ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild)

by Hutchinson, Bobby

  “But you’re right; of course there were things about Ricky I liked. He was smart, exciting to be with, the kind of guy who has an idea a minute.” She shook her head. “And never carries through on any of them. He had this great imagination. He had lots of energy. He was tall and blond. And he made me laugh.” She settled more comfortably into his arm. “I’m a sucker for a guy with a sense of humor.”

  “That's the death knell for me, then,” he said in a hopeless tone. “Humor, no less. And here I was already stinging over the physically attractive, tall, blond bit.”

  She laughed and he hugged her close.

  “Okay," he said with an immense sigh. “I think that’s all I can stand of his good points. Now tell me his faults so I don’t get a total complex.”

  “Well, for one thing, he wasn’t good at paying back loans."

  His fingers stopped stroking for a moment. “You loaned him money?” The teasing was gone from his voice.

  Maxine nodded. "Only my life savings, which included what I'd inherited when my aunt died." She explained about the airline, and how Ricky had convinced her that the money was an investment in their future. “I have a promissory note. Polly's been trying for months to find him and collect on it.” She told him that Ricky had said he was going to Costa Rica. “He’s not there, though. He seems to have vanished into thin air.

  Harry was silent for several long moments, and then his arm tightened around her.

  “Rats. I was gonna ask for a loan, but I guess that's out now.”

  “Smart thinking.” She matched his playful tone. “My bank account’s a lot thinner than I am."

  “And here I’d hoped you were rich as well as beautiful.” He sighed deeply and turned toward her, forcibly pulling the length of her body close against him, sending her breath rushing out. "Damn. I’ll just have to be satisfied with kisses instead of money,” he said in a growl, bringing his mouth to hers.

  She loved the way he kissed, sure of himself, lazy at first, nipping at her bottom lip with his teeth, giving her all the time in the world to get used to being this close to him, to get used to the fact that nothing would interrupt them—if she didn’t want it to. Their other kisses had been stolen, hurried, fitted in between the demands of the kids. Now it was only the two of them, and a long, long night ahead.

  He was stroking her arms and back through the thin fabric of the simple amber-colored sheath she’d bought especially for tonight. It had been worth every extravagant cent she’d spent, because he’d looked her up and down when he first saw it and whistled low and long.

  “You’re a knockout, Maxine,” he’d said with a funny little catch in his voice that thrilled her.

  “You smell like pumpkin pie," he murmured now, trailing kisses down her throat.

  “Pumpkin pie?” She giggled. Wait until Polly heard that her expensive pheromone concoction smelled like pumpkin pie.

  “It’s my favorite smell,” he assured her, using his tongue to stroke the exact spot on her throat where her pulse beat hard and fast. “Ummm, you taste good, too. Sweet and creamy. And hot.” His mouth and teeth did enticing things to her neck.

  Her arms were around him, and she slid them down his back, aware of hard muscles, a narrow waist. She wanted desperately to touch his skin, and she tugged his shirt out and slid her hands underneath.

  The contact with heated, smooth flesh made her catch her breath and sent an answering shudder down his body.

  “I love you touching me,” he whispered, undoing the shirt and tossing it aside. "Do it more. And I need to touch you, too.”

  Her dress had slithered up, and now his hands stroked downward. They encountered garters and stopped abruptly. He raised his head and looked at her legs, and the groan that erupted was one of pure delight.

  “I thought so when you got in the car, and when I was rubbing your feet, but I couldn’t be certain it wasn't just wishful thinking. How did you know that garter belts are my weakness?”

  Because a year and a half of doing phone sex had at least taught her a few things about male fantasies, Maxine thought with a smug grin.

  “I have a psychic streak,” she murmured into his ear, taking the opportunity to run her tongue along its rim. She grew bolder and nibbled his earlobe, and he moved his hips against her.

  Adept at arousing men sexually on the telephone, she was unprepared for the intensity of her own arousal. Need grew in her, and she rocked against him, aware of the erection that strained against his gray trousers.

  Her breath was coming in short gasps, and she suddenly couldn’t wait any longer. She wanted him now; she needed him now. She needed to be naked with him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Unzip my dress?”

  Maxine’s voice was unsteady. She rolled over just a little, so Harry could reach the back zipper. When his fingers tugged it down to her hips, she got to her knees and shimmied a little, letting the silky garment slide slowly down over her low-cut chocolate colored bra, down past the matching garter belt and the tiny scrap of lace below.

  Polly and her belief in the power of thong panties were justified by the expression on his face.

  Her lace-topped stockings were the same burnt-amber shade as her dress, and she knew the flesh between was creamy white . . . and plentiful.

  Earlier tonight, she'd studied herself in the mirror in her bedroom before she’d slipped into the dress, pleased with the lush cleavage the bra enhanced, but worried about her tummy, conscious of the extra flesh around her waist and hips.

  Now, watching Harry’s eyes grow heavy- lidded, hearing his sudden in-drawn breath and the low, lusty sound he made in his throat, she felt voluptuous instead of plump.

  He got up for a moment, undid the belt at his waist, and stripped off his trousers, snug black briefs, and gray socks. And then he knelt beside her on the bed, putting his hands gently on her arms.

  “Let me look at you."

  Over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the two of them reflected in the large mirror on the wall. Her heart rose in her throat. They looked beautiful, his hard, muscular body with its dusting of dark hair contrasting with her paleness, his erection strong and urgent, her body rounded and glowing, utterly female in the candlelight.

  "Maxine, Maxine," he crooned softly, as slowly he reached out and stroked his palms over breasts and hips, using his fingertips to lightly caress the bare skin between panty and stocking.

  “Should I touch you like this?” His fingers brushed the damp, throbbing place between her legs and then slid away, teasing, enticing.

  “Like that, oh, yes,” she whispered, leaning toward him, but he kissed her mouth instead, urgent and deep, and then his head dipped as his lips followed the path his hands had taken, tongue circling, mouth closing over each aching nipple in turn, suckling them strongly through the flimsy lace of her bra.

  “Let’s get rid of this.” He reached behind her and undid the clasp, letting her breasts spill into his palms.

  “Ahhh, Maxine, lovely woman. I've imagined what you’d be like, naked in my arms. You’re more beautiful than I dreamed."

  His words went deep into timid places, a soothing balm that began to heal the insecurities that made her hesitant. Bolder now, she put her hands on his back, learning the hard lines of his neck and shoulder, tracing the straight, strong march of vertebrae past his waist, down to his muscular buttocks. She cupped them and drew him toward her, letting herself fall back. He straddled her, skin to skin, and deftly slid a condom into place.

  “I want you, Harry.” Her voice was soft, but her hips were urgent, undulating against him, telegraphing her need.

  “Good.” He kissed her, and now his mouth was savage, drawing the passion that burned in her belly and grew until her entire body was burning, consumed with craving.

  He brushed against her, hot and hard.

  She was wet and impatient, almost sobbing with need as she opened her legs wide, mutely inviting him. With a muffled groan he moved against her, and the
n, at last, she felt him filling her, slowly at first, rocking gently as he adjusted, as he found her rhythm and moved into it.

  And then he was losing control, plunging deep and hard once, then again. It was too soon, and she made a frantic sound. He stopped.

  “Don't move. God, sweetheart, don’t move.” His face above her was contorted with the effort he was making to hold on, to wait until she was ready.

  But now she was beyond thought, beyond restraint. She writhed beneath him, and then cried out helplessly as the spasms began deep within her, so acute she forgot who and where she was, remembering only his name and her desperate need.

  "Harry, Harry . . .”

  His head reared back, and with a final long, convulsive thrust he joined her, his cry echoing hers.

  His body trembled above her, and slowly he lowered himself, covering her, shuddering with her as aftershocks rippled through them.

  She felt his weight and tasted his sweat. His forehead touched hers, and for long, peaceful moments they lay still, sharing euphoria.

  “That was…” It was difficult to find words. “That was spectacular,” she finally whispered. Her lips were close to his ear. She pressed her nose against his neck, drinking in the musky male scent of him, using her tongue to taste him.

  “Spectacular,” he repeated. “I think that’s an understatement.” His voice was thick and deep. “I was so afraid I wouldn’t be able to make it good for you. I worried about it all through dinner,” he murmured. "You drove me out of my mind with wanting, you witch.”

  "You were afraid?” Consumed by her own fears, she’d never given a thought to his, or even suspected he might have any.

  He made a sound against her shoulder and nodded. “Scared shitless,” he admitted in a rueful tone. “As your lawyer friend would say, the burden of proof is on the man in these situations.”

  Maxine giggled. “Polly doesn’t think that. She says that women are responsible for their own orgasms.”

  He chuckled. "You could have given me that news flash before we started. It would have saved me a lot of stress.” He rolled to the side, sliding one of her legs between his, holding her close. “But if that's the final word on the subject, then from now I’ll just throw caution aside and

  proceed with wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.”

  “Polly and I don’t agree on everything, you know.”

  She felt him smile. He was stroking a hand lightly down her side, leisurely tracing the generous curves of breast and bottom. "Your skin is like a newborns,” he said, scattering kisses on her shoulder and neck. “And this . . . ahhh, Maxine, this is perfection.” He cupped her breast and ran his forefinger across the nipple, sending a shuddery response through her. He replaced forefinger with tongue, moving his hand down between her legs, and at his touch she felt her body begin to glow and throb.

  "We’ve got all night. We'll take our time,” he promised. “We’ll have to. I’m not exactly a teenager anymore.”

  She felt his smile as he claimed her mouth with his.

  “Still randy, but older.” With lazy ease, he used his lips and hands in clever ways that made her breath catch in her throat and her body pulse. Against her leg she could feel him growing hard again, and after a long, pleasure filled interval filled with kisses that traveled from one heated spot to the next, she gave herself up totally to the pleasure of loving him and being loved.

  He knew the exact moment when she fell asleep, and it made him smile. Her breathing changed, and a small snore erupted close to his ear, followed by another. They were endearing, and he felt his chest constrict with an emotion he couldn’t quite identify. Tenderness? Affection?

  Both, and something more, something that both thrilled and terrified him.

  He was falling in love with Maxine.

  He probably had been from the time he’d first laid eyes on her, in the restaurant downstairs, but it was only now, holding her sleeping body close to his, hearing her soft snores, that the full realization ripped through him with a force that would have knocked him flat were he not already lying down.

  Some things in life came slowly, logically, piece by gentle piece, until they fit together like a jigsaw. His knowledge that he was a writer had come to him that way, gradually, over a period of years.

  Other things arrived out of the blue, with the force of a tsunami. He’d experienced this overwhelming sense of recognition only once before, when the nurse in the delivery room had handed him the naked, bloody little scrap that was his Sadie, and awful love had overwhelmed him, bringing tears to his eyes and constriction to his chest.

  He felt those things again now and knew them for what they were. He loved this woman. He wanted her beside him, not just now, but always, for whatever time they had left in their lives. She was the woman he wanted to marry, the woman he wanted as wife and companion and lover and mother for Sadie. He wanted babies with her, brothers and sisters for Graham and Sadie.

  Maxine was cradled close in his arms, oblivious to the earthshaking revelations he was experiencing. Their lovemaking had exhausted her, and no wonder. He should be exhausted too; it was after three. The candles on the bedside table had guttered out long ago, and he’d turned the music off. Morning wasn’t far away.

  He, too, should be asleep, just as she was, but instead his mind was alert, leaping from one thought to the next. He felt as if he’d never sleep again.

  How could he have made love four times in as many hours and still not be satiated? His body was, he felt weary in every cell, but his mind just didn’t get it. In his head he wanted her more than ever, with a desire that went far beyond the physical.

  And mixed in with the rest of the conflicting emotions was a sickening sense of guilt. She'd reminded him tonight of what he’d said, early on, when he’d first phoned her: that he wanted to know everything about her.

  She didn’t know that he’d taken notes on the things she’d confided and sold them to Sullivan. The article was due the following week, and his stomach felt sick when he thought of it. For days now he’d tried to figure out how to get out of writing it. His brain went over the entire mess again, the pathway all too familiar, with no detour in sight.

  He’d considered giving back the advance money, difficult as that would be, seeing that he’d already spent it. But the money wasn’t really the issue here, he reminded himself. He could always borrow the money; he knew that.

  It was his reputation as a freelancer that he couldn’t afford to compromise; his income was dependent on assignments from editors, and they were a tight-knit group. Failing to deliver on a major assignment was a serious matter. He’d have trouble getting work if he reneged. Sullivan had gone out of his way to give him the advance he’d asked for, and he’d let Harry control the tone of the article.

  His arm tightened around the lush woman sleeping so trustingly at his side, and panic rose in him. He’d betrayed her; there was no other word for it. He’d sent Sullivan that detailed outline for the proposed expose. In it, he’d used pseudonyms—Aurora instead of India—but it contained many of the things she’d confided in him.

  On the basis of that outline, Sullivan had paid him the advance, and now he had to write the story.

  Harry knew he should have told Maxine the truth. He’d had opportunities during the past weeks, and especially tonight. He should have told her tonight; he’d promised himself he would. But he knew that if he had, it was highly probable she wouldn’t be sleeping in his arms right now.

  Hell. He should have told her regardless. She was going to find out anyway, and when she did, he hated to think how she’d react. He was a craven coward.

  He shifted a little, and Maxine stirred, turning toward him trustingly, sliding her arm across his chest, sighing with contentment, and he closed his eyes tight, knowing he was caught in a trap of his own making.

  The article would run whether he wrote it or not. Sullivan was hot on the concept, and if Harry backed off, the editor would simply find someone else to follow up on
the information Harry had supplied in the outline.

  Writing the article gave him control as to how Maxine was depicted, how the telephone sex business was portrayed. He wanted it to be honest, to show exactly how and why women did phone sex, how circumstances could force someone into a situation she might otherwise never consider.

  He thought over what Maxine had revealed tonight about loaning Ricky Shwartz money. For a moment Harry indulged himself, fantasizing about beating the other man to a bloody pulp.

  The pen is mightier than the fist, he reminded himself grimly. If he was going to tell Maxine’s story—and he didn’t see he had much choice in the matter at this stage—he’d at least make damned good and certain to use Schwartz’s name and description in the article. What could the jerk do, sue? He’d have to come out of hiding to do it, and then Polly would nab him.

  And maybe Maxine wouldn’t even see the piece, he consoled himself as the numbers on the bedside clock moved from three-fifty-nine to four A.M. Maybe nobody would. How many articles had he poured his heart and soul and blood into, only to have them buried on page twenty-three of section C? For the first time in his writing career, he prayed fervently that his work would go unnoticed.

  But just in case it didn’t, he knew he’d have to tell her at breakfast, and the knowledge was agonizing.

  He’d ordered from room service, and judging by the display on the serving table, Maxine might assume he’d simply told them to bring everything on the menu.

  She lifted the silver top from one of the numerous serving dishes. “Mmmmm, eggs Benedict. And potato pancakes, and ooh, look at these shrimp, Harry.”

  "I’m looking. I’m looking.”

  "Lecher.” She grinned at him and pretended to adjust the white terry cloth of the hotel robe so that her breasts didn’t show quite as much, but it was a token gesture. Harry’s eyes weren’t on the food, and she liked that.

  Hers were, however; she was starving. It was after nine. She’d come slowly awake, already aroused, aware that in the sensual dream she’d been having, he was making love to her. She’d opened her eyes to find out that it was really happening. That slow, early morning sex had been explosive. When it was over, he’d looked down into her eyes and whispered, “I’m falling in love with you, Maxine."