Linda Jones - Madigan's Wife

He leaned over her, pressing her back into the soft cushions of the couch, and deepened the kiss. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth she gasped, and her hands went to his face, his head. She touched his cheeks and speared her fingers through his hair, and she answered the kiss, for an all-too-brief moment.

And then she pushed his head back, forced his mouth from hers. “I can’t,” she whispered. Unshed tears made her dark eyes sparkle, the flush on her face made her look nineteen again.

“Why not?”

She shook her head. “I can’t sleep with you, Ray. I can’t.”

“I wasn’t exactly thinking about sleeping, sweetheart,” he said huskily as he moved closer. Her thighs fell slightly apart; she had to feel his arousal pressing against the inside of her thigh. He could so easily take her, here and now. He needed it; she needed it.

“You know what I mean.”

Ah, she was serious. “What’s wrong? Have you gone back to your ten date rule?” he asked lightly, as if it didn’t make any difference one way or another if they finished what they’d started. As if he didn’t want to ask her, here and now when there was no escape for either of them, why she’d left him.

He’d never understood the way she’d left. A damn note on the refrigerator, like a grocery list. Milk. Eggs. Goodbye.

He would never ask. The question would sound too much like pleading, and he would not grovel in front of Grace. Not now, not ever. He wanted her as much as he ever had, right now he hurt for her, but by God he did not need her.

“Don’t you think a ten date rule is a little excessive in this day and age?” he asked casually, holding his body against hers. He felt and savored every breath she took, the tension in the length of her bewitching body.

He remembered how she’d explained it to him, the first time he’d tried to make love to her. Still a virgin, she’d concluded that she wouldn’t know a man well enough to sleep with him until they’d had at least ten dates. Never a patient man, he’d asked her to marry him that night, on their third date. She’d said yes and they’d been married three days later. He’d been so sure that what they had was real and deep and lasting, that Grace was the one person who would always be there. He’d been young and stupid.

“And if that’s it, do I have to start all over?” he smiled as he delivered the joke. “Can’t I at least get credit for the dates we had before we were married? How about all those lunches at Pop’s?” Suddenly he knew why she’d never allowed him to buy her lunch. “Is that why we always go dutch these days?” he teased.

“Be serious,” she said, as she tried to gently push him away.

He wasn’t going anywhere. Not yet. He pressed his body to hers, hovered above her so close he could feel her intense warmth and the beat of her heart, the slight tremble of her legs. Already she was inside him, as if he’d inhaled her, as if she seeped beneath his skin when he held her tight.

“Tell me, Gracie, when was the last time you had a tenth date?”

She pursed her lips, a sure sign she wasn’t going to answer. He raked his body against hers, moving slowly, and kissed the side of her neck. When he did let her go, he wanted to make damn sure she left with the same torturous longing he felt growing inside him. He allowed his lips to linger, tasting her, feeling her heartbeat beneath his lips and his tongue before he released her.

As soon as he let her go she scrambled off the couch. “I imagine,” she said, almost steadily, “that a ten date rule does seem excessive to you.” She tried to hide her anxiety, but she couldn’t disguise the faint quiver in her voice. “You probably wish willing women would just show up at your door naked.”

“Bearing food,” he added lightly.

She turned to stare at him. Her face was flushed, her lips damp and slightly swollen, well kissed and, like it or not, craving more. And such pained incredulity lurked in her luscious eyes. What had she expected, that he’d give her some romantic song and dance about wanting her and no one else? He didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve; he didn’t lie or make promises he wasn’t prepared to keep.

“Preferably pizza,” he added. “After all, it’s good hot and cold.”

His smile faded as she spun away to return to the task of mutilating the vegetables. Damnation, he wished he was already in Mobile. No good could come of this, no good at all.

If Grace actually thought they were going to get through this without ending up in bed together, she was crazier than she was making him.

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