At a loss for anything else, he said, “I’m your boss.”
She seemed to sense how thoroughly toothless that argument was, and squeezed softly.
Tell her this is wrong. That you don’t want it. Lie, quick. But the only sound his mouth offered was a ragged exhalation, a noiseless moan.
“I never stopped having a crush on you,” she whispered. “But I don’t expect this to turn into anything, I swear. I just like you. And I want you.”
“This doesn’t feel right,” he said, but the lie came out breathy and weak, the limpest protest. Nothing felt as right as this. She had to know what he really wanted, as she stroked her palm up the ridge of his erection through his shorts and fly.
“Fuck.” His eyes shut, and his hand grew limp atop hers. “It’s late.”
“I don’t care.”
And shit, he didn’t either. “The baby might wake up.”
“And she might not.”
Become that better man you’ve been telling yourself you are right fucking now, asshole, and move her motherfucking hand away.
But that voice was so small, and her touch felt so goddamn good . . .
His own hand slipped to her hip, up her side, but she caught it before he could cup her breast.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “I’m not ready for that yet. I just want to touch you. Make you feel good.” With that, she let his hand go, only to head for his waist once more. This time, at least, he halted it in a firm grip at his belly.
“Jesus, honey, slow down.” He laughed, feeling drunk, and did his fly and buckle back up. “Can’t we kiss, instead?” Do things in the right order, at least. He’d wanted this girl for too long to rush now.
“Yeah,” she whispered, “we can do that.”
His hands were on her again in a breath, but more innocent this time—that soft cheek against his palm, silky hair in his fingers. Every nerve was screaming for him to dive right in, but he slowed himself down before their lips touched. He’d savor this moment, even as everything about it screamed high school grope-fest, right down to it happening on a friend’s parents’ couch.
He held her gaze for breaths on end. Her eyes were bright in the sunshine, as blue as sapphires or robins’ eggs or any other insanely blue thing. But here in the den, lit by only the fire and a reading lamp, they were dark and deep, full of secrets, it felt like. Her lips looked just as they did in every fantasy he’d ever had about her—her mouth small but her lips full, seeming as innocent as the rest of her. Deceptively so.
Did those lips come up to meet his? He couldn’t say how it happened, but they were kissing, light and distracted, voices hushed, hers faint and sweet, his deeper and rough now. He heard her name on his breath, the sound coming from no conscious corner of his head. As the final syllable settled between them, he took it further.
She tasted minty. Just like she ought to, he thought, the notion nonsense. Like he really knew her at all, had any clue what to expect from her. Not anymore, not now that he’d felt her hand between his legs, more brazen than he’d ever have expected. She was everything, here on this couch, in this moment. Sweet and wicked, a seductress and an innocent. A temptation and a terrible idea, and a foregone conclusion.
Emphasis on the terrible idea, his higher brain interjected.
Fuck off.
Her hand was drifting once more, seeking him between their bodies, cupping his aching flesh through his jeans, then rubbing.
“Oh God.” Tell her to stop, for fuck’s sake. “Jesus, honey, don’t stop.”
Wow, well done.
Her mouth was at his throat, her hair a soft, heavenly weight draped over his wrist and knuckles. And her hand . . . Christ, her hand was everything. He hadn’t been touched like this in six months or more. He’d almost forgotten how essential it was. His head dropped back, inviting her kisses.
For half a minute he let her spoil him, until he was hurting and crazed and needing to kiss her back. Needing to give back, instead of taking. He held her head, fingers in her long hair, and drew her face back so he could meet her eyes. He let her see the desire surely burning in his, and then he kissed her exactly as he’d always fantasized he might. He cupped her jaw in both hands and brought his mouth down. She roused hunger in him—always had—and he let her feel that with every deep sweep of his tongue, every soft grunt from his throat, every needy flex of his hips, pressing his erection to her palm—
The worst sound in the world. The rattle of his phone buzzing on the coffee table.
He wrenched his face from hers. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Abilene went still. “It’s late. It might be important—Vince or somebody.”
Doubtful. But he knew exactly who’d just be sitting down to start on her evening’s business. With Abilene’s hand still on him, he leaned forward and snatched the phone, accepted the private call. “I told you no, now fuck off.” Hit END, tossed the thing aside.
“Not Vince, I take it?”
“No, it was nothing.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
The intrusion had sobered him. It offered a chance to end this, do the smart and honorable thing—the thing a better man would do—and land himself with the blue balls he deserved for having succumbed in the first place. He put his hand over hers once more, coaxing it to the safety of his thigh. “We should stop.”
Her lips pursed, expression changing in an instant. “That wasn’t, like, your girlfriend or something, was it?”
“No, just an old colleague. I mean, hey, I’m not a great guy, but I’m not a complete shit.”
She looked deflated for a breath, then smiled. “You don’t think you’re a great guy?”
“Oh, hell no.”
“How come?”
“You don’t want to know, trust me.” She was a good, Christian girl. He hadn’t heard her so much as swear in the past four months—not since the pregnancy mood swings and the throes of labor had passed. She didn’t need to know about his old life. Best-case scenario, it’d disappoint her. Worst case, those pesky morals would have her phoning the fucking feds on him. The latter felt unlikely, but in any case, the truth of his past was a burden this girl needed like a hole in the head. My past and my future both. Man, was he ever a fucking catch.
“You’ve been good to me,” she said. “And to Mercy.”
“That’s different.” And it was new. He was a good boss, he supposed, and tried to be a good friend. But he’d not always been the best son or brother, and while Casey had never intentionally hurt anybody, he was far from an upstanding citizen.
As his body cooled, his thoughts turned to that little fantasy house of Abilene’s.
There were lots of places around Fortuity that fit the bill—modest little ranches that you could buy for pretty cheap. For now. When the new casino was up and running, who knew what might happen to the property values, but until and if that all went through, you could get a decent place for as little as fifty grand.
Casey thought about that job Emily had called with. His own savings was all tied up in the bar, but right there was an easy twenty grand. A fat down payment, and with a couple more gigs like that, he could buy a place outright for Abilene and her daughter. She couldn’t afford it herself, not on a part-time bartender’s wages, but it sure would do her good, that kind of stability. Before she’d come to Three C she’d been living in a rented room in a cranky old lady’s basement—not exactly home sweet home.
Maybe three final jobs, and I could be her goddamn hero.
Except she’d want to know how on earth he was able to afford it, and telling her wasn’t an option.
Fucking shame, too. The thought of it excited him. For plenty of good reasons, he couldn’t ever be her man. Chiefly because of his mental health, but he couldn’t tell her about that. Or rather, he wouldn’t. He was only now beginning to face it himself—not only the shame and embarrassment of feeling faulty and doomed and helpless, but the guilt over how he’d handled his mother’s decline. The dread of wondering sometimes if maybe he’d earned this fate, maybe he deserved it, for failing her, for running away as he had. So no, he couldn’t tell Abilene why, and no, he couldn’t be her man. But being a benefactor wasn’t a bad consolation prize.