Ready for You (A San Francisco Brides Book)

by Juliano, Celia

  “No, I’ll be back out in twenty minutes. Just shout if you need anything.” Like if she needed to shower with him. He clenched his teeth.

  She paused for a moment. “I’m good, thanks.” She sure was. He’d rather have her for dinner. He turned and rubbed his hands over his head as if to stop himself from continuing in his thoughts. It didn’t work.

  When he walked back into the kitchen, his body, if not his mind, clean, she had the table set, the delicious smells of a homemade Italian dinner filled the room. He smiled then frowned. What the hell was he playing at here? She was a married woman, she should be making her husband’s and sons’ dinner, not his.

  “Your husband take your kids camping again?”

  “No,” she said as she filled two glasses with water and set them on the table. “He took them to his company picnic this afternoon. Then he was taking them out to dinner.”

  “Don’t like company picnics either?” They both stood by their chairs and glared at each other.

  “He didn’t ask me. He knew I had a meeting of my critique group and didn’t tell me about it until this morning. It’s his little way of…maybe this was a mistake. The dinner’s all ready. Buon appettito.”

  “Wait…just sit down. I hate to eat alone. Please.” He swept his hand toward her chair. As close to begging a woman as he’d ever gotten. She slid into her seat as he sat and put a napkin on his lap.

  “I hope you like lasagna,” she said.

  “Of course. What’s not to like? Meat, noodles, cheese, tomato sauce, it’s got it all.” Kind of like her. She smiled. “You made it?” She nodded. “Delicious,” he said after a few bites. As creamy, hot, and savory as…she blushed as he stared at her. Dammit, was he being that obvious?

  “Don’t like your own food?” he asked after a few minutes watching her take polite little bites.

  “Sure, but I…why do you ask?”

  “You don’t seem to enjoy it.”

  “I do, too much maybe. So I try to, well, not.” She shrugged.

  “You’re afraid of enjoying too much?”

  “Aren’t you afraid of anything?” she said, meeting his gaze with a challenge.

  “I could say no, but then you’d call me a liar.” She smiled. Did the room get brighter? “I’m afraid for other people, my kids, my parents, my family.”

  “Aren’t most of us? But you personally are fearless?”

  “Should I be scared of something?” he said.

  “You don’t like to eat alone. Are you afraid of being by yourself?”

  “Are you?” No way would he answer that, not even to himself.

  “More than you, probably,” she said before looking at her plate and taking a few bites. She started pushing her food around. Maybe he should have let her go. He ate faster.

  “Don’t you want to save room for dessert?” she asked after he’d listened to the clock tick away several minutes. The music had stopped.

  “Depends.” For her sweetness, hell yes.

  “Chocolate.”

  “Tempting.” She smiled. “What? Was that a test?”

  “Maybe,” she said.

  She was full of secrets. Secrets he’d pay, bleed, or otherwise pain himself to discover. “Why are you really called dirty girl?”

  “That’s my secret.”

  “Is it? Your sister knows.” He grinned, but she frowned and rose, stacking his plate on hers. “I’ll do the dishes,” he said. He followed her to the sink, where she stepped aside.

  “Mind if I turn on the radio?” she asked.

  “What station?”

  “94.9 or KMEL.”

  “My kids listen to those.”

  “Well?”

  He shrugged. She turned on the radio, set to KNBR, the sports station, flipped to FM, and twisted the dial. The static and quick snatches of music gave way to a mellow hip hop beat. She went to the closet and pulled out the broom. He washed the few dishes quickly and turned as she sang along to some song about doing the unthinkable. She twitched her hips as she put the broom back, still singing softly. He came up behind her, his vision completely focused on her, each detail of her being glowed, her deep chocolate hair, her raspberry top, her luscious blueberry hips and rear--uh.

  “’If you ask me, I’m ready,’” she whispered.

  He reached for her, lightheaded. A ringtone broke her song and she turned to look, only to step back at his nearness. Her face turned candy apple red and she jogged into the living room and answered her cell. He dropped into his chair.

  “I went out for a walk,” she said. The husband, most likely. “What? Okay. Just remember I’m taking them to church in the morning. Fine. Bye.” Her phone snapped shut, matching the tone of her voice as she’d spoken.

  “Everything okay?” he asked when she walked in, clutching her purse and blinking.

  “Yeah. Do I look stupid to you?”

  “No, why?”

  “Never mind. I should go. You can keep the lasagna if you want.”

  He might never get another chance. He stepped to her, took her purse, and set it in the chair. She gazed at him--tears sparkled in her eyes. He placed one hand on her arm, the other on her cheek. She was soft and warm. “You look like you need to be told what a beautiful, sexy, wanted woman you are.”

  She took his hand and kissed his palm. He closed his eyes. They shot open when she licked each finger, her tongue flicking and hot, before she brushed her lips on his, a spark before the burst when they kissed. This was dessert--luscious, lingering, long, with all the little mms of enjoyment. He grabbed her ass and squeezed--those jeans needed to come off. She jumped and wrapped her legs around his waist. He held on and carried her to the couch, smiling under the pressure of her.

  Before he could set her down, she squirmed, and, in a flurry of kissing, licking, sucking, and tugging, made her way from his ears down. He tangled his hands in her hair, as silky and thick as he’d imagined. His thoughts slowed while his breathing sped, as if he’d run sprints. She sank to her knees in front of him and frantically undid the snap of his shorts. Time, yes, no, she only has time…

  “Wait,” he choked out.

  “What?” She looked up at him with a questioning glance.

  “Bedroom,” he said, offering his hand. She hopped up and followed him, sliding her hands over him as they walked down the hall.

  “Hell,” he said. He turned and pushed her to the wall with a gentle thump. She smiled suggestively before they kissed again and he found her soft, round breasts, a perfect fit in his hands. She discovered his hardness and purred appreciatively before she tugged and fingered him until he moaned. “Now.”

  She slid down him again but he pulled her up. “Don’t you want me to?” she asked, her breath shallow. She had some little tricks--she must know what he really needed.

  “I want you,” he said. He kissed her neck. Tasty.

  “I can’t.” She shivered.

  He pulled back and his temperature normalized. “It’s all sex.”

  “Are you turning me down?” She stepped away.

  He frowned. “No, but I want--”

  “I’m offering a blow job, take it or leave it.” She crossed her arms and stared at the front door.

  He didn’t take ultimatums from anyone. “There’s the door,” he said.

  He turned without looking at her and slammed the door to his room behind him. He fell onto his bed and breathed. Her scintillating, savory scent lingered on him, enticing and earth shattering. He just turned down a blow job. He had lost his mind. He shook his head and went to the door.

  “Chiara?” he said as he made his way down the hall. His voice echoed back in the empty space. He opened the front door. The sun sank below the horizon as his heart fell into his gut. She was gone. He’d had her in his grasp, glimpsed her beauty, her dirty girl self…he licked his lips. Her taste--she was like no one else, she made him feel like no one ever had. His brows puckered. No, he wasn’t feeling that, it was just lust. But the discomfort of lo
nging remained as the light obscured in the gloom of night.

  Chapter Seven

  Chiara ran the three blocks, down his street, around the corner, and up hers, home. She stripped and threw her clothes into the washing machine before she showered, the cold water and soap washing away his scent, his touch, obliterating all feeling so she could be frozen again, open and loving only for her children. She shook as she toweled off, but not from the temperature. His kiss…she couldn’t remember anyone ever kissing her like that. Like he had been waiting to find her and now that he had he wouldn’t let go.

  But he had. She should’ve done what he wanted, unshaven legs and all. The way he kissed her he wouldn’t have cared. But when he’d stopped kissing her, the critical little thoughts crept in—she was too hairy, too fat, too old, too out of practice.

  She thought she heard a car pull into the driveway and she scrambled to get dressed. How could they be back so soon? She and Rocco must have kissed for a long time. It seemed a blur now.

  It took half an hour to get the boys settled, though they’d both been half asleep when they’d arrived. Phil sat on the couch when she came out. She twisted her hands together.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Oh?” She eased herself on the far side of the sofa.

  “I could tell by your tone what you thought, us having dinner with Suzy. I know you don’t like her, why I don’t know. She’s a great person.” Chiara raised her eyebrows. “I take our marriage seriously, Claire, you must know that. I would never cheat on you.”

  Her face burned. “We’re separated. We haven’t had sex in over six months.”

  “Is that all it’s about to you?” He shook his head. “Have you had sex? If you can manage, surely I can.” He had a point there. It was a quality that drew her to him at first, his patience and control of his desires. If he had any. “I’m concerned about the boys. You must have noticed Danny’s been acting differently and Max is more quiet than usual. Maybe we should try counseling again.”

  No, she needed to leave…but she had nowhere to go. “Okay,” she said. Her body ached. Was it the pain of their situation or yearning for Rocco? It didn’t matter. She had to try one more time to salvage her marriage for the boys.

  Phil slid next to her and took her hand. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Phil kissed her. The vague, light pressure of his lips made her stomach churn. He tucked her hair behind her ears; she loosed it. He stood, her hand dropped.

  “Do you want to call Dr. Michaels tomorrow?” he asked. She nodded. “Goodnight.”

  “Night,” she said. He walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

  Chiara rose and pulled her cell out of her purse. Maybe she should call Rocco and apologize. She almost dropped the phone when the ringtone vibrated it in her hand. She rushed into the laundry room and shut the door. It was Rocco. She slid open the phone, but remained silent.

  “Chiara?” His voice, so deep and expressive… “Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, compounding her lies. “You?”

  He exhaled. “I wish you were here.” He didn’t sound convinced, or maybe he was angry about it.

  “Me too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I had my reasons.”

  “You’re very reasonable.” He was none too pleased about that.

  “I better go. My husband will be waiting.” Her stomach clenched. That was low and a lie.

  “Right. ‘Bye.” The line clicked. She snapped the phone shut. When she gripped it, it rang again. She answered.

  “Look, I want to see you again,” he said. “It can be somewhere public if you want.”

  “I can’t, it wouldn’t be right.” Liar!

  “Why? You don’t think your husband ever has coffee or lunch with other women, like maybe that Suzy?”

  How did he know that? “Okay, maybe. I’ll think about it.”

  “We’re still working on that house down the street from yours. I can take a break or meet you for lunch sometime.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll see you.” It wasn’t so much a goodbye as a promise. They hung up and Chiara scuffed off to the bathroom.

  She was wrong--Phil waited. He lay in bed, the sheet and light summer quilt precisely tucked around his half-spooned form. Ready for the other spoon. She turned off the light and fumbled for her pajamas from the drawer. The room wasn’t dark enough for her comfort, but she stripped off her jeans and shirt and shrugged on the pajama tee and lightweight cotton pants. She slid into the cool sheets.

  The fan whirred and she shivered. Phil scooted next to her and placed an arm over her. She darted her eyes, trying to think of some escape. He nuzzled her neck and she gripped the sheet in an effort to keep from smacking him away like a buzzing mosquito. He kissed her cheek, then her lips. Her head tightened, if she moved it would only be to turn away in disgust. Beer and the sharp smell of oniony salsa assailed her nostrils. His gut pressed into the curve of her waist, his sticky hand moved under her shirt. She stiffened.

  “I’m getting my period,” she said. It was true enough, one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to have sex with Rocco. Phil always used to complain she smelled right before. Sure enough, he pulled back and wrinkled his nose. She almost laughed, knowing full well her scent was fine.

  Phil rolled away. His hands smoothed the blankets back into order. “Maybe we could try another time,” he said. “I’ve read some things and I’ve been trying some exercises. I know I don’t last very long…”

  “It’s okay,” she said. It wasn’t really that, well, that was part of the problem. The reality was she didn’t find her husband attractive anymore and they were incompatible, in bed and out.

  She turned over and faced the window. She could see through the tiny crack in the curtain. A few lights from houses on the next street over twinkled through the trees. Rocco lived on that street. Rocco, who enjoyed the way she kissed, who didn’t tell her she was being too rough or she wasn’t feminine because she didn’t want a bunch of caressing and cuddling and sweet talk. But maybe he would too, if he knew her better. Or maybe he was just a dog, like so many of the other men she’d dated before Phil. You couldn’t have both. You couldn’t have hot sex and a kind, understanding man in one relationship. She closed her eyes and breathed.

  Chiara dragged the boys to church the next morning. Phil never went. He’d been raised Lutheran but he didn’t really care for religion. Chiara sat silently during the service while the boys attended Sunday school. She glanced around, glad Isabella didn’t go to church except on Easter and Christmas and her parents either went to the early service or drove over to San Leandro to go with her oldest brother Santo’s family.

  The familiar backs of acquaintances’ heads surrounded her while the long ago memorized words of the service washed over her. The back of her neck prickled as if she was being watched. She glanced behind her right into Rocco’s twinkling eyes. He winked and she whipped her head forward and gripped the back of the pew she stood in front of. What in the hell was he doing here? His family went to the other Catholic Church in town--Mrs. Buffone told her. Besides, she figured Rocco for one of those twice-a-yearers, like Isabella. Chiara’s whole body began to prickle and heat up. She missed several cues and couldn’t sing the hymns.

  As everyone filed out, the boys ran ahead of her to join their friends. Rocco followed her out onto the small playground where she stood apart, under a palm tree, its fronds rustling in the mid June breeze.

  “Why are you here?” she whispered as he leaned against the tree trunk.

  “Checking out the church in my new neighborhood.” His tone sounded as casual as he looked. Damn him, looking so sexy in flat front black Dockers and a blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, exposing his sinewy forearms.

  “Really? You go to church often?”

  “Not every Sunday.”

  Sneakers clomped in the tan bark and children’s shrieks and s
houts whirled around them.

  Chiara rummaged in her purse for her sunglasses, which she slid on. His nearness made her feel too warm. She pulled out her small notebook and fanned herself.

  “Hot?” he said, as if he didn’t know. Ha. “I could take you all out for ice cream.”

  “Do you have any sense of propriety?”

  “Huh?”