Rachel Gibson - I’m In No Mood For Love

“But at the moment I’m hungry for Christmas ham.” Sebastian turned his gaze across the table as he placed his hand on Clare’s thigh. “This is wonderful, Mrs. Wingate.”

Clare glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as he slowly pulled up her skirt.

“Please call me Joyce.”

“Thank you for inviting me tonight, Joyce,” he said, the poster child of choirboy politeness as his fingers gathered her skirt.

Clare wasn’t wearing nylons, and she reached beneath the table before he could touch bare skin. She carefully grabbed his wrist and removed his hand.

“I received a Christmas card from your father’s sister,” Joyce announced, looking across the table at Clare.

“How is Eleanor?” Clare sank her spoon into her punch. As she placed the rum slush in her mouth, Sebastian flipped her skirt above her knees and replaced his hand on her now bare thigh. Startled by the warm contact, she jumped a little.

“You okay?” Sebastian asked, as if inquiring about the weather.

Clare pasted a strained smile on her face. “Fine.”

Oblivious, Joyce continued, “Apparently, Eleanor has discovered religion.”

“’Tis the season.” She placed her hand over Sebastian’s, but his grasp tightened. Short of wrestling his hand off her and drawing attention to what was taking place under the table, there was nothing she could do.

“Eleanor always was a trial,” her mother continued. “She was somewhat of an embarrassment, which is quite an accomplishment in that family.”

“How old is Eleanor?” Sebastian asked, his tone polite and curious as his hand crept higher. Skin on skin, heat spread warmth up Clare’s thigh, his touch calling forth physical memories of the night before. In her bed and shower, and of course on the antique sofa.

“I believe she is seventy-eight.” Joyce paused to spear her remaining green beans. “She’s been married and divorced eight times.”

“Once was enough for me,” Leo added with a shake of his head. “Some people never learn.”

“That’s the truth. My great-great-uncle Alton was wounded in a marital dispute,” Joyce confessed, uncharacteristically forthcoming regarding Wingate skeletons, thanks to her third glass of Glenlivet. “Unfortunately, he had a fondness for other men’s wives. Neglected his own, though. Typical.”

“Where was he wounded?” Sebastian slid his fingers to the front of Clare’s panties. Her gaze got a little fuzzy and she about melted off her chair.

“Bullet in the left buttock. He was running away with his pants down.”

Sebastian chuckled and his fingers brushed her through the spandex cotton blend. She squeezed her thighs and stifled a moan as the conversation continued without her. Leo made a comment about…something, and Joyce responded with…something, and Sebastian tugged at the elastic around the top of her leg and asked something…

“Isn’t that right, Clare?” Joyce asked.

Her eyes refocused on her mother. “Yes. Absolutely!” She shoved his hand from her crotch and stood, careful to make sure her skirt stayed down. “Dessert?”

“I don’t think so right now.” Her mother placed her linen napkin on the table.

“Leo?” Clare asked as she gathered her plate and flatware.

“None for me. Give me half an hour.”

“Can I take your plate, Sebastian?”

He stood. “I’ll take it.”

“That’s okay.” The last thing she needed was for him to follow and finish what he’d started. “You just sit and relax with my mother and Leo.”

“After a big meal, I need to walk around,” he insisted.

Joyce handed Clare her plate. “You should show Sebastian the house.”

“Oh, I don’t think he cares about-”

“I’d love to see it,” he interrupted her.

He followed her into the kitchen and they set the plates in the sink. He leaned a hip into the counter and ran the backs of his fingers up her arm. “Since I walked in the house tonight, I’ve been wondering if you had on some sort of bra under that thing. Guess not.”

She looked down at the two very distinct points in the front of her black satin halter. “I’m cold.”

“Uh-huh.” He brushed his knuckles across her left breast. Her lips parted and she sucked in a breath. “You’re turned on.”

She bit her top lip and shook her head, but they both knew she lied.

He sighed and dropped his hand. “Show me the damn house.”

She turned on the heels of her boots and left him to follow behind. Yes, the last thing she needed was for Sebastian to work his moves on her in her mother’s house. But there was another part of her, the new part that had just discovered the pleasure of meaningless sex, that wanted him to do that and more.

She showed him the parlor her mother used for an office, the main living room, and the library. He kept his hands to himself, which was almost as frustrating as when he’d touched her. “I used to spend a lot of time in here as a kid,” she said, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling rows of leather-bound books. The room was furnished with old leather chairs and several Tiffany lamps.

“I remember.” He walked along the built-in mahogany shelves. “Where are your books?”

“Oh. Well, my books are paperbacks.”

He looked across his shoulder at her. “And?”

“And my mother doesn’t think paperbacks belong with leather-bound books.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. You’re a member of her family. Much more important than depressed Russian authors and dead poets. Your mother should be thrilled to put your books in here.”

Well, she’d always thought so, or at least thought she should be given equal shelf space in her own mother’s house. To hear Sebastian say it stirred unwanted feelings in her chest. “Thank you.”

“For what? Does your mother know how hard it is to get a book published?”

But this was Sebastian. She could not allow herself to feeling anything for him but a mild friendship and a raging physical attraction. “Probably not, but it wouldn’t matter if she did. Nothing I ever do will be good enough, or exactly right, or perfect. She’s never going to change, so I’ve had to. I don’t kill myself to please her nor purposely irritate her anymore.”

“No.” He laughed quietly. “You just deflect attention off yourself and onto me.”

She smiled. “That’s true, but you really should suffer a little for eating poor Mr. Bananas.” She nodded toward the doorway. “I’ll show you upstairs.”

He followed close behind as she moved up the curved staircase. She showed him three guest rooms, her mother’s bedroom, and finally the room she’d occupied growing up. It still held her queen bed with heavy wooden pineapples on the posts, the same armoire, dressers, and five-drawer vanity. The only thing that had changed was the bedding.

“I remember this room,” Sebastian said as he moved farther inside. “But everything was pink.”

“Yes.”

He turned to her and said, “Close the door, Clare.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t want your mother to see what I’m going to do to her little girl.”

“We can’t do anything in here.”

“You almost sound like you mean that.” He walked across the room and shut the door himself. “Almost.” He walked back, ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders and the back of her neck. He kissed her, and before she realized what he was about, his fingers were at the bow at the back of her neck and he lowered her halter to her waist.

She pulled back and covered her bare breasts with her hands. “What if someone walks in?”

“They won’t.” He grasped her wrist and placed her palms on his shoulders. “Your nipples are hard and your panties are wet, so I know you want this too.” He cupped her breasts and brushed the stiff tips with his thumbs. “I’ve been thinking about doing this since I walked into the house. All through your mother’s charity event stories, I wondered if anyone would notice if I disappeared beneath the table and kissed the insides of your thighs. I wondered if you were as turned on as I was. Then I felt your panties and I knew I was going to be inside you at some point tonight.” He kissed the side of her throat, and she slid her hands beneath his sweater and the T-shirt he wore beneath.