His Wife for One Night

by Molly O'Keefe

  “Good night,” she said. She couldn’t leave the room fast enough, unable to take a breath until she hit the dark shadows and quiet of the hallway. Damn it. Damn. It.

  But she should have known this new version of Jack wouldn’t let it go. Wouldn’t read the neon signs she was hanging up that she just wanted to be left the hell alone.

  No, the new Jack McKibbon would follow. And he did. He caught up with her just past the foyer by the bedrooms, around the corner from the kitchen.

  “Mia?”

  “Let me go, Jack,” she said, crossing the hallway as fast as her wrenched ankle and pounding head would allow.

  “I don’t think you really want me to,” he said, right behind her, so close she could smell the tamale and tequila on his breath.

  She paused, something dark and angry beating at her lips, screaming to get out. But she refrained and kept walking.

  Jack’s hand touched her elbow and she spun around, smacking at his arm. But still he crowded close, pushing her back until she was up against the wall and every breath she took rubbed her chest against him. Her nipples were hard and painful at the contact.

  “Tell me about the notebook, Mia,” he almost begged, his eyes searching her face.

  “It was nothing. Childish.”

  “Tell me anyway.” He stepped even closer, placing one hand against the wall by her ear. She braced both hands against his chest and shoved.

  “Stop crowding me,” she ordered.

  “Stop running,” he said and put his hand right back on the wall. Oh, the contact was killing her. Her body roared to life, a wild rush pulsing through her blood, over her skin. She wanted him. She wanted his taste. His touch.

  “Mia.” He breathed her name as if he knew. As if he could smell her lust. Her weak-willed desire. He’d primed her for this all through dinner with those long looks, the little touches. He’d been setting down kindling and now he was lighting the fire. “Tell me about the notebook.”

  She took a deep breath, licked her lips, and a moan rumbled out of his chest, his eyes locked on her mouth. “Tell me about the notebook,” he whispered, “or I’m going to screw you against this wall.”

  Every bone in her body evaporated and she leaned back, her head too heavy to hold. He tilted his pelvis until her hips cushioned his and she gasped at the long, thick press of his erection. Her body burned against his and she arched her hips slightly, pushing into him.

  His forehead dropped to hers and she could feel him sweating. Took great pleasure that she could make him sweat.

  “You want me to do this to you, don’t you?” he whispered, his hips starting a delectable, torturous dance against hers. Back and forth, up and down. He pushed and retreated until she joined him, her hands going to his waist, her fingers twining through his belt loops to keep him close. She angled her hips, and when he next pushed against her, she saw stars.

  “Mia,” he groaned, licking her neck, her lips, and she opened her mouth, kissing him with a sudden, wild hunger. She bit his lower lip; he sucked her tongue into his mouth. It was agony, her blood burned, her skin was too tight and Jack wasn’t close enough. Not nearly close enough.

  He lifted her from the wall, wrapping his arms around her lower back, keeping her feet off the ground. The contact was so delicious she moaned into his mouth.

  Her arms slid around his neck, her fingers sinking into his thick hair.

  He took three steps into her room, and shut the door behind him, holding her weight with one hand and again, just like on that roof, she melted at his strength, at how small and womanly she felt against him.

  She felt the floor under her feet, but he didn’t let go of her.

  “Tell me about the notebook,” he whispered against her lips, trailing hot wet kisses across her cheek to her ear. “Mia.” He bit the tender lobe. “Tell me.”

  “I kept a notebook of all the places you went, filled with articles and pictures I found,” she said. “So—” She gasped when he slipped his knee between her legs. The friction so good it nearly hurt.

  “So?”

  “So I knew what you were seeing. And eating. And smelling. So, I could talk to you about it, be there in a way, even when I wasn’t.”

  His kisses stopped, but his thigh was still pressed hard against the screaming junction of her legs. She rocked back and forth.

  “What place did you like the best?” he asked, brushing the hair away from her face with both hands.

  “Jack,” she moaned, beyond pride. She was humping his leg, for crying out loud. “Come on.”

  “Tell me what place was the most exciting to you.”

  He held her head, compelling her to look at him. He was so serious. His eyes so hot. She forced her hips to stop moving.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she breathed, feeling somehow threatened. Endangered.

  “Stop hiding from me, Mia,” he demanded, his voice hard, and he slipped his hand between her legs. She shook at the contact, even through her jeans.

  Her brain was short-circuiting; she didn’t understand what he was saying, why he wanted her to tell him, or why it seemed like such a bad idea to do it. None of it mattered when his hands pushed inside the waistband of her jeans. His fingers slid across the trembling skin of her belly, the thin elastic at the top of her underwear.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Where did you want to go?”

  “Jack—”

  “Tell me and I’ll make you come.”

  Oh, oh, she was dying. She was falling apart. The wild animal of her hunger and her love was taking over.

  “Scotland,” she said, pressing her head to his shoulder. “Edinburgh.”

  “My first water summit?”

  She nodded. “I liked the castle.”

  He didn’t do anything, his hands were flat against her stomach, not moving. Not keeping his promise.

  “Jack,” she pleaded, unable to look at him when she was so in need. “Please—”

  In a sudden move, he turned and laid her out on the bed. He rolled to her side, keeping one leg hooked over hers, so she was spread out, helpless to his touch.

  She closed her eyes, praying for release.

  “You have to watch,” he whispered, his voice gruff and deep and her eyes popped open. She lifted her head and watched his hand slide into the open vee of her pants.

  “You’re so wet.” He sighed against her ear, using his teeth against her neck. “So hot.”

  Was she supposed to say something? She hoped not because she was speechless. He shifted down the bed, rearranged his hand so that his thumb found the hard ridge of her clitoris and her body began to hum and shake. She clutched his shoulders, searching for grounding in a world gone white-hot. One finger and then another slid deep inside her and fireworks exploded. She bowed off the bed, her heels digging into the mattress.

  His mouth covered hers, swallowing her cries. The screams the whole county would have heard if they’d found their way past his tongue.

  He stroked her, softly now, easing her back down. And when the fireworks stopped and her body twitched with random shocks, he smiled, the devil, and whispered, “Once more, Mia. Because you’re so damn beautiful.”

  And it started all over again. But from a different place, somewhere treacherous and slightly scary, and when she looked into his eyes she couldn’t stand it, she had to shut her own.

  “Mia,” he breathed, chastising her. “Come on.”

  She shook her head, too far gone to stop, but with just enough awareness to know that if she wanted to survive this, she had to keep something of herself.

  She gripped his wrist, grinding herself against his hand, holding him still for her own selfish pleasure and he laughed, dark and hot in her ear.

  “That’s a girl,” he whispered and she exploded again.

  Jack removed his hand, his glistening fingers embarrassing her and turning her on at the same time. She lay still, waiting for what was next. What depraved thing Jack had planned for her?

  But he
rolled away, staring up at the ceiling, his body taut as wire.

  “Jack—” She reached out to touch him. The long, hard length of him in his jeans. But he stood up, looking at her on the bed.

  “Do you want to go to Edinburgh?” he asked, and she blinked, not sure she’d heard him correctly.

  “What…” Her voice croaked and she tried again.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You want to go to Edinburgh and I want to take you.”

  “Now?” she cried. Why weren’t they having sex? She didn’t have a whole lot of experience, but it seemed like this conversation was a bit of a distraction.

  “Summer would be best,” he said. “You’d love it. The whole country is like your high pasture.”

  “Why…” She sat up, but her body wasn’t totally on her side and she swayed a little.

  “Think about it,” he said.

  And he left.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WALTER WATCHED the coffee pour into the mug and prayed for… He didn’t know what exactly, but a prayer right now seemed in order.

  “Thank you, Walter.” Sandra’s voice was low and sweet; she still had that accent. The sound of her and Lucy speaking Spanish filled this old, dark house with color and life. And brought back a lot of good memories.

  She stirred some sugar into the coffee, adding cream, and he stood there like a fool, watching her. Remembering all those years he hated himself for noticing his best friend’s wife.

  “I’m surprised you have decaf,” she said, her eyes twinkling.

  He’d remembered she drank decaf and had asked Gloria to pick some up with the rest of the groceries. He poured himself a cup and sat down on the chair across from her.

  “Look at this place.” She sighed. “Hasn’t changed at all.”

  “It’s only been five years,” he said. “You think we’d redecorate?”

  She laughed, the sound like a breeze coming down off the mountains, warm and cool at the same time. “Hasn’t changed since I moved into this kitchen thirty years ago.”

  He looked around, trying to see his home through her eyes. “Hasn’t changed practically since I was born.”

  He could feel her watching him and he fought the urge to suck in his stomach. Preen like a peacock.

  “How are you feeling, Walter?” she asked. “The Parkinson’s disease…”

  “Good,” he answered and he wasn’t lying. Didn’t want to lie, not anymore, not to this beautiful woman in front of him. “The medication keeps me on an even keel. I can’t do a lot of the stuff I used to—riding a horse is probably beyond me—but I’ve been helping the men clear the old fire road to the high pasture and it’s…it’s good.”

  Sandra’s smile was wide, lighting up her face, her round cheeks dimpling. Love lurched in his chest.

  “That is very good to hear, Walter,” she said. “A man like you should work.”

  A man like him? What did that mean? He picked apart her words as if they were a riddle.

  “Tell me about Los Angeles,” he said. “Do you like it?”

  She took a deep breath and held it, weighing her answer and he took her hesitation to heart. She didn’t like it. He’d never believed she would. Sandra was a woman for open spaces and wild places. The city had to feel like a cage.

  “It is very crowded,” she said. “And…even working at the church, I am bored. Lucy works such long hours—”

  “The jewelry design business,” Walter said, and Sandra’s eyebrows arched.

  “I didn’t know you knew,” she said.

  “I was oblivious to a lot of things,” he said. “But your girls were not ones to be ignored.”

  Sandra liked that. She laughed and laughed and he smiled, pushing his chair closer to the table, as if he could slice right through the wood to be next to her.

  She took a sip of coffee and he watched her long elegant throat through the open collar of her red shirt. They were both sixty-four years old and he felt like a teenager, aware of her, of himself in a way he thought he’d never be again.

  He’d felt love for Sandra for a long time.

  Desire came as a bit of surprise.

  “Where is Victoria?” she asked, staring down at her cup.

  “Gone,” he said quickly. “After the divorce she moved to Idaho to be with her sister. I haven’t heard from her.”

  She shook her head. “That’s no way to end a marriage,” she said, and he sat, dumbstruck. Victoria had made Sandra’s life miserable five years ago, had made everyone’s life miserable for aeons, and she was scolding him for finally divorcing her?

  “Marriage is sacred,” she said.

  “Yeah, that’s easy to say when you have a good one,” he said. Sandra and A.J.’s marriage had been salt in his wounds.

  She nodded, slowly, but he could tell she wasn’t agreeing with him. “You gave up a long time ago, Walter,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, unable to resist sarcasm. “Do you remember my wife?”

  “I do,” she said, looking him right in the eye, making him feel like a fool. “The woman that hit your son and treated your trusted employees like garbage. I remember her well. Probably better than you, since you weren’t around most of the time.” She stood up and he realized how badly this was going, how terribly opposite to what he’d dreamed, and he stood up, too.

  “I’m sorry, Sandra,” he said. “I don’t want to fight.”

  She paused next to him, wrapping a bright blue shawl around her thin shoulders. God, she was lovely.

  “You never do,” she whispered. “And sometimes…sometimes you need a good fight.” She reached up and kissed his cheek, enlivening his old, dried-out body. Then before he could move, she was gone.

  Leaving behind the scent of roses and spice and the shame of knowing that even when he thought he was right, he was all wrong.

  MIA THREW BLUE’S BRIDLE onto the table in the corner of the tack room, narrowly missing Jack. Which of course had been the plan; the dream had been beaning him upside the head with a rock.

  “Whoa!” he said, turning around. That stupid hat that made him look like the Marlboro Man, but without the cigarettes, sat on his head as if he’d been wearing it every day for the past fifteen years. As if he’d been born wearing it. “Mia, what the hell are you doing out of bed?”

  “I’m done with bed,” she declared, stepping into the room and kicking the door shut behind her. The aches and pains of her body made her words a lie; she’d be back in her bed soon enough. But not until she had this conversation with Jack.

  “What the hell was last night?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. It took a lot of courage to do this. She’d stood in her room most of the morning trying to muster up the guts to face this horrifically embarrassing situation head-on.

  His smile was slow and knowing, and her body started to simmer.

  “I know you’re not terribly experienced,” he said with a drawl, “but I figure—”

  “Stop it, Casanova,” she spat. “I’m asking you why. I’m not a toy, Jack.”

  The smile died. “I know.”

  “Then why? We agreed on a divorce. You said you were leaving.”

  “No.” He stepped closer. “I said I was leaving after you told me you wouldn’t give me a chance—”

  “To experiment?” she screeched.

  “Yeah.” His face got firm, his eyes hard. “I’m sorry my choice of words offended you, Mia. But you have to remember, I don’t have all that much experience, either. Now, the way I see it, you’re not supposed to be doing heavy work for a while longer, and I’m here for two more weeks until I have to go see the board anyway.”

  She shook her head. “Forget it, Jack. It won’t work.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you couldn’t fall in love with me in thirty years of friendship, or five years of marriage, then why would you fall in love with me in two weeks?”

  He stepped closer and then closer again, and she r
eally regretted slamming shut that tack room door. Actually, she really regretted coming out here for this little showdown. She was so weak when it came to Jack. One push, a nudge even, and she’d topple whichever way he wanted.

  “You were right, Mia, I never saw you. Not…this way. Not as a real wife, or a lover. And I’m sorry for the way I hurt you. But listen to me when I say you are not a replacement for my work. You could never be. You’re too…big for that. Too important for that. And I see you now.”

  “Now?” she asked. “Why is now different?”

  “Because I see everything differently now. My dad, my past, Africa. You. Especially you.”

  Her fight-or-flight instincts kicked in and she moved backward toward the door, but he grabbed her hand, pulling her close and she had just enough pride to resist.

  “I’m looking right at you,” he whispered. The world fell away. The tack room. The guys outside. Her injuries, his carelessness. Everything vanished except for Jack McKibbon looking at her the way she’d always dreamed.

  Years too late.

  “I’m tough,” she whispered, tugging her hand free, wrestling her heart loose. “But not that tough. I can only bend so far. If you hurt me again…I’ll break.”

  She heard Lucy in the barn giving Chris a hard time, and she opened the door to the tack room, letting in cool air and distance. Distance she needed.

  “You can stay for two weeks. I do need your help around here, I can’t lie. But after that…” She shook her head. “Don’t come back.”

  MIA STOOD NEXT TO LUCY at the horse paddock watching Blue graze on the grass in the south corner.

  Well, Mia was watching Blue; Lucy was watching Mia.

  “Stop it,” Mia whispered.

  “I can’t,” Lucy said, resting her arms on the splintery beams of the fence. “Seriously, honey, you’re like a car crash. I just can’t look away.”

  “It’s over,” she said, as if she’d said, “He’s died.” Odd that the end of her marriage hurt more now than when she’d brought up the divorce almost three months ago. Then it had been a twinge of pain, some embarrassment that he hadn’t fought back. And now that he was fighting back, the end of her marriage felt like a funeral. A death.