by Elaine Fox
His fingers slipped under her shirt and she pressed herself against him. He lost no time in moving that hand around her ribcage to her breast and she gasped as his thumb found the peak of her breast through her bra.
In one quick move, Truman readjusted their bodies so that Marcy was practically in his lap, reclined against his arm, and he was leaning over kissing her, her arms around his neck. Their mouths engaged in this soul-stirring kiss as Truman’s hand lightly explored the sensitive skin along the line of her bra. Marcy trembled, nearly arching beneath his touch, wanting him to move the stupid undergarment out of the way and touch her, take her, hold her with nothing between them.
But that would be too far, wouldn’t it? some persistently rational part of her brain queried. Stop it at the kiss, she thought desperately. Do not go any further. Stop it now and it would just be a kiss…they’d gotten past a kiss before…
But then he was pushing her shirt up, over her breasts, and the cool air felt like another caress, arousing new sensations, provoking a desire that was already nearly out of her control. His fingers moved her bra and found her nipple. She moaned, leaning her head back against the car door. The windows were completely fogged, she noticed, glad of the fact that she couldn’t see the dim lights of Smokey Joe’s so Smokey Joe’s couldn’t see her.
But the momentary thought made her pause. This couldn’t happen. It was ridiculous, making out in a car on a city street, when—
Truman’s head bent forward and he took her breast in his mouth.
Marcy’s thoughts flew out the window.
She plunged her fingers into his hair and closed her eyes. It was heaven, nirvana, a release she hadn’t felt in months, years. Her body was possessed not by her, but by some inner creature that thrived on passion and had been starved for too long. A creature that could not now be controlled.
And besides, this was Truman. The guy with the stunning eyes, the gorgeous, capable hands, the body that arrested her attention by just walking down the street. Truman, whose smile transformed his face, whose knowing glance could send a shiver down her spine in the middle of a diner. Truman, who saved her, and who could, she knew in her heart, be trusted with anything…
Truman’s hand trailed down her belly, making her skin quiver as he titillated every nerve. His fingers neared the waistband of her jeans and she shuddered.
This was no good—or too good. He was not right for her. If she backed off now it was just a kiss—and a little groping. Okay, his tongue was doing amazing—she gasped as his lips pulled lightly on her nipple—incredible things to her breast, but that was still…it wasn’t below the…
He unbuttoned her jeans.
She flushed—a shot of heat straight down through her center.
His fingers prodded gently under her jeans, pushing beneath her panties, causing the zipper to descend with his hand.
She grabbed his wrist. She should stop this, before…
But, oh God, she wanted him to touch her there. She couldn’t stop him, not before, not until…
She held tight to his wrist but did not pull his hand away. He parted her legs with a short downward push and then his fingers slid into that area so suffused with heat and desire Marcy could not stop herself from pushing her hips up into his hand, and pushing his hand into her heat.
She gulped a lungful of air and he moved his lips back to hers. She kissed him hungrily as his fingers toyed with her, making her arch and move and cling to him as if she were drowning and he was her only salvation.
“Let’s go to your apartment,” Truman said quietly against her lips.
She might have said no. She might have used the interruption to bring them both down to earth. It was a golden opportunity to come to her senses.
Except that the instant after he said the words, he leaned upward and oh-so-gently kissed her on the forehead. When he pulled back, his fingers slowing but still doing miraculous things, she saw that the look in his eyes was one she’d longed to see her whole life. The look of a man who saw her, the real her, without any of the background noise of her past, her future, her career, her life…
She rose slowly, composed herself as quickly and cursorily as she could, and drove to her apartment.
The elevator doors closed them in and Truman, wanting to do anything to keep her from changing her mind, turned to take her in his arms.
At the same moment Marcy turned too, and they clutched each other as if, instead of ascending toward her apartment, the cable had been cut and they were hurtling to the ground.
Truman’s lips found hers again and her fingers plunged into his hair. They kissed as if they were inhaling the elixir of life from each other’s lungs. As if the time they had to be parted from the car to the elevator had been too much to bear.
Truman’s muscles quaked with the effort not to crush her to him. She was like no one he’d ever held before, the emotion in his chest something far beyond the usual wave of lust he felt for a woman. No, this feeling was something else. This was a desire like survival, an instinct so powerful he had no choice but to obey it.
The doors opened and they made their way down a hallway so silent Truman thought the thundering of his heart might awaken every neighbor on the floor.
Marcy dug into her purse for her keys, then unlocked the deadbolt with a hand that Truman saw trembling.
Would she change her mind now? he wondered. Something in him sank at the thought that she might.
But she pushed the door open and held it as he followed her in. She didn’t turn on a light, but took his hand and led him down the hallway toward her bedroom.
Carefully coordinated pictures passed him on the hallway walls, but as he rounded the doorjamb into her bedroom he saw that here was where the real Marcy lived. Unlike the stark, white impersonality of the rest of the apartment, this room was crammed with mismatched furniture, frothy curtains, overgrown plants, framed snapshots and knick-knacks that would have clashed gloriously with the studied tone of the living room.
Marcy moved away from him to turn on a dim light, a small Tiffany-style lamp on a bedside table littered with books. In the moment they stood apart, Truman’s heightened senses noted that these were not the law books and aging thrillers that resided on the living-room shelves. These had colorful covers and titles in curling script. These were novels that the passionate Marcy read.
The Marcy who went to sleep every night in the wide, canopied bed that sent Truman’s pulse shooting into the unhealthy range.
He held his breath as she walked silently back to him across the carpet of the bedroom.
Never in his wildest dreams did he think they’d get to this point.
Okay, maybe in his wildest dreams…
He looked into her eyes, into the dark, sultry depths that concealed so much and yet communicated so eloquently. She wanted him, he thought, with something like awe. She looked at him so intently, so ardently, that he knew there was no chance she’d change her mind.
She was, he thought, incredibly beautiful.
He took her upper arms in his hands when she got close and made her pause. She looked up at him questioningly. He wanted to say something to her, something perfect that would reveal the astonishing emotions rocketing around in his chest at this moment, but no words came.
Instead he leaned down, his hands cradling her face, and kissed her again, a long, deep, lingering kiss that he hoped might convey some of what he was feeling, not just the physical desire.
But Marcy’s hands moved to the button of his jeans and he…well, hell, who was he to argue?
His hands moved down her arms, his thumbs grazing her breasts, then down the curve of her waist to pull the pink shirt from her jeans once again. He snaked his hands under the material to her skin, his palms touching her, just as she released the zipper of his jeans, and they both inhaled sharply with pleasure.
Truman walked her backward to the bed and sat her down, pulling her shirt up over her head. He loved the way her hair fluttered messily
as the shirt came off. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were dark and alive. He thought he’d never seen anything so seductive.
She pushed his jeans down his legs and he stepped out of them, then eased her back down on the bed. Stripping off his shirt, he watched as she unbuttoned her own jeans and pushed them off. Then they were both casting their clothing off as if they couldn’t do it fast enough.
They came together, naked, at last, and Truman knew he had never felt so incredible in his life. She was unbelievably soft, and yet so strong when her arms moved around his shoulders and pulled him close that he was sure, like himself, no questions lingered in her mind as to whether this was right or wrong, smart or stupid, sensible or dangerous.
He dipped his head to her neck and tasted the skin below her ear. He felt her shudder as she tilted her head back and he moved his lips lower. His hands cupped her breasts and he moved his mouth to one peak, taking the nipple into his mouth and working the tip with his tongue. He thought he heard her gasp, and then her hands were in his hair, holding him close, her pelvis pushing upward.
He moved his hands down her sides and trailed one hand across her hip. She jumped lightly when he touched her inner thigh, but she pressed upward again as he moved his fingers back to the heat at the apex of her thighs.
She was more than ready for him, just as she had been in the car. He pushed his fingers gently inside of her, then moved them out and across the point he knew she longed for him to touch again. She made a low sound deep in her throat and he continued.
“Truman,” she breathed.
Truman moved back up her body and kissed her with a fierceness she returned so emphatically a thrill streaked down his spine. He was rock hard, and started to guide himself toward her when he felt her hand move between them to grasp his manhood in a light, sure grip.
He inhaled sharply.
She guided him toward her and he pushed upward, sliding so swiftly inside of her he was afraid he would hurt her.
But she arched upward, saying, “Don’t stop. Oh God, don’t ever stop.”
Which is when Truman let go of all control.
He pushed into her, some inner will demanding the act be fulfilling, their bodies connected, their movements conjoined.
At the same time Marcy clung to him, making sounds of pleasure beneath him. She was lithe and potent, her body finding his rhythm and accelerating his arousal with every thrust. She seemed to anticipate his moves as her hips drove against his. She was like a woman from a dream, sent to stimulate him in ways he’d never known. The two of them moved as if they were one organism. One beating heart.
Their sweat mingled, their breaths came and went in synch, their hands sought each other and held tight, until Truman came with such intensity that he cried out.
The next moment Marcy arched upward and called his name, shuddering with release.
In the morning, Marcy awoke, heavy with a delicious sort of languor, and gazed about the room. She needed to hold on to the feeling as long as she could because it would not last, she knew. Self-recrimination would come. But for now she clung to the feeling that last night was good and right. Clung to it as if she’d never feel it again.
Which was possible, because Truman was gone.
8
Tuesday, October 22
WORD-A-DAY!
GENEALOGY: n., study of one’s descent from a person or family; connections which are quite often inexplicable or impossible to account for
Marcy stabbed her key in the lock, twisted the knob, and kicked the door open. Dropping her briefcase, purse, and three plastic grocery bags, she lunged for the phone, catching it just as the machine started to pick up.
She blew a breathless “hello” into the receiver as the machine labored to reset itself.
“Marcy? That you? Do I have the right number? I dialed two-oh-two—”
“It’s me, Mom.” She closed her eyes and put a hand to her forehead, pushing the hair from her eyes. She had not been hoping it was Truman. She had just thought it might be him. Not the same thing as hope at all. But, all right if it was hope, it would be hope that he had called with a reason—a really excellent reason—why he hadn’t called before this.
“It don’t sound like you. Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, Mom. I just walked in the door.” She bent to pick up her grocery bags and tucked the cordless phone between her ear and shoulder.
“What? Just now? It’s near nine o’clock. You out on a date, I hope? Working in a place like that you oughta be meeting a lotta rich young men.”
“I was working. And I’d never date someone I work with.” An image of Tru Fleming on the witness stand flashed through her mind. What a mistake, she thought for the thousandth time, caving in to her desires like that.
It just hadn’t felt like a mistake.
“So you’re still not dating anyone? Marcy, I told you when you went to that school, that law school”—she said it the way she’d say Leavenworth Prison—“that you was throwing away the best years a your life. Such a pretty girl, everyone says, and there you go spending all your time in that office. Mark my words, one day you’re gonna wake up and be thirty and not know what hit you.”
Marcy could practically mouth the words along with her mother. She heard this tirade nearly every time the woman called.
“I haven’t woken up to that day yet,” Marcy said, heaving the grocery bags onto the glass dining room table. One of the candles on the table fell out of its holder. She bent to push it back in. She really ought to melt a little of each into the base to hold them there, she thought. “And for your information, just the other day someone told me I was one hot chick. So I guess I don’t have to worry too much yet, Mom.”
She thought of the way Truman had looked at her as she’d taken off her clothes, and blushed hotly despite the fact that she was alone.
“Well, looking young ain’t the same as being young, missy.” Marcy heard water running in the background as her mother spoke. “Your face ain’t the only part turning thirty. You want kids, you better start looking around and fast.”
“What on earth would I want with kids?” Marcy unloaded a bag of onions into the bottom drawer of the refrigerator. “I’d just spend my life calling them up and harassing them over the phone, probably.”
“There’s worse ways to spend your life.”
Marcy smiled. Her mother turned off the water and Marcy thought she heard dishes clinking. “You certainly seem to enjoy it. How’s Darren?”
Darren, Marcy’s youngest brother, had just gotten out of juvey—the juvenile detention center—a month ago on his eighteenth birthday. He’d started robbing houses at the ripe old age of thirteen and been caught red-handed when he was fifteen. By that time he’d burgled so many he was lucky he only got juvey, in Marcy’s opinion.
“He’s all right,” her mother said. “They set him up with a job, them social workers. He likes it all right.”
“Good.”
“Mitchell’s living with that girl now, you know, that redhead.” Water sloshed in the background. She was obviously washing dishes.
Marcy shoved a milk carton and two bottles of water into her refrigerator. Like mother, like daughter, she thought. Chatting on the phone was a waste of time if you weren’t doing something else at the same time.
“Which redhead? Mitch only goes out with redheads.” Her older brother was a notorious runaround. While he only dated redheads, he’d cheat on them with just about anyone.
“The real one.”
Marcy laughed. “That narrows it down considerably. Good, I guess. Glad he’s settling down.”
“Yeah, ever since they fired him down at the laundry he’s been happy as a clam. She works at the bottling plant, you know.”
Marcy rolled her eyes. Like father, like son. “What did he get fired for this time? No, you know what? Never mind. I don’t even want to know. So what’s up with you, Mom, anything? How’s Dad?”
“Don’t ta
lk to me about that no-good louse. He ain’t been home since Saturday. Someone told me they seen him at the track nearly every day this week. I told him not to come home if he lost any more money, so I guess he lost more money.”
“Well, at least he’s listening to you these days.”
Her mother laughed. Marcy smiled to hear it.
“That’s my girl,” her mother said. “Looking on the bright side. Listen, hon, Uncle Bruce is having a birthday party for Aunt Phyllis. I thought you might wanna show for it. Aunt Phyl’s turning sixty this year. You know she’s older than your Uncle Bruce by a few years.”
“Is she really? Uncle Bruce looks like he’s got ten years on her.”
“Oh, she worries him to death, always nagging him about this or that. Giving him gray hair, she is. She oughta be glad she’s got him. Leastways he comes home at night, and don’t leave his paycheck with the horses.”
“Maybe all that nagging’s what’s keeping him on the straight and narrow.” Marcy sat down on one of the leather-and-chrome chairs and lit one of the candles in the middle of the table. Holding it sideways, she let the wax drip into the candle holder.
“If it is, he’s the strangest man in America. Nagging don’t work at all on your daddy. Any case, I think you should bring a date, honey, just to show Aunt Phyllis you ain’t one a them lesions.”
A burst of laughter shot from Marcy, jostling the hand holding the candle. She scratched at the quickly cooling dollop of wax on the glass table. “Lesbians, Mom. Aunt Phyl doesn’t think I’m a lesbian.”
“I don’t know…” She drew the words out ominously. “Last time I was over there, I guess it was day before yesterday, she looked very suspicious when I told her I didn’t know if you was dating anyone right now. Very suspicious.”
“Oh, Mother.” She picked at the wax with a fingernail, then crumbled it onto a paper towel in front of her. Truman hadn’t called her since she’d slept with him. Chances were he wouldn’t be her date to any family functions in the near future. Not that she wanted him to be. They both knew it was wrong. That’s why he’d left before she woke up. And that’s why he hadn’t called. She had known that’s how it would be when she’d dragged him into her bedroom. Hadn’t she?
