Secrets Gone South (Crimson Romance) (21 page)

“You don’t think we should take turns watching him? Or take him into our bed tonight?”

Our bed.
The words caught fire between them.

“Is that what you really want?” she asked.

In answer, Will seized her, pulled her into the hall, and snatched her into his arms. His mouth was on hers, plundering, searching, and alive with passion. And she was with him, her mouth answering and seeking.

He lifted her and cradled her crotch against his erection. She moved, so ready to feel his pounding need against her. He moved his mouth from hers and let it trail hot and wet up her jaw to the place under her ear.

“You’re so good, Arabelle,” he whispered, “so good to me today when I thought I would die.”

“And you’re good,” she answered, “especially in the here and the now.” She rocked her pelvis against him so there would be no misunderstanding what she meant.

He moaned. “Yes. Do that.” When she happily complied, he whispered, “I couldn’t have waited much longer. I have wanted you so bad … ”

“I thought you didn’t want—” she began but he silenced her with his mouth on hers again and they moved together, a tangle of tongues, groins, and exploring hands. “I’m taking you to bed,” he said. “Right now.”

And he did. He took her to the last bed she had lain in with a lover, the bed where they’d made their son. Slowly, so slowly, he began to remove her clothes, a little at a time, kissing, sucking, and swirling his tongue as he went—up her side, down her collar bone, and—finally, blessedly, on first one nipple and then the other.

“Too many pants,” he muttered and peeled hers off in one quick motion. Then he stepped back and dropped his own, which still only left him half-naked.

“No fair.” She sounded drunk and she supposed she was—drunk on lust, need, and more lust. “Too many shirts.”

He smiled slow and sweet, never taking his eyes from her as he unbuttoned his flannel shirt. My God, he was magnificent and he had to know it, the way his mile wide shoulders tapered to his waist and his thick, muscular thighs just stood there supporting the whole splendor and perfection that was her husband.

Husband.
She had a right to this. Why had she not claimed it until now?

She whimpered and reached for him. “Will, please.”

“Please, what?” He smiled a devilish little smile and turned to give her a better view of what, in the pinnacle of splendor, was the most majestic thing about him—and it stood at perfect, erect attention, all for her. She knew that for sure.

“I want to touch you,” she said. He understood exactly where she wanted to touch him and the teasing was over. In a quick fluid motion he was back in bed, on his side giving her full access.

When she would have taken him in her arms and folded him fully against her, he drew back. “No. Just your hands for now,” he whispered. “I need to feel your hands just for now, don’t want to be distracted”—his breath came out in gasps—“want to concentrate on one place.” And she wrapped her hands around him, one on top, the other on bottom, and moved them out of sync like she was rubbing her palms together.

He moaned and strained against her, giving in to the sensation and the power she held over him and held in her hands.

“No wonder we have such a perfect child,” she said. “He came from a very perfect beginning.” And she let her tongue join in the little joy fest her hands were having.

“What a wonder you are,” he muttered and began to stroke her hair and neck. “Better than black walnut and that’s my favorite.”

She tried to stop the laughter that bubbled up in her but she couldn’t. It just felt too good. It had been so, so long since she had found anything funny. There was no choice but to abandon the task at hand.

“What?” Will sat up and grabbed her shoulders. “What are you laughing at, woman? I pay you the ultimate compliment and you laugh at me.” He buried his face in her neck, pulled her under him, and settled against her, their groins hard, pounding, and wet.

And the laughter was gone and they were looking into each other eyes. “Oh, Will.” She stroked his cheek. “Now, please. Now.”

“My pleasure, angel girl.”
Angel girl
. Her stomach turned over. And he entered her a little at a time, slow and deliberate until she raised her hips to meet him.

When she would have sped up and rushed them both to frenzy, he grasped her hips and slowed her. “Good things take time, Arabelle.”

And just as he had allowed her to have power over him earlier, she gave in to him and let him set the tempo. He moved in and out with perfect control, all the while relishing his pleasure and the pleasure he was giving.

And what pleasure it was. It had been good before, but now they seemed to know each other’s bodies and took it to a whole different level.

She ran her hands over his beautiful cheekbones and down his neck and he dipped his tongue into her ear. “Now, angel girl? Now?”

In that moment, he chose to empower her, to give her a choice, when he could have hung on to the control over her body that he had so easily taken.

“Yes,” she whimpered. “Now.”

And to prove that he understood her body perfectly, he drove into her and brought his pubic ridge to that perfect spot and went still. “Move,” he urged.

Yes! Exactly what she wanted.
So she moved at her own pace, slow and hard for long moments until she exploded and her spasms bloomed like a rose and burst into fire. In that moment, he cried out and joined her.

They lay together silently for a full minute before he pulled away and reached for his pants. “I know it’s bad form to leave the sex bed this soon but I have to—”

“Check on Avery,” she finished for him.

He kissed her nose. “I’ll be back.”

“And I’ll be here.”

A cuddle was nice but having your lover check on your child because he was worried about him was sexy on a whole different level. No, not sexy. No. That was the wrong word. She couldn’t find the word, but she didn’t try very hard.

It was more fun to replay in her head what had just happened—and what was likely to happen again when Will came back to bed.

Will had never had so much meat in his house before, not to mention people. Despite his misgivings, it was going pretty well. Arabelle had made a nice place for the kids upstairs with toys, snacks, and movies. She’d even bought sleeping bags so they could go to sleep when the time came. And he had to admit the babysitters were a good idea. They were doing a good job of keeping them corralled. The pre-game show was playing and Nathan and Harris were already settled in front of the television with plates of barbecue. The women were in the kitchen and Brantley was pointing out architectural details of the house to Luke.

Will was proud of that workmanship and glad that his new brother-in-law seemed to appreciate it, but he understood now that the crafting of a house only went so far. This house was warm with a welcoming party atmosphere because of the things Arabelle had done. She’d covered that cheap, ugly table he’d bought with a bright blue tablecloth and set out the food so it looked nice. It had also been her idea to ice down the drinks in a big galvanized tub on the porch. She said it would help with the flow of traffic and keep the watery mess out of the house. She’d tied a burlap ribbon around it too. He’d thought it was silly at the time but maybe it was one of those little things that let people know you cared that they were coming over.

For sure, Arabelle knew how to make a party and had given it her all, though he knew she hadn’t been thrilled about this, wasn’t really thrilled about bonding with Lanie and the others. He still didn’t know why Arabelle was so resistant to a social life but he suspected it had to do with her shame—though what that shame was he still couldn’t quite figure out. Maybe it was because she gave Avery up for adoption. Maybe it was because she’d had him without being married—archaic as that was. He wasn’t sure she knew herself. He couldn’t understand being ashamed of anything connected with Avery but she was doing what he’d asked. She hadn’t promised to like it. The important thing was, at the end of the day, they were going to do what was best for the boy—and having a normal life was what was best—though
normal
wasn’t really the right word. Who was to say what was normal? No, what Will wanted for his son was what he, himself had longed for as a child—a loving stable atmosphere with parents who cared for each other. Sometimes he and Arabelle seemed to be moving toward that. And it would be so easy to be reclusive, especially since Friday, the worst and best day he’d had in a long time. Arabelle in his bed—really in his bed—was better than he remembered, better than he’d imagined. And he’d imagined a lot on those long, horny nights.

But no more midnight walks and cold showers. She was willing and happy about it. She might never love him, but so what? Lots of people never got love and if he could just have what he had now, he’d be happy.

Right now, Arabelle was passing out some kind of sissy frozen drink to the women, who were thrilled to be getting them. God, she was beautiful. Her eyes shone with life and had never been bluer. He couldn’t believe she had let him touch her, had borne his baby. Right now, he wished he could throw her over his shoulder, take her to their bed, and impregnate her again.

And this time, he’d know from the beginning, would be there when the baby was born, would not be cheated—
Stop it!
Weren’t you just thinking how you were grateful for what you have?

“You’ve got the face of a man who’s got it bad.”

“Brantley,” Will said. “I didn’t see you come up.”

“I know. You were occupied with looking at Arabelle.” Brantley took a drink of his beer.

Arabelle looked up, caught Will’s eye, and smiled. The bad feelings drifted away like a headache lifting. Good. Maybe it wouldn’t come back this time. “She’s worth looking at.”

“I’m keeping silent on that point,” Brantley said. “There is just no answer that would be okay.”

“Kind of like, ‘have you stopped beating your wife?’” Will said.

Luke Avery wandered up. “Who’s beating his wife?” He looked at Will. “It had better not be you.”

Will laughed, surprised that this was so easy, so natural, this social thing. “I couldn’t take her, Luke. She’d have me strung up, hanging from one of those pine trees.” He gestured to the wall of windows that overlooked the grove.

“She’s mean, all right,” Luke agreed. “I’m surprised I survived childhood.”

“Why don’t y’all get some food?” Will said. “I’ll get everybody another beer.”

On his way to the porch and Arabelle’s outstanding drinks bucket, he met her coming from the kitchen toward the dining room.

She held up a platter. “Look, Will. I grilled you some eggplant!” she said proudly. “It has garlic and parmesan cheese.”

He would have no more told her that he didn’t like eggplant than he would have taken Jiffy from Avery. “Thank you, angel girl,” he said and though he intended to only brush his lips against hers, they landed in a take-me-to-bed worthy kiss.

He would eat every bite of that eggplant.

• • •

It was halftime and everyone was in high spirits. Not only was San Antonio beating the stew out of New England, it looked like Missy’s cousin would be named the most valuable player. Arabelle wasn’t clear how many points he’d scored but apparently he was doing well.

The men, except Will, were breaking out fresh beers and Lanie and Missy had taken it upon themselves to tidy the food table and pick up plates and glasses.

That shouldn’t have rubbed her the wrong way. It was exactly how these women operated with each other at their gatherings. But she was not one of them.

She got out the makings for another round of mango margaritas.

“Oh, yea!” Lucy Kincaid sidled up beside her. “Those are the best drinks I’ve ever had, Arabelle.”

She doubted that, but Lucy tried hard to please. Sheridan would have liked Lucy. Carrie? Maybe. Carrie had loved fierce and hard but she had been very selective, very exclusive. Lucy deserved to be liked but that wouldn’t have mattered much to Carrie.

“What can I do to help?” Lucy asked.

Arabelle passed her a knife. “Help me peel these mangos?”

“My pleasure.” And it really seemed to be.

Tolly Scott came in the kitchen. “Do you have any more barbecue sauce, Arabelle?”

“Uh, yes.” Should she get it or tell Tolly where it was? The latter, she decided. Her hands were slimy with mango. “In the door of the refrigerator.”

“This house is magnificent,” Tolly said as she retrieved the sauce.

Missy and Lanie filed in and proceeded to load the dishwasher.

“It sure is,” Missy said. “I can’t wait to tell that snotty Jill St. Clair that I got to come out here. She has been trying for two years to get Will to put it on the Women’s Chamber spring tour. He won’t even talk to her.”

Arabelle smiled a little, though she thought it was rather rich that Missy was calling someone else snotty.

“You know what some people say? About Will not letting anybody come out here?” Missy asked.

“Oh, no, Missy,” Lucy said. “We assuredly do not. Please, please enlighten us as to what
people
are saying about our Will.”

Our
Will now, was it?

“Well.” Missy fixed herself a plate of hummus and pita chips. “Some people say that Will won’t let anybody out here because he uses power tools to do his woodworking and he doesn’t want anybody to know it. You know, because it’s all supposed to be handmade, hand carved. The old way.”

That put Arabelle’s nose out of joint. Will had some power tools, yes. But he only used them to harvest wood and get it ready to cure.

“His work
is
done by hand, but he doesn’t do it,” Arabelle said. “Missy, please report back about the dwarves he’s got chained up out in the workshop. They’re the ones who really do the work—and they whistle while they do it.” She reached for the blender, sure that her sarcasm had made them mad.

But no. They laughed.

“This is the very best hummus I have ever had in my life,” Missy said.

“Dwarves made that too.”