Wishes and Stitches (20 page)

No. That's not what she wanted. That wasn't . . .

Naomi lost all ability to think in clear sentences the second he moved between her legs, his tongue touching her, licking her, pushing into her slowly and then retreating. He made broad strokes and tiny little ones, hard ones, and gentle, teasing ones. She writhed, holding on to the bedpost behind her. She moaned—she couldn't help it. He was driving her out of her mind.

With just his tongue Rig took her right to the edge—her legs were shaking, her stomach muscles quivering. In another second, she'd—she'd . . . He stopped, lifting his head to look at her. God, if he stopped now—she needed—

“Now I'm going to make you come.” He lowered his head, his tongue sucking, pulling, flicking until Naomi started to pulse. Then, as she came, he put two fingers inside her, right where she needed it, right there, God—he slid up her body, keeping his fingers inside her, using his thumb to continue the pressure his tongue had been giving her, and he whispered in her ear as she came around his hand, “See? I told you so.” He laughed, his chest shaking against her, a deep, happy laugh.

How did this happen? How did he take over her plan? Why didn't she care more? Instead, she reveled in the feeling of coming down, rolling against him so that she was flush against his body.

“You're still dressed,” she said. “How did that happen?”

“I wanted to give you something, rather than taking.” He slid his fingers out, and she took a quick, indrawn breath with the aftershock.

“So now you're going to take off your clothes?” Maybe she could still regain her footing.

“Nope. I'm just going to lie here until you fall asleep.” He laughed again, and Naomi thought fleetingly that she'd never had anyone laugh at her in bed before, but the way he laughed made her feel amazing.

She could make him feel amazing. too, if he let her.

“What about this?” Her hand reached down and pressed against the erection that strained at the front of his jeans.

Rig growled. “Let's leave that alone, or I'll forget I'm trying to be a gentleman.”

“I'm naked in your bed. How is that gentlemanly?”

“You want me to show you again?”

Naomi smiled, suddenly inexplicably shy. “No. I couldn't.”

“Oh, I bet you could.”

He slid down, not heeding her pleas to stop, and when he got to the right spot, his mouth took her the same way. Naomi started shaking again and didn't stop for a long, long time.

Chapter Thirty-three

W
hen she woke up, it took Naomi a half second of panic to figure out where the hell she was. The room was dark, and she was perfectly warm from the top of her head all the way down to the tips of her toes.

Rig.

She felt one long tremble rock her as she remembered what he'd done to her, how high he'd taken her, and how hard she'd crashed into his arms. He'd stayed true to his word—he'd kept his clothes on and made it purely all about her.

Naomi had felt treasured. Beautiful. Sexy. Safe.

She was still in his arms, lying on her side, her left arm and leg draped across him as he lay on his back. He breathed deeply and evenly.

God, she'd screwed up. She had to get out of here.

Naomi carefully lifted her arm and leg off him slowly so that she was also on her back. She held her breath for a moment. He didn't stir. She lifted the quilt that she'd been half under and slid out in one even motion.

Once her bare feet were on the floor, she began looking for her clothes. She found her panties in a ball near the bookcase, and her skirt where she'd left it at the foot of the bed. Her shirt was still on top of the box of books, but no matter how hard she looked, she couldn't find her bra.

She'd just have to leave without it.

Rig made a low, guttural noise as he rolled to her side of the bed, and Naomi froze. With all her heart, she wished to be out of here. She stood stock-still, holding her breath. That big, muscular arm that had held her last night wrapped itself around her pillow and dragged it under his head. Then he relaxed and sank back down under the covers.

Out, out. She crept to the bedroom door, thankful it already stood ajar. She crossed the living room, her heels dangling from one finger. Their tippy-tap would certainly give her away. The front door was a challenge, but one that she took quickly, unsnapping the dead bolt, twisting the smaller lock. Even if he woke now, she could still make her getaway if she moved fast.

In the garden, she paused, almost not breathing. Her ears strained to hear anything from inside. Nothing. Thank God.

Turning, she almost bumped right into Shirley Bellflower.

“Where's the fire?” Shirley said and grinned.

Naomi couldn't think of a single thing to say. It was Shirley's yard, after all. Dammit.

“I see you're dressed for a walk.” Shirley pointed at her heels, still hanging from her fingers, and she cast a glance at the red silk shirt that she possibly had buttoned wrong.

“Yeah. I was just . . .”

“Honey, you don't have to make up a story. Nothing wrong with a walk of shame. I think he's a nice guy, and you've always looked like you deserved some fun. You've been busy lately. This is good for you.”

Shirley looked tired, her face more drawn than Naomi remembered it being.

“Sit,” Naomi said, ignoring every muscle and nerve in her body that was urging her to flee. “Here, on the bench. Sit a minute. We haven't talked in too long. Tell me how you are.”

Shirley sat, but it was with effort. “Fine, just fine.”

“Really?”

Stretching her arms in front of her as if she was uncomfortable, Shirley waited a beat and then said, “You askin' as a doctor?”

Should she say no? “As your friend.”

“You usually don't see me without my face on, that's all,” Shirley said lightly.

“Anything wrong?” Naomi kept her voice soft, but she caught Shirley's eye.

Finally Shirley said, “Seein' a new guy. I didn't tell you about him yet . . . We were up late last night.” A smile crept across her face. “Now I'm fighting a migraine, but I don't want to let on, 'cause I have to get to work soon.”

“Can't you take the day off?”

Shirley shook her head. “Nope. No can do.”

“You can't use a sick day?”

“Waitresses don't get sick days. At least not this kind of waitress. I build up vacation time, but I blow that every year on a cruise, and I've already been to the Mexican Riviera this year. If I'm out, I'm not making tips, and that's how I keep this property afloat. That, and renting the back house out to lover boys like him.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of where Rig was sleeping.

“Well, come see me, then. We can talk about medication. Prevention. How long have you been getting the migraines?”

Standing slowly, Shirley said, “Ever since my husband died, years ago. I get them on the anniversary of his death. No exception.”

Naomi stood with her. Grief could trigger migraines. And she knew that sometimes not working wasn't an option. But . . . No. She wouldn't give the lecture she normally gave, the one about taking care of yourself before anyone else—with Shirley's shoulders slumped like they were, it didn't feel like the right thing. She just wished that she knew what to do. Goddammit, what would she do in the office with a patient she was trying to help?

Then she remembered. A hug. Friends hugged. She'd forgotten that.

She bent awkwardly at the waist and put her arms around Shirley's shoulders. At first, the woman jumped, seeming utterly surprised. The hug was rigid. It didn't feel like it was working. Naomi should let go.

Then Shirley made a noise in the back of her throat and dropped her shoulders. She reached up, letting the sides of their faces touch, and wrapped her arms around Naomi. The hug was tight, strong. It felt important. Naomi held on even though her heart rate skittered into overdrive. Shirley needed this.

And Naomi herself felt long overdue.

After a moment, Shirley dropped her arms and pulled away, sinking back into the garden bench.

It was astonishing. She looked like a different person. So gray earlier, there was a slight hint of color to her cheeks now. The tension that had been in her eyes was completely gone. Smiling up at Naomi, she said, “So, you and the doc, huh? Say, have you met Frank, his father?”

Confused, Naomi said, “I've met him, yes.”

Shirley nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Nice guy.”

Confused, Naomi
really
didn't know what to do now. But she settled on a smile that felt real, and Shirley returned it.

“Don't work too hard,” said Naomi.

“Thanks, Doc,” said Shirley.

Chapter Thirty-four

O
ut in her car, Naomi sank into the seat and snapped on the belt. She'd hugged a friend. She lifted herself in the seat so she could see her face in the rearview mirror. A happy-looking woman looked back at her. Her brown curls were messy, of course, and there wasn't a trace of the eyeliner or lipstick she'd worn last night. But she looked . . . happy.

Shirley had called her
Doc
. Okay, Shirley was her friend, but still. Someone had called her
Doc
.

She grinned at herself in the mirror and laughed, before suddenly feeling sheepish.

He'd brought this out in her. Rig, who had never even removed his clothing last night, had found this part of her. Or at least, being near him brought it closer to the surface. Naomi loved this feeling.

And, she decided, as she started the car, it scared her. She hadn't driven their actions last night like she'd thought she would. He'd been as active a part of their seduction as she had.

Naomi should hate that. It should make her feel almost sick with nervousness. There was no doubt about that. He hadn't lost his mind like she had hers, so it was unequal. If she could take care of that, the draw to him would undoubtedly lessen. But she didn't have to
reject
what happened last night just because she had a good time.

A really freaking amazing time.

She drove toward her house. It was a gorgeous, rare day of summer with absolutely no fog pushing in from the ocean. Crystal clear, deep blue, and flat as a sheet—the water looked like something from a tourist postcard.
Hi, Mom, Wish you were here
.

Naomi drove past a taco truck that she'd seen before but never stopped at. The sign, L
OS
M
ARISCOS
, was cheery, and a pot-bellied man stood waiting for his food.

She was starving, she realized. The sense of unexpected buoyancy reacted with the happiness, and it seemed to make her hunger even stronger. She was ravenous.

She pulled over and started to get out of the car. Damn. She'd probably need shoes to cross the dirt to the truck.

Her red strappy heels certainly didn't feel right, or good, to put on. But she wobbled her way up to the ordering counter of the truck where the open window was up high, and she had to crane her neck to read the even higher menu.

“Hi.” The man peering out the truck's order window had a broad, florid face with a nose as wide as a spoon. His eyes were friendly, and he looked at Naomi with curiosity. “You want breakfast?”

“I can have breakfast?” Naomi had thought it just sold tacos.

“ 'Course. Everything?”

“Then heck, yeah.”

The day was getting even better. She leaned on her car in the warming sun, waiting, and tilted her head back. A block away she could hear the ocean, a low, dull roar that sounded almost exactly like the freeway had when she lived in San Diego. Two seagulls in the parking lot squabbled over a dirty tortilla.

“Hey,” called the man. He held out her burrito. “Have a good day, pretty lady.”

It was foil wrapped and huge. Naomi could tell it was going to be fantastic. “Thanks.”

Back in her car, she realized she felt like a different person from the one she'd been the day before. And she was too sleepy to examine why. She needed home, a shower, a pot of coffee, and the incredible-smelling burrito, and she'd be able to face going in to the office.

Where she'd face the man who'd had his fingers and—oh God—his tongue inside her last night. Naomi felt heat rush through her again.

What with Rig last night, and hugging Shirley this morning, she was on a roll. Who knew what wild and crazy out-of-character thing she might pull later? She might jump out of an airplane. Or even call her mother of her own volition! Naomi grinned at the thought.

But that whole Rig thing. She was going to keep a lid on it, unless she knew exactly what she was doing. He'd almost gotten to her last night. She knew it, could admit it, if only to herself. And that made her nervous.

She stepped happily into her house, pleased that it would be just as she'd left it, rules of order maintained in her friendly jumble, clutter corralled so that she understood it. Order, perfection, peace. They were all integrally linked, and Naomi loved the feeling of—

Oh, crap. She didn't love the furniture in the living room being moved so that the couch now faced the fireplace. She didn't love the sink being full of dishes. She didn't love the look of the pan on the stove that had apparently boiled over and hadn't been cleaned up. Oh,
Anna
.

At least she had her bedroom. Her sanctuary.

She opened the door, and pulled back the curtains to let in the light. Something groaned under the covers.

Naomi screamed. Whatever it was in the bed screamed, too, and burrowed farther.

Anna.

Ripping back the coverlet, Naomi said, “What the
hell
are you doing in here?”

Anna squeaked again and then gave a weak giggle. “You scared me,” she said. “Why did you scream?”

“Because, unlike you, I'm not in the habit of finding strange people in my bed.”

Anna sat up slowly, scooting backward so that she could rest against the headboard. “That's just rude.”

“I know.” Naomi felt immediately guilty. “I apologize. Cheap shot. But you
scared
me.”

“You?” Anna pulled the sheet over her belly and up to her chin. “There was a
mouse
in my room.”

She was already calling it her room.

“I don't have mice,” Naomi said. “Did you actually see one?”

“Well, no, but I heard something scritching under the bed, and then it sounded like it ran along the baseboard and into the hall.”

“So whatever it was, and I doubt it was a mouse, wasn't even in your room anymore?”

Anna's eyes were round. Guileless. “But what if it came back?” She sat up straighter as Naomi opened her tiny closet. “Where were you, anyway? I kept expecting you to kick me out of bed when you came home.” She pointed to the window, where sunlight was streaming around the slits in the venetian blind.

Naomi tugged a hand through her hopeless hair. Did she still have time for a shower? It didn't matter if she was late, she needed one, if only to rinse the smell of Rig off her body, to wash the two of them out of her mind. “I was out.”

“With Rig? I knew it! I fucking
knew
it.” Anna's face was smug. “I think you make a good couple.”

Naomi couldn't help but laugh. “You've seen him twice.”

“Three times. Hey, are you blushing?” Anna crowed. “You
are
. Like a schoolgirl!”

“I'm not. It's just warm in here. And anyway, aren't you supposed to be at work to open in,” Naomi looked over Anna's shoulder at her alarm clock, “twenty-five minutes?”

“Oh, shit!” As much as an almost-full-term pregnant woman could, Anna hopped out of bed and darted into the bathroom.

Well, there went Naomi's chance of hurrying.

She took her burrito out to the back porch. In between bites, she worked on the shawl, which was actually growing—Naomi could finally see some progress. At the end of each full repeat, her brain was always confused with the change, all the sudden K2togs and SSKs that followed the rows of plain garter stitch, but at the present moment, she understood these increases and decreases. She was starting to be able to read the lace. A little bit.

While she ate and knitted, she studied the backyard. She loved it out here, all flowering shrubs and native plants that she'd put in instead of the grass that had been here when she moved in. She'd hired a landscape company to do the heavy lifting, but she'd chosen and put in the plants herself, and since they were all drought-resistant native plants that flourished in their coastal clime, she barely ever had to water. She just weeded a bit every few months, and let the garden go. Naomi had thrown out a wildflower seed bomb in early spring, when they got most of their rains, and now her favorite California poppies nodded their heads next to forget-me-nots and Indian paintbrush.

The burrito was delicious. Naomi took her time with it. She breathed. In. Out. Early sunlight filtered through a few puffy clouds, and the day promised to be warm. A perfect beach day.

She felt more alive than she had in longer than she could remember. Her sister was living in her house, and Rig was tangling her brain waves like a ball of laceweight rolling on the floor, and Naomi didn't want to be anywhere else.