Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

He lay there on his back, also staring at the ceiling, for thirty seconds or so. But this was a real mood killer, not to mention the jeopardy in which it was placing his ability to make a kid.

He turned onto his side to face her. She didn’t speak, or even blink. But she opened her legs. The one nearest him made contact. The outside of her thigh glanced the top of his. Just that much skin-to-skin contact gave him the needed staying power.

He moved onto her, situated himself between her legs, and pushed his boxers past his hips. She raised her knees, not in a way that was particularly inviting, but at least they were anatomically positioned to have sexual intercourse. He probed where he was supposed to probe.

His heart bumped. No panties. Just…her.

She turned her head aside and closed her eyes.

Which made him angry. It was a given that this was going to be awkward. Difficult even. But she’d done nothing so far to make it any easier. While he’d been out there thinking dirty thoughts to get himself aroused, what had she been doing? Obviously nothing. Masturbation probably wasn’t in her vocabulary, but couldn’t she have done something to make herself more receptive? If not for his sake, then for her own? Couldn’t she tilt her hips up just a little? Shift forward, shift back? Take him in her hand and guide him home? Something?

The only thing she did was to turn her face away.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. This was her idea, not his. She was orchestrating this, not him. She didn’t want conversation beforehand? All right. He didn’t have anything to say to her anyway.

She wanted to do it with their clothes on? Okay by him.

No foreplay? Who needed it? Not him.

She wanted to turn her head away like she was about to be sacrificed or something? Let her cope any ol’ way she liked.

She wanted to lie as stiff and unyielding as a board? Fine.

But it wasn’t fine, because it soon became apparent that he couldn’t penetrate her without hurting her, and the thought of hurting her-

“Just do it,” she said.

So he did it.

After that, biology and primal instinct took over. The tight resistance only compelled him to push harder, deeper. He closed his eyes, but only because he couldn’t stand to watch her grimace. That was what he told himself anyway. He tried to empty his mind of all thought except the money he was going to have.

That’s it, think about the money. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about how this feels or how snug…Shit! Don’t think snug. Don’t think…ah, hell…

With a long groan, he emptied himself, then forgot the rules and collapsed on top of her. His face remained pressed into the pillow, near her head, strands of her hair curling against his nose, until he could catch his breath.

She didn’t move when he levered himself up and withdrew. She just lay there with her face still turned to the wall, eyes closed, a vertical frown between her eyebrows. He got out of bed, pulled up his boxers, and stepped into his jeans. When he finished buttoning up and buckling his belt, he looked over his shoulder. She had lowered her knees. The sheet had been pulled up to her waist again. She lay with one forearm across her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

She only nodded.

He stood there, feeling guilty, although he didn’t know why. He felt like the time Ellie had caught him stealing a ten-dollar bill from her wallet and then had insisted that he keep it. He opened his mouth to say something, called it back, then finally said, “Look, you told me to-”

“I’m fine, Mr. Burkett.” She lowered her arm and opened her eyes, but she didn’t look in his direction. “It betters my chances to conceive if I lie here for a half hour or so. That’s all.”

“Oh. So, you’re okay?”

“Yes.”

She didn’t thank him. It sure as hell seemed inappropriate to thank her.

She was pulling on her suit jacket when she walked into the living room. Seeing him on the sofa, she stopped, shocked to find him still there. Gauging by her expression, she wasn’t at all happy about it, either. She shoved her arm into the sleeve and wrestled the jacket into place. “Why didn’t you leave?”

He stood up. “I-”

“You should be gone by now.”

“I-”

“You shouldn’t have waited, Mr. Burkett.” Her voice sounded like tearing cloth. She was either mad as hell or on the edge of hysteria. He couldn’t be sure which, but this was the most emotion he’d ever seen from her. Her cheeks were red. The calm, cool, and collected lady of the manor was about to lose it. “Why didn’t you just go?”

Quietly he said, “Your car has mine blocked in.”

In an instant, her posture went from rigid to limp. She released her breath slowly, touched her forehead with the tips of her fingers, then her flaming cheek with the backs of them, looked embarrassed. “Oh.”

“I would have moved it myself, but you had the keys.”

He gestured toward her handbag. She looked down where it hung at her side. “Right.” Then, changing back into the got-it-together businesswoman persona, she said, “I apologize for holding you up.”

“No problem.”

“You should have come and told me.”

“If it helps to keep lying down after…you know…I didn’t mind waiting awhile. The whole point of this is to get you pregnant.”

She nodded, then consulted her wristwatch. “I must go or I’m going to be late for a meeting. Will you reset the thermostat, please?”

“Sure.”

“Just pull the door closed after you. It will lock. I’ll be in touch, one way or the other.”

She couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and her haste to leave made him feel ornery. He had decided he wasn’t going to say anything. If he was smart, he wouldn’t.

But.

He said, “I wondered why you would go along with this, Mrs. Speakman.”

Already halfway through the entry, she halted, turned, looked at him. “You know why, Mr. Burkett. I want a child.”

“But this?” He tapped his fly, then motioned toward her middle. The gesture caused a frisson in her cool bearing. Some of the high color came back into her cheeks. He went to her, stopping only a few steps away. “After meeting both of you, I could almost understand your husband.”

“Your understanding isn’t important to us. Or necessary.”

“Okay. Say I wanted to understand for my own peace of mind. Your husband is eccentric, maybe even altogether crazy, but looking at this child and heir thing from his point of view, from a rich man’s point of view, I could sorta get it. Sorta.” He shook his head, frowning with perplexity. “But you, I just couldn’t figure.”

“So don’t bother trying.”

He took another step closer, crowding her, making her uncomfortable, wanting to because in the bedroom she had made him feel like a vandal ravaging the village virgin. “Why, I asked myself, would you agree to making a baby this way?” His eyes held hers. He lowered his voice. “And now I know.”

Coldly, she said, “Now?”

“Now that I know why your husband is in that wheelchair.”

I can do this, Laura asserted to herself as she entered the conference room. Everyone else had assembled. She moved to the head of the table. “Sorry I’m late.”

“We promise not to tell Foster,” one of the department heads quipped.

“Thank you. We all know that punctuality is a religion to him.”

“Long lunch?” someone teased.

Her hand faltered just a bit as she reached for the water carafe. “No, just an errand that took longer than I anticipated.”

The errand hadn’t taken that long. Her recovery from it had. She wondered how women who had extramarital affairs in the middle of the day completed their afternoons with any level of composure. She’d been certain that when she returned to her office, her assistant, Kay, would look at her with accusation and say, “You’ve just had sex.”