Asking for Trouble (The Kincaids)

by James, Rosalind

  She didn’t answer right away, and got another smack for her hesitation. “No,” she moaned. “No, Joe.”

  “Good.” And finally, his hand was between her legs, diving, inside her where she was slick and so wet, and beyond, and she was so close, going up fast, moving into his hand, her mouth open, her breath coming in keening sobs, her hands gripping the leather, hanging on.

  Then he took his hand away, and she cried out her protest at the loss.

  “You just remember this,” she heard. “Because next time, it’ll be harder.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  He gave her one more smack, the hardest yet, which started all the tingles up again. His hand moved down again, and he was rubbing her like he meant it, finally letting her climb, and she was spiraling high, and moving hard against him, and starting to cry out as he told her she was his, told her what he’d do next time, told her everything she wanted to hear, and she was shoving off with her palms, her knees, pressing into his hand, as wave after wave consumed her, and she shook and shuddered and moaned out her release.

  He kept going until the convulsions had become a final shudder, then he lowered her legs to the floor, pulled himself out from under her, and moved her legs back up onto the couch. She started to sit up, but a hand on her back had her down again. She felt him lifting her hips, sliding a cushion underneath them, lowering her over it.

  “Stay there,” he told her. “When I come back, I expect to find you exactly like this.”

  She lay there and trembled, and waited as his steps retreated. Condom, she realized through a haze of delicious anticipation.

  A minute, two, and he was back again.

  “You listened,” he said, and there was amusement in his voice. “Looks like I finally found the secret.”

  “Huh,” she managed. “Just because you turned me on so much. And stop joking.”

  “Sorry, baby.” She heard the smile, still, then the rasp of a zipper, the soft sound of clothes hitting the floor. “You need me to be tough? You need me to talk dirty to you?”

  She couldn’t answer, just nodded, and he was on the couch with her, behind her, over her. It was a good thing, she thought irrelevantly, that he had such oversized furniture. She lost the thought, though, because his hands were at her throat, reaching underneath to unfasten the two little buttons fastening her sweater around her neck, and he was pulling the fabric back, his hands gently tracing where it had been.

  “I wanted to do this so bad that first night,” he said, his voice low. “The first time you wore that sweater, I wanted to put my hands right here. I wanted to put you down and unbutton you.” He was settling his considerable weight over her, the warmth of his skin a shock against her bare lower body. She could feel how aroused he was, did a little more wriggling at the pleasure of it.

  He was kissing the side of her neck now, his hand pulling the hair away so his mouth had full access. “You know how pretty your ass looks right now?” he murmured in her ear. “It’s pink, just like your pretty little underwear. It’s got my handprints all over it, because I spanked you hard, didn’t I? And now I’m going to finish the job. I’m going to hold you down and do you hard from behind.”

  And then he did it. His strong fingers were digging into her hip, and she was backing into him, wanting more, asking him for it, begging him for it. He wasn’t talking anymore, but she was making enough noise for both of them, until she was lost again, until he was joining her, gripping her harder than ever, going so deep she could feel him all the way inside her body, like he’d taken it over, like it really was his, groaning out a long, filthy string of curses that had her shaking. And, at last, with a final shudder, collapsing on top of her.

  Somehow, Joe got some air back in his lungs, pushed himself up to sitting, pulled Alyssa into his lap. She was still wearing her sweater, skirt, and heels, he realized. He hadn’t even undressed her. He’d been gone.

  She nestled into him, wrapped her arms around him, and he held her and thought, Damn.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Time for bed.” He stood up with her and then, because he couldn’t stand to put her down, carried her on through the hallway, into the bedroom. He set her down on the bed at last, knelt beside her and unfastened the shoes, rubbed her feet, the red marks where the straps had been.

  “Hurts?” he asked when she sighed.

  “Yes.” She smiled at him, slow and satisfied. “Feels so good to take them off.”

  He sat beside her on the bed, pulled the sweater over her head, because she wasn’t making any move to do it, then flicked the clasp on the front of her bra and ran a thumb over the little red spot there.

  “You’ve got lots of sore places for me to rub and kiss, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Mmm.” She let him push her gently back on the bed, find the side zipper on her skirt, and pull that off too. He gathered her clothes, folded them carefully, and set them on a side chair.

  “Joe,” she sighed, “only you would spank a woman and then fold her clothes.”

  “Complaining?” He came over to sit beside her again.

  “No.” She shivered, and he pulled her up, held her close.

  “Let’s go take a shower,” he said. “And next time,” he told her when he’d helped her to her feet, “I get to do what I like.”

  “You liked that,” she protested, following him into the bathroom. “You can’t tell me you didn’t, because I won’t believe you.”

  “It was all right for a change,” he said with a smile, twisting all the faucets in his big double shower, testing until the water was warm enough, then holding out a hand to her. “But you’d better not need it that way every time, because my heart can’t take it.”

  “Did you really not like it?” She was shivering again as the warm spray hit her, and then she was relaxing into it, looking so pretty with her hair streaming around her, with the water running over her.

  “Hell, yes, I liked it. I loved it. But,” he said, laughing a little as he picked up the soap, “I was terrified I’d hurt you. All in all, it was fairly exhausting.”

  “Mmm.” She was sighing again as he started to soap her up.

  “Plus,” he said, “it made my hand sting.” And she laughed and took the soap from him and started to wash him, which felt pretty damn good.

  “So what’s your way?” she asked, her hands lingering on his chest, moving down to his abdomen, and lower, where things were waking up again, amazingly enough, because he’d have sworn she’d pulled every last bit out of him. “What’s your favorite, that we’re doing next time?”

  “That would be,” he told her as her hands continued to move, “with you on your back. I’m old-fashioned that way. When you’re holding my head in your hands, and you’re making so much noise that I’m thinking my neighbors must be about to call the cops. When I’m stopping just to watch you squirm, just because I love to hear you beg. When I’m feeling you come, and then I’m sliding inside you while you’re still going, and I can barely hold you down. That’s the way we’re doing it next time. My way.”

  She smiled, slow and secret, and leaned back against the stone tiles, because he was working on her now, sliding his soapy hands over her breasts, pausing for some extra attention where it seemed necessary, thinking that he was going to have to make sure that they got their fair share, because he hadn’t done nearly enough, not yet. He kept on, one soap-slicked hand making a leisurely journey down her body, then settling in where she needed it. He could tell her legs were about to give out, that he was going to have to carry her on out of here, and that suited him just fine.

  She sighed as the water poured down and the steam rose, arched into his hands, and said it again.

  “Yes, Joe.”

  An Unexpected Detour

  “So what’s happening today?” she asked him the next morning while they were eating breakfast. Not too romantic—oatmeal—but she’d seemed fine with it. No matter what she thought, she was nowhere near high-maintenance.
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  He looked at her cautiously, hesitated.

  “You have work to do,” she realized.

  “I really do have to get that app to Michael today,” he explained. “I’m sorry, but I do.”

  “Can I say something?” she asked, and he tensed, waiting for it. “I get that you have to work hard,” she said, her face serious for once. “I get that you want to work hard. I’m not going to ask you to take every weekend off. You couldn’t even if you wanted to, and I know it.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do. It’s who you are. You’re driven, just like Alec, and you love what you do. I admire that. Really, I do. All I want is for you to put me first when you say you will. I want to be able to count on that, so if you say we’re going to dinner, that means we’re going, not that maybe we will and maybe we won’t, if something important comes up.”

  He winced a little. “Important as opposed to you.”

  She didn’t mess around. “Yes. That’s how I felt.”

  “I know. I got it.”

  “As long as you make time for me,” she said, “as long as you’re with me when you’re with me, I’m good. As long as I feel like it matters to you that I’m with you, and not with somebody else. That you can’t . . .” She waved her spoon in the air. “Take me or leave me.”

  “I can show you that.” He had to smile a little. “I kind of thought I already did. I was working pretty hard last night to convince you of it. I thought that was the point.”

  “Mmm.” She was looking dreamy now, and he remembered the feeling of her under his hand, the way she’d squirmed, the sounds she’d made, and got a kick of pure lust that told him work was going to be delayed this morning.

  “But,” he managed to get in before it took him over entirely, “tonight’s my do-over on dinner. I’ll pick you up at seven. And from then on, I promise, you’ll have my undivided attention.”

  That wasn’t the way it worked out, though.

  They were in his car, on their way to the Cliff House. He’d decided on the full cheesy treatment: Sutro’s Restaurant in the big white historic building with its floor-to-ceiling windows looking straight out onto Seal Rocks and the crashing surf of the Pacific Ocean, candlelight and white tablecloths and a walk on the beach afterwards. It would be dark and cold and windy out there, but that would just mean she’d have to snuggle up and hold his arm again. She needed to feel special, and he was going to make sure she did. He might be a slow learner, but he got there eventually.

  His phone rang, and he glanced at the dashboard display in surprise, punched the button to answer. “Cheryl?”

  “Hey, Joe.” His sister’s voice came over the speakers. “I’m at the airport. Want to come out for an hour and catch up?”

  “SFO? I didn’t realize you were going to be coming through.”

  “Yeah, weather, we got rerouted. What do you say?”

  Joe glanced at Alyssa. She was looking back at him, wary, waiting. “One second,” he told Cheryl, and put her on hold. “It’s my sister,” he said to Alyssa. “I know I said I’d take you out, but . . .” He gestured a little helplessly. “I’m going to have to ask for another rain check. Do you mind if I take you home?”

  “Of course you need to see your sister,” she said. “But you don’t have time to take me home. You can drop me off and I can get a cab, or I could come with you. I’d like to meet her.”

  Joe wasn’t at all sure that was a good idea, but saying no seemed like an even worse one. “Cheryl?” he asked, punching her up again. “OK, see you there in half an hour. Which terminal, and where?”

  “Uh . . .” The tired laugh came through. “International, that seems to be where I am.”

  He pulled a U-turn and headed for the freeway as he finished making arrangements with her.

  “And here I made this big promise to concentrate on you tonight,” he told Alyssa once he’d hung up.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m excited to meet her. You know my family so well, but I’ve barely even heard you talk about yours, except that your sister’s in the Air Force. That is—is she still?”

  “Yeah. I don’t see her that often, though.”

  “She’s your only family?”

  “Yeah. She’s the only one.”

  The Saturday-evening traffic lightened as the miles of 101 South sped by, and Joe knew he should talk, but he didn’t know what to say, so as usual, he shut up. Alyssa seemed to understand, though. At least, she wasn’t pressing him with any more questions.

  He found a spot in Garage A, and they made their way down the elevator, along moving walkways, up escalators and through hallways into the soaring space of the food court of the International Terminal, thronged with travelers speaking a dozen languages. Family groups, couples, solo voyagers, some excited, some bored or weary, some businesslike, another day at the office. And one woman standing in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt next to a pillar. Tall and fit, but not slender. Short dark hair and dark eyes, looking not much like Joe, but familiar all the same. The sight of her, as always, welcome, and yet not welcome.

  “Hey,” she said as the two of them approached. She reached up to give him a quick hug, a peck on the cheek.

  “Hey, Cheryl. This is Alyssa Kincaid. Alec’s sister,” Joe added. She knew who Alec was, of course. It wasn’t like he’d never seen her, just not often. Their visits had been short and a little awkward, and it was too long since they’d lived in the same house, since they’d been in each others’ lives. And too hard to think back on the time when they were.

  “Hi.” Cheryl held out a hand to Alyssa, and Joe saw his sister’s assessing gaze, her serious expression.

  That was their similarity, he realized, seeing her through Alyssa’s eyes. Temperament. Watching and waiting and evaluating before they spoke, before they acted. Caution. Inborn, or a response to life, he didn’t know.

  “Want to get a drink or something? Dinner?” he asked, reaching for her small black wheeled suitcase. “What do you have time for?”

  “A drink and a snack.” She smiled, finally. “I could use a beer.”

  “Me too,” Joe said, and he smiled back, felt something easing.

  Small talk as they selected a bar, placed their orders. Cheryl’s trip to help teach a logistics course at Ramstein in Germany, how she’d liked the country, how glad she was to be headed back to Alaska.

  “It’s funny,” she said. “I grew up hot all the time, and now I love the cold. Spending some time in the Sandbox . . . Afghanistan,” she explained for Alyssa’s benefit. “I thought, yep, been there, done that, got the T-shirt. I couldn’t get out of that hellhole fast enough. Just like home.”

  “Yeah,” Joe said, frowning down into his beer, his tension back. “I was glad when you were back safe from there.”

  “Were you?” she asked.

  He looked up at her. “Of course I was.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “I wasn’t sure. It’s hard when we barely see each other. I wish we did. But here we are now,” she went on more briskly, “and I’m glad, because I wanted to talk to you face-to-face about this.”

  “About what?”

  “About Mom.”

  “What about her?” He could feel Alyssa beside him, silently listening, focused on him, and he hated that she was there, but he was glad she was, too.

  “I finally went to visit their graves last year,” Cheryl said. “I wasn’t going to, it just happened. Another layover, and I was there, and I did it, and I was glad I did. But I wanted to talk to you about . . .” She paused, looked at Alyssa, and shrugged. “About a tombstone. Well, a marker.”

  “I’m not buying her a tombstone.” The words would barely come out.

  “I didn’t realize she didn’t have one,” Cheryl went on relentlessly. “I’ll admit, I didn’t follow up. I figured you’d do it.”

  He wasn’t frozen any more. Now, he was mad. Cold, hard mad. “Why would you think that?” he asked her. “Why would I do it? I made the funeral arrangem
ents. I paid for everything you told me she needed. I paid for the hospital, and the nursing home, and the hospital again, and the funeral. Nobody can say I abandoned her. Nobody can say I didn’t help, and God knows I had no reason to. Now I’m supposed to do more? I put out a hell of a lot more than she did for me. Or than she did for you, either. She didn’t even deserve as much as we did for her.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Cheryl said. “But Dad did. How do you think he’d feel if he knew she was lying there beside him without a marker? He loved her. I want to do it for him, and for us, and I want you to do it with me. I want us to be able to remember the good times, before. There were lots of good times. And she did love you. Maybe you don’t remember, but I do. She loved me, and she loved you, and she loved your dad. Once.”

  “Too bad she loved meth more,” Joe said. “How can you defend her? You of all people?”

  “Because I forgave.”

  “Some things aren’t forgivable.”

  “Everything is forgivable. Walking around with all that bitterness in you—Joeby, it eats you up inside. I know. You have to let it go.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “The person you can’t forgive,” Cheryl said, reaching out and putting a hand on top of his clenched fist where it sat beside his glass, “is yourself. That’s why you don’t come see me. That’s why you haven’t visited their graves. Because you haven’t, have you?”

  Anywhere but here. He needed to be anywhere but here.

  “You don’t want to remember because you think you let us down,” Cheryl said, not letting him off the hook, and he needed to be gone. “I know, because I felt the same way. I didn’t want to remember how I let you down, how I ran and left you in the middle of that. I felt so guilty, it was hard for me to face you. I just wanted to forget it, wipe it all out. And you feel like that, too, don’t you? You think you should have been able to stop it. But how could you? You were a child, Joe.”