Shelter me, p.15
Shelter Me, page 15
“I hoped. Really hoped.” He levered off her and sprinted to the bathroom to get the box of condoms from under the sink. He couldn’t get back to her fast enough. He stepped into the room again just as she dropped her bra to the floor.
His fist tightened around the package, crimping the cardboard box.
A seductive smile spread over her face as she inched her matching yellow lace panties down, down, down, revealing the Shakespeare quote tattooed on her hip. Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
And God, how he loved to make her sigh.
He kicked aside his boxers on his way to cover her, throbbing, aching to lose himself inside her again. She took the box from him, tore into a packet and sheathed him with bold deliberation. He settled on top of her, nudging at her core, seconds away from being . . .
Inside her.
The warmth and clamp of her body around him drew him deeper, and he couldn’t deny that this felt like the real homecoming. The one he’d been missing and dreaming about. She was . . . incredible. His.
A fierce hunger gripped him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, bringing him deeper still as she writhed her hips against him as he thrust. Need took hold, urging him to move faster, but then that could also be due to her voice in his ear, her hot breath on his neck.
He ducked his head to capture her mouth, hungry to connect on every level possible. Aching for her. Being with Sierra here tore down walls. Being with her narrowed the world to just the two of them, every nerve on fire to finish hard and fast. Other instincts shouted at him to make this last as long as possible, to draw out the pleasure and the connection because the thought of being without her again was damn near intolerable.
She scraped her fingernails down his back, the sheets rustling, tangling until he kicked aside the comforter. Restraint sent sweat dotting his brow as they moved, flesh against flesh. The ceiling fan overhead and air conditioner didn’t stand a chance competing against the rising fire inside him.
Her heels dug in deeper, her body tensing and clenching around him as she cried out her release. She slid her mouth from his and nipped his shoulder, her body bowing up into him. As much as he wanted to hurtle right into that release with her, he kept his eyes open, taking in every nuance of her orgasm rippling through her. So beautiful.
Only once she sagged back into the pillow, sated, did he allow himself to thrust to his own completion, the power of the release tearing through him after so long without sex—without her.
And the thought of never being with her again had his arms shaking until he collapsed on top of her. He rolled to her side and hauled her close, his face inhaling the citrus fresh scent of her hair so he didn’t have to look in her eyes.
So she wouldn’t see the need for her in his own.
* * *
MAKING LOVE WITH Mike had been impulsive and probably not wise, but she refused to regret her decision.
They’d been moving toward this since he’d stepped off the plane just over a week ago. This welcome back moment was meant to be between them. Lounging in bed with him in post-sex bliss, while he played the guitar.
After this?
She didn’t know and refused to think about it right now since odds were, deeper thought could wreck the moment. So she just let herself relax into the warm tones of his music. The sex between them had been every bit as combustible as she remembered—and yes, as she feared, because that would make it tougher to resist him.
And she definitely hadn’t been resisting at all when they’d landed on the mattress. Or after when he’d made love to her again with his hands and mouth, bringing her toe-curling release over and over.
Like so many times in the past after they’d been together, Mike plucked out some melody on his guitar, humming softly. She lay on her stomach naked and listened, his voice stroking her senses as tangibly as his touch, even if there were no words. His tunes did all the communicating.
Some songs were familiar, fun hits. Other times he chose the more emotional, saying things in notes or lyrics that he would never talk about. But her favorites? When he made up silly songs if the mood needed lightening.
Right now, he was rhyming and rambling about crummy bachelor food in his refrigerator and how he was nothing but a nachos and bingo Romeo. All the more amusing since she knew he was an excellent cook, far better than her.
His voice stopped, even as his fingers continued in a riff. He narrowed his eyes. “What are you thinking?”
She shrugged, the sheet sliding along her skin. “Just reminiscing. I didn’t expect we would ever be together again this way.”
“Remind me why? Because right now all I can think of is doing it again.” He grinned roguishly, then frowned. “You’re not using this as an intro to leaving.”
“I didn’t say I was leaving . . .” She stroked her bare foot up his leg, the bristle of his manly thigh tickling her already tingling senses. In spite of her intentions to keep things low-key, she felt words itching to come out. God, why couldn’t she simply enjoy the moment? Instead, she had to blurt, “I’m just not sure how long we can stay this way before the world and old problems intrude.”
He shifted his hand from the guitar to her ankle, rubbing, then massaging. “Let’s leave the world out there a while longer.”
“How?” She sighed, flexing her foot. “And keep doing that. Please.”
“More than happy to comply.” He pressed his thumb along the arch of her foot. “In about twenty minutes I’ll be up for the ultimate distraction, but for now, let’s talk.”
“About?” Although she would discuss anything if he kept rubbing her feet and she didn’t have to face the outside world worries.
“Okay, you want to talk?” He looked around before meeting her eyes again. “Why did you paint this place the color of a John Deere tractor?”
She gasped, jerking her foot away as she sat up straight with the sheet clutched to her bare chest. “That’s . . . That’s just wrong. The walls are not the color of a tractor. That’s bright green. This is light green, like a peaceful garden.”
“Gardens are bright green . . .” His eyebrows pinched together as he tapped his temple. “They are verdant.”
“Verdant?” She giggled, grateful for a light moment when there was so much dark baggage piled up on their doorstep. “Really?”
He tut-tut-tutted. “You wound me. I worked my ass off on vocabulary while we were dating.” His hands went back to the guitar still in his lap and plucked, as he sang, “Crossword puzzles. Online Scrabble. Words with Friends . . .” Shaking his head, laughing, he propped his guitar against the wall. “I even went back and read some of the books I skipped in high school.”
She hugged her knees to her chest, resting her chin on her crossed arms. “You did what?”
He reclined back on the stacked pillows, his shoulders broad and bronzed against white cotton bedding. “I brushed up on books I should have read in school. I had a habit of reading CliffsNotes and online summaries instead.”
“That’s an awesome endeavor, but what brought that on?”
“Making sure I understood your world, and yeah, maybe there was an ego issue over all your education and feeling your dad wanted more for you than a guy like me.”
She sat—stunned. “Mike, I’m, uh, not even sure how to react. You’re an intelligent man, successful in your career. Your strength is in computers, math and being a damn good soldier. My strength is a broad knowledge of some dead poets, which actually isn’t that marketable and makes me question who’s the smarter one right now.”
“Just hedging my bets to make sure you kept feeling that way.” He tugged her back against his chest. “Lime Jell-O green.”
She glanced at his face and knew him well enough to see he was putting an end to serious talk. They were back to nacho Romeo land. Hard to fault him for that when they were alike in that way.
She hugged him harder under the pretense of cuddling closer, taking in the scent of his soap and a hint of sweat as she spent her first night in the apartment she’d thought would be hers. “I think it’s the color of mint ice cream.”
“Okay, I can see that.” His voice vibrated against her ear. “Or if you want to go back to your garden theme, what about celery?”
She glanced up at him, thinking of him playing Words with Friends for her and him feeling her family didn’t approve of him . . . She forced a smile. “Celery colored? Better, but blah, no taste.”
His eyes lit with playful competitiveness. “Avocados? Pistachio pudding?”
“Much better.” She angled up to nip his bottom lip, letting desire sweep away more complicated emotions. “You sound hungry.”
“Ahhh . . . Then how about forbidden apples?” His hands roved up into her hair, his arousal stirring unmistakably against her thigh.
Her skin tingled in anticipation. “It hasn’t been twenty minutes.”
“Well, what do you know?” Mike tucked Sierra underneath him, his mouth hovering just over hers. “Time sure flies.”
Ten
LACEY HAD STARTED drinking to help herself fall asleep after the sleep aids the doctor gave her didn’t work.
She’d soon realized it didn’t matter what she took or drank. Her insomnia wasn’t going away even if she took double the dose of the medicine in her hand. So she kept busy into the wee hours of the morning until her body gave out and slept somewhere for a few hours out of pure exhaustion.
Now here she was, still awake with that damn cuckoo clock chiming two in the morning.
She’d worked her butt off at the adoption event, fed her family and taken a long shower. She should be totally wiped out. But all she could think about was that bed. That big, empty bed. Which reminded her of the empty spot for Allen’s toothbrush. His missing shampoo. And the list went on endlessly.
She opened her closet, which wasn’t empty. Allen’s clothes still occupied half the large walk-in. He’d only taken his uniforms and workout clothes with him. His suits, jeans, casual shirts and deck shoes all stayed. She hadn’t gone through his things, and she probably should figure out what to save. What to give her father-in-law and her children as keepsakes.
What to keep for herself.
Looking in the closet was never a good idea. Stepping inside was even more dangerous. The first month after he’d died, she’d closed herself in the space once a day, lights off, and breathed in the lingering scent of him while she cried.
She shut the doors, staying firmly outside the closet. No going backward. Forward was her only option, regardless of how badly it sucked.
The clock was silent. So was her house. Sierra had texted her about Trooper sleeping in the General’s room. The fact that Sierra had texted rather than finding her to speak was telling. Her daughter hadn’t announced she was staying in the loft apartment with Mike tonight, but it was after two and her daughter hadn’t come back from talking to her old boyfriend . . .
Lacey’s head fell to rest on the closet door. She did not need to think about sex. Not now.
She looked out of the corner of her eyes through the door into her bedroom. Her queen-sized bed was perfectly made with a green and yellow patchwork quilt, a gift from one of her foster moms. The pillow shams were stacked, the most orderly part of her house. Probably because she avoided sleeping in her bed whenever possible, taking an afghan to the sofa and telling her kids she fell asleep watching television. The fosters offered endless reasons to sleep by their crate because they needed monitoring.
Actually, since the day she’d been told her husband died, she hadn’t slept under the covers at all. If she slept on her bed, she stayed on top of the spread and used a blanket. So far, no one appeared to have noticed. She kept promising herself she would face that hurdle tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.
A cold knot lodged in her chest as she remembered sharing that space with Allen. Not just for sex, but also for those quieter married moments where they lay side by side, propped on pillows reading or with iPads out to surf news sites . . .
Tomorrow was definitely not coming today.
She pulled on yoga pants and a T-shirt before moving out of the bedroom and into the hall. She made it three steps and heard a scratching on a door—from inside the General’s room. Must be Trooper wanting to go outside. He couldn’t run off if she kept an eye on him. She cracked the door and let him out.
“Need to go potty, boy?” She scratched his ears, only managing one stroke before he sprinted toward the door.
She flipped off the alarm and opened the door to the fenced area. Trooper shot out and made a beeline for the fat oak tree in the middle of the play yard. He lifted a leg and . . . he must have drunk a gallon of water.
Finally, he stopped, kicking his back legs and sending grass flying. He ambled around the quiet yard, sniffing, exploring. She dropped to sit on the top step and let him stretch his legs. He stuck his nose under a bush, doggie butt way in the air as he inched his head farther under. Springing back, he came out with a green tennis ball in his mouth.
Allen had written to her about how he and the soldiers unwound by playing ball with Trooper. It made them all forget for a moment where they were by bringing a taste of normalcy to their lives. A piece of home.
It must have really felt like home for Allen given she always had a dozen or more dogs around.
Snorting on a teary laugh, she scrubbed her wrists under her eyes. “Trooper,” she called, snapping her fingers, “come. Wanna play?”
He bounded toward her, dropping the ball at her feet and then sitting perfectly still, waiting.
“Good boy. Good boy. Fetch.” She pitched the tennis ball across the yard. “Fetch.”
He sprinted full out, retrieved and brought it back.
She tossed and counted stars.
He ran, picked it up, brought it back.
She lost track of how many times she threw the ball, lost track of the time altogether. She spent so much time caring for animals, she hadn’t realized how rarely she got to play with them anymore. There was something soothing in this repetitive ritual, the easy give-and-take of it under a perfect Tennessee night sky.
Her first fostering experience had come about when Sierra was in second grade and she needed a service project for church. Their schedule had been so crazy with soccer practice and school, plus she’d just started teaching online. They’d decided to foster a puppy for the local shelter while he recovered from a skin condition. They’d fallen head over heels for that puppy as they’d watched and tended him, bathed him, loved him until his fur grew back and the light returned to his eyes. They’d almost adopted the pup, but when she’d seen the joy on the adopters’ faces, she’d found a calling.
She’d fostered for years, helping shelters and rescues wherever her family moved during the crazy period of their lives when Allen had been transferred umpteen times. Fostering animals had been a grounding ritual for them, a way to feel at home each time they pulled up stakes. When they’d come here three years ago with the intent to retire and settle, she’d decided to act on her dream to open her own rescue. Since she finally had her forever home, she would share it with animals in need of shelter and love. She’d focused everything on making this rescue successful while keeping her job teaching online and bringing up her kids. Allen had been gone half the time, so the dogs were her family in his absence. She’d respected the fact that he’d been as married to his job as he’d been to her, and she’d tried to find work that gave her that same sense of duty and satisfaction.
For years, she and Allen had been on separate but parallel tracks, like dogs with their own kennel runs. She’d always thought there would be time for her and Allen, for their marriage, later. That one day, they’d be back on the same track again.
She’d launched her dream and she’d lost her husband. Lacey pitched the ball again only to realize Trooper had fallen asleep at her feet.
Lucky dog.
* * *
MORNING SUNLIGHT WAS only just pushing through, but once Mike got his internal clock set, he wasn’t one to sleep late. He’d learned early to get up on his own for school if he wanted time to pour himself a bowl of cereal before he left.
So even though he’d made love to Sierra late into the night, he’d still woken at dawn, and slipped out of bed careful not to disturb her.
As she slept across the room, he moved quietly in the kitchen. In spite of his nacho Romeo tune, he could cook for himself, damn well, for that matter. He’d done so since he was a kid when cooking was a survival skill if he wanted to live off more than Ramen Noodles and school lunches. By eight years old, he’d figured out how to fry eggs, which made for a good breakfast sandwich. He’d graduated to pancakes—cheap and easy to find the ingredients in his grandmother’s pantry.
His skills in the kitchen had come a long way since those days. And God, how he’d missed a good breakfast when he was overseas.
Today, he’d made French toast with roasted apples, and in a couple of minutes, he would have warm caramel to drizzle over the top. He stirred the wooden spoon in the simmering sauce. The moment was so damn normal. It had been so long since he’d experienced regular life, it was still surreal. Bleached clean sheets. Fresh food. Picnics in the park. Lounging in bed discussing wall colors after sex with a gorgeous woman.
A woman currently tugging on her panties, his T-shirt and nothing else.
Sierra walked across the studio apartment and leaned a hip on the island. “That smells amazing.”
“Your grandfather was a hundred percent right about missing real food during a deployment. I haven’t finished working my way through meals I fantasized about.” Speaking of fantasies . . . an image of painting Sierra with warm caramel then licking it off her almost made him burn the French toast.
He grabbed the spatula and flipped the toast.
Sierra toppled the pepper mill on the counter and spun it in lazy circles. “You’ve always been a better cook than me.”
“Yes, ma’am, but that’s okay. I like to cook.” He lifted the wooden spoon and blew on the caramel. “And seeing pleasure on your face? All the better.”
