Lori’s Little Secret

by Christine Rimmer

  Stand tall and stand her ground.

  Lori kept waiting for the opportunity to do that. But Tucker gave her none. After that first night, when he joined her for those few too-brief minutes by the pool, he’d kept his distance when Brody wasn’t around.

  The days went by. Brody’s friends came Monday, from San Antonio, for a five-day visit. They rode horses and swam in the pool and spent hours in the tree fort Brody and Tucker had built. Thursday night, they had three local boys over, too. They cooked hot dogs on sticks over an open fire and Tucker pitched a tent on the lawn, so the boys could camp out.

  The local boys went home the next day at noon. At five, Dustin’s mother came to take her son and Adam back to San Antonio. She had family in the Hill Country, so she and the boys would stay there over the weekend, to break up the long ride.

  “I wish they didn’t have to go,” Brody said, as he and Lori stood in the driveway, waving goodbye, Fargo beside them. Brody added with a big smile, “But I sure did have a good time…” He ducked before she could ruffle his hair. And then he looked at her, suddenly solemn. “Mom. You okay?”

  She started to tell him she was fine. And a voice in her head chided, Remember. No lies. “I’m okay,” she said. It was true. Not great. Not particularly happy.

  But okay. Getting by.

  “You seem kinda sad…”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Because of Tucker?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t know…” His voice trailed off and she let that one go without a response. Then he asked, “Maybe you want to go home?”

  She thought about that, about how much easier it would be, home in San Antonio, in her own house, living the good life she’d made for herself there, without Tucker around all the time—close, but so far away—reminding her constantly of all the ways she’d messed up. She confessed, “I guess I’m a little bit homesick. How about you?”

  He frowned, thinking deeply. “Nope. I guess not. I kind of like it here.”

  “Then let’s stay.”

  He gave her a grin. “Okay.”

  They turned for the house, Fargo right behind them.

  Inside, Brody headed for the game room in the basement at the back of the house to play video games on the big-screen TV in there. Lori climbed the stairs to the bright, comfortable room Tucker had assigned her. She set to work at the little desk by the window, paying the bills she’d had forwarded from San Antonio, thinking as she wrote the checks that she was going to have to face Tucker down somehow, find a way to make him see that it was time to tell Brody who his real father was.

  Tucker came home from the office and paused just inside the front door. The house was so quiet. He knew a moment of stark, echoing emptiness. The thought came to him: Lori and Brody were gone.

  Impossible. She wouldn’t dare…

  And then Mrs. Haldana, who ran his wing of the house for him now, appeared from the dining room. “Ah. Mr. Bravo.” She gave him her cool, professional smile.

  He demanded much too gruffly, “Brody and his mother. Where are they?”

  If his harsh tone disturbed the housekeeper, she didn’t let on. “The boy is in the game room. Mrs. Taylor has gone upstairs.”

  He felt relief then, a warmth—and a kind of weakness—stealing all through him. “Thank you.”

  She nodded and went back the way she had come. He headed for the stairs in the utility room beyond the breakfast area, moving fast, needing, absurdly, to see for himself.

  He found Brody right where the housekeeper had said he would. The kid sat cross-legged in front of the television playing some space-monster game. On the giant screen, a leering green creature exploded.

  “Pow! Gotcha!” Fargo, stretched out at Brody’s side, perked up his ears. The mutt turned his ugly head, thumped his tail on the carpet and whined in greeting. Brody slid Tucker a glance and kept on thumbing the controls. “Hey, Tucker—wanna play?”

  Fargo got up and came over. Tucker scratched him behind the ears. “Later, maybe.”

  “’Kay…”

  “Your mother upstairs?” As if he didn’t already know.

  “Guess so…”

  Fargo flopped back down at Brody’s side and Tucker turned for the stairs to the main floor. He walked fast, up the basement stairs and through the utility room. But once he got to the foot of the main staircase that would take him to the second floor, he slowed down. He went quietly, aware of each footfall, not wanting her to hear his approach and refusing to consider why that might be.

  The door of her room was open, so he stopped there, in the doorway. He stood very still and he watched her, heat and hunger curling low inside him.

  He knew she wanted him, too. She’d told him so, flat out, that evening a week and a day ago now, when he’d finally confronted her with all of her lies, when he’d gotten her agreement to come here, to stay with him while he got to know the son she’d kept from him.

  Yeah, he’d been avoiding her.

  But as he stood in the doorway and watched her, he wondered why. What was the point? True, what she’d done was unforgivable.

  He couldn’t trust her.

  But damn. He still had a powerful yen for her. They were living in the same house, for as long as he wanted it that way. Why should he spend his nights alone, longing for the feel of her, the warmth and softness and sweet, sweet scent of her? Why should he only imagine what it might be like, to reach for her, to feel her melt in his arms, to taste her—all of her?

  Why should he lie awake taunted by memories of that one night so long ago?

  Why deny himself? When he could have her now, when she’d told in no uncertain terms that she wanted him, too? Yes, she’d killed his tender, hopeful dreams of the life they might have shared. He knew now that all that had only been a fool’s fantasy. But his desire for her? It was stronger than ever. Why the hell shouldn’t he have her? Especially considering that denial only seemed to make his hunger for her stronger.

  He watched as she turned in her chair, reached for a drawer in the desk, and spotted him from the corner of her eye. She went very still, slim arm stretched out, silky hair falling forward over her shoulder. He saw her catch her breath.

  Then she straightened and spun the swivel chair around so that she faced him. “Tucker. I didn’t…” Her sweet mouth trembled.

  He studied her unforgettable face, the delicate features, the tempting plump mouth. Her left eye was no longer swollen. The bruises were fading, turning from the vivid purple of those first few days to a pale rainbow of yellows, greens and blues. She’d stopped wearing the bandage. The long cut at her temple, cross-hatched with stitches, looked angry and red.

  He demanded softly, “You didn’t what?” And he let his gaze wander lower, down her slim throat, where he could see the tiny pulse beating much too hard, over the snug top she wore and the fine, full breasts beneath it, to the smooth bit of skin that was visible between the top and her pink shorts. He admired the outward curve of her hips and after that, her bare legs, her slim, perfect ankles. He went all the way, to the tips of her pink canvas shoes and then, slowly, he tracked back up the way he had come until he was looking right into those startled blue eyes once again.

  She swallowed. “I didn’t know you were standing there.”

  With a shrug a damn sight lazier than the heat that blazed within him, he stepped across the threshold.

  “Tucker?” she asked, her voice suddenly husky. She rose from the chair. “What are you doing?” He didn’t answer. Not in words, anyway. He pushed the door shut behind him, finding the privacy lock by feel and twisting it. “Oh, Tucker…” She raised a hand, pressed the back of it against her mouth.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  Her hand dropped to her side. She swallowed again. And then, her gaze locked with his, her back straight and her chin high, she shook her head. “No.” It came out in a whisper. “Please. Stay.”

  So he covered the distance between them
and took her in his arms.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tucker wrapped those big, strong arms around her and Lori was lost. Gone. Swept deliciously away. The high walls of hurt and anger between them were—at least for that moment—shattered to rubble, toppled by the force of their mutual need.

  He kissed her, a punishing kiss…

  At first.

  But when she opened her mouth with a surrendering sigh, the kiss changed in an instant, grew wet and soft and so erotic. His tongue slid past her lips. Hot and slick, it swept the inside of her mouth, leaving her weak-kneed, clutching his big shoulders just to stay on her feet.

  He lifted his head with a groan—and then slanted it the other way, covering her lips again in a kiss so long and deep and slow that she thought she would die of the sheer pleasure of it. His hands, so warm and strong, roamed her back, sliding up under her little shirt, finding the clasp of her bra, expertly slipping the tiny hooks free. He ran a finger, oh-so-slowly, down the bumps of her spine, the teasing touch setting off hot flares as it went.

  And then, with another low groan, he lifted his mouth from hers again. He looked down at her, dark eyes velvet-soft, face flushed, mouth swollen, as he brought his hands around to the front of her, slipping them up under her unclasped bra. She stared into his eyes and shuddered in delight as he covered her breasts with his two big, cupping hands. Her nipples drew up, hard and tight. He flattened his hands, rubbed his palms against them, until she moaned aloud.

  And then he smiled at her. “Yeah,” he said, and “yeah,” again. His smile changed, became something darker. “I want to see you… I have to see you…”

  He took the hem of her shirt and he pulled it up. She raised her arms and off it went. He hooked his fingers under the satin straps at her shoulders, lingering for a moment, hands stroking the tender skin of her upper arms as he brought those satin straps down. The bra slid low. He whipped it away.

  “Lori,” he whispered, lowering his big golden head. “Lori…” His lips closed over her aching nipple. He drew on it, nipped it with careful teeth, flicked it with his tongue.

  And she surged up against him, clutching his shoulders, wishing in some vague, shattered sort of way that this magic, this pleasure, could bring them closer in the ways that really mattered. That somehow this white-hot delight they found in each other would help him come to trust her again.

  It wouldn’t, not really. And she did know that—in her head. Her heart and her body, though? They had different ideas.

  As he suckled one breast, he took the other in his hand, cradling it, positioning it for his mouth, and then he claimed it. She speared her fingers in his brown-gold hair, let her head drop back and moaned aloud.

  And then his hand moved lower, to the hook at the top of her pink shorts. She knew what he wanted and she helped him, unhooking it for him, sliding the zipper down, slithering out of the shorts as he shoved them over her hips. They dropped around her ankles. She lifted one foot and then the other and kicked the shorts away.

  The panties came next. He pushed at them, slid his fingers beneath the delicate elastic, guiding them down. They caught on her shoes and tangled so tight she couldn’t get free of them.

  He left them there. He was too busy right then, his mouth at her breast, his hand on the curls between her thighs. He petted her, fingers combing, ruffling, and then, very gently, sliding lower, easing her open, dipping one finger into the slick, wet folds of her sex.

  She lifted toward him, bucking her hips, lost now to everything but the feel of his mouth at her breast—and more than that, his hot touch at that hidden, oh-so-sensitive spot.

  She was so wet, dripping. And her legs were shaking. She could feel herself rising, the pleasure spreading, fulfillment blooming, closer…closer. She didn’t know if she could stay on her feet.

  And then she didn’t have to.

  He was lifting her high against his chest. He took her mouth again as he carried her to the bed.

  He set her down, carefully, on the jade-green coverlet, breaking the passionate kiss to tug her gently to the edge, so her legs hung over and her feet touched the floor. She reached for him, holding up yearning arms. But he didn’t go down to her.

  Instead, still fully dressed, he knelt at her feet and gently removed her hobbling, twisted panties. Her shoes were next. He took her right foot in one big hand and untied her shoelace with the other. She canted up on her elbows and looked down her own body, between her bare breasts, past the wet auburn curls at the top of her thighs and into his hot, dark, hungry eyes.

  He slid that shoe off and set it aside and then he lifted her bare foot and kissed it. He nipped her toes, each one in turn, and she thought how truly lovely it was, to be a grown woman with him and not a scared virgin girl.

  He kissed his way upward, teeth scraping against the vulnerable inner curve of her naked foot, his tongue licking, his lips planting little hot, swift kisses—on the muscles of her calf, the inner curve at her knee, the tender insides of her thighs.

  Oh, and then…

  He moved in closer, easing her legs over his shoulders. He spread his big hands on her thighs and with the tips of his fingers he opened her.

  And then his tongue was there, licking, at first, then latching on, sucking so gently, drawing her to him.

  So close, so close…

  She fell back to the bed, moaning, and let her eyelids drift shut as he kissed her and licked her and she felt herself rising, higher and higher. She quivered on the brink.

  And then she broke wide-open in a scatter of stars, a shower of light and sweetness, a taste like champagne on her tongue and the musky scent of her own desire all around her.

  She heard herself crying, “Oh!” and “Yes!” and “Please…”

  When she could think again—when she could move again, she reached down to try and pull him onto the bed with her.

  But he sat back on his heels and shook his head. “I can’t.”

  She pushed herself to a sitting position. “But why not?”

  He reached out, stroked her thighs, brushed the reddish curls, lazily, possessively. “I didn’t stop to get a condom…” His fingers dipped in—one and then another. She gasped as her inner muscles contracted around them. And then, so slowly, he took his hand from her, lifted it to his lips and licked her wetness off his fingers.

  “Tonight,” he said.

  She nodded, mentally ticking off the hours until their son would go to bed. “Oh, yes.”

  He bent close again, put his mouth against her. His silky head pressed into her belly. She felt his tongue as it traced the slick groove, found that swollen nub, and flicked it maddeningly. She cupped the back of his head with her hand, groaning, pressing him even closer.

  And then she couldn’t stay sitting up for one more second. With a long sigh, she fell back across the bed. She clutched the coverlet in her two fists, and let out a cry of sudden, sharp wonder as she slammed against the peak again, crested it, went tumbling over. The world burst wide-open, and her body turned inside-out.

  She felt the bed shift and opened her eyes.

  Tucker was bending over her, one knee braced on the mattress. She reached for him again. He shook his head, whispered, once more, “Tonight…”

  He lowered his head—keeping his body carefully away from her—and kissed her lips. She tasted herself on his tongue, for a too-brief moment, only. Too soon, he was lifting his mouth from hers, pausing to kiss the long, ugly scar on her temple….

  And then he was pulling away, rising to stand by the side of the bed. He looked down at her. He still had all his clothes on.

  And she? Except for one pink canvas shoe, she was naked, flung out across the bed, with not a shred of modesty. His eyes gleamed as his gaze swept over her. She felt no urge to cover herself, only a deeper kind of pleasure still—at the hot look of pure lust on his face, at the knowledge that tonight, there would be more.

  Oh, yes. So much more…

  It wasn’t until several
minutes later, as she stood in the shower washing the scent of her own arousal from her body, that she realized she’d let him get away without so much as a mention of the ever-present question: when was he going to be ready to tell their son what Brody needed to know?

  But then, as the warm water poured over her, she smiled a woman’s knowing smile. Tonight, he had said.

  Once Brody was safely in bed, she would go to him.

  Or he would come to her.

  Whichever. It didn’t matter. The point was, they’d be together. They would make long, slow, tender love.

  She would be with him, in his arms. And that meant she’d have ample opportunity to ask the question gently, and to get the answer she sought.

  And there was more than that. Oh, yes, there truly was. There was that little flare of hope inside her, the one that had refused to die.

  That tiny flare was a bright flame now.

  Maybe. Just maybe, she and Tucker could find their way to each other, in the truest sense, after all.

  For the first time since he’d learned that Brody was his son, Tucker Bravo was an inattentive father. A man is only human, after all. He only has so much attention to give at any specific time. And since those moments up in Lori’s bedroom, all his attention was hard-wired directly on to the night to come. Remembered images kept flashing through his brain: Lori, naked on the bed, a rosy flush on her pale skin, that long red hair of hers spilled out across the green bedspread, those silky curls between her legs wet and glistening from his kisses.

  He was useless. Hopelessly distracted. Waiting only for the hour when Brody climbed into his bed and Lori—and the night to come—were his to take.

  Getting through dinner. Now there was a challenge. He forked up food he hardly tasted and tried his damnedest not to let his gaze linger too long on the red-haired woman who sat across from him, looking so sweet and serene. She smiled indulgently at their son as Brody chattered away about his friends from San Antonio and his new buddies from town. Peter, one of the town kids, had invited him and the other two town boys to a sleepover tomorrow night.