The door rattled again, harder this time. I needed to know who was out there. What if he or she did go away? I’d never know who’d been there, and that was probably something I needed to.
I crept closer, fingers grasping the hilt of the knife so tightly they hurt. I’d never had a curtain on the window next to the door. Unless my guest was a Wallenda, it was too far over for anyone to peer into from the landing. Now I had to hope that whoever was out there was peering the other way, or that I could take a peek quickly enough for them not to notice. Why had I never had a new door installed? One that possessed one of those fancy, newfangled peepholes?
Because in New Bergin we didn’t have strangers. Until recently—yesterday—I’d probably been one of the few who locked the door that I had. And that was only because mine was inclined to blow open.
“Raye?” Bobby said from the other side.
Could a person have a heart attack from relief? I yanked open the door, and then I just stood there trying to breathe. He looked like I felt—overworked, underpaid, and desperate for an adult beverage.
“Expecting someone?” He cast a pointed glance at my right hand.
I still held the knife. I set it on the coffee table. “It’s been kind of a rough day.”
“Kind of,” he agreed.
“And you?” I cast an equally pointed glance at his gun.
He shrugged and put it back in the holster. “Everyone’s jumpy.”
He was still covered in soot, the dirt on his face making his eyes shine bright blue. He had shadows beneath them—he had shadows in them—but shadows called to me. He called to me. Reaching out, I pulled him inside. He kicked shut the door and kissed me. I fisted my hands in his filthy shirt and held on.
His heart beat hard and fast like mine. I suppose he’d been as concerned about what was on the other side of the door as I had. Hence the gun.
I let my fingers stroke, along with my tongue. He grasped my hips, pulled me close, tilted his head and delved. His teeth grazed my lips, his thumbs grazed the heavy fullness of my loose breasts, and I shuddered, opening, swelling, groaning.
When he lowered his head and took both my nipple and my shirt into his mouth, my body bowed. My hands went from his chest to his head, my fingers clenching in his hair. I both didn’t want him to stop and I wanted him to move on, to take that clever mouth and show me all that I’d missed.
Then he used his teeth, and I thought I would explode like Mrs. Noita’s house. The sound I made was none I’d ever made before. When he lifted his head, I lifted mine. He frowned at my chest, then let me go so abruptly he had to catch me again before I fell. He cursed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Had he been able to tell just by touching me that I hadn’t been touched in so long it barely counted?
“What do you have to be sorry about? I grabbed you. I put my filthy hands all over you. I’m sorry.”
Filthy hands? He had more issues than I did. Then I glanced down and saw what he meant. Black, finger-shaped marks marred my shirt; a gray circlet haloed my nipple. I twisted and sure enough, handprints clutched my ass. It was too ridiculous; I giggled.
His lips twitched. “You think it’s funny?”
“Right now,” I managed between gasping, half-hysterical breaths. “Everything is.”
“Maybe I should take you to the doctor.”
“I’d rather we played doctor.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. Had I said that?
Now he laughed. “You’re crazy.”
About you, I thought. I managed, barely, not to say it.
“I…” He lifted a hand to his hair, grimaced, and lowered it, rubbing his palm on equally soiled jeans. “I need a shower.”
I indicated the bathroom. “Be my guest.”
“I don’t have any clean clothes.”
With what I had planned, he wouldn’t need them.
“I’ll put yours in the wash.”
For a minute I thought he’d refuse, then what would I do? Beg? I wanted him. But I also didn’t want to be alone. The idea of him walking out, of me staying here …
No, thanks.
Nevertheless, I’d have to remain. Being near me was dangerous.
“I can’t go back to my father’s,” I said.
Instead of asking why, he merely nodded. Another thing I liked about him. He connected the dots often and without help. Or at least those dots that ran in a fairly straight line.
Bobby unbuckled his belt, removed it and his gun, laid them on the end table near the couch. Then he reached for the hem of his shirt. He drew it upward, revealing bronzed, rippling flesh. I ran a fingertip along his stomach, just above the waistband of his jeans. Muscles danced.
“Keep that up,” he said, “and you’ll get a lot dirtier.”
“I don’t mind.”
He cocked his head. His fingers toyed with the top button of his jeans. I licked my lips, and he stilled. “I should probably take that shower.”
“Like hell,” I said, and opened the button myself.