Isabel Sharpe Page 2

  MELANIE STRODE DOWN Water Street in the cool night air, checking her watch by the nearest streetlight even knowing it would be exactly one minute later than the last time she checked it. Which put her at forty-five minutes past midnight, enough time, she hoped, for Stoner to have made it back from wherever he’d gone, gotten into bed as promised, and to have given up on her and fallen asleep.

  After Stoner left, she’d had another mojito with Jenny at The Wicked Hop, then they’d gone to hear a band at the Milwaukee Ale House, where she drank a lot of water and nursed a beer for appearances, not wanting to show up in Stoner’s bed too drunk to function. Before it was time to leave, though, she’d poured back one last mojito to make sure any inhibitions—she didn’t have many—would be on hold.

  So now, well-hydrated, high on adrenaline and that last quickly downed drink, she was on her way. To Stoner. Oh, yeah.

  At the entrance to Edgar’s funny little building, she pushed through the outer door…then stopped. Oh, no. Stoner might have made sure the door to Edgar’s apartment would be open, but the inner door to the building was locked. She’d have to buzz him to let her in, which wasn’t the end of the world, but announcing herself would spoil the fun of creeping into the bedroom and jumping him in the dark. Not that he’d be totally surprised, but she never had actually told him whether she’d show, so she had a shot at a stealth attack.

  Maybe someone would come out? Thursday night, it could happen this late. She peered through the glass, hand next to her face to block the light from the foyer. The last several steps of the staircase were visible…and empty.

  Three impatient, fidgety minutes later, they were still empty, but the now familiar row of buzzers next to the door gave her another idea. Sledge, the artist/sculptor/jeweler, lived in Edgar’s building on the second floor, the guy she’d met when Edgar took her to buy a necklace for his longtime “girlfriend,” who turned out, incredibly, not to exist.

  Melanie frowned, boozily distracted by a new thought. What had happened to that necklace if there was no girlfriend to give it to? Maybe the whole scene had been a charade and Edgar hadn’t really bought it. Except that made no sense either because—

  Focus, Melanie. The point was that she could buzz Sledge and say she needed to get into Edgar’s apartment, that she was early for a rendezvous and wanted to wait until he got back from…somewhere. With luck, Sledge wouldn’t know Edgar had gone to Chicago.

  Good plan. Except it was rudely late to be bothering anyone.

  She was reaching for Sledge’s buzzer anyway when jeans appeared on the stairs inside the building, and then rapidly, the rest of a young guy. Perfect.

  “Hey there.” He held the door open for her with a friendly smile. “Forget your key?”

  “Visiting a friend in 3C.”

  “Excellent. Have a good night.”

  “Thanks!” Oh, she so would, partly because of him.

  Inside, she hauled a mirror out of her bag for one last check, even though she’d already primped in the ladies’ room at the Milwaukee Ale House. Lipstick—check; eyelashes darkened and curled—check; blush not too garish—check; hair appropriately mussed—check; clothes…

  Melanie interrupted her routine. A sudden vision appeared, of her mother preparing for a night out with whatever man she was seeing that week or month, exactly like this, checking lips, eyes, cheeks, hair…with Melanie as a little girl watching, torn between admiration for her mom’s beauty, envy at the way she got to fancy herself up, and anxiety, not knowing if the date would last all evening, all night or all week, leaving her and Alana to fend for themselves.

  Funny she’d never noticed the similarity of their preparation before, though of course she realized she was like her mom in a lot of other ways, ahem. The association probably occurred to her now because Mom had come back to Milwaukee, apparently hoping to repair the damage she’d done to the relationship with her daughters.

  Melanie shoved the mirror into her purse, unwilling to continue even if the connection to her mother was only superficial. Melanie didn’t have kids she was leaving alone and scared tonight. She was the only one who’d shoulder any consequences for her actions.

  She started up the stairs, not wanting to dwell on negative thoughts. Tonight was a mission of pure fun.

  Up one flight, turn at the landing, up another to the second floor where Sledge lived—she tiptoed past his door—up another, turn at the landing, up again to floor three, apartment C, the door that was supposed to be unlocked.

  Yes. She turned the knob silently, took a deep breath, body thrumming with excitement, and slipped into the dark interior. She’d known Edgar two years but had only seen his place for the first time last week, and had been shocked. From the mismatched, horrible way Edgar dressed, she’d expected his apartment to be a typical bachelor disaster. Nope.

  The place was nothing like him—or nothing like the way she thought of him. Sophisticated, stylish, elegant even, cherry-toned woods and green plants and a colorful—and very clean—fish tank, state-of-the-art kitchen, impressive library… Add that to Stoner’s revelation of a country-club upbringing and it didn’t equal the dorky, disorganized friend Melanie thought she knew.

  She moved into the living room, eerily lit by the glowing light above the bubbling tank. Straight ahead to the right, a door, ajar as Stoner said it would be. Melanie headed for it, walking silently, hoping he was asleep. She wanted to slide into bed, wake him gently with kisses and caresses, get their intimacy off to a slow, tantalizing start.

  Through the door, and into…

  The bathroom. Arghh.

  She made a quick exit and tiptoed down the hall a few feet to the next door. Also ajar. She pushed it open halfway, pleased when it didn’t protest.

  Very dark inside, only the faintest glimmer around the blinds. A body barely visible in the bed, the sound of deep, regular breathing.

  Hello, Melanie. Welcome to your perfect fantasy. We hope you enjoy your stay.

  Oh, she was pretty sure she would.

  As quietly as she could, she laid her purse on the floor, then took hold of the hem of her top and pulled it off slowly, as if she were stripping with Stoner watching. She imagined his reaction, her heightened sensual awareness reveling in the feel of the room’s cool air on her skin. Yes, oh, yes; he liked that, but wanted to see more. Bra unhooked, she let it fall, watching the lump on the bed, imagining his eyes glazing, hands reaching for her.

  Skirt next, pulled off in a slow shimmy, then underpants, sliding over hips, gliding down thighs, dropping past calves to her feet, then kicked away. Naked. Ready.

  No, not yet. Condoms in her purse—always have them, always use them, her mother had counseled over and over, way before Melanie and Alana knew what she was talking about. Now. Ready.

  Melanie moved, floated, wafted across the floorboards until she was next to the dark shape that would give her body so much pleasure so soon. For a minute she stood by the bed, imagining, fantasizing, until her desire rose so impatiently she could no longer wait to touch him.

  As slowly and gently as possible, she slid the condom under his second pillow, then slipped into the bed, displacing the mattress and covers as imperceptibly as she could. She lay next to him and he stirred, not yet aware of what disturbed his sleep.

  He would be soon.

  She reached and encountered a muscular bare back, skin smooth and warm. She wanted to purr. This was going to be wonderful. “Mmm.”

  Melanie smiled. “Hello there.”

  “Ungh.” He lifted and replaced his head on the pillow, drawing up his legs.

  “Are you even awake yet?” She stroked the length of his back, following the bumps of his spine, the contours of his shoulder blades, up to—

  He started. “Whah th—”

  “Shhh.” She curled around him. “It’s Melanie, you dope.”

  “Melanie.” His hoarse whisper nearly made her giggle. Poor guy must have been in a seriously deep sleep. “What— How—”

/>   “Don’t talk, sleepy man….” She put her lips to his skin, followed the taut muscle across the top of his shoulder. Desire urged her up to straddle him. Rolling him flat on his back, she discovered he slept in the nude, and that one part of him was waking up faster than the rest. She stroked the nicely developed planes of his chest through curling hair, wishing she could see his face, but enjoying the mysterious darkness around them too much to turn on a light. “Just lie back…and enjoy.”

  “Oh, my—”

  “Shhh.” She leaned down, planted kisses collarbone to throat, throat to chin, orienting herself on the landscape of his fine physique so she wouldn’t aim and miss that sexy mouth when she went for their first kiss.

  Found it. She lingered, lips hovering millimeters above his, making hers tingle and tremble with anticipation. Nothing beat this moment, making him wait, making herself wait, too, her body going nuts with hormones and—

  Strong arms came around her; his body heaved, and he was on top so fast she barely had time to react.

  “Melanie.” The whisper again, this time softer, sweeter, more tender. She suddenly felt oddly disjointed, almost panicky. Something wasn’t right. Something was—

  His lips found hers dead on target, as if he could see in the dark. She lay still from shock—one, two, three—then her brain registered that she was being kissed as if she were his last hope of ever being kissed again, that his lips were warm and firm and that they matched hers absolutely perfectly.

  She made a tiny whimpering sound of surrender that surprised her. Her arms came up and around his neck and she hung on as if she’d otherwise drown.

  The man could kiss.

  But it wasn’t just his technique, the kissing was…different, somehow. Nothing like she’d experienced in recent memory. It was…

  It was…

  It was as if he loved her.

  Stoner was kissing her as if she was the greatest thing that had ever happened or that ever could happen to him. And she was kissing him back that way because within a very short time it seemed that had become entirely true.

  He lifted off her; she protested with an inarticulate sound, feeling the loss keenly…until those magic lips began exploring, circling her breasts in a slow inward spiral, making her nearly weep with gratitude when they finally found her nipple.

  His hands had started a journey of their own, covering her thighs with warm sweeps that made her lift her hips from the bed, going closer and closer to her thighs’ juncture, then retreating, closer, then retreating.

  She was crazy hot already for the release of his touch between her legs, and they’d barely even begun. He was nothing like she expected, not selfish, not impatient, not insensitive, absolutely the opposite of all those things. Stoner…

  Her heart started a pointless yearning; she told it to stop immediately, as she had told it so many times. This was sex with a stranger, no different than all the other sex she’d had with all the other strangers.

  His fingers reached the starved place between her legs; breath hissed between her teeth. Touched, withdrew, probed farther, withdrew.

  It was totally different.

  She moaned as he dipped again, circled slowly, retreated, circled again, then his torso moved down and he replaced his fingers with his mouth.

  Melanie lay helplessly, not sure what had happened, how she’d lost control of the show to this extent. She struggled to sit up. “You should let me… I want to…”

  His turn to shush her. His strong hand planted on her sternum pushed her back down. His lips closed over her clitoris and his tongue began to play in earnest.

  She gasped, lifted her head, let it drop, eyes squeezed tight, fighting the pleasure. “No. Too soon.”

  He showed no mercy, thrust two fingers inside her and shoved her over the edge within seconds, a deep, satisfying orgasm that went on and on until she was nearly in tears, racked by the contractions and the emotion. Too soon. She only dimly understood the certainty she felt that when they joined bodies, they would also join something much more profound. Now she wouldn’t get the chance anytime soon to see if that level of intimacy could happen between them. It took her hours to recharge for orgasm number two.

  “I wanted to come with you.”

  “You will, Melanie,” he whispered. Again she had the feeling something wasn’t right. An odd instinct. Disconcerting. She shouldn’t have had that last drink, so she could analyze her reaction more clearly.

  He stretched beside her on his side, a dark shape in the darkened room, no longer serving her but an equal partner. She slid her hand down his lean abdomen; he was hard, which pleased her. It meant the work of making her come hadn’t been work.

  A sweep down his granite length with an open palm, a light caress of his compacted balls and she fisted his erection, stroked up and down, then paused, thumbing his penis head’s magical softness, encountering moisture she gently spread.

  He was perfect.

  She bent to take him in her mouth, but he chuckled faintly and she found herself again on her back, wrists pinned over her head.

  “I won’t last, Mel—”

  “Shh.” She brought his head down to kiss her. She didn’t want him to talk. Every time he did she got that funny feeling, and since everything else about this night had far exceeded her expectations, hell, it had exceeded even her fantasies, she couldn’t bear for anything to be less than ideal.

  Luckily, she had a surefire way to stop him wanting to talk. She retrieved the condom from under his pillow and managed to close his hand around it. She wasn’t sure even with all her experience that she could manage in the dark, and she didn’t want to spoil anything by fumbling.

  She lay back, listening to the tearing foil, smiling, relaxed, ready. This was all deliciously familiar now. She loved sex. Even when she couldn’t come, she loved the sensations, the joining, the broad expanse of a man’s back above her, the working of his butt muscles as he pushed inside her. She loved doggy style, missionary, her on top, or both of them in—

  He would want to see her again, wouldn’t he?

  Melanie blew out a silent breath of frustration. Not now. Plenty of time later for doubts and worries and—

  He was back, hands exploring her more firmly this time, more insistently. His mouth on her breasts involved teeth as well as tongue. He was rougher in his touch, though patient, seeming to read her reactions and needs as if they were a map in front of him.

  Incredibly, she responded, desire building again, breath stuttering, hands wandering over his broad masculine shape.

  His thighs nudged hers farther apart; she felt the hard head of his erection at her opening and inhaled sharply. Did she say the moment before the first kiss was her favorite? She was changing her mind. This was her favorite, when the real fun was about to begin.

  He breathed her name once more, with reverence that cut through her carnal anticipation and made her again uneasy. Only briefly, because he pushed inside her, dug his arms under and around her, and began to make love to her in a way that showed her the phrase wasn’t just a euphemism but a literal description, an experience she hadn’t known was possible.

  Making love.

  Afterward—yes, she could come twice within an hour—she lay in his arms, listening to their breathing return to normal, savoring the contact between them, the delicious skin-on-skin, muscle-pressed-to-muscle afterglow, his hands caressing her hair, her cheek, her shoulder. “Melanie.”

  “Not now.” She put a finger in the general vicinity of his lips, repositioned it when she hit his chin instead. She was so enveloped in the glow of this moment, so vulnerable to this man and what they’d just shared, that she couldn’t handle hearing anything discussed. Not that the sex was good, not that it was bad, not that she should leave now, not what he’d had for dinner, nothing. Because every second spent in conversation would bring them closer to the world of reality, and each word would bring them one word closer to when he let her know it was over. “Later. We’ll talk
later. Please.”

  “Okay,” he whispered, squeezing her tight, nuzzling a kiss into the sensitive side of her neck.

  She sighed, peace spreading through her body, instead of that familiar urge to move on to the next thing, the next activity, the next anything. She was content just to be, in this bed with this man on this perfect, perfect night.

  Which, like every other night of her crazy life’s adventure, was doomed shortly to end.

  2

  TRICIA HAWTHORNE SAT in the kitchen she grew up in. Even remodeled, it retained the flavor of her parents, Edith and Edwin Hawthorne. She could remember her mother baking cookies, her father hovering around, eagerly waiting for them to cool. She could remember family dinners around the old table. And she could remember tiptoeing out at midnight on her way to getting drunk. Tiptoeing home drunk at four in the morning, praying neither of her parents would hear her. Sneaking here, sneaking there, doing this, doing that, nothing they ever approved of, behavior that had bewildered and hurt them. Yet they’d loved her, supported her, picked up after her, believing she’d grow out of her wild behavior and settle down.

  That only took her until the age of fifty. Good thing her parents were both alive to know their long wait was at an end.

  The coffeemaker sputtered out its final drops. Four in the morning… She’d slept only a few hours, finally giving in and resignedly getting up. Tricia had never been a good sleeper, but too many nights were like this now. She’d tried herbal remedies, hypnosis, hot baths, meditation, tapes, relaxation exercises, and finally decided that insomnia was her punishment for a life poorly lived, and that it was just going to be that way until she settled her emotional debts and found inner peace.

  She poured her coffee and added skim milk, wishing her waistline and cholesterol count would allow her the luxury of cream. Or one of the enormous bakery blueberry muffins in a plastic container on the counter. She and Melanie were supposed to have breakfast this morning before Melanie went to work, but she hadn’t come home last night. Now it was Tricia’s turn to worry about her daughter, as her parents and Melanie’s older sister, Alana, had been doing for far too long.