Saving Allegheny Green

by Lori Wilde

  Gasping, I wrenched my mouth from his. “Wait.” He stopped, my zipper half-down, his chest heaving. “Uh,” he grunted, his eyes heavy lidded.

  “Condoms?” I could barely speak myself.

  “Got ’em.”

  “Bed?” Although I don’t know why I asked. I was so hot for him, so wet and ready I would have done him right there on the hardwood floor.

  “This way.”

  He took my hand and led me upstairs to a bedroom with a four-poster king-size bed. The blinds were open and the rain had stopped. A sudden moon shone through the curtainless window, illuminating his body in a shimmery glow.

  His shirt gapped open where I’d torn away the buttons. I could see the honed definition of his tanned, muscular chest. My stomach flipped in anticipation.

  He guided me to the bed, propped me against the pillows. He removed his clothes while I watched, then slowly he finished undressing me.

  I ran my fingertips over his skin. He hissed in his breath at my touch, as if I were a sizzling branding iron—and, indeed, I felt hot enough to mark him.

  “I feel like an explorer,” I whispered, strumming his body from cheek to chin, shoulder to forearm.

  “Delve to your heart’s content, Christopher Columbus, as long as I’m afforded the same privilege.”

  His fingers skimming? His palms kneading my flesh? His tongue tangling with mine?

  Hi-yi-yi.

  Breathless, I placed kisses along his body and he did the same with mine.

  We lay beside each other—feverish, trembling—touching and stroking, our hands gliding over naked skin.

  It was a dance, a play, a sonnet.

  A fantasy. So unreal and yet so authentic.

  We lay shaken, awestruck at the power surging between us, snared helplessly in the sensations and newness of our discovery.

  It was awkward at moments. Where do you put your mouth? Ouch, your nose hit mine. But at other times it was blindingly intense, the things we were feeling.

  I say we because I know I was not alone in my wonderment. I could see the delight in Conahegg’s eyes and I reveled in the notion that I was giving him so much pleasure. I found the power exhilarating. I’d never had a man marvel at my sexuality and his marveling made me marvel.

  He signaled his desire to me in small sounds, gentle movements and I responded in kind, the fierceness of our earlier passion receding into something incredibly poignant.

  Knowing we might never make love again, each breath, each sigh, each soft moan became important and imprinted on my brain.

  He was unlike anything I’d ever experienced and everything I’d ever dreamed about. Sexy, funny, tender, hard.

  I rode the crest of pleasure, enjoying the foreplay, savoring every sensation. But then, in the end, when Conahegg moved to cover my body with his, my niggling doubts rose to the surface, refusing to be silenced any longer by my raging libido. Sensible Ally could only be banished for so long.

  What was I doing here? Making love with the man who wanted to put my sister behind bars. Why was I allowing my hormones to get the better of me when I knew there was little chance for a lasting relationship between the two of us? We were both too stubborn. Both too accustomed to being in control. We’d both been single for a very long time. I was dedicated to my family. Conahegg was dedicated to law enforcement.

  Was there room in our lives for more? Could I learn to stop mothering the world? Could Conahegg learn to relinquish command? Could either of us learn to compromise?

  I frowned, jerked from the warm cocoon of sex by my nagging conscience. My body stiffened.

  “Shh,” Conahegg whispered and laid two fingers over my lips.

  “But I didn’t say anything.”

  “No, hush your mind. Stop thinking, Ally. Be here in the moment with me. Don’t worry about tomorrow. Just feel.” It sounded so good. Just let go.

  But it felt a bit like drowning. Overpowered, overwhelmed, washed away by my senses and the intoxication of Conahegg’s kisses.

  I should be grasping at reality, pulling myself back from sweet oblivion. I wanted to struggle and yet I didn’t. I was caught. Snared on the twin prongs of passion and guilt.

  It was exquisite and it was horrible.

  Was I sure? Come morning would I regret what we had done?

  This is Conahegg. The guy who’s convinced your sister is a murderer. Is this smart?

  “Ally,” he said. “Look at me.” He hovered above me, the bulk of his weight supported on his forearms, his legs spread over mine, his hard penis throbbing against my thigh.

  Compelled, I stared into his eyes.

  And found myself.

  We hung there, suspended in time. Looking and looking and looking into each other.

  Then Conahegg dragged in a ragged breath, leaned over to reach into the bedside table for a condom.

  Before I knew what had happened, I was helping him put it on, feeling him come alive in my hand and quickly discovering that Conahegg was a large man in every way.

  He kissed me again. Deeply, almost rough.

  I answered in kind, lightly nipping his bottom lip.

  “I’m on fire.” He groaned. “Got to have you.” Then finally, scarily, he whispered, “Mine.”

  Mine.

  As if I belonged to him.

  But I was too swamped by emotion and “just feeling” to analyze the meaning of the word or register my feelings regarding it. He’d successfully turned off my mind and turned on my body.

  Boy, had he turned on my body.

  I had no idea I could simmer like a hot spring. But I ached to boil over. To erupt. To explode. I needed relief. I needed Conahegg inside me. Nothing else would alleviate my desperate ache.

  “I’m gonna take you,” he warned, his pupils dilated, two magnetic pools sucking me under.

  “Take me now,” I hollered, like some melodramatic soap opera actress. I threw my arms around his neck, pressed my forehead to his and stared into him until my eyes crossed.

  And take me he did.

  My sanity shattered as he entered me. I cried out in delight at the shock of him.

  He glided, smooth and thick, filling me up. Making me whole.

  I was in the moment. Living and breathing every sensation. I was not thinking about my family or my work or the grocery shopping. I was cognizant of nothing but Conahegg and what we were doing together.

  “Ally, Ally, Ally.” He chanted my name.

  I clung to him, digging my fingernails into his shoulders, urging him onward.

  We writhed and burned and throbbed. We grunted and groaned and moaned.

  “More,” I cried, “more,” and clasped his bare buttocks with both hands.

  My entreaty incited him to greater heights. He thrust harder, pushing deeper into me.

  Heat and wet. Pressure and friction. Faster, faster, faster.

  Oh my God.

  Is this what it feels like?

  I hung on the precipice, willing myself to tumble over. Conahegg gasped. Called my name again. Cupped my face in his palms.

  Then I splintered into about a million pieces, falling, spinning, flying into a blinding, black pleasure. Then slowly, softly, I began to drift down, down, down into the warmth of Conahegg’s arms, sated, completed, undone.

  I grinned into the darkness as I realized what had happened.

  For the first time ever, I, Allegheny Allison Green, had experienced a mind-altering, earth-shattering orgasm. And the big man nestled beside me was responsible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when I awoke with a start. Reality crashing in on me like bouncing down Niagara Falls in a barrel.

  I’d made love to Conahegg.

  And we’d irrevocably altered the trajectory of our relationship.

  Where did we stand? Was I Conahegg’s lover? His girlfriend? Or a one-night special? What did I want? Just because we’d had spectacular sex didn’t mean we were compatible as a couple. Then there loomed the all-importan
t question. Were we still at loggerheads over Sissy? Or by making love to me did that mean he’d come around to my way of thinking and no longer considered my sister his number-one suspect? Was I simply kidding myself?

  Probably. I admired Conahegg because he was a strong person. He didn’t waffle, he wasn’t indecisive. I even liked that he didn’t cave in to my objections. He stood his ground. But his strength could be my sister’s downfall and in essence, I’d slept with the enemy.

  Conahegg’s arms were still wrapped tightly around me, one leg thrown over mine. I was pinned down. Trapped. He was breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

  The selfish part of me wanted to curl into the curve of his body, and fall right back to sleep. But too many years of conditioning and family responsibility kept me from indulging myself.

  I had to get home. Mama and Aunt Tessa had no idea where I had gone. They were probably beside themselves with worry.

  Then I realized I was stuck. My car remained in the parking lot at Tits-a-Poppin’. How was I going to get home? It wasn’t as if Cloverleaf boasted a fleet of yellow-checkered cabs idling at the ready for my sneaking-out-of-one-night-stands getaway.

  Groaning, I covered my head with a pillow. What on earth had I been thinking? I’d always harbored a secret superiority to people who allowed themselves to be led around by their sexual appetites. Making mistakes and gumming up their lives for a little nooky. Suddenly, I was one of those people.

  I was both ashamed of my transgression and strangely invigorated by it.

  Who was I?

  Lately, my whole world had shifted, starting with the night Sissy shot Rocky in the foot and culminating in my ending up in bed with the sheriff.

  This wasn’t the rational behavior of staid, predictable Allegheny Green. The woman who scrutinized the terrain with a microscope before she leaped. The woman who always put her family first no matter what. Last night, that woman had disappeared and an intriguing stranger stood in her place.

  Who had I become?

  I glanced over at Conahegg. In the moonlight, I could make out his profile. His hard features had softened in repose. He looked almost boyish.

  My heart twinged. I had an urge to reach out and run my fingers along his face.

  Aw, jeez. I was in deep. I had to get out of here.

  I tried to slide from underneath him but his leg weighed a ton. I squirmed. I twisted. I turned. And I marveled at how sore I was in certain places. Still, I couldn’t get away from him.

  “Conahegg,” I whispered.

  Nothing.

  Dammit. How was I going to escape? I was ready to gnaw my arm off to get away from him. Not because he was coyote ugly, but precisely because he wasn’t. He posed a serious danger to both my family and my heart.

  “Conahegg,” I repeated louder.

  In response, he grunted in his sleep and tucked me tighter to his chest.

  If I was the romantic type savoring our affair I’d admit it felt pretty great in his arms. But I had no time to luxuriate in the afterglow. What if something had happened and my mother was frantic to find me? What if Sissy had come home?

  But he smelled oh-so-sexy and his arms felt too darned good.

  “Conahegg!” I tugged at his earlobe. “Wake up.”

  He snorted and bolted to a sitting position. “Huh? What? What’s going on?” His hair was sticking straight up and he rubbed at his eyes with a fist.

  “I need a ride home.”

  “Now?” He yawned and scratched his bare chest. “What time is it?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  “At night?”

  “Yes.” Boy, was he out of it. Did he always conk out so soundly after lovemaking?

  “But we just went to bed. Roll over and go back to sleep. Or…” His tone turned suggestive and his hand slid down my waist and over my hip. “We could stoke that flame.”

  “No. Stop it.” I pushed his hand away before I could succumb to his tempting suggestion. “I’ve got to go home and I need a ride. My car is back at the strip bar.” What had I been thinking? Coming to his place without a getaway car?

  “You’re running out on me?”

  “My family doesn’t know where I am.”

  He switched on a reading lamp. We both blinked owlishly at each other. I hauled myself up against the headboard, tugged the sheet to my breasts.

  “Give ’em a call.” He nodded at the phone on the bedside table.

  “I can’t simply call. They’re not used to me staying out so late.”

  “And you’re how old?” he said sarcastically.

  “Hey, don’t start with me.”

  “Why not? You feel free to use me sexually and then run away.”

  “I did not use you!” I declared hotly. “And I’m not running away.”

  “Oh no? What do you call it? Fleeing your lover’s bed in the middle of the night.”

  “I’m not fleeing.” I notched my chin in the air and willed my cheeks not to flush. “I want to go home.”

  He snorted. “Chicken. You’re scared.”

  “I’m not. I’ve got to go to work in the morning. I don’t have any clothes here.”

  “Lame excuse.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared over at me.

  “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

  He studied me for such a long moment that I began to fidget. “I have feelings, Ally. In case you don’t realize that.”

  Great, guilt.

  “So do I.”

  “Feelings for your family, yes. But do you have any feelings for me?”

  I couldn’t look at him. Hell yes, I had feelings for him. Too many. Feelings I didn’t understand. Feelings that threatened to complicate my life in ways I wasn’t prepared to deal with.

  He mumbled something I didn’t quite catch. Something that sounded like, “I knew better than to get involved with you. I knew you weren’t ready.”

  “What’s that? What did you say?”

  “Forget it.” He got out of bed, searched the floor—likely for his underwear. Apparel was strewn across the room.

  I didn’t want to stare at his naked body, but something compelled me. Buns of steel. Washboard abs. The works. And he wanted me. And I was about to throw it away.

  “No.” I got on my knees in the middle of the bed, the bedcovers still clutched around me. “I want to talk.”

  “Oh, so now you want to talk.” He found his BVD briefs, put them on and snapped the elastic band with his thumb.

  “What do you mean, I’m not ready?”

  His eyes glittered with anger. He scooped a T-shirt from a dresser drawer and jammed it over his head. “Exactly that. You’re not ready for a relationship. You’re still too wrapped up in your family. You’re not ready for your own life.”

  He was wrong. I was more than ready, but I didn’t know how to go about untying the apron strings. “Easy for you to say. No one depends on you.”

  “You don’t think the citizens of Cloverleaf depend on me doing my job?” He jutted out his chin. “But that doesn’t mean I owe them my soul.”

  “It’s not the same thing.”

  “Face facts. You don’t want to admit the truth.”

  “The truth according to Conahegg.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So okay, oh wise one, enlighten me.”

  “You tell yourself you’re the protector, the caretaker, but in reality, Ally, you’re hiding behind your family’s dependence on you.”

  “I am not!”

  “Then why do you play to their weaknesses? Why do you assume responsibility for your sister’s actions? Why do you let your aunt and your mother live off you?”

  “They can’t take care of themselves.”

  “Because they’ve never had to. You’ve always been there to wipe their noses, clean up their messes.”

  Guilty as charged, but I wasn’t about to confess that to him. He already had a Goodyear-blimp-size ego.

  “And where d
id you get your degree in psychology?” I wanted to spring from the bed and retrieve my own clothes but I was feeling shy about exposing myself to him. Never mind that he’d already explored every inch of my body.

  “From the school of hard knocks. I know what I’m talking about, Ally. I’ve been there.”

  I sank back onto the bed, deflated. “What do you mean?”

  “We’re just alike, you and me. Or at least we used to be. Before I grew up and learned my lesson.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He gave me a half smile, sat down on the edge of the bed beside me. “When I was growing up my mother was like yours. Clingy, dependent. She was terrified to let me go outside and play. I was a sissy. Bullies used to pick on me.”

  “You?” I studied him. “But you’re so strong. So tough. So in control.”

  He nodded. “That wasn’t always the case. My father was an alcoholic and my mother fed his dependency. She bought beer for him, made up excuses when he was too drunk to go to work. She facilitated his drinking and so did I. Eventually, his drinking got so bad he couldn’t function. He lost his job. I was only fifteen years old and I had to take over earning a living. My mother never once confronted him.”

  “I never realized,” I murmured, aching for him. We were a lot alike. “I mean I knew you sacked groceries after school but I had no idea you supported your parents.”

  “The minute I turned eighteen I joined the Marines. I was looking for the stability only a discipline like that could give me. The Marines molded me into the man I am today.”

  “How did you find the courage to leave your mother? I mean who was going to take care of her with you gone?”

  “I had no choice. I knew if I didn’t leave I’d end up like my father. I did the best I could. I sent Mom my paycheck every month.”

  “How did she survive?”

  “My leaving was the best thing that ever happened to her. It gave her courage. She saw that she could escape. That she could change. That she could make something of her life. It took a few years but finally she worked up the guts to leave my father.”

  “So what happened to her?”

  “She started her own business. Met my stepfather, a man who treated her right. They live in Florida. She’s a completely different woman. Happy, vivacious. Her only regret is that she didn’t leave sooner. She looks younger now than she did ten years ago.”