Secret Desire (3 page)

He pumped with greater force, as if used to taking what he wanted. He stopped, his breath ragged against her neck. He rubbed her buttocks. Cynthia barely held on to her refusal to explode. She wavered, slipping, wanting to give in to release as arousal overtook her, all the more potent with his cock poised, unmoving inside her.

“I said to wait, didn’t I?” He withdrew his cock and without warning his hand slapped against her ass with a resounding whack, crisp and loud. Heat mixed with pain spread out over her bottom. He slapped one cheek again and again. Her buttock was on fire. Tears sprang to her eyes.

He grabbed her hair, pins dropping onto the desk, flying onto the carpet, and he yanked, driving his rod back in her. She found no place to hide. He was forcing her to open, to let go and let him take care of her needs. He alternated between caressing her ass cheek to a hard-handed spank several more times until she lost count.

“No more,” she said.

“Quite right.”

“Please.” The shocking sensation of pain exhausted the emotional walls she had erected.

“Please what?” He chuckled. “How can I help you, Ms. Lewis?”

“Fuck me, dammit. Just do it.”

“As the lady wishes.”

He took her again and reached around to stoke her clit as he thrust. She tilted her hips up and experienced titillating ripples of ecstasy as he pumped against her. He showed her it was far better to receive than to run the show. What a lesson…what a teacher. She was freed by his control and unable to stop the mounting pleasure that lifted her so high, she had no choice but to free fall back down to Earth. She floated in the pleasure, and he continued to thrust his cock inside her.

He hauled her against him with one final thrust. “My God, you’re sexy as hell.”

She moaned in exhaustion, and he lowered himself onto her, his body a warm blanket. He kissed her neck before lifting up and off her. “You’ve a great ass. Sweet.” His lips were warm as he brushed them against the side of her bottom.

Her body was lead. She pushed off the desk and pulled her skirt down. He had already zipped his trousers and was tucking in his shirt. As he straightened his tie, she walked to the mini-bar.

“Water?” She lifted up a bottle.

He nodded, and she returned with two. She uncapped and tilted her bottle, tapping his. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Maxwell.” She leaned against her desk and crossed her arms. “So exactly what does this mean?” She’d like more, like to ask about the chance of continuing to get to know each other, but expected him to go back to business as usual, dismiss this union, and discuss the complaint.

He sunk into the chair. He rubbed his forehead and leaned his head back. He was still breathing heavy.

“Truthfully, there wasn’t a complaint filed. I wanted to meet you and thought we might go out for drinks or dinner if I came down here on a ruse. Any chance of that happening?”

She giggled but had enough sense not to admit she’d done the same thing for weeks.

“Thornton, you know romance and seduction go hand in hand. Just because we enjoyed desert first doesn’t mean we can’t sample the other menu items.”

His wicked smile returned. “And now I’m all the hungrier. How about a main course later?”

“My schedule is open. Say eight o’clock?”

He stood up and his eyes burned with a devilish gleam. “But next time I tell you not to come, you’d better mind me.” He got up and pulled her to him. He slammed his mouth down on her lips. He toyed her tongue with his, kissing her until she clung to his shoulders.

She regained her breath. “If you have any more questions, you know where you can find me.”

He released her. “Eight sharp.” He patted her bottom.

She winked and winced a little as she took her seat, and then she returned back to the slush pile.

Chapter Two

Claire blinked. Her cell phone rang, breaking her concentration. It was early Sunday morning. She didn’t recognize the telephone number displayed, although the area code was from her hometown back in North Carolina.

“Hello?” Claire’s mind lingered somewhere in her story.

“Miss Robertson?” It was an unfamiliar voice.

“Yes, this is Claire Robertson.” She stood and stretched. She rotated her neck from side to side.

“Claire, this is Bob Chase. We went to school together.”

“Yes…Bob. I remember you. How’s it going?”

“Claire, I’m well. But I’m not calling about me.” He paused. Something in his tone made her ears prick. Her journalism skills were honed to focus upon rises and dips in voice modulation. This pattern said something serious—something bad. She shivered.

“I wish there was an easier way. Claire, your parents were killed today. I’m very sorry.”

“God, no. Please. What happened?” Her knees buckled, and she slid to the floor.

“There was an accident. While they were coming back from church. They didn’t suffer. I’m sorry. I phoned you as soon as the sheriff called me.”

He was mistaken and now she had to tell him. This was some terrible error. “I think you’ve got the wrong Claire. I don’t understand. Why were you notified?”

“I represented them on some issues, including drawing up their will. You know how small Mill Spring is…Curtiss Howard was the responding officer. He was a year ahead of us in school. A friend of—”

She cut him off. “Yes. I remember him.” Claire grasped at memories of school, of home, of her mom and dad. She closed her eyes.

Time, the kitchen table, and this conversation receded. A faint buzzing grew louder inside her head. Fleeting thoughts. She didn’t know. Had she heard him correctly? Slowly, her brain made room for this news.

“What should I do? I mean now?” Claire looked out the window, the city lights twinkled against the early morning sky. Inside, she felt numb. Her mind didn’t want to hear anymore.

“Everything’s being taken care of. They were taken to Mill Spring Medical Center. Don’t worry about trying to make plans, most of it has already been decided. I’ll just need to go over their wishes with you and your sister.”

Claire rested her head against her palm. She rubbed her brow, trying to make sense of this moment. She’d just spoken to her mom and dad. She could hear their voices, her mother’s questions, her father’s advice. They couldn’t be gone.

“I understand.” She began to shake and wrapped her arm around her waist.

“Do you want me to call your sister? I called you first.”

“No, Bob, I’ll call her. Thank you. I’ll come back home. I just need a day to get away from here.”

“I’m so sorry. Do you need a ride from the airport?”

“I’m not certain. If I do, I’ve got your number. Thanks again.”

Claire hung up. Something expanded in her chest. Something that dug in and didn’t want to let go. Was it grief? There were no tears ready to spill. No sobs. Nothing.

She had to call her sister. It was nearly eleven on the East Coast. She stood up from her place on the floor. She picked up her smartphone, staring at the screen where Fran’s name and number were displayed. Her chest condensed, unwilling to expand further. She sipped small breaths.

Before her on the table, the screensaver scrolled over her laptop. She tapped on the space bar and the screen lit up, displaying black typeface on an off-white page. Her words. No, she couldn’t hide there. Not now.

She paced the length of the living room with her phone in hand. She stopped pacing as the past swept over her in dizzying hues.

Memories of life back home always shredded her composure. The idea of her parents…absent…she couldn’t form the word. A lump grew in her throat, cutting off her breath. The thought of returning to Mill Spring to an empty home twisted and extended, taking up way too much space, until it was too painful and overwhelming to hold any longer. She exhaled sharply.

She walked over to the window. She couldn’t freak out. She’d just go back to Mill Spring and do what needed to be done.

Go. Do. Leave.

Claire repeated the directions as she pressed her nose against the glass pane. Besides, Fran would be there and undoubtedly take control. She threw herself onto the sofa. The idea of going back unleashed a vortex of memories that swirled around her once more. Her throat constricted, making the act of breathing a chore.

She strove for serene and calm images. She stretched out and folded her arms across her stomach. Claire imagined calm water, a cloudless azure sky. She tried to feel the warmth of sunlight. A difficult feat considering that it was drizzling outside and the apartment was damp. A chill penetrated her sweatshirt; she shuddered and opened her eyes. So much for positive thinking.

Claire massaged her forehead and scalp, trying to soothe way the wave of tension that threatened to turn into a nasty migraine. She closed her eyes again. She had to let go…think about the meadows back home…most likely golden from the sun…his deep laugh filling the air.

Her eyes flew open. She steadied herself with a long, deep inhalation followed by another until the image of the Dustin faded. She dug her nails into her palm. She wouldn’t give in to thinking about him. His image faded, slipping away into gray mist.

Trying to face going home without losing out to an anxiety attack was clearly next to impossible. Who was she fooling? Just last month her parents had relayed the unsettling news that Dustin had returned after doing so well.

It was a simple fact, not difficult at all. He was back. What did it matter?

But Dustin Murray had not just moved back, he’d moved right next door to her parents.

Claire sucked in a deep breath trying to dispel the image of Dustin, the man whom she once trusted only to have him break her heart.

She must stop. If she continued to think about him she’d be doomed. This had to be some sort of displacement where she wasn’t dealing with her grief. She wouldn’t use another, older heartbreak to avoid coming to terms with the sadness that she had yet to feel. This was nothing more than textbook Elisabeth Kübler-Ross avoidance.

She dialed Fran’s number, wondering how many minutes she’d have to spend watching Dustin and her sister becoming reacquainted.

“Hello, Fran?” It was her sister’s voice mail. She had no words ready. “Oh, Frannie, this is Claire. Call me back. It’s urgent.”

She tossed the phone on table. There was no way any of this was going to be easy. She needed a to-do list. Perhaps she’d do the smart thing and get a hotel. There was no shame in avoidance.

Damn, she’d perfected a stealth ability to move unseen in life and in her writing. Why should going back home be any different? Oh, yeah, the feeling of having her chest ripped open the last time she’d seen Dustin and trusted him with her heart.

Chapter Three

The phone rang. Claire stopped packing. The screen displayed her sister’s Manhattan office telephone number.

“Hello, Fran? Oh God. Fran I don’t know—”

“Claire, what’s wrong?” Fran interrupted, irritation flaring in her tone. “Just spit it out.”

“Fran, it’s Mom and Dad.” Claire’s voice quavered. “Fran, they’re gone.”

Silence. “Gone? Where? For God’s sake, what’s wrong?” Her sister’s voice was steady and demanding.

Claire inhaled and sat on her bed. “Fran, they were killed today.” The words echoed in her head.

“Are you saying they’re dead? Mom and Dad are dead? I don’t understand. How? How, Claire?” Fran’s reserve dissolved for a moment.

“A collision. Right after church. Their attorney called. They…they didn’t suffer, he said.”

“I’m pouring myself a drink. Hold on. Why don’t you join me?”

“No, I’m packing. Catching a plane tomorrow morning.”

“Good thinking.” As usual, her sister, without missing a beat, sounded grounded and more than likely had a plan in place. And as usual, Claire’s only choice was to suck it up and fall in line.

* * *

Claire stopped at the Express Auto rental desk, picked up the keys for her reserved economy car, and was out the door. She wanted to bolt through the parking garage, frazzled from the several cups of coffee consumed during the layover in Chicago. What should have been a couple hours flight to North Carolina had stretched into several. Exhaustion and frustration made her misery more intense, returning home more painful.

She headed down the interstate from Columbus, anxious to get through the thirty-minute drive before her Mill Spring exit appeared. She removed the wrapper from a stick of gum, popping it into her mouth. Enough late-afternoon traffic kept her attention from wandering, and by the time she switched on the turn signal, her heartbeat competed with the radio for airtime. She turned up the volume of an old rock song and tried singing to ignore the thoughts that bounced back and forth. Finally she turned off onto her street and passed the fence corner of the neighbor’s land. Twenty fence posts later, she noticed a green Jeep in the neighbor’s driveway. Not one that remembered.

She stopped at the driveway outside her parent’s home. Everything looked exactly the same. Neatly trimmed hedges lined the driveway bordered by cut grass gleaming golden in the sun. Claire turned in and drove forward, keeping her eyes focused on the Victorian two-story house with gingerbread trim.