Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (14 page)

  "You didn't kill him."

  She tried to laugh again with the same ha -ha viciousness, but it came out a flat croak. "Sure I did. I told you."

  "You didn't kill him."

  Christ. He was shaking her up. Again. The only kind of shaking she wanted from him was from an orgasm big enough to cause an earthquake, and he kept getting to her. And for some sick reason, she kept coming back for more. She should have stayed home and eaten the damn eggs herself.

  "What makes you think I didn't?"

  "Instinct." He put the tray on the floor, lay back, and crossed his arms over his face. "Thanks for breakfast."

  Dis-missed.

  She approached the bed, wanting to tear his hands from his face and scream at him to stop being such a damn disappearing coward. "You don't get off that easily. This conversation was actually about you."

"Leave me alone, Vivian."

  She dove onto the bed, moved directly over him, supporting herself on her arms. His body stilled. She doubted he was even breathing.

  But she was. Practically panting. Being this close, on a nice cozy bed, even not touching him yet, she felt her body warm and change. She became hyper-aware of how her bra cupped her breasts, how the seam of her jeans pulled between her legs. Her muscles felt strong and her body felt clean and lithe and sensual and alive.

  Yes. Yes. Yes. This was what she needed.

  She lowered slowly onto his body, hating the clothes and the comforter—more like a frustrater at the moment. She wanted naked skin on naked skin, to press against him cheek to toe, and she wanted it Right Now.

  "It's time to move on, Mike," she whispered to him, rocking her pelvis slowly and gently. Push. Release. Push. Release. "For both of us. We both need this."

  "You're lying on my omelet." A hint of uncertainty in his stern voice—she was getting to him.

  "But Mike, omelets are soft." She whispered again, lowered her lips to his chest and inhaled the warm scent of his skin, curled her hands over his muscular shoulders. Push. Release. Push. Release. Her patience thinned; her desire thickened. She wanted to lose herself in passion, in his strength, to forget all the shit for a few blissful hours as often as he could give it to her. "I don't seem to be lying on anything soft."

  His arms moved; he gripped her hips and pushed up against her. Once. Twice. She gave a gasping moan, oh God, it was going to be so good . . .

  He strained up, flipped her off him over chez Rosemary, and she found herself on her back—one of her very favorite places to be, thankyouverymuch.

  Except instead of starting the lovely trip to happy town, he grabbed her wrists, pinned them over her head, and stared forcefully into her eyes.

  "Listen to me, Vivian. Carefully."

  "Ye -e-es?"

  "When I'm inside you . . . it's going to be about you and me, understand?"

  She nodded automatically. Him and her, what the hell else would it be about?

  "Not about Ed, not about your anger, not about your grief, and not about mine. Okay?"

  She forced herself not to roll her eyes, nodded again, legs open, hips straining upward. "Yes. Fine. Good."

  
Just do it, Boy Scout.

  "Until then . . ."

  She blinked. Until
when
?

  ". . . nothing is going to happen. You understand?"

  "
What?
"

  He sighed, humor coming back into his eyes. "I didn't think so."

  She gaped at him, the beautiful orgasm she hadn't had yet grinding its teeth, shaking the bars, and growling to be let out. "Y
ou're not going to screw me?
"

  Mike winced. "God, Vivian, you should work for Hallmark, you have such a way with words."

  She giggled when she most wanted to sock him or fl ounce out of the room in humiliated indignation. "You are the most exasperating, pathetic excuse for a man I have ever
met.
What the hell mind -control drugs do they give you Kettle people?"

  He laughed. A loud, ringing, openmouthed, masculine laugh that stopped her struggle. She lay back watching him. He didn't let it last long, but in that second or three, she had a feeling she saw how he'd been with Rosemary, and a dark pleasure-pain settled into her chest.

  He stopped laughing, smiled down at her, not saying anything, just smiling right into her eyes, and a weird, soft, gooey thing started erasing the pain.

  Worse, he bent down and kissed her cheek, then her other cheek, then her forehead, like she was his favorite sister, or like they'd already made love and were getting to the glowy, sweet part after. The part she loved second best, though Ed hadn't done much more than roll over and snore drunkenly for the past several years.

  Worst of all, Mike let go of her hands, slid his arms around her, and pulled her into a gentle embrace that managed also to feel powerful and rock -solid supportive. He laid his cheek next to hers and she closed her eyes and struggled again, this time mentally.

  "So help me, Mike, if you start singing right now I'll have to kill you, too."

  A low male chuckle—damn, she was even starting to love making him laugh.

  "You didn't like my singing?"

  "It was agony."

  He lifted his head, his smile fading, and she wanted to pull him down and kiss him so badly it shocked her. "Do me a favor."

"What . . ." She wasn't going to like this one.

"You didn't kill Ed. Say it."

"Geez, Mike, will you give me the tiniest break here?"

"Say it."

"If you know, then why do I have to?"

  "Humor me." He leaned in close to her ear. "I promise I won't tell anyone the horrible truth of your innocence."

  "It's the only innocence I have left."

  He squeezed her tight for a second. "Say it."

  She turned her head away, throat cramping. "I didn't kill him. He pulled the damn CD player into the tub and gave himself a heart attack. Happy?"

  "Yes." He stroked back hair that had fallen over her cheek. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome." She rolled her eyes. "So
now
can we have sex?"

  "No."

  She didn't think so. "Okay, then it's your turn."

  Also his turn to look wary. "What?"

  "How come you still have Rosemary's clothes?"

  He rolled away from her, and her body started to chill in his absence. "I don't want to talk about—"

  "Ah-ah-ah. I didn't, either. Spill or I'll duck under the covers and blow you."

  "That's supposed to be a threat?"

  "The way you are, yes."

  "Touché." He grinned, and she wanted to run her fi ngers through his hair and feel its soft, bristly texture against her palms. She should have done it when he was closer.

  "Did she blow you often?"

"Jesus, Vivian."

  "Was she any good at it?" She rolled over onto her stomach and scootched closer, trying not to laugh, thinking this was almost more fun than sex. Mike was a blast to tease; he took it in stride, didn't glower like Ed. "Was she sweet on the outside, wild woman in? The whole madonna -whore thing?"

  "Get away from me." He shoved her playfully.

  She giggled and poked him in the side, gratified when he jumped. Oh happy day, he was ticklish. "Best sex of your life? Is that why you can't let her go?"

  "Off. Off my bed." He pushed at her with his body, sliding her inexorably to the edge, and as she squealed in laughing protest, gave her a final push so she landed on hardwood butt-fi rst with an ungraceful thud.

  She deserved every bit of that, and they both knew it, but still, he peered over the edge. "You okay?"

  She nodded, breathless from laughing, and that tender thing happened again over his concern for her. Great. Next she'd be painting
extra
smiley faces in her kitchen. "I'm okay."

  "Good." He frowned down at her, and she sensed he was struggling over something he wanted—or maybe didn't want— to say.

  "Ye -e-es?"

  "Just so you know . . ." His eyes narrowed, he glanced away, then back. "The sex was boring."

  He sat up, tossed off the blankets, and walked, stark naked, into the master bathroom, leaving her on her sore butt on the floor, as surprised as she'd ever been in her entire life.

Thirteen

Original e - mail from Erin, mailed to her list

If you're happy and you know it:

1. Tell someone.

2. Dance in your living room.

3. Paint a sunny picture.

4. Sing just for yourself.

5. Wear clothes that don't match.

6. Bake something fattening and forget to count calories.

7. Kiss people you love.

8. Tell someone you admire that you do.

9. Smile at a frowning stranger.

10. Do something to make someone else's day happy, too.

Pass this along to all the happy people you know and make their lives richer and better. Friendships are like plants: The better you treat them, the stronger they'll grow.

  "Hey." A finger nudged Erin's cheek, then the familiar rasp of her husband's stubble and the soft touch of his lips. "Wake up, sweet pea."

  Erin opened her eyes to find Joe's bedside lamp turned on. It felt like the middle of the night; she knew what that meant.

  She yawned and squinted at the clock. "What time's it?"

  "Three-thirty." His hand slid under her nightgown, over her breast, his huge palm making slow, warm circles. "I want some nookie from the most beautiful girl in the world."

  "Hmmm." She pretended to consider, though they both knew she wouldn't refuse. Times like this, when he was sweet and gentle, she could almost remember why she married him, remember those early years when they'd been kids really, and how awestruck they'd been by the power of what their bodies could do together.

  When he was sweet and gentle like this she could still get herself to respond, though it took more work than before Joy was born. "I guess that sounds pretty good."

  His hand went lower, teased between her legs, then trailed back up to her breasts. He smelled good tonight—true, like Joe, not booze fumes or cigarette smoke or meat or rage.

  She thought he was an okay lover, when he was normal like this, not that she had anything to compare him to. He knew her body inside out, could measure her responses minutely, whether he was doling out pleasure, pain, or that odd middle ground between them. When he wanted to please her, he was expert. When he wanted to hurt her, he was genius.

  His mouth settled over hers, and she stifled her recoil. She hated kissing with sleep -filled nighttime mouths, but it had never bothered Joe. His hand fluttered between her legs, and she concentrated on that, on the hot feeling spreading through her, and not on the stale, thick taste on their tongues.

  She reached for him, found him hard as he often was when he woke up in the middle of the night. Especially if he'd been dreaming, though she was pretty sure never about her. "Is this for me?"

  "Only you, Erin. There's only you." He whispered the words into her hair, breath coming faster, pumping his hips. "You own me, baby girl. You rule me, I'd die without you."

  She increased the rhythm of her hand as he increased the rhythm of his fingers on her sweet spot. She used to thrill to words like that, used to think no woman had ever been better or more deeply loved. Until she understood what the words really meant.

  She tried to tamp down her anger, tried to refocus on that sleepy, calm place she'd been earlier, when she could almost bring back Joe of long ago and remember how much and how passionately she loved that he adored her. That was a fi rst. Back then that was enough. Back then that was worth anything.

  Now in their marital bed, he climbed onto her, slid inside and started to move, keeping most of his weight on his elbows, moving, moving, sweat already forming on his body. Within a few minutes she'd feel the drips from his forehead, his chest, and from under his arms.

  Erin rocked up against him, freeing her mind from their bed, from his big, sweaty body, from everything but the hard penis rubbing inside her. She concentrated all her sensations there, and let her subconscious mind go where it wanted.

  She was running down a wide, straight, smooth road, at high speed, faster than she'd ever run before. No fatigue in her legs, no strain in her lungs. On either side lay cornfi elds, stalks waist -high, farmed in straight rows. Each row as she passed flashed on into infinity, the next, then the next. A burst of energy caught her; her speed increased impossibly. The rows and stalks began to blur green, the energy roared inside her, in her pumping legs, in her pumping arms.

  Then her feet barely needed to touch the ground anymore; she spread her arms wide, jumped, and soared into space, watching Kettle fall away, her clothes fall away, soaring up and up, feeling the wind blowing over her naked body, up and up into the vastness of space.

  The orgasm came, hot and satisfying, and she made herself yell through it, the way Joe liked her to, though left on her own, she'd never dilute such a great feeling with noise.

  Joe pulled out immediately and turned her over with eager hands. Erin obediently got on her knees and stuffed a pillow under her belly.

  He grabbed her hips, impatient to be back inside her. Her orgasms turned him on, he said, but since she'd had Joy he needed her ass facing him, he said. She was tighter that way.

  Erin never mentioned that if he was bigger than a Chicago style wiener, she would probably be plenty tight.

  He pushed in and started thrusting hard, the way he needed to in order to come. He spread her cheeks while he pumped her in this position, and she knew he was imagining himself in her other hole where he liked to be way too often for her taste. But at least he was only imagining it today.

  Now that she'd had her own orgasm, she was tired and wanted to be back asleep. She moaned and panted and made encouraging noises, let her body swing forward and back as if he were slamming her so hard she couldn't help it. He'd brought home porn movies a few times and it seemed he got off most on the women who looked like they were getting pounded the hardest.

  Big surprise.

  She wanted him to be as turned on as possible. He'd rub her raw if he took a long time, so she did what she could to help him along. Plus she didn't want to be smacked, not in the quiet of the night, not that she was ever wild about it, and he would start doing that if he couldn't come quickly the other way.

  Luckily, he was getting close; she could tell by the way he sucked air in and out through clenched teeth, over and over again so that flecks of spit landed on her back.

  His right hand left her hip, and she only just had time to register dread before it smacked down on her ass, a slap that would leave a red mark he sometimes spread his semen over when he was done. To soothe the skin, he said. To use his body to heal the pain his body caused her. And besides, what was the point of wasting sperm up her barren cunt? He said that, too, once, when he was drunk, though most of the time he came in her anyway.

  The sting from the slap faded. He was in a good mood, he wouldn't really hurt her, wouldn't hit her in the same place again too soon.

  "Oh Erin, oh baby." Another slap. On her other cheek, harder that time. "Ohhhh, ohhhh, ohhhh."

  She wished he'd shut up. His moaning embarrassed her; he never used to do it. She dreamed about men with whom sex would be loving and sweet and transcendent, not fresh out of a zoo cage.

  At least it was nearly over. He shoved and shoved, shuddered, shouted, shoved again so she felt the sharp stab of him slamming against her cervix.

  "Ohhhh, aahhhhh, Erin, ohhhh baby, yes, yes, yes."

  She closed her eyes.
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
It mortifi ed her, this loud grunting enjoyment, and it always ruined what started out so tenderly and well.

  But now it was done. He'd turn out the light, slump down, moan and sigh a few more times, tell her he loved her more than his own life, and fall asleep, snoring to wake the dead.

  "I love you. More than my own life, baby." He hugged her to him and kissed her, his harsh breathing gradually slowing. This was when Joe went softest and most malleable, when she could get things she couldn't any other time.

  "Joe? Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure, baby." He yawned; then his lips made a pasty smacking sound.

  "Vivian's aerobics classes. Can I go?"

  Silence that started her adrenaline running.

  "You really want to, huh?"

  "Well . . ." She held her breath in the darkness. If she sounded too eager, he'd say no. "It sounds fun."

  "That woman is trouble. I'm telling you." He squeezed her so hard, she nearly had to gasp for air. "You should stay away from trash like that."

  Disappointment stabbed, and angry panic. "But Joe . . ."

  "No." His voice sharpened, her sign to drop it. She'd get nowhere tonight. And probably not ever.

  "Okay. Good night."

  "Good night, sweet baby girl. Sleep well."

  Erin pressed her lips together, knowing she wouldn't sleep at all, let alone well. When was the last time she asked for anything just for herself? She couldn't even remember.

  She waited until he was asleep. Until the fi rst faint color of dawn started to relieve the blackness of night. Then she eased out of bed, careful, slow. She often woke early and left him, to paint. He wouldn't notice anything different. It was Sunday. He'd sleep until nine. She had hours to herself.

  She grabbed a pair of panties from her dresser and a panty liner from the bathroom to catch the postsex stuff, which would drip dismally out of her all morning, and went into her studio, mood lightening as it always did in Joy's old nursery. Joe had been sweet giving the room to her as a studio. Joan had wasted no time pointing out how much nicer the space would be as a family room. But for once, Joe chose Erin over his mother, and the room stayed hers. She was grateful, she guessed. Or ought to be.

  In the corner closet, once painted blue with ducks swimming along the bottom of the door, she rummaged until she found the box of personal things she didn't care to share with Joe. He never came in here anymore. Said he thought the room was creepy. She figured he was eaten up with guilt or grief or both.

  At the bottom of the box, under the few outfits of Joy's she'd managed to save, under a rattle Joe had only cracked on his ax rampage, a still -new stuffed chick missing a foot, and one fuzzy white infant sock, she found her shorts, and her favorite soft shirt, thick terry socks, her headband and her shoes, broken in and smudged and worn, familiar like old friends.

  She wanted to run.

  The white nylon nightgown slid easily over her head—she preferred pajamas but Joe didn't like them, too masculine on a woman, he said, and he wanted her in white—and she pulled on the panties with the liner, shorts, the shirt, socks, shoes, the headband, feeling her muscles already strengthening and straining with anticipation. It had been too many years.

  Two steps out into the hall, she stopped, put her hands to the hem of her shirt to take it off. What was she doing? What did she think would happen if she got caught? Even if Joe didn't see her, if anyone in Kettle did, all it would take was one comment to Joe . . .

  Dampness leaked down between her legs, and she grimaced. Let go of the hem of her shirt. Walked to the front door and unlocked it. Let herself out into the chilly morning that smelled of fall and freedom. She wanted to run.

  No one was around. She stretched carefully in the driveway, laughter bubbling up now and then, nervous or happy, she couldn't tell which. Probably both.

  She struck out up Maple Avenue at an easy lope, feeling her lungs, legs, and arms groping for their long -ago accustomed rhythms, not fi nding them yet.

  On Main Street she turned away from town, feeling the stiffness in her hips gradually loosening, her feet fi nding their way, her lungs settling.

  She ran faster, farther, leaving Kettle behind. A few cars passed. No one honked. No one made a comment.

  Her courage grew along with her elation. She ran until she knew she'd gone farther than a good halfway point, a mistake no runner with her experience should make. But to hell with it. This felt too good to waste, and who knew when or if she'd get out again.

  Finally she gave in to the inevitable, jogged in a tight semicircle, and headed back toward Main Street. The town approached and she felt her feet clumping heavier for reasons that had nothing to do with the fatigue clawing at her body.

  On impulse, she turned onto a gravel and dirt track that ran into the forest. If she remembered right, it looped around through a few properties and came back to the main road. A small, useless delay, but it felt necessary.

  The track was rough going, plenty of opportunities to twist an ankle if she wasn't careful. The surface had been better kept up when she was in high school. Leaves fl uttered down here and there; a squirrel scolded from a maple tree; the chill of the air made a beautiful contrast to the heat that had built in her body.

  It had been too long since she'd done this. She'd feel it tomorrow, her muscles would be sore and she'd have to force them to move normally so Joe wouldn't suspect. But she couldn't stop, couldn't make herself break down into a walk, couldn't face giving in to the end of this fabulous fl ight.