“Good thing I’m packing enough meat to feed you all night long, then.” He growled and chased her up the stairs to where a very large bed waited and the process of forgiveness could continue.
Chapter 11
Deanna opened her eyes to darkness. The low hum of a ceiling fan overhead was soothing, as was the warm body tucked up against her back. Teague. She took a deep breath, and his arm banded around her waist tightened. Her heart beat double time as she remembered everything they’d done in the last few hours.
Could he really forgive her if they tried this? And what exactly were they trying? With a history like theirs, where was a logical starting point? They could hardly pretend they didn’t know each other. Going out on dates once a week for a couple of months seemed silly when you’d been as close to another person as you could possibly be.
But on the other hand, they certainly couldn’t pick right back up where they left off. They weren’t engaged, they weren’t twenty, and there was a lot of baggage to work through. She wiggled, anxious about where this might go—or, more specifically, where it might not go. Both possibilities scared her more than she wanted to admit—even to herself.
Then there was the issue of Roland. As much as she knew keeping something from Teague was a bad idea if she wanted his forgiveness, she also knew that any information he had about Roland put his ability to keep the secret in jeopardy. After all these years, Teague was speaking the truth when he said he knew nothing about his brother except that he’d been sent to prison and his mother had told him Roland was dead. If he knew anything beyond that, she would put him in the position of having to lie were he ever questioned.
Deanna had no idea how Teague felt about Roland at this point. Did he miss him? Ever wonder what had happened to him? Or had he pushed his older brother aside for so long that Roland might as well be dead now. Her knowledge of Roland was a danger to Teague in more ways than simply his nomination. The knowledge might be a danger to the stability of Teague’s life in general. How could she tell him something that could be devastating to his emotional well-being?
“Dee?” His deep voice speared through the darkness as he nuzzled her hair, his hand moving from her stomach to her cleavage, where he buried it, giving a little grunt of satisfaction. “What’s going on? The anxiety’s radiating.”
She turned her face just enough to kiss his biceps that lay under her head. “Nothing. Go back to sleep. I might get up and read or something for a bit.”
“Yeah,” he said, shifting and pulling her head onto his chest, “that’s not happening. Just tell me what’s going on.”
She laid her palm on his abs, letting her fingers roam each ridge and bulge the way her tongue had a few hours ago. She shivered slightly at the memory.
“Hey,” he said again softly. “No secrets. That has to be part of this deal. What
are you upset about?”
Guilt stabbed her in the chest, but she wasn’t ready to talk about Roland. Not yet. She needed more time to think on it. Figure out what was best for Teague.
“I’m wondering what all this means. Where do we go from here? It’s not like we can erase twelve years of life and history. We can’t go back to where we were, but I have no idea how to move forward.”
He stroked her hair, a low rumble vibrating through his chest beneath her ear. “I’m no expert in this either, but I don’t think we need
a plan, baby. The main thing is that I want to try and you want to try—right?”
“Yes. Of course,” she said emphatically.
“Then let’s try. Let’s try spending time together. Let’s try making love as much as we can. Let’s try dinner and movies and Sunday afternoons on the sofa with Netflix. Let’s try talking, and sharing, and fucking.”
She squeezed him tighter before leaning up to look him in the eye. “Yes. To all that. But we have one more problem.”
“Tell me. I’ll fix it.”
“If we’re seeing each other, I shouldn’t continue to write about your nomination.”
He ran a thumb along her cheek before kissing her once on the lips. “Okay. Is there some reason that’s a problem? You just tell your editor what’s happening and he’ll assign someone else to the story, right?”
She sighed. “Teague. If someone else gets assigned to this story, I can’t protect you anymore, and the way my editor’s approaching this, I’m scared for what they might find while they’re trying to pump up sales at the paper.”
“I’m not scared, though. That story is so buried, no one is ever going to find it, and I won’t ask you to violate your ethics any further than I already have. You’ve taken enough professional chances for me. You don’t need to hide our relationship on top of it.”
She rubbed her nose against his. “I don’t mind. I’m doing it because I want to.” She thought for a moment, images of everything they’d shared over the last few hours rolling around in her head like marbles. “It doesn’t make any sense for us to have come this far and then jump ship. And if I have to take a risk with this job in order to be with you, then that’s what I’ll do.” She sat up and looked down at him seriously.
“It doesn’t feel like I’m violating my responsibility as a journalist, because you’ve earned this appointment. And your family situation would make some people think you can’t make objective rulings on the court, but I know that’s not who you are. If anything, the way you grew up—where you did, watching your brother—makes you that much more qualified. You’ve seen and experienced things the majority of Supreme Court justices never will. You’re not making decisions about these issues in an academic vacuum. You’re making them with knowledge, compassion, and the formal training.”
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