Tori Carrington - Private Affairs

And he gave it to her …

His fingers burrowed under the elastic of her panties and cupped her bottom. Then his fingertips followed the shallow crevice inward until they pressed against her swollen folds.

Penelope tugged her mouth away from his, breathing heavily against his cheek as his fingers found their target.

Yes …

She heard Palmer mumble something then curse.

“I don’t have protection,” he said into her ear.

Penelope’s throat refused the swallow she tried to force down it, his words too familiar.

She went still for long moments, trying to gather her scattered emotions into some sort of order. Then she slowly drew away from him, forcing him to release his hold on her both literally and figuratively. Moments later, she sat with her legs tightly closed, her dress back in place, next to him.

“I wasn’t expecting … this,” he said quietly.

Neither had she. Not that she usually traveled with condoms anyway. But it was somewhat reassuring that he hadn’t whipped a ready one out of his back pocket.

Reassuring and disquieting.

He skimmed the back of his knuckles along her jaw and kissed her again, long and hard, stretching open the gulf of sensation that she was trying desperately to close.

He cursed once more.

She smiled.

“Tell me we’ll be here again, Penelope.” He stared into her eyes.

She looked away and bit hard on her bottom lip, unable to answer.

“I didn’t expect to be here now,” she whispered.

He drew away and sat back against the cushions. “That sounds a little too much like a no to me.”

“No,” she said. “It sounds like a maybe.”

“SHH, YOU’LL WAKE HER.”

“Shush, yourself. You’re the one making all the noise.”

Penelope easily identified the two voices coming from her open bedroom door even as she fought to hold onto sleep. She’d gotten so little of it. Hadn’t she just finally dropped off? She pried open one eye and read the clock. After eight a.m. The last time she’d looked, it had been after four. And her mind had still been racing with images from the night before. Her ears still filled with the sounds. Her body still reeling from the shock of emotions.

“Can you tell whether or not he was in there with her?” Her grandmother’s stage whisper was louder than her regular speaking voice. It was a well-known fact, but no one seemed to have the heart to tell her.

“How would I know?” her great-aunt asked, just slightly quieter.

“Come on, let’s go before she wakes up.”

Penelope rolled over and eyed the two busybodies who were also her roommates. “Too late.”

Her grandmother made a face even as she sharply elbowed Irene. “I told you you’d wake her.”

Her aunt gave her a long look and then entered the room fully. “That’s all right. Now that she’s up, we can ask her.”

Penelope’s right arm was still curled around the guest pillow on the double bed. Her great-aunt tugged it from her grip and gave it a thorough inspection.

“What are you looking for?” Penelope rose up on her elbows.

Irene plucked at something and then held up what appeared to be a single hair. She frowned. “What color is his hair?”

“Blond.”

“This is dark.”

Penelope gave an exasperated eye roll. “Probably it’s Thor’s.”

Her aunt sighed and then dropped the hair, brushing her hands together.

“Well, whose did you expect it to be?” Penelope asked with a raised brow.

Her grandmother came up the other side of the bed. “Don’t play coy with me, little girl. You know perfectly well who. I changed the sheets yesterday special for the occasion.” She considered Penelope through narrow eyes. “The question is, did you make good use of them?”

Penelope swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. It was far too early for this. “Of course, I made good use of them. I slept on them.”

She dragged her robe from where it lay over the wicker chair in the corner and put it on, weaving her way around the two old women planted in her room. Unsurprisingly, they gave chase, following her to the kitchen where she took a cup out of the cabinet and poured a hefty dose of coffee from the maker.

“So we went to Seattle for nothing, then,” her aunt said with a deep sigh.

Penelope remembered what had transpired in the gazebo and silently told them they hadn’t wasted a minute. She took a deep sip of coffee, only to nearly spit it out.

“What is this?” she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Her grandmother smiled. “Gourmet stuff we picked up last night. Double chocolate mocha almond amaretto something or other. What, don’t you like it?”

Penelope poured the cup’s contents down the drain.

“Hey, that cost four times what our regular stuff does,” her aunt complained.

“Yes, well, then you got ripped off.”

To Penelope, coffee was coffee, straight, no special flavorings or additions or fancy names. Good ole Juan Valdez beans freshly brewed was all she desired and needed.

Funny that emotionally she went for the complicated stuff.

She grimaced and put a cup of water in the microwave and nuked it so she could have some green tea instead. Plain. No lemon or honey. Just simple green tea.

She sat at the table, dipping the bag into the steamy water.

“Who drinks hot tea in the summer?” her great-aunt asked, putting a plate of muffins on the table.

“How is it different than drinking hot coffee?” her grandmother wanted to know, sitting down.

Penelope ignored them as she squeezed the liquid from the bag and put it on the table. She took a long sip. That was more like it.

Finally, she looked up to find Agatha and Irene staring at her.

“What?” she asked, and then groaned. “Not that again.”

“And again and again and again,” her grandmother promised. “Penny, girl, you need to get laid.”

Her aunt nodded her head several times, barely disturbing her tight gray curls. “Yes, you do.”

“But how are you going to do that if you keep your thighs glued together?”

Penelope gasped and quickly raised her hand to ward them off. “Please, don’t. It’s much too early in the morning for me to contemplate talking about sex with my grandmother and great-aunt.”

“Well, you should have thought about that last night. If you had done what you were supposed to, we wouldn’t have to talk about it at all.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes. “Hmm. Somehow I doubt that.” She put her cup down on the table. “I get the feeling that you two would want detailed descriptions.”

“God, girl, why would we want those?”

Her aunt put a muffin on a napkin and pushed it toward her. “We have sex lives. You don’t.” She waggled a brow. “Now if you should want details …”

“Oh, God, please. Spare me.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” her grandmother said. “Maybe it will remind her what she’s missing.”

“And maybe the images you burn into my brain will scar me for life, and leave me unable to ever have sex again.”

Both their mouths closed with a snap.

That was better. Much better.

Penelope ignored the muffin and enjoyed her tea.

It was hard to imagine a time when she didn’t have these two feisty, witty women in her life. In fact, very little had changed since she was five and her own mother had taken off for parts unknown with her latest boyfriend, an occasional visit or phone call to let them know she was still alive Penelope’s only contact with the woman who had birthed her.

Agatha and Irene had raised her, although at times it had been difficult to tell who was the child and who the adults. While there had always been freshly baked and cooked food in the house, so had there been parties and a seemingly never-ending trail of paramours, the reputation of the two sisters in their younger years following them well into the autumn of their lives. More often than not it had been Penelope who had picked up beer bottles from the floor and cigarette butts from the plants after a particularly rowdy night.