Now I arched my back as the orgasm washed through me. He tugged my hips, his mouth kept working me, voracious, prolonging the cl**ax exquisitely.
Even when I was done, Joe lapped at me and that felt so good, I had to lean forward and clutch the headboard or I would topple over.
Then he moved me, pushing me off but not letting me go, sliding me down his body so I was on top of him, my forehead in his neck, his hands moving on my skin.
He wasn’t done, which was so shocking it could even be record-breaking. I could feel him hard against me and that was impossible. Since I walked in (or, more aptly, been pulled in, carried in, then thrown on his bed), we’d gone at each other like teenagers. I’d had four orgasms, Joe, three. I’d lost count of the positions, lost track of the sensations. Each time we finished, his hands and mouth kept at me, that hollow feeling would come back and I’d need it sated. I’d need to feed the hunger that overwhelmed me, a hunger for him. I’d do anything to satisfy it and I did.
I felt no embarrassment once it started. I didn’t feel like a slut, a bad mother, a terrible person. I didn’t worry about my nudity or if he liked what I was doing. This shit was natural, like I was born to be in Joe’s Callahan’s bed and it was natural to him too, like Joe Callahan was born to be in me.
When his hand slid up my side and in, curling around my breast, I lifted my head to kiss him but caught sight of his alarm clock.
“Shit,” I whispered, maybe the first word I said since he caught me outside other than “Joe,” “Faster,” “Harder,” “Yes,” and “More.”
Joe hadn’t said much at all, then again, he was using his mouth for far better things.
Now his neck twisted and he looked at the clock then at me.
“What?”
“I’ve gotta get home.”
“Why?”
“I have two girls.”
“They awake at six o’clock?”
I smiled at him and, weirdly, his big, warm body stilled under mine and his eyes dropped to my mouth when I did.
“Okay, no, there’s no way they’re awake,” I answered. “But we also have nosy neighbors.”
His eyes slid up to mine and his hand slid from my breast, around my side, up my back and into my hair as he asked, “So?”
“So, Tina Blackstone is a bitch. She sees me coming from your house in the morning wearing a nightie and a cardigan, she’d talk.”
He didn’t respond but he didn’t need to, his face said it all.
Therefore I answered his unspoken repeat of, “So?”
“I know you don’t care but, like I said, I’ve got two girls. It wouldn’t be good if Tina Blackstone talked.” I pulled myself further up his body and touched my lips to his then said softly, “I’ve got to go.”
His hand fisted in my hair and the pads of his fingers dug into my hip, just for a second, then his arms went loose.
But that second counted.
It counted a whole helluva lot.
I slid off him and scrambled beside the bed, feeling suddenly conscious of my nudity. I gave him my back as I pulled my undies up then slipped my nightie over my head. I shrugged on my cardigan at the same time I twisted my feet, toeing my Crocs to right them and then sliding them on.
“Buddy,” Joe called and I turned to see him lying on his side, his elbow in the bed, his head in his hand not, obviously, conscious of his nudity or at least not self-conscious about it.
I didn’t blame him.
His body was far more beautiful out of clothes than in them. Like his face, its perfection not marred by the scars but instead made more appealing, his long, lean, muscled body was not spoiled by the long, jagged white gash that sliced diagonally across his tight abs and the creased, darkened circle of skin halfway between his right pectoral and his shoulder.
“Come here,” he growled softly.
My feet took me to him, I put a knee to the bed and leaned in and Joe did the rest. His hand, lying on the bed, came up, hooked me behind the head and he pulled me closer, so close, my mouth was on his.
“I want you back tonight,” he ordered.
He wanted me back.
I smiled against his mouth.
When I did, his eyes grew intense then his head slanted. I lost sight of his eyes when mine closed because he kissed me hard, open-mouthed and so long, he came up from the bed, his other arm curved around me and he pulled me to him. When I landed on him, he twisted me so my back was to the bed and kept kissing me.
His kisses were so good, I forgot I was supposed to be leaving until his lips disengaged from mine and his face disappeared in my neck.
“Don’t we have nosy neighbors?” he asked my neck.
“Shit!” I cried, rolled him to his back and tore out of his arms.
I was nearly on my feet by the side of the bed before I stopped, put a hand back in the mattress, one at his scarred cheek, leaned in and gave him a quick kiss.
Then I gained my feet and, not looking back, I ran from the room, down the hall, through his living room, out the sliding glass door and to my house.
I was feeling so f**king great, instead of running, I could have skipped.
* * * * *
The day passed like it was coated with molasses.
I’d thought to get a nap but once I got home from Joe’s, even though I’d had virtually no sleep for two nights, I found I was incredibly energized.
I stripped my bed. I put in laundry. I made a grocery list. I paid bills. I took a shower and did myself up like I always did, even after Tim died.
Tim liked my hair smoothed out with the hair dryer. He liked it when I put on makeup even if he preferred it light. Tim liked it when I made an effort with clothes. Tim said I was the sexiest cop’s wife in history and he said it in a way where I knew he believed it completely and was proud of that fact. He liked it when I’d come into the Station, he got off on the fact that the other guys found me attractive (or, at least, he told me they did). I was his, he told me, and he had something beautiful, he told me that too. Never, not once, not even when I was heavy with Kate and Keira, did he make me feel anything but beautiful.
It was something that I forced myself to do after he died, keeping up my appearance. It was for him but it was also for me. A way of not giving up when I wanted to do nothing but that, give up, give in, stay down, beaten.
Though that morning, I made a bit of an extra effort.
The girls got up and I made them pancakes. They did their chores, cleaning their rooms and I went to the grocery store. I was going to make my breaded pork chops and spiced rice, Tim and Keira’s favorite. It took forever to make but it would be a treat because Kate loved it too. Though Kate’s favorite was my seafood risotto, my favorite as well. They’d started as recipes from a magazine but, after years of experimentation, I made them both even better, therefore I considered them all mine. This was my thing, something else Tim would brag about. Our garden was the most beautiful one on our block (even I had to admit that) and Tim thought my cooking was the bomb and he bragged about both freely. He liked to have people over and we did all the time but he said it was so he could show me off.