Gaffney, Patricia (18 page)

Finally he stopped, which was just as well. It was time to either
move on to the next thing or go completely insane.

"Too many clothes," he muttered, wet-lipped, and slid
off her. They stood up, Jesse holding her hand to help her. She needed help:
her knees weren't working at all. He started fumbling with the back of her
skirt, but she distracted him by slipping his shirt over his shoulders and
pulling it down his arms. She put her flat hands on his rib cage and drew them
up, sliding them over smooth, warming skin and knotting muscle. His chest had
neat, straight hair, all black, growing down from his pectoral muscles and
meeting in the middle at his breastbone. Cupping his bare shoulders, she put
her face there, pressed her nose to the center of him, right over his heart.
She drew in a deep breath, inhaling the smell of dust and horse. Man. Jesse.

"I'm kind of... I'm not too clean," he said ruefully.

"True." She kissed his neck, though. Her tongue darted
out; she took a daring taste. Hm, salty. "Nope, you aren't too
clean," she murmured, hugging him close. "But you are
delicious."

Over his shoulder, she could see his reflection in her
dressing-table mirror. Just him, from the backs of his knees to his shoulder
blades. And her white hands and arms stroking, holding. She worked her fingers
inside his low-slung pants in back, enjoying how that looked. It made her
hotter, that and the tight feel of his buttocks, the tops of them, bunching
under her hands.
Oh, man, oh, man.
That's all she could think of—
oh,
man, oh, man.

He set her away rather abruptly, muttering something that sounded
like, "Get serious here," and started on her skirt again. He wasn't
so smooth and sure-fingered now. In fact, he was clumsy—she had to help him.
She thought of Jamie, how fast he'd been at this, how practiced. Maybe Jesse
didn't have a girl in every port, so to speak. Wouldn't that be nice.

She wasn't so sure of herself now, either. Her skirt was gone,
blouse gone, chemise and corset and petticoats gone. Except for stockings, she
was naked. Jesse just stared at her. A flicker of apprehension crept through
her. Men liked everything, they were so undemanding, so unbelievably easy to
please. At least the men she knew. But Jesse... he wasn't talking. Not saying a
word. Did he like the way she looked? She was kind of small. Her breasts were
okay, not too little, but the rest of her was small. When she couldn't stand it
another second she said, "Well?" with a pretend-laugh—to show she
didn't care too much.

He still didn't say anything, but he made a noise in his throat.
And he started shaking his head from side to side. Slow, wondering, amazed
shakes.

He wasn't disappointed.

That small, freezing sensation she'd had when she wasn't sure
began to melt. She could
feel
her body turning sexual, female. She went
close and rubbed herself against him. Bold as brass. "Get naked," she
whispered in his ear. Leaving him standing there, she climbed into bed.

He quit wasting time. If he'd been a little awkward with her
buttons, he was a master with his. All in one smooth move, he undid his fly,
bent over and shucked trousers and white flannel drawers off simultaneously,
and threw them halfway across the room. So reckless. So exciting. And the look
of him.
Oh, my, yes,
Cady thought, going mindless again.
Come right
over here.
Thrilled to death, she patted his place on the bed beside her.

Too hot for the covers. Plus she wanted to see him. He wanted to
see her, too—"Cady, look at you," he kept saying, putting his hands
on every part of her he could reach. They couldn't seem to get close enough.

"Let's hurry," she urged, stroking his back and trying
to kiss his mouth, which he had buried in the side of her neck.

He raised his head. "Really? Hurry?"

"I was just thinking maybe we should get it over with. Fast.
So then we can start over."

He surrounded her with his arms and covered her with one hairy
leg, vibrating with laughter. She laughed, too, although she hadn't been
joking. He held her like that, pinned down so she couldn't touch him, and
slowly, after a minute or two, her mood changed. She wanted him as much as
before, but she didn't feel quite so frantic. He released her, all but his hand
on the side of her jaw, two fingers gently coaxing her head around. His eyes...
she lost herself looking into his eyes. "Jesse, Jess," she sighed.
"Oh, Jess."

They kissed. It broke her down, it was so deep, so sweet. Was it
more than kissing? Her stricken heart toyed with the idea that it was loving.

He began to touch her, arouse her. It wasn't like anything she'd
ever known. Not that she'd known that much. But she'd known some, and this
wasn't like it. He had such caring in his hands, he paid such close attention.
What he was was riveted. By her.

It made her absolutely crazy for him. She'd learned from him not
to say, "Hurry, Jesse, let's do it now, fast, hurry," but oh, God, it
was hard to wait. Weren't women the ones who liked to slow things down? Yes.
She knew that from her own experience, but even more from things Glendoline
told her—unasked; startling, eye-popping things about what men and women, or at
least men and Glen, got up to in bed. Yes, and even Jesse had gone too fast
that other time. The last time, out there on her back doorstep.

Maybe he'd learned his lesson. Heck. Oh, well.

"Oh, well."

Out loud she said that. She couldn't keep her mouth shut. He had
his tongue in her belly button, and she could hardly stand it. Also his arms
around her hips, and he was sliding lower. Oh, God. He locked his arms around
her thighs and buried his nose, his mouth, in her private hair.
Oh, Jesse,
Jess, what are you doing?
As much as it shocked her, she wanted to open her
legs. She did. But she couldn't because he was holding them shut tight, and
even that was a deep, grinding pleasure, the fact that she couldn't move.

"Oh, oh, wait'll I get you," she threatened emptily,
touching the back of his head, stroking through thick, straight, long hair.
"I'll get you and you'll... you'll be..."

All at once he pulled her thighs wide apart and dove over her,
landing on his elbows and sinking down on top of her. He said, "Ahh,"
and she sympathized: a perfect fit. He hooked his hands under her arms and
grabbed her shoulders. He smiled into her eyes—he looked so happy, so pleased.
It's
not complicated for you,
she thought.
I wish I were like a man.

She put her legs around his legs, and they kissed, and he came right
into her, smooth as silk. He groaned, a really long, loud, heartfelt sound, and
then held still inside her. "I couldn't wait any longer, Cady.
Sorry."

"I forgive you."

They started to move together, and it was a little ragged at
first, both trying so hard to please. But after a while they figured out that
they both liked the same thing, at least for now—long, slow, deep strokes,
holding tight, and not kissing. Concentrated.

And he liked to talk—that was a revelation. He
said
what
they were doing while they were doing it. He named names. That you could do
that had never even occurred to her. But she liked it. After the shock wore
off, she really loved it. He started to ask her what she wanted—"This?
Like this?"—and pretty soon she couldn't talk, couldn't answer.
"Nhh," she said, or at the most, "Yah."

She was coming undone. She was coming. They'd barely begun, and
she was coming. Oh, good good good, because sometimes she didn't, sometimes—

Brain clicked off. Heat, slick, full, do it, get me, Jesse now, Jesse
now—

Yes.
Flying out over it, up and over. Just—there. Yes, perfect, ah.

Ah.

He said, "Gotcha," and she said, "Got me,"
thinking it was over.

He started over. Didn't even change positions, just started up
again. "Oh, no," she said, "really. I couldn't." Ha. He
knew more than she did. He covered her breast with his mouth, and it was like
he'd never been there before. And she was so sensitive now. He'd skinned her or
something, made it all new and raw and exquisite. He slid his hands down her
back, down to her bottom, and he spread her cheeks a little, opening her up
more. She gasped. He widened his legs, and that made her widen hers. He started
saying dirty words, and just like that—she was there again, right up to that
high place that was so easy, he made it so easy, to leap from and fall, fall,
fall.
You come, too,
she thought, or maybe said, and he did. She knew
because he drove so deeply and he made the loudest sound, pure joy, just manly
ecstasy, she wanted to laugh or cry and press him in, in,
more.

So greedy. There wasn't any more, this was it. Enough. They
collapsed on each other. Cady said, "Well, I never," and that was the
God's truth.

She had a little strength left to kiss his mouth and pet the
smooth muscle in his forearm. "I love... I loved that," she changed
it to. She wasn't crazy.

"Cady."

"Hm?"

"Cady." That's all he would say. He kept his eyes closed
and said her name some more, smiling. She took it as a good sign.

Cady sat at the edge of the lamplight, half in and half out,
brushing her hair in front of her dressing table mirror. The right side of her
head was dark and mysterious, black as midnight, but the left side had fire in
it. Red gleams flashing and disappearing, as if they were playing a game with
the silver-handled brush she dragged through it in long, lazy strokes, scalp to
ends, scalp to ends. Jesse could feel his face going slack, mouth half open,
eyelids drooping. She was hypnotizing him.

"You falling asleep?" She caught his eye in the mirror.

"Nope."

"Good." She laid the brush down and stood up. Something
red hung on the side of the mirror, a scarf or something, draped over the front
and back. She whisked it off and moved toward the bed. He'd seen her in her
paisley robe before, that day when Clyde and Turley busted in and tried to
scare her, but it hadn't affected him that much. Unlike now. She'd had some
clothes on under it then; he hadn't been able to see every naked curve and
flare she had, not to mention the soft, springy wobble of her breasts when she
walked. He blinked his eyes; he was getting hypnotized again.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, and automatically he reached
for the silk belt of her robe. Just to play with. She watched his face, turning
her head to different angles, studying him. He smiled, batted his eyes. What
was she up to?

"Lean forward," she said. He did, and she snaked the
scarf in her hands—it was a scarf—around his neck and started to tie it in a
bow. She finished and sat back, giving the bow and his chest a little pat.
"Ha," she said. "Just as I thought." She got up and went
back to her dressing table, began rooting around in the drawers.

"What are you doing?"

She returned with more scarves. "May I?" She lifted his
right arm and tied a blue and green one around his biceps. He started to laugh.
"Colors," she explained, beaming. "I wanted to see how you look
in something besides black."

"And?"

"Lovely." She tied a third one, pink, purple, and
orange, around his left wrist. "My dear, you are quite fetching."

"I'll fetch you if you don't cut it out."

"Oh, I'm so scared." She had a hat hanging on her wall,
floppy straw with a bunch of yellow flowers and ribbons. She went and got it,
then came toward him grinning, purposeful.

"Oh, no, you don't." He ducked and caught her by both
wrists, yanking her on top of him. She shrieked, and he couldn't resist
tickling her. They had a wrestling match that didn't last long, only until he
rolled over and pinned her. Giggling, snorting, they panted in each other's
face, and it was so good, so perfect, he started to tell her the truth—that
this was the best day of his life, the
best
day, he could still hardly
believe it. But before he could say it, she said. "Jesse, why
do
you
wear black?" And then she said, "Jesse. Why do you shoot
people?" It broke the mood.

He closed his eyes rather than examine the urgency, almost a
desperation, that flared in her beautiful face for one unguarded second.
"I don't shoot people. I don't just go around shooting people. Jeez,
Cady."

"Oh, that's right. They always deserve it." She pushed him
up and scooted out from under him, tugging at her robe, going all modest on
him.

He could see a fight coming on if he didn't head it off quick.
"Listen to me, because I'll only say this once." He put Gault in his
tone, took out all the Jesse. She stared at him, arrested. "We can talk
about anything you want, anything under the sun, except for one thing. My
business. Which," he pointed out, "you knew all about before you
invited me in here tonight."

He reached for her hand. "Cady," he said in his own voice,
working the stiffness out of her fingers. "Cady girl. Let's not spoil
this." He brought her hand to his mouth, pressed his lips to the inside of
her wrist. "Everything is just right. Isn't it? It's perfect." She
didn't speak, so he kept on nibbling her, wooing her, teasing her soft, strong,
thin-fingered hand with kisses. He lifted his head. Her brown eyes resting on
him were melancholy and distrustful and fond. He smiled, trying to make her
smile.

"Okay," she said at last. But he hadn't wooed her, he saw,
hadn't changed her mind or made her forget anything. She'd made a decision,
that was all. For right now, this night anyway, it was in his favor.

"I still think you should wear colors," she said
lightly, pulling her hand away, stretching out beside him, and plumping pillows
at her back. "You'd still scare the hell out of everybody, if that's what
you're worried about."

Not as much, though. He'd given the subject a lot more thought
than she had. "Think so?" He sat up, scarves flying, and reached for
the straw hat he'd wrestled away from her. He set it on the back of his head.
"Listen, sidewinder, one wrong move and I'll plug you."

She doubled up with laughter, leaning against his shoulder,
helpless with it. Ah, she was back, his Cady girl, just the way he liked her
best—loose and laughing. He put his arms around her, and pretty soon they were
kissing. "How's your head?" she asked, carefully avoiding his sewn
cut as she stroked her fingers through his hair. "It must hurt. That was
quite a whack."

"Nah, it doesn't hurt." Big man. "Feels funny, is
all. The stitches." He touched them gingerly with his middle finger,
following the thin, jagged, prickly line along his tender scalp.

"Let's see." He bowed his head and she leaned over him,
barely grazing the stitched wound with her fingertips. The warm, mingled scents
of sex and Cady's soft rosewater cologne rose from her half-open robe. It made
him dizzy. He slipped his hands inside, cupping her luscious breasts. She
stopped exploring his head wound and held still, breathing slowly and evenly.
The freedom eagle or whatever it was still soared for her nipple, and would
still be soaring toward it when she was eighty years old. "I don't like
this bird," Jesse revealed, then scowled, surprised at himself. He toyed
with the idea that he was jealous of the bird, then discarded it. He was
jealous of the big brave Italian freedom fighter she wore it in honor of. The
fact that he was dead was only marginally consoling.

"You don't?"

"Oh, it's okay," he said, backtracking. Nothing she
could do about it now, so what was the point of bitching.

She sat back, looking down at the vivid blue tattoo on her bare
bosom. She fingered it lightly, idly, and his body tightened. He was reaching
for her when she said, "I told you a little fib about how I got it."
He paused. She took a deep breath and shut her eyes. "Actually, I lied. Is
what I did. Do you want to hear the real story?"

"Yeah, sure." He sat up straighter, interested, ready to
be relieved. "I never liked that story anyway."

"Ha," she said without smiling. "You probably won't
like this one any better."

"Let's hear it. Come over here." She looked so un- comfortable,
even a little woebegone, he put his arms around her and made her sit close,
tucked up against his side. "Okay. Out with it."

"I told you I wore it in memory of my lover."

"Right. The Red Shirt. He helped liberate Naples."

"And you believed that?" She looked him in the eye,
amazed.

"Well, sure. Sort of. Yeah. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because it's..." She started to laugh. "It's ridiculous."

He laughed, too, to humor her.

"It's not even an eagle."

"It's not? Let's see." She pulled the lapel of her robe
open and twisted around toward the light. Her breast was such a beautiful
distraction, he'd never examined the bird closely before. "Hmm." It
had wings, an eye, a beak, a tail. "What is it?"

"It's a... Can't you tell? It's a..." She didn't want to
say the word.

"What?"

"Jesse, it's a damn seagull."

"A
seagull.
Ah, so it is. Now I see. There's
its—" She shut her robe, ducked her chin, and crossed her arms over her
chest. She looked mortified. He felt bewildered. "Okay. Well," he
said carefully. "How did you happen to get a seagull tattooed on your
bosom?"

"I was young," she said sullenly. "Really
young."

"Ten? Twelve?"

"Eighteen."

"Uh-huh."

"I was going out with this—well, first of all, my father had
just... no, before that my mother died, and I was..."

He slid down in the bed a little, patient. He looked at the
ceiling, not at Cady; sometimes, he knew from experience, that made it easier to
talk.

She sighed. "I grew up in Portland. My father came and went a
lot. He never stayed too long."

"What did he do for a living?"

"Different things. I guess mostly he was a fisherman. But he
drank. A lot."

"Your mother?"

"Died when I was fifteen. So then I stopped going to school
and started working. In the salmon canning factory. Have you ever canned
salmon, Jesse?"

"Can't say as I have."

"Don't ever do it. No matter what happens, how low you sink
or how poor you get, don't ever do it."

"I won't," he vowed solemnly. He could feel faint
tremors of revulsion shudder through her body where it touched him. "So
then what happened?"

"Well, then my father disappeared for good. I'd just turned
eighteen. I met this man. Boy, really."

Now they were getting to it. "What was his name?"

"Jamie. Jamie O'Doole."

"Jamie O'Doole." He smiled, making the connection.

She laughed softly. "Not James Doulé. I don't know what made
me say that." She picked up his hand and began playing with his fingers.
"Oh, I do know. The true story is kind of, well, sordid. Tacky, as my
mother used to say."

"But your mother thought life is duty."

"That's true. She sure did. Sometimes I didn't even blame my
father for leaving us. I wished
I
could leave." He gave her hand a
soft squeeze. "So anyway. Where was I?"

"The man-boy."

"Jamie. He was a sailor. I thought he was so handsome. Shall
I tell you what he looked like?"

"Not unless you have to."

She shifted, facing him. "Why not? Because you'd be
jealous?"

"I'm afraid I'd have to kill him."

She smiled, but sadly. "Maybe he's already dead. I used to
tell myself that's why he didn't come back for me."

"What an idiot. Him, not you."

"Oh, I was an idiot, too. And if I ever forget it, I've
always got this to remind me."

Now he could guess, but he asked anyway. "How did you get
it?"

"Exactly the way you think I got it. And I don't even
remember. I was too drunk."

"Poor Cady," he murmured, smiling.

"Poor Cady." She clucked her tongue scornfully. "It
was his last night in port. He asked me to marry him, and of course I said yes.
I hadn't—we hadn't... done... oh, you know. We hadn't had sex yet. So that
night we drank a lot. Celebrating our engagement," she said with a
combination of amusement and bitterness. "He said I should get a tattoo
just like his, and I thought that was absolutely the most romantic thing I'd
ever heard. I was
wild
to do it. And I did—obviously—but I don't
remember any- thing about it. Maybe I was unconscious by then. I do remember
afterward, though. Vaguely. I lost my virginity to him, and I can't even call
it lovemaking. It was definitely not a memorable experience."

He hugged her, gave her a soft kiss on the temple.

"The next thing I remember is waking up in the morning. Very
sick. Alone. I had a tattoo and no lover, and I never saw Jamie again."

"And now you don't drink."

"Beer every once in a while. Hard liquor"—she shuddered
again—"never."

They lay quietly for a time. "That," Jesse ventured,
"is a very sad story."

"No, it's a very stupid story. I've never told it to anyone
before."

He thought about that. "Why did you tell me?"

"I guess... because I thought you'd understand. I don't know.
I just wanted to tell somebody. I've kept it a secret for eight years. It
embarrasses me, but it's not so terrible, really. I mean, I didn't kill anybody
or..." She broke off.

He lay still and didn't say anything.

"So anyway. That's it. The story of Cady's tattoo. And if you
tell anybody, I'm afraid I'll have to kill
you."

He laughed with relief, grateful to her for turning it into a
joke. Serious talk about killing people didn't have any place between them
tonight. "You can call this lovemaking," he promised, just before he
wrapped her up in his arms and kissed her. Her response, eager and immediate,
thrilled him. He'd never had a lover quite like Cady. He slipped her arms out
of her robe, got her flat on her back, her head off the pillow. He used his
knee to prod her legs open, relishing the sound she made, a kind of gasping
hum, when he did it. God, she liked this almost as much as he did. He started telling
her what her skin felt like, and it wasn't even a stretch to say words like
"warm silk" and "cool water," and when he caressed her
between her legs, "hot, slick glass." She began to moan—he loved that
sound—and clutch her hands at nothing but the air. Her hair looked black
against the sheet, curling and falling and twisting, twining through his
fingers. How many lovers had there been between him and her faithless sailor?
He wanted to know. Didn't want to know. He tickled the damn bird with his tongue,
slowly, followed its flight path to her nipple, making her arch and groan. He
felt her small hands on his back, the sharp bite of her nails. He did something
then, he wasn't even sure what, that made her climax. Her thighs clamped around
his caressing hand and she rolled toward him, face contorted, forcing a low,
grinding sound through her clenched teeth. She drew her knees up and hunched
her shoulders, and he could feel, actually feel the soft, rhythmic pulsing of
feminine flesh around his fingers.