Текст книги "The Other Man"

Автор книги: R. K. Lilley

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

I woke up the next morning to another rather alarming development.

It was becoming a pattern.

A commotion in my house.

What the hell was it today?

Someone was at my front door.  Someone loud.  They were yelling.

Ah hell.

I knew that yell.

Fuck.

What the ever-loving fuck?  Could I not get a break?

And what the hell was he doing at my house?

Once again I came out of my bedroom in only a thin robe having not a clue what to do with the sight in front of me.

The first thing I took in was an agitated Heath at my open front door wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a scowl.

And just outside, looking harried, outraged, like he was trying, and had tried, to charge into the house, was my ex-husband.

Eduard had always been a handsome man, and still was—dark eyes and black curly hair that set off his olive skin.  He was tall and lean, but next to the bulky mountain that was Heath, he suddenly looked thin to me.  Skinny.  Had he lost weight, or was it just that the comparison left him lacking?  I really didn’t know.

Eduard saw me and stilled.  “What the fuck is this, Lourdes?” he called out, sounding outraged, like he’d caught me at something.

He’d always had a nerve.  When we’d been young I’d called it pluck and found it charming.

That was a very long time ago.

I almost laughed.

Instead I shook my head at him.  “What in the world are you doing here, Eduard?”

“What’s he doing here?” he shot back as though he had some right to question who should be at my house.

“What are you doing here?” I repeated.

“He spent the night?” Eduard cried out like he was honestly shocked.

“What gave it away?” Heath asked him dryly.

“What do you want, Eduard?” I asked him.  “This is not a good time.  If you have something to say to me, you need to call, not just show up at my house.”

“I can’t believe you!  How long has this been going on?”

It was strange.  The divorce had had opposite effects on us.  The longer we were apart, the more indifferent I became to him and the more bitter he grew toward me.

It was a refreshing change from our marriage where I’d cared too much and he too little.

I looked at Heath, who was calm as could be, just watching me while he kept my ex easily out of the house.  “Just shut the door on him,” I told him.  “If he has something important to tell me, he can call and leave a message that I may or may not listen to.”

“I’m telling the boys about this!” Eduard shouted as the door started to close on him.

“They already know!” I shouted back.

“We all had dinner together last night,” Heath added and shut the door in his face.

“Does he show up here often?” Heath asked me, the doorbell ringing enthusiastically to punctuate his words.

“No.  Hardly ever.  Did he say what he wanted?”

“No.  I think the sight of me changed his focus, but I’m pretty sure I can guess what he came here for.”

“What?”

“You.  He wants you back.”

I couldn’t help it.  I made a face.  “God, I hope not.  That’s never happening.  Not in a million years.”

“Good.  I’ll have a word with him sometime; make sure he gets the message loud and clear.”

“You don’t have to do that.  I can handle him.  He’s harmless.  Just an annoyance these days.  Honestly.”

He didn’t say another word about it, which should have worried me more, but I was distracted just then, as he took me back to bed.

We didn’t get a day in bed, but we did get a morning, so I couldn’t exactly complain.

Heath left for a few hours in the afternoon, for work, he said, but told me he’d be back in time for dinner.

I thought it was him at the door sometime later, and so was doubly surprised when I opened it to find a young blonde girl standing there.

“Is Heath here?” she asked me.

I was caught off guard, for obvious reasons.  “Um, no, no he’s not.  He stepped out for a bit.  Can I help you?”

“Could I wait inside for him?  I’m supposed to meet him here.”

I let her in.  What else could I do?

I went back into the kitchen.  I’d just been about to open a bottle of wine, so I offered her a glass.

“Oh, no, thank you.  I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant, so I definitely shouldn’t.”

“Excuse me?” I asked her.  I just didn’t know how to place her in my mind.  Who was she, and why had she come here to find Heath?

“Also, I’m not actually old enough to drink,” she added.

That had me studying her.  She was a young thing.  She had white-blonde hair and was drop dead gorgeous.  She looked like something you’d see in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue come to life wearing sweats and nerdy glasses.

She studied me right back.

“I’m Iris,” she said, breaking a long silence.  “And you must be Lourdes.  So nice to finally meet you.”

“Nice to meet you,” I mumbled back.

Iris beamed at me.  “So you and Heath, huh?”

She sounded so happy about it that I found myself studying her face some more.  And then it hit me.  Of course.  Aside from their different, striking eye colors, they even looked alike.  “You’re his sister.”

She laughed.  And laughed.  I didn’t get the joke, but her laughter was contagious and so I found myself smiling.

“Oh my God,” she gasped.  “You are so much more observant than Dair.  It took him forever to figure that out.”

I blinked at her.  “Dair . . . Alasdair Masters?  You know him?”

For that, she started studying me again, her eyes intense in a way that made me think I’d underestimated her.  Greatly.

“Yes, I know him,” she said quietly.  “He’s a friend of yours, right?”

“Well, yes, we’ve worked together a few times, and we’re friendly.  How do you know him?”

She shook her head sharply.  “Long, long story.  How are things going with you and Heath?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

And she didn’t seem to need an answer.

“I didn’t really come here to find Heath,” she said.  “In fact, he’ll be upset when he finds me here, but I actually wanted to talk to you.”

Saying unexpected things clearly ran in the family.  “Oh?” was the only response I could come up with for her.

“I just wanted to give you some background on him, on why he doesn’t let anyone get close.  It’s not because he doesn’t care.  He—he’d do anything for me, I know this, he’s proven it, but even me he won’t open up to.  He can’t.  It breaks my heart the things he’s been through.  I can see the burdens he carries . . . I carry some of my own, but his, I’m sure you’ve noticed some of his issues, if you’ve spent any time with him.”

I just nodded that I had.

“He’s been hurt bad.  Tortured.  Well, I don’t have to tell you.  You’ve undoubtedly seen all of the scarring.  And he’s had to do some things that people just don’t come all the way back from.  But his stint with the CIA is just one piece of the puzzle.  The dysfunction runs deep in our family.  We were raised as feral things.  We come from a family of pathological liars.  We’re packaged to sell, though.  We learned to hide it.  Learned to hide everything.  We were taught to lie so consistently that it still comes more natural than the truth.  It’s not malicious, the way we lie.  It’s protective, if that makes any sense.”

“Protective of what?”

Her pretty mouth twisted.  “I can’t say.  I’m sorry for being so vague.  And I’m telling you all of this because I know he’ll be just as vague.  More so.  I think he cares about you, and I just hope that, in spite of all of that and all of his other issues, you’ll give him a shot.”

I opened my mouth, to say what, I haven’t a clue, when the doorbell rang.

Iris cursed.  “He figured it out faster than I thought he would.”

“Figured out what?”

“That I came here.  You see, he left you earlier to look for me.”

“He told me he left for work.”

“That’s actually not a lie.”

I was more confused than ever.  I moved to answer the door.

“Don’t tell Heath about the pregnancy thing I mentioned earlier,” she said quietly behind me.  “He’d freak.”

No way would I ever be telling the volatile Heath that his too young to drink sister might be pregnant.

Not a chance in hell.

When I opened the door, Heath didn’t even address me, instead headed straight for his sister, who was hovering in the doorway to the kitchen.

“I’ve been out looking for you,” he barked at her.  “I can’t believe you pulled this again, and for what?”

“I wanted to meet Lourdes.”

His hand went up to pinch the bridge of his nose, as though relieving pressure.

His other hand was clutching a bouquet of roses.

He’d brought me flowers.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” he asked, addressing Iris.

“No, Heath,” she said, clearly distressed.  “No.  Please.  I’m sorry. No.  No one followed me, I swear.  Nothing’s been compromised here.”

He looked back and forth between the two of us.  “She’s scared of me,” he told me.  “My own sister is frightened of me.”

“Not of you,” she said, voice thick with tears.  “For you.  And I’m worried more than scared.”

“Mason is coming to pick you up now.”

“Okay, fine.  I’ll go back and I won’t do this again, but promise me this didn’t ruin things for you.”

“How can I promise that?”  His tone was biting.  “It was bad enough that I couldn’t stop coming here.  Now, well, you know what happens now.”

Iris was openly crying at this point.  She gave me an imploring look.  “I’m sorry.  I swear I wasn’t followed.  I swear.  I was so careful.”

I was baffled by it all, but I could tell something bad had just happened.

“What’s going on, Heath?” I asked him.

He shut his eyes tight, taking a deep breath.  “I wish I could tell you.  Iris needs to go.”

“She could stay for dinner,” I offered.  I didn’t know her well at all, but it was distressing to me to see her crying like that.  To watch her go from so joyful to so genuinely despairing.  I wanted to help.

“She can’t,” he said dully.  “I can’t now, either.”

“I’m sorry,” Iris said again, but I couldn’t tell which one of us she was talking to.

“Oh,” I said, wanting to do something batty like wring my hands I was so damned confused.  “You aren’t staying for dinner, either?” I asked him.  I thought for certain he was planning to come back for the night.

“Not now, I can’t.  Excuse me.  Mason’s here.  I’m just going to walk Iris out.”

That’s when he handed me the flowers he’d brought me.  I murmured a thank you.

I didn’t ask who Mason was or even walk them out.  I just stared at the door, my mind racing, trying to make sense of their interaction.  It was clear I was in the dark about whatever was going on.

I was still staring at the door when Heath came striding back in.  He slammed it shut and came directly to me.

He set the flowers I was clutching on a table, pulled me into his chest, his arms like steel around me, offering hard comfort.  For a moment, I felt like everything was going to be okay.  He lulled me into thinking that, his lips tender at my temple.

And still comforting me, still giving me false hope with his strong body, he murmured, “I have to leave.  Not for a little while, but for a very long time.  We have only minutes left together.”

“How long is a very long time?” I murmured into his chest.

“I wish I knew.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to explain that scene back there with your sister to me.”

“I wish I could.  If I had a choice, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t be leaving, I promise you that.”

For what it was worth, I believed him.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

And then he was gone, and I had no idea if I’d ever see him again.

The first day after he left time passed like it was rolling through tar.

The second day was worse.

The third the same.

There was no word.  Not a note.  Not a phone call.  Nothing.

He was gone, had been gone for days, then weeks, but he’d left his mark in every single inch he’d occupied.

But even with that mark of his ever present, the man himself—gone.

I longed.  For his touch.  For just the sight of him.  For the sound of his voice.

It was such a strange thing, longing.  It felt so necessary.  Like the very urge created the problem.  Because somehow it felt so right.

All because you needed a thing you didn’t have.

Such a vicious cycle, longing.

And then, all because of him there was my reawakened sex drive.

It was the sweetest agony.

I found myself suddenly fixated on sex.  So aware of my own body that I couldn’t concentrate on much else.

I was showing more skin, enjoying the attention.  I worked hard to keep my figure, and I was proud to show it off and add thinking constantly about sex to that equation—I was like walking man catnip.

During that three-week stretch, I kid you not, I even had a bank teller hit on me mid-transaction.

It was out of hand.

And while I was obsessed with sex, I was not remotely interested in having it with anyone but the one man I couldn’t have.  Because he was gone.

It’s the funniest thing, how the woman who couldn’t be less interested in dating gets asked out the most.  I was suddenly that woman.  I swear, I couldn’t beat them off with a stick if I tried.

I said no, categorically.

But every night I went home and masturbated repeatedly, nothing I’d ever done before, because something about getting myself off all alone had always felt singularly unsatisfying.

And it still did.

I did it anyway.  Over and over.  Because I suddenly had a hard time going to sleep without it.

I got myself off, fantasizing about a rough voice in my ear and a big, scarred body on top of me, and would eventually fall into a fitful sleep.

I tossed and turned every night, and then I woke up every morning with my covers on the floor, and my fingers on my clit.

Nearly three weeks to the day he’d left, he showed up again, right at my bedtime.

I knew it was him when the doorbell rang at such an odd hour.  I’d just been performing my nightly try to sleep method, naked in my own bed, vibrator in hand.

I wondered briefly if I should answer the door like that.

No, I decided, shoving my toy under a pillow and throwing on a thin silk robe.

I checked the peephole, undid the chain, but only opened the door a tiny crack.

I met his wintry eyes and felt a jolt of something powerful move through me.

He looked fatigued.  Just dead tired.  Had he been going through the same thing I had?  Did he miss me?

“I shouldn’t even be here,” he began, sounding like he didn’t want to be.

I stiffened, my stomach turning over in dread.  What the hell did that mean?  Was he just here to break things off more officially?  Was this even the type of thing that needed an official breaking off?  

My voice was hard when I shot back with, “So why are you?”

He took a deep breath, then another.  He was trying to communicate something to me with his eyes, but he was just too damn good at hiding everything there.

His eyes would never be the window to his soul.  It was hidden somewhere else.

I wanted to strip him down, climb on top of him, and study every inch of him with squinted eyes and thorough fingers until I found it.

But I knew where it wasn’t.  His eyes were too everlasting frozen to death to house his true self.

I tried to read them anyway, tried to decipher that broken gaze of his.  It was nearly useless, but only nearly.  I didn’t know what exactly they were trying to tell me, but I swore I caught a glimpse of something approaching contrition.

“I can’t stay away.”  It was a tortured utterance.

It was everything I craved to hear in that exact moment.  Because if I’d known where to find him, there’s no way I could have stayed away.

Just like that, I was his for the taking.

I barely got the door open before he had me across the entryway, pinning me to the wall.

I trembled under the touch of his big, rough hands.  No soft touches for me.  I was beyond them.  I only wanted what Heath wanted to give me, which was a thing that could never in any way be mistaken for soft.

He didn’t kiss me at first, just took me in his big hands, running them over me like he was committing every curve to memory.

He pushed my robe off my shoulders, unwrapping me like a present, making a noise low in his throat when he found me completely bare underneath.

“It’s like you knew I was coming,” he groaned out hoarsely.

I squirmed under his scrutiny, wanting to touch him, wanting to touch myself, anything for relief.  But I held back.  I wanted too badly to see what he would do.

“Were you waiting for me, honey?” he asked softly, dropping down to his knees.

He shoved his beautiful face between my thighs, tongue stabbing at me without further ado.

“Were you?” he breathed into my sex.

I gasped out a yes.  Then his name.  I put my hands slowly, gingerly into his hair, never forgetting for a second, even in my near hysterical wanting of him, how hard it was for him to be touched.

He threw one of my legs over his shoulder and set to work on me, fingers delving inside, tongue exploring slowly, thoroughly, laving at my sex, inch by inch, scraping his tongue against me, fold by fold.

I loved it, but I needed more almost instantly.  I wanted to come with his cock inside of me, not his fingers.

“Heath,” I pleaded, wanting him to stop, needing to come with him inside of me, but I quickly lost the train of thought.  He had me finishing before I saw it coming.

He nuzzled into me, fingers still inside of me as I trembled out my release.

“Heath,” I said again.

“What do you need?” he asked, then proceeded to lave my clit generously with his tongue.

When I found my voice again, I rasped out, “I need your cock.  Please.”  I was panting as I begged.  “Please.  Please.  Please.”

He moaned and surged to his feet.  He got his dick out of his pants like he’d been trained to do it, like those military guys you see in movies, dismantling guns, every small motion keyed to the utmost efficiency.

He pushed into me bare.  Even in my lust haze, I caught that right away.

“I’m not on the pill,” I gasped.

He knew that, dammit, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him pulling out long enough to wrap up.

“I know,” he groaned out, already moving inside of me, rutting mindlessly like he just didn’t care.  “God, Lourdes.  I missed you.”

That, and the big erection banging me against the wall had me distracted enough to almost let it go.  Almost.

Insanity.

I pushed against his scarred shoulders in a last ditch effort, and that got his attention, as I knew it would.

“What . . . ?” he asked, hips still surging at me, the part of him that just couldn’t stop was not stopping for even a second.

“Don’t you have any condoms?”

His face screwed up in what could only be called agony.  “Fuck me, I don’t.  I’m not even supposed to be here.”

I wanted to cry.  And he kept moving all the while.

“I’ll pull out, okay?” he rasped into my ear, still rocking into me.

I did some very bad math in my head, expedient math that’s sole purpose was to get us both off in a hurry.

Pure idiocy.

Believe me, I know.

“We should be fine,” I gasped.  “I don’t think it’s the right time of month, so we should be fine.”  As if I said ‘we should be fine’ enough we would be?

And the rational me knew damn well that I had never been regular enough to rely on math like that.

Rational me was gone while hedonist me was getting her world rocked.

Pure idiocy.  I know, I know.

“Thank God,” he growled, ramming into me faster, harder.  “Fucking miracle, that.”

I really thought the timing worked in our favor.  I really, really did but that being said, when I’d told him that, I’d still been thinking he’d pull out.  Just to be safe, that extra bit of insurance that was by no means a guarantee, but still better than not pulling out.

I came first.  Of course I did.  He’d pound me all night before he let himself go before me.

He gripped both of my wrists and started kissing me on the mouth like he wanted to eat me alive as he let himself go.

He was buried to the fucking hilt when his cock started jerking out its release inside of me.

Even with my brain still lust fuzzy from orgasm, I felt jolted back to alertness when I realized what was happening inside of me.

“Pull out,” I moaned into his mouth.

He started to, genuinely gave it a try, I thought, but about halfway out, he shoved back in deep and held himself there, rooting inside of me.

Like he just couldn’t help himself.

This was one of many, many reasons why the pull out method was a terrible form of birth control.  Oh yeah, that, and the fact that it really didn’t work, just felt a lot more safe than him shooting his whole load inside of me, as opposed to say, smaller amounts of pre-cum.

“Heath,” I tried to make my tone plaintive, but it came out breathy and pleading.  Even I couldn’t tell if I sounded more like I wanted him to pull out or stay inside.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he muttered, but he still didn’t pull out, instead jolting inside of me.

And, God, I was just as bad, still clenching around him, milking out every drop, not putting my foot down, not making him stop.

And then he said a thing that thrilled and terrified me, and I couldn’t have said which reaction was stronger.

“Do you want to have any more kids, or are you done for good?”

I’d never (not for one second) ever even considered this.  My boys were grown.  That was it.  I probably could have more.  I was in perfect health.  I’d just never thought of it.

And what the hell did it mean that he was asking me this?  I was scared to even contemplate it.  Scared to hope for any possibility.

“I’ve never thought about it,” I said honestly.  “Why do you ask?”

He shook his head, a short jerk of a motion, as though he was making himself stay quiet on the subject.

But it didn’t work.  Miracle of miracles, he couldn’t keep himself quiet.

He pressed his forehead to mine, still shamelessly inside of me, still pinning me to the wall.  “If somehow you did get pregnant, I just want you to know, and I understand and respect that it’s your choice, but if you were to wonder what I want, just know that I’d want you to keep it.  Us to keep it.  Even if the timing is horrible, and I’m off working.  Even if you don’t see me for a long time.  That’s what I would want.  No question.”

Holy shit.  I had no clue what to do with that.  Whether to be happy or horrified.

“Good to know,” I finally said.

Lame, I know.

I just never thought I’d get pregnant.

When he finally pulled out of me, he didn’t go far, sprawling right there on the floor, on his back.

He reached up, grabbed both of my hands, and pulled me to straddle him.

I knew what this was.  He was giving me something of himself.  Doing something that was uncommon for him.  Allowing himself to be vulnerable.  For me.

“Can I . . . ?”

He swallowed hard and nodded, putting my hands on his chest.  “Yes.  Touch me.  I need your touch.  It’s helping.  The more you do it, the better I feel.  Just . . . go slow.  Not too much at a time.”

A feeling of pure, unadulterated tenderness shook through me.

It was kind of sick, but I couldn’t even decide if this need I felt to soothe him, to mend him was maternal in nature.  Maternal, or else maybe that other intangible woman feeling we all have, the, oh this man is broken, let me fix him urge, because when I fix him, he’ll be mine.    

Maybe it was an unwholesome combination of the two.  I honestly didn’t care.  He was covered on the outside by scars, but inside were the real wounds, the deep ones, and all that mattered was that I needed to help him heal every part that pained him.

I traced my fingers over the scars on his chest carefully, circling my hips on top of him, rubbing our spent sexes together until he stirred again, grew hard and huge again.  I was so slick and ready, so keyed to every inch of him that it took no effort at all, no guiding hand, no careful shifting.  I thrust my hips and sucked him back inside of me, where he belonged.  It was beautiful.

I stopped touching his chest when I took him in, knowing it would alarm him.  Too soon.

Instead, I grabbed both of his hands, cupping them over my aching breasts as I started to move.

He cursed.  He praised.  My stoic man even begged for it as I rode him hard.

I gave it my best, used every toned muscle in my body to rock his world.  This was where all of my hard work at the gym paid off, where I finally got to show him that he wasn’t the only one with some spectacular moves in bed.

And then it happened again.

I let him empty himself inside of me.  Again.

I guess at that point we were both just kind of thinking, ah well, damage is done, might as well enjoy the rest of the night like this.  

Because, God, it was beyond divine.

He snaked a hand down between our sweaty bodies, gripping himself at the root, twisting his hand, rubbing against us both where we still joined.

“Jesus,” he muttered.  “Fucking bare inside of you.  I can’t take it.  You don’t even know.  We’re both going to be raw before I’m done with you this time.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.  By morning we were both sore and aching.

And the entire night, all the times he came, he never pulled out.