Old Enough To Know Better

by Carolyn Faulkner

  The big king sized bed was much too empty, but then again, she turned on the television and it helped, as it always had for her. She found old episodes of Roseanne on Nick at Nite and fell asleep to them, much later than she’d intended, due to the sugar rush.

  A man with impossibly deep brown eyes was hovering over her. She was nude, at home, in her own bed, and she was never nude there anymore, although she couldn’t really remember why just then . . . he was distracting her too much, talking to her while he was walking, almost parading around in front of her in too tight jeans and a tight black t-shirt.

  I can give you a ride, Mrs.Taylor, if you need one. Do you need one?

  The way he posed the question let her know that it wasn’t a car ride he was offering. And she needed one. Badly.

  No, she didn’t, her mind and conscience screamed indignantly, but much too late to catch her body that was several lengths ahead of them.

  Then he hunkered down, right in front of where she was lying on the bed, not touching her. He wouldn’t dare touch her. Clint would . . . Clint would what? Clint couldn’t help her anymore, she remembered.

  No, he can’t. Clint can’t help you anymore. But you don’t need help, Catherine. You need this. He never stopped looking right into her eyes. He never looked anywhere else the whole time, even when he reached right out and claimed her breast with his big hand, as if it was his God given right to do so, covering the entirety of it, and smiling broadly when he felt that taut tip straining against his palm.

  No, no, her nipple should not be peaking. It shouldn’t. Stop that, right now!

  Her body was about as obedient to her as she had been to Clint sometimes, which wasn’t obedient at all.

  And he was still smiling beatifically down at her as his other hand landed on the foot it had so wonderfully massaged last night and trailed possessively up from there, tickling the back of her knee, the insides of her thighs, and then tucking itself between her legs to cup the hot moistness of her.

  She should have been fighting him. She should have been screaming bloody murder. No one should be touching her there but her husband: Clint.

  One thick, strong finger made its way between those soft wet lips, forging ahead into the wet depths of her. He leaned down, still touching her nowhere else but her breast and her pussy, whispering, if you didn’t want me, I wouldn’t be here, Catherine. It’s your dream.

  And then the tip, just the barest tip of that callused finger, slid firmly over her eager swollen clit. She couldn’t pry her eyes away from his. He required that she look at him and she couldn’t look away even though she desperately wanted to.

  He was different from Clint, stricter in a different way, and she was responding to him even though she didn’t want to. Her body was betraying her with him, primed and ready; the evidence was drenching his hand, and achingly peaked between his fingertips as he pinched and gently twisted her nipple.

  His fingers never stopped teasing her as he said, I want you to come, Catherine. You must obey me in this, or I will spank your bottom ‘til you can’t sit down for a week.

  Much to her deep shame and distress, just the merest thought of being spanked by him – by a man who was so much younger than she was – sent her right over the edge, had her contracting immediately, harder than she had in years…

  The phone blaring next to her was what woke her the next morning. Without opening her eyes, she brailed her way to it, still contracting, hit the talk button and said, in a distinctly unwelcoming tone, “Go away.”

  “And a pleasant good morning to you, too, Sunshine!”

  “Bite me. What the hell are you calling me at the crack of –“ she barely opened one eye, then closed it immediately, “nine for?”

  Unfortunately, Jane remained entirely unfazed by Cat’s lack of a warm reception. Sometimes really good friends could be a royal pain in the ass. “I just wanted your thoughts about how the party went last night.”

  Cat cleared her throat, desperately wishing she couldn’t remember the dream she was having before she’d been so rudely awakened, but she was disturbed to realize that it was as fresh in her mind as if she’d actually lived the experience this morning. “Shouldn’t you be hung over?” She couldn’t keep the note of hope from her voice. If Jane was hung, maybe this would be a short phone call. It was a false hope, though. Short phone calls weren’t much in Jane’s repertoire.

  Jane snorted. “I know enough to drink a big glass of water before I go to bed. What do you think I am, an amateur?”

  “I think you enjoyed your own party, which is exactly what’s supposed to happen,” she yawned loudly, not bothering to cover the receiver.

  “Jeez, did I wake you?”

  “Yes, you did, as a matter of fact.” If her sex dream had been about anyone else, she might have mentioned it to Jane as a reason for not being so happy to have been awakened, but she wasn’t about to go there with the mother of the man who had starred in that highly erotic - but entirely inappropriate - dream.

  “Well, then you’d better get up ‘cause I sent Finn over a few minutes ago to return your casserole dish.”

  Cat sat bolt upright in the bed, now wide awake. “You what? Why? It’s not like it’s Royal Doulton or anything, you know.”

  “Yeah, but I know it’s one of your good dishes – the Johnson Brother’s pattern that Clint got you, I remember and I knew you’d want it back as soon as possible.”

  That really was a sweet thing for Jane to have done, but couldn’t she have just brought it over herself instead of sending Finn over like he was an eight year old to do her errands. “Thank you.” She got up and began to dress immediately.

  “I didn’t see you much during the party. Did you have a good time?”

  What the hell was she going to put on? She was staring at a closet full of clothes, none of which did she wanted to wear to face a man she’d just had a sex dream about. “Yes, I definitely did. It was a great turn out, and I’m so happy that you’ve finally found someone who makes you happy. Ted’s a very lucky man.”

  She’d hoped she’d thrown enough platitudes in there to make Jane’s ear catch on something that would keep her from asking another question so that she could worry about what to wear and what condition the house was in.

  Jackpot. “Oh, I think that I’m the lucky one,” Jane preened. “Ted is so . . .” She wandered off into a glowing description of Ted and his attributes – mental, emotional, and physical, in such detail that Cat cringed to hear out of the corner of her ear but it allowed her to decide that she would be damned if she was going to dress up for any kid, even if he was more than halfway to gorgeous, and she was still moist from having had a wet dream about him.

  Hell, she almost never dreamt about Clint. And she never dreamt about her mom or dad, or any of her friends. But there he was, Finn Taylor, larger than life, bringing her off like he did it every night, for crying out loud.

  Just about the time she’d hung up the phone with Jane, who was still really waxing poetic about her new love, and had climbed into a pair of pink sweats and an ancient T-shirt that said “Good Girls Just Never Get Caught,” that Clint gave her for Christmas one year, thinking it was absolutely hilarious, when the doorbell rang.

  She hadn’t had breakfast yet, had no makeup on, and she didn’t think she’d even brushed her teeth yet, but she opened the door anyway. After all, he was only the son of a good, old friend, returning a dish from a party last night that they had all three attended – his mother’s – one of her oldest, and dearest friend engagement party.

  “Hi, come on in,” Cat offered, determined to keep things on an even, casual level.

  He seemed surprised that she was so cordial. “I hope I’m not waking you . . .” He trailed off, looking around the house apologetically.

  “Oh, no, your mom already did that for you.” Cat took the dish from him and put it in the cupboard. Jane the organized, as usual, had already washed it. “Can I get you some coffee or something?” It wasn�
��t morning without a good, strong cup of coffee, as far as she was concerned. Something that would scrape the varnish right off your insides, melt the spoon and the cup and the table beneath it, preferably.

  “Please. Mom’s off caffeine since Ted’s got heart problems.”

  “Oh, dear, I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been having to go out to get a decent cup of coffee, but as I remember it, yours always was the best.”

  She couldn’t help it, she preened under his compliment. “Aw, thank you. I just make it like my dad liked it – like paint thinner. Probably fit to be condemned by the FDA, but it’ll keep you going until the next one.” She set the automatic drip machine going, then folded her arms over her chest awkwardly when she realized that he had been watching her intently.

  “So how long are you back for?” Cat asked, grasping for conversation. Then she remembered that she had some leftover sausage and egg breakfast casserole in the fridge from the last time she’d had the girls over for brunch, and offered him some.

  “Oh, yes, please. You know mom doesn’t do anything that has to do with eggs, and that looks great.”

  She cut a slab for him and a much smaller one for herself, doctored them each a bit with some fresh herbs and cheese to perk them up, then nuked them separately, since she’d gotten a smaller microwave, as it was just the one of her now.

  “Juice? I hesitate to offer it, but milk? I also have fresh squeezed grapefruit juice, believe it or not. It’s much sweeter than you might think, and only slightly pulpy . . . “

  His face brightened. “I remember you used to have that all the time when I hung around here a couple of summers ago because Mr. Taylor – Clint – preferred it to orange juice, right?”

  “Yes, yes, he did, and I’ve come to prefer it, too.”

  “That sounds great.”

  Cat had forgotten that Finn and Clint had grown close for several summers while Finn was growing up. They’d rented a house not far from Jane’s, and Finn had spent a lot of time with Clint in the garage, helping Clint fix up an old car he’d bought for just that purpose. They’d always had their heads together whenever she brought out coffee for Clint and milk for Finn. She knew Clint had enjoyed the experience enormously, not having had a son himself to pass his knowledge onto; he was able to do so with Finn.

  When they finally settled down to share a breakfast, it was somewhat awkward for Cat. Literally, the only person that had ever sat across from her at their little breakfast bar was Clint. But now, here was this strapping man who dwarfed her and the seat he was perched somewhat gingerly on, literally devouring the huge slab of casserole she’d given him.

  She had barely taken two bites of hers before she was up and whisking his plate away from him, offering him more.

  Finn hesitated. “I don’t want to eat you out of house and home.”

  But Cat laughed. “It’s nice to have someone to eat with, and it’ll just go to waste otherwise. I overcooked the last time we had a girls’ Sunday brunch, so you might as well have as much as you want.”

  He nodded, and she gave him round two.

  Cat watched him eat that just as voraciously as the first slab and shook her head, smiling. “No wonder your mom was always crying about the grocery bills!”

  He had the good grace to blush deeply. “I know. I was just a growing boy then, and I don’t have that excuse anymore. I’ve gotta stop eating like that. I’m not twenty anymore.”

  She poured the both of them more juice and ventured a question that she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to know the answer to. “How old are you now? I’ve lost track.”

  “I’ll be thirty four in October,” he stated seriously, looking at her intently, like he was confessing to some sort of crime against nature.

  Nearly twelve years younger than she was.

  Ouch.

  The coffee was ready, and she poured them each a cup. She was searching for something to say, but nothing was coming to mind immediately, and that was just making her that much more nervous, especially since visions of her sex dream kept popping up in her mind whenever she looked at him.

  Luckily he filled the conversational void. “You left the party a little abruptly. I hope it wasn’t something I said or did.”

  Cat tucked an errant strand of hair that was blonde much less due to nature nowadays than to Clairol, and didn’t come to join him at the breakfast bar, preferring to put some distance between them and lean against the counter across the kitchen from him, gripping her mug like a weapon. He was just a little too much to take this early in the morning, especially after that dream. He was wearing a pair of black jeans that hugged him even more lovingly than the blue pair last night, with a gray T-shirt that had to be at least three sizes too small. It outlined every ripple in every muscle he owned, and it appeared that he owned a lot more of them than Clint ever had, or she ever would.

  Chapter Four

  When she realized she was staring, she grew mortified and blushed, which was even worse. Cat cleared her throat. “No, of course not. I just needed to get home.”

  Good going, brainiac. That was a blatant lie that any idiot who’s known you for five seconds could see through, and this man’s known you for all of his life. You don’t even have a cat to get home to!

  To her complete and utter horror, he rose and crossed to stand in front of her. “Weren’t you feeling well?” There was genuine concern in his voice.

  Lie. Tell him your stomach was upset. You had a headache. Athlete’s foot. The heartbreak of psoriasis – but he’d be too young to get that reference, wouldn’t he? Wasn’t that the heart of the problem, here?

  But lying didn’t come easily to Cat. “No, I wasn’t sick.”

  Finn stood stock still in front of her, not touching her, but very close. Uncomfortably so, but he’d trapped her neatly in the corner of her own kitchen, using her own discomfort against her. He didn’t even need to use a hand on either side of her; he was so broad he blocked her exit in either direction without having to put a hand on either side of the counter to do so. Unless he allowed her to, she wasn’t going anywhere.

  She was still staring at the ground, and he didn’t like that at all. The last thing he wanted was to intimidate her in the least. He was big, but he liked to think of himself as a teddy bear, and he hoped other people – in particular women – did to. A big, protective, if strict – in some cases – teddy bear. He’d grown up surrounded by women. His mom’s large family had consisted mostly of sisters, and he’d had no grandfathers to speak of that he remembered, so the majority of his influences had all been females.

  He loved women, no if, ands or buts about it. There was never any question in his mind about his sexual orientation, from as far back as he could remember. As he’d grown up – and up, and had filled out into a pretty bulky, muscular guy, all of that testosterone and sexual drive and basic male instincts had needed to go somewhere, and he had been lucky enough, during those formative years, to have gotten close to Catherine’s husband, Clint, with whom he credited the fact that he’d been able to navigate around a lot of the pitfalls of youth that his other friends hadn’t.

  Clint had treated him as a man from the beginning, even though he’d only been about fifteen when they’d started hanging out together that summer in his garage. They’d talked about everything, but one of their frequent topics, since it was always and forever on Finn’s adolescent mind, was women. He’d adopted nearly all of his attitudes about women – well, those that his mother hadn’t already instilled in him – from Clint: a man never ever hits a woman in anger or with his fist, and only uses his strength to protect his loved ones, but also that there would be one woman that he would find who he would need to love and protect and guide above all others, and she is the one he would want to be his wife.

  And Finn had known, even from that early an age, that the woman for him was Catherine, and, beyond some casual dating, he’d really not bothered to look much for anyone else.

&nbs
p; She’d appeared infrequently in the garage, but always with some sort of baked treat, and coffee for her husband, whom she always greeted warmly with a genuine kiss and true love in her eyes, and milk for him. She, too, treated him as an equal and never spoke down to him or changed the caliber of her language. Once, when she could see that he was confused by her choice of words, she’d gone into the house and come back with a dictionary that she’d said he could keep, and she’d helped him look up the word he’d been uncertain of the meaning of.

  She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen at that age, and she still was, now, today, twenty years later. Nothing had changed as far as he was concerned. He’d stayed away as much as he could, knowing she was with the man she loved, and had ended up caught in California for longer than he’d intended due to business.

  But he was home now. He’d come home deliberately, although he’d always intended to eventually, to claim her.

  And she looked like she’d seen a ghost. She was both pale and bright red at the same time, looking about seventeen in those disreputable pink sweats and that T-shirt that made him want to catch her and show her that he could be at least as good for her as Clint was.

  Maybe better, in a different way.

  He knew she was freaking about the age difference, and he knew his mom probably would, although he really couldn’t see why. He didn’t care one bit, and he’d deal with the both of them in good time.

  Catherine first, of course, in all things. That was the first tenet that Clint had taught him about serious relationships with women. And he had talked to him about just plain old sex, but he didn’t dwell on it, saying any idiot could get laid anytime they wanted, that that kind of thing was entirely unimportant in life. Love was what was important, who you loved and how you loved them.