by Sandra Hill
I’m going to have to let Paula go, he decided finally.
His heart ached at the thought, and tears welled in his eyes, but Paula had been right about another thing, too. Sometimes, real love meant letting go. As much as it hurt, that was just what Nick resolved to do. For Paula.
I’m going to have to be a hero. Nick laughed cynically at the prospect.
It won’t be so bad, he tried to tell himself. I could always quit my job, give up my dismal excuse for an apartment, and move to the Bahamas. Become a beach bum. Drink beer all the time. Learn to surf.
He tried to smile, but all he could manage was a grimace.
Hey, I know, I could become a private detective and ask Madame Nadine to go into business with me. We could call ourselves The Psycho Detective Agency.
No, no, no! I’ve got it. I’ll locate that codger from the bookstore, and we’ll write a sex advice book together. Sex For the Brain-Challenged, or, better yet, Screwing for Screw-ups.
A lump of despair the size of a cantaloupe lodged in his throat. Probably a hair ball.
Speaking of cats. I could always become a cat breeder. He shuddered with distaste. Now, that wasn’t even funny.
Finally, two hours later, Nick let himself into his apartment. He didn’t even curse when the door opened too easily. Apparently, Paula had disobeyed his orders to stay put. As usual.
The smells of good home cooking permeated the air. Paula must have gone to the grocery store.
He sniffed appreciatively, leaning back against the door with closed eyes. Marinara sauce. That probably meant angel hair pasta. He sniffed again. Bacon. Aaah! Spinach salad with hot bacon dressing. Two of his favorites.
This is going to be a lot harder than I thought.
“Nick, is that you?”
“No, it’s Jack the Ripper. And you left the door unlocked for him.”
“Oh.” There was a long pause, then she said weakly, “I guess I forgot . . . again.”
She stepped out of the kitchen.
And his knees buckled.
He braced one hand on the wall for support. His shattered nerves had sustained a number of shocks today. Apparently, the bumpy road was far from over.
Paula was wearing scanty, cream-colored silk tap pants and a matching camisole edged in lace. And that was all.
He gulped. Yep, this is going to be a whole lot harder than I thought.
The racy undergarments were intended to be the ingredients for Fantasy Number Four. Well, that was out of the question now.
She smiled shyly at him and laid some napkins on the table, which she’d placed invitingly before the balcony door. Even a tablecloth had appeared from somewhere. Son of a gun! His tiny apartment looked almost presentable. Maybe I won’t move to the Bahamas and drink beer, after all. I can wallow right here in comfort.
Then he noticed her toenails. Pink! She painted her toenails pink. Oh, that’s a low blow. She knows how I love her toes, especially in pink polish. I am in bi-i-g trouble!
Get a grip, DiCello, he told himself. Your brain is splintering apart.
“I found these clothes in some Victoria’s Secret boxes in your bedroom. I couldn’t resist trying them on. I assumed . . . I mean, I probably shouldn’t have . . . but I assumed they were for me.” Her face flamed with embarrassment.
He should tell her they belonged to someone else. He should say he’d bought them for another woman. “They’re for you,” he said gruffly, moving closer. “Along with all the sexy things in those other boxes.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “More of your middle-aged sexual fantasy stuff?”
“Yep.” He furrowed his brow suspiciously. What was Paula up to here?
Well, whatever it was, he would have to resist. He would have to push her away. Be a hero.
But the unheroic side of his brain disagreed. It forced him to grin, loop a forefinger under one of the tiny straps at her shoulder, and tug, closing the gap between them.
The lemony fragrance of her perfume wafted around him, enticing his senses. Okay, I know I’ve got to be a hero, but there’s nothing in the hero code that says I can’t enjoy the smells before taking off into the sunset.
His gaze shifted back to her scandalous attire. “A perfect fit, I see.” Or the view. There’s nothing wrong with a hero looking . . . one last time.
“Uh-huh.” Her lips parted, and she stared up at him through sultry, half-lidded eyes.
His noble decision to let Paula go weighed heavily on him. Being a hero was proving to be real tough. He backed up a step, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “What are you up to, Paula?”
“Up to? Me?” She batted her lashes at him with mock innocence, then added, “Who did you send into the store to buy this stuff? One of the female detectives?” She began to stalk him. Closer and closer.
He took another step backward, around the table. “I picked them all out myself, babe,” he said in a wounded voice. “And I didn’t need to ask anyone about sizes, either.” He looked her over meaningfully. “I have a perfect memory.”
She laughed, a delightful, joyous sound that rippled over his parched soul like rain in the desert.
“You? A macho guy like you traipsing around in a lingerie store? I find that hard to believe,” she scoffed, but Nick could see that she was pleased.
He felt confused and disoriented, barely able to follow their conversation.
Yep, this is going to be a whole helluva lot harder than I expected.
He steeled himself to be strong and deliberately put the table between them. “One of the clerks asked me if I’d like her to model that outfit,” he said, his eyes feasting on her skimpy, delicious attire. It was best if he went for a light mood. It was best if he didn’t even look at his wife. It was best if he got the hell out of there.
“I’ll bet she did,” Paula snapped. Jealousy turned her cheeks pink with chagrin.
He liked that. “But I told her I’d rather see my wife do the modeling.”
Paula blinked rapidly at him.
“Don’t you dare cry.”
“I’m not crying.” She wiped her eyes, nonetheless, and asked, “Is Richie okay?”
Now, this was safe territory. “Yeah. I’ll stop by to see him again tomorrow before he leaves. In fact . . . well, I was thinking . . . maybe I’ll drive up to see him in a couple of days.”
She nodded. “Maybe I’ll go with you.”
“How about the damn cat?” he asked, floundering for neutral subjects. Yep, it is definitely best to change the subject. And what better way to cool my ardor than talk about cats. “How many kittens do I have to blackmail my friends into taking?” he asked, concerned about Gargoyle and her progeny, despite himself.
“Seven. And the mother is just fine.” She pointed to a corner of the living room where a large wicker cat bed was situated with the happy family firmly ensconced. Nearby, a litter box stood ready. He raised an eyebrow. Apparently, Paula had done more than a little shopping in his absence.
Then her words sank in. “Seven! I don’t know enough people I hate enough to foist seven cats on.”
“Now, Nick, I know you don’t really mean that.”
“Don’t bet the farm on it, babe. How soon can I take Gargoyle back to Madame Nadine?”
“You’re still going to take her back?” she asked in surprise. “I thought maybe you two had bonded by now.”
“Bonded? Are you nuts? I’d rather bond with a barrel of Krazy Glue.”
Paula smiled and sashayed around the table. That was the only way to describe the swish and sway of her hips in the revealing tap pants.
He forgot to move. When he did, belatedly, the back of his knees hit the seat of a straight-backed chair. He plopped down.
“Paula, we have to talk about . . .” he
started to say.
At the same time, she said, “Nick, honey, I want to thank you . . .”
Honey? Uh-oh! “Listen, Paula, I’ve finally realized . . . huh? What do you have to thank me for?”
“For taking care of Richie. He’s a good kid. He reminds me of you.”
“Hah! No way!” But secretly, now that he thought about it, he agreed. “Besides, it’s my job. Actually, it’s kind of nice to be able to help a kid once in a while. Mostly, I just lock them up.”
“Oh, Nick.”
“Don’t start feeling sorry for me, Paula. And stop changing the subject. About the divorce. I’ve decided . . .” He gulped, having trouble spitting out the words.
“Later, sweetheart. Right now . . . are you hungry?”
“What?”
She didn’t give him a chance to answer. Instead, she moved in for the kill. With the ease of a siren, she slipped onto his lap, straddling his legs. Looping her arms around his neck, she asked huskily, “Well?”
“Huh?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She squirmed her silk-clad bottom up higher on his lap, and he felt fireworks ignite all over his body. In fact, his rocket practically left the launch pad.
He tried to remember his earlier resolve. Their marriage was over. He was going to let her go. He was going to be a hero.
“Take off your jacket and shirt, Nick,” she coaxed as she nibbled his cheek and neck. “Your gun is poking me.”
“Which gun?” he choked out, feeling like he was about to explode.
One side of his brain said he should fight his baser urges as Paula laughed seductively and helped him slip out of his coat. His conscience screamed, Get up and walk out the door. It’s over between me and Paula. It has to be.
But the other, stronger side of his brain argued, Well, maybe there could be one last time.
Sighing in surrender, he unbuckled his holster and let it slide to the floor, then watched with fascination as Paula unbuttoned his shirt, pressing gentle kisses along the path of his exposed chest.
He groaned. “I’m trying to be a hero here, Paula,” he protested half-heartedly.
“You are my hero, Nick.”
“Oh, great! Make me feel guilty. Paula . . . could you stop touching me there, babe . . . listen . . . I don’t believe you just did that . . . oh, Lord . . . oh, Lord, this is not a good idea.”
“Honey, this is the best idea I’ve had all day. In fact, all week. Maybe even all year.” She moved her hips against him, and he almost shot out of the chair. “Don’t move,” she ordered. “Just let me . . .”
She looked at him through dreamy green eyes, and he knew he was lost.
With a knowing smile, she placed a fingertip on the pulse point in his neck, and his heartbeat accelerated.
She fingered the edges of his hair, brushed his collarbone, stroked his bare arms. And he made a hissing sound of surrender.
Gently, he rocked his hips forward, and a mewling cry of sweet surprise escaped her parted lips. To his satisfaction, her long lashes fluttered uncontrollably.
Pleasure flooded through him in a violent shiver. He felt like he was catapulting through space. His body ached from scalp to toe.
She put her hands on either side of his face, gently, and pressed her lips to his, whispering throatily, “Nick.”
Just “Nick.”
But that one word shattered any resistance he had left. His mouth opened under hers, taking her tempting tongue. He grew against her.
She drew back slightly. For a brief second, the intense physical awareness resonated between them as their eyes held.
Okay, so I’ll be a hero a half hour from now. Hah! Who am I kidding? Ten minutes from now. Then he placed her hand over his sex. He almost passed out from the bone-melting waves of sweet heat that licked over him. He was barely aware that Paula was undoing his belt buckle and unzipping his fly. He watched helplessly as she took him in one hand and used the other to push aside the wide leg of her panties. With a long, drawn-out sigh, she raised herself slightly, then eased down, inch by excruciating inch, onto his erection until he was buried in her hot center.
“Pau-la,” he ground out, putting his wide palms on her buttocks to hold her in place. When the first turbulent wave of his arousal had passed, he leaned down and kissed her taut nipples through the silk camisole. Her head reared back, and she began to whimper.
“Now,” he said, still embedded in her.
She nodded and slowly undulated her hips. Expertly, her slick sheath stroked him, building the fires of his molten desire.
He wanted to make it last forever.
It was over in minutes.
But they were the best damn minutes of his life.
Breathing raggedly, he wrapped his arms around her waist and feathered kisses over her lips and neck and shoulders, whispering soft endearments between each kiss. His love flowed over them both, and her eyes grew large and liquid with emotion.
When he felt himself begin to thicken again, he stood abruptly, with Paula still riding his sex, and laid her on the table, sweeping aside the placemats and napkins. He climbed up with her and reached down and behind to grip her ankles and pull them up and out. This time, his body hammered its need into her welcoming folds. Penetrating deep, he used his body to show her how very much he loved her.
When the first tingles of his impending climax flash-flooded through his body, he laced his fingers with hers, holding her to the table, and pummeled her with rapid-fire, mind-blowing strokes. Her eyes gazed up at him, unfocused and misty with passion. She made soft, mewling sounds of entreaty, “Please, Nick . . . oh, no . . . oh, yes . . . now . . . now!”
He slammed into her one last time, crying out his triumphant release.
And she wrapped her legs around his waist, yielding to the uncontrollable convulsions of her own climax which alternately clasped and unclasped his sex.
When he was finally able to breathe, he rolled off Paula and tucked her under his arm. He kissed her softly, smiling against her lips. “That was some appetizer, babe.”
She slanted him a look of disbelief, then answered saucily, “Wait till you see what I have for the main course.”
That was when he remembered his good intentions. There was going to be no main course for them.
But Paula had other intentions.
And Nick’s willpower seemed to have taken a leave of absence, he learned, as Paula served him one delicious “main course” after another, each wrapped in a different Victoria’s Secret outfit. Nick swore he was going to buy stock in the company first thing Monday morning.
About 2:00 A.M., they finally decided to eat dinner.
“Nick, why is that sock sitting on the kitchen counter?” Paula said as she prepared to put the food on the table.
“It’s my potholder,” he said distractedly as he soaked in the remarkable view of Paula in a red-and-black bustier and garter belt, bent over the oven where a loaf of garlic bread was warming.
“A potholder!” she exclaimed, peering up at him over her shoulder. She tsked her disapproval when she noticed the target of his perusal—her nicely curved derriere.
“I haven’t had a chance to shop lately,” he said sheepishly.
She made another tsking sound and placed the bread on the table alongside the pasta and salad. She motioned him to sit down and commented idly, “And how come your Jockey shorts look so gray? Not to mention the sheets and dish towels.”
“Shampoo.” He was already helping himself to a generous serving of the food, realizing belatedly that he hadn’t eaten all day.
“Shampoo?” Paula blinked at him with confusion.
“Yeah. I ran out of soap powder, so I’ve been using shampoo in the washing machine. Lord,
you should have seen all the bubbles. The building manager told me he’s gonna sue me if I ever do it again.” He was eating ravenously the whole time he talked. Finally, he glanced up when he noticed the silence. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Oh, Nick.”
“Now what? You look like you’re gonna cry. Just because I ran out of soap powder?”
“Because I lo—”
“Hey, it’s no big deal,” he interrupted in a panic. He couldn’t let her finish. He just couldn’t. He wanted to believe there was still a chance for them, but he was afraid to hope. And he didn’t want to break this precious bond that connected them tonight.
He searched his brain for a way to change the subject. “Geez, if that’s what turns you on, maybe I should tell you what I’ve been using for a toilet brush.”
She stared at him incredulously, then laughed. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“You know, Skip passes on the best tips to me.”
“I can imagine.”
“Betcha didn’t know what you can do with the crumbs at the bottom of a toaster.”
“Throw them away?” she suggested.
“Nah, they make great croutons.”
They exchanged a smile. Nick wished he could freeze the moment and make time stand still. “God help me,” he murmured under his breath.
When they returned to the bedroom, Nick undressed her slowly, worshipfully. With each garment that slid off her body to the carpet, his lips followed the silken path, whispering soft words of appreciation at the beauty of her smooth skin, the sensitivity of her breasts, the flatness of her stomach, the length of her legs.
Dropping his shorts, he stood before her, inhaling her lemony cologne. “Do you know that I bought a sack of lemons one day and squeezed them in bowls all over the apartment just to remind me of you?” he disclosed as he ran the pad of his thumb over her parted lips.
She leaned closer. “Oh, honey, I—”
“And once I went into Saks and had the clerk take out one perfume sample after another, trying to find yours.”
