Kiss Me That Way: A Cottonbloom Novel (25 page)

“He called me sweet thing. Told me Mother was passed out and he wanted to tuck me in. Take care of me.”

“But he made you uncomfortable before that, didn’t he?”

“The way he looked at me. I wasn’t sure what he wanted. I’d never even been kissed, but he made me feel dirty.”

“I should have punched him tonight.”

His anger grew her confidence, the image tapping into a well of dark humor. “That would have been gossiped about for years.”

“I don’t mind a little gossip and neither do you or you wouldn’t have danced with me. Am I right?”

She only smiled and squeezed his hand.

“You climbed out the window and ran to the river. Found my boat. Then, I showed up. Were you scared of me?”

“No,” she said with a decisiveness that startled her.

“Why not? I was a strange man in the dark.”

“I felt…” She burrowed into him, dropping his hand and wrapping her arms around his chest. “Safe. I knew I could trust you. With everything.”

Years had gone by, but she still trusted him, bone-deep and illogical though it was. Somehow, they ended up reclined on her narrow, sagging twin bed, stretched out and face-to-face.

“You remember what we talked about that night?” His Adam’s apple bobbed, his jaw tensing.

“Every word.”

“Then why are you doubting your memory when it comes to Sam Landry?”

Because you weren’t here.
The words shot through her. Thankfully, she stopped herself from speaking them aloud. With a whisper Cade had blown down the walls she’d spent over a decade erecting. Walls that no other man had come close to breeching. She wanted him, but even more, she needed him. The realization was sobering and scary and only made her hold on to him tighter in spite of it.

A weak voice down the hall called her name. The jolt of reality had her scrambling up and running down the hall. Her mother was on the floor by her bed, moaning.

Monroe fell to her knees beside her, ignoring the carpet burn, and pushed her mother’s hair back. “What happened, Mama?” She reverted to the babyish name.

“Bathroom. Help me.” Her sentences were clipped like a toddler’s.

Cade slipped his hands under her mother’s arms and pulled her up.

Monroe hadn’t even heard him follow her. She should tell him to leave. She could handle her mother alone. She didn’t want to. Cade supported most of her mother’s weight on their shuffle to the bathroom. Her mother fell to her knees in front of the toilet like worshiping an idol.

Monroe slipped back out to lean against the bedroom wall. He joined her, standing in front of her with his hands braced on either side of her shoulders as her mother retched. Tears stung at the backs of Monroe’s eyes, and she blinked.

She could accept the unexplainable bond between her and Cade, but no way was she going to literally cry on his shoulder. That was something reserved for her pillow in the middle of lonely nights.

She kept her gaze on her bare feet notched between his fancy square-toed dress shoes. He settled his chin on top of her head. She wasn’t sure how long they stood, listening to her mother, but when the noises stopped he kissed the top of her head.

“Let me get her cleaned up.”

Monroe let him go, feeling weak and thankful at the same time. Water ran and his murmuring made its way out the bathroom door, but she couldn’t make out what he said to her mother. He helped her shuffle back to the bed.

“I got her face washed and teeth brushed. Thought I’d let you handle changing her shirt.” He settled her mother on the edge of the bed, her torso weaving in a semi-circle, her eyes blinking but unfocused.

He retreated toward the door, but Monroe caught his hand. “Thank you … for everything.”

He chucked his chin up and disappeared.

She got her mother changed and tucked back into the bed. At least she hadn’t thrown up all over the sheets. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Monroe tucked the covers around her mother’s body and dropped a kiss on her head.

Her hair reeked of stale smoke, her body of alcohol. How many nights had she leaned over to give Monroe a good night kiss and smelled like a bar instead of face lotion? Too many times. She stayed until her mother’s restlessness eased and her breathing deepened.

Monroe returned to her bedroom. The storm had settled into a soft, plinking rain against the window. Cade’s jacket was gone; the only traces he’d been there were the rumpled sheets where they had lain together.

It wasn’t surprise but disappointment that tumbled through her. She couldn’t blame him. Any man with half a brain cell would run from the ugliness he’d uncovered tonight. Pulling out the combs and pins, she finger combed her hair out of her face and fumbled the clasp of her pendant necklace open.

Her mother would have one hell of a headache come morning. Monroe headed downstairs for ibuprofen and to check the locks. Halfway down the stairs, she registered the low hum of a sitcom laugh track on the TV.

Cade was sprawled across the couch in the den, the remote in his hand, his bare feet propped up on the ottoman. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s going to be hating life tomorrow.”

“No doubt. Uncle Delmar was a bear after his binges.”

Her steps stuttered on her way to the couch. Cade remained relaxed, his face impassive. “Delmar drinks?”

“When I was a kid, he would go on a bender now and again, not show up for work for a few days, get fired. Daddy used to take care of him; then afterward I did.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I did my best to cover for him. He was officially our guardian. If the state got wind, we’d have been shuttled to foster homes. Sawyer says he’s better now.” Questions pinged, but before she could put any to voice he asked, “You staying here tonight?”

“Yeah. In case she needs me.”

“Want some company? I cued up a movie.”

“Sure. Okay.”

His brows rose as if he had expected a fight, but polite protests were beyond her ability. She wanted him to stay.

“Which movie did you pick?”

“Picked one I’d never seen. Figured you’d watched all of them.
Dead Poets Society
?”

“You’ve never seen it?”

“Didn’t have much time for movies growing up.” His voice took on an edge she recognized.

The same edge had cut her when she was left to take care of her mother when it should have been the other way around. Life hadn’t been fair to either of them in different ways.

“It’s excellent, but not very happy.” She sank on the edge of the cushion, tension holding her straight and still.

As the opening credits rolled, he snagged his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into him. Her head settled onto his shoulder, her hand on his chest. She had needed him to force her to lean on him. So many years she had been adamant she would never depend on a man for anything—not for money, not for protection, not for happiness. But around Cade her staunch independence felt more like an aching loneliness.

At first, the movie was background noise, her focus on his hand playing with her hair, the caress of his smooth chin along her forehead, his clean scent. As the movie progressed and her body grew comfortable with his so close, the sad story pulled her in like it always had.

The ending always made her misty-eyed, but with her emotions exposed like severed wires tears flooded her eyes. She tucked her head down, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but it wasn’t long before her nose got into the act and she snuffled.

He shifted, his hand cupping her chin and tilting her head up. She closed her eyes, but a tear trickled out. Instead of questioning her or, worse, laughing at her, he pulled her fully onto his lap and hugged her tight, her face mashed into his neck. She cried. Not manipulative tears or sentimental tears, but a full-on ugly cry.

All he did was rub her back and hold her tighter, even when she had to wipe her nose on the collar of his shirt. Finally, the storm abated, leaving her exhausted. The anxiety, the worry, the resentment, had been washed away.

She pushed up off his chest. He was frowning, the crinkles around his eyes deep with his squint. “I’m not a crier.”

His lips twitched. “Obviously.”

A giggle snuck out followed by a hiccup, which made her laugh even harder. “I mean, not normally a crier. I must look terrible.” She rubbed at her eyes and patted her cheeks.

“You look…”

“Don’t say beautiful, because I know you’d be lying.”

“Red and swollen.” His mouth drew into an apologetic grimace-smile, but the way he spoke didn’t make her feel self-conscious.

She pushed off him, but he caught her waist, pitching them both forward. She wiggled and he shifted until they lay face-to-face, her back pressed into the cushions. The soft fabric of his pants caressed her skin. He kissed her cheek, and her eyes drifted shut with the sensations.

“But still beautiful. Nothing can mask that.”

“When did you turn into such a smooth-talking hero?”

Chapter Eighteen

Her words pried themselves into Cade’s consciousness. He levered himself to an elbow. “I’m not a hero.”

Her eyes opened, still glossy from tears. “All right, what are you then?”

The intimacy of the evening set off tornado sirens. Pursuing a goal of sexual satisfaction for them both was one thing; holding her while she cried for her mother was another. And the ache in his chest and the need to wipe all her childhood pain away and replace it with happiness wasn’t even on the table for discussion.

Afraid his answer would give too much away, he kissed her. Her lips were soft and salt tinged from her crying jag. Her fingers played in the hair at his nape. Maybe having sex would sever the odd bond born of the past. Maybe memories of their full moon nights together only confused the lust that had bloomed between them as adults. Sex would clear the air so he could see clearly again.

He skimmed his hand up her waist to span her rib cage, an inch below her breast. His thumb followed the path of her bare skin, hooking under the edge of her dress and glancing across her already-peaked nipple.

Her inhale stole the air from his lungs. He slipped his hand under the fabric to cover her entire breast, her nipple pressing into his palm. Like studying Sawyer’s engineering books, Cade had studied the mechanics of pleasuring a woman, but in the past bringing a woman to orgasm had been about ego and his body’s goal of its own satisfaction.

Her soft skin under his fingertips was like a tonic to his confusion. The scary truth presented itself like a flashing neon sign in Times Square. Sex would only strengthen their connection. The need to lay hands on her was more than he could deny.

Light from the muted TV flickered. She arched, pressing her breast farther into his hand. Her fingers left his hair to wrap around his wrist, but she only pressed his hand tighter against her body. When he moved his hand away from her breast, a sexy whimper emerged from her throat and her fingernails dug into his wrist.

He pulled the dress off her shoulder and pushed the fabric aside, baring one of her breasts. She loosened her hold. The juxtaposition of his tanned hand against her pale skin and his rough calluses against her softness made him achingly aware of her femininity.

Her breast wasn’t large but was perfectly shaped for his hand, the nipple small and pink. He thumbed the point, drawing it even tighter before pinching it lightly. She writhed and moaned, her eyes squeezed closed. Was every part of her as sensitive?

“Look at me,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Her eyes shot open, huge and blue and still swollen from her crying jag. She looked innocent. Hell, she was innocent compared to him. Or was she? She’d dealt with a different set of demons growing up, but they rampaged through her dreams. He understood that.

He shifted down to lick over her nipple. Her pelvis circled against his erection. The pressure wound tighter and ached for release. He’d been battling the damn thing since he’d stepped into her room earlier. Outlined by the lightning of the storm raging outside her window, the swaths of her pale skin had glowed.

He pushed her deep into the cushion and sucked her nipple into his mouth. Her hips bucked, and her leg snaked over his.

“Cade, please.” The desperation in her voice spoke to him more than her words.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispered while his tongue flicked at her distended nipple. Although he’d meant sexually, deep inside him a seed he’d thought had shriveled and died took root with the words and flourished.

True to form, her hand came between them and tugged at his pants. He took her wrist and pressed her hand into the back cushion. Slower and harsher than he intended, so she wouldn’t argue with words or spirit, he said, “Let me take care of you, dammit.”

She tossed her head back, her neck working with her swallow, her hair fanned around them. The tension threading her had faded, although her body strained toward his with a different purpose now. Her pose was one of supplication.

A primal sense of ownership went hand in hand with the need to protect her. How many men had she allowed to take control of her pleasure? None, if he had to wager.

He let go of her wrist and her hand stayed put, neither encouraging nor denying his access to her body. He pulled at the other side of her dress, baring both breasts. While he licked and sucked and kissed one, his fingers played with the other, pinching and rolling.

Rubbing his cheek across the soft slopes brought her hand to his shoulder; she grasped at the fabric of his shirt as if she wanted to pull him inside of her. He situated her flat on her back and levered himself over her, careful not to put all his weight on her.

She spread her legs to accommodate his hips, and he pumped in a mockery of what his body screamed for. The position was too much of a temptation for him, and he shifted to her side, keeping a leg draped over hers.

While he caught her closest nipple between his teeth, he trailed a hand up her thigh, bringing the voluminous fabric of her skirt with him. Blue fabric bunched at her waist. A tiny G-string made a weak effort to hide his ultimate destination.

He plucked the side string where it made a slight indentation into her soft hip. “This is quite possibly the sexiest, most useless item of clothing I’ve ever seen.”