“Sit down.” Stella patted her short-cropped hair and gestured to the worn sofa. “Olivia, fetch your… guest something to drink.”
I scrounged through the rusted refrigerator and came up with a pitcher of lemonade. After pouring three glasses, I returned to the living room where Dean was complimenting Stella on her choice of circus-themed artwork.
“Heard anything from your mother?” Stella looked at me.
“No.” I handed her a glass and sat beside Dean on the sofa. “Have you?”
“Got a letter maybe a month ago. Said she was in New York, New Jersey. Something like that.”
A knot formed in my chest. Though Aunt Stella was my father’s sister, my mother occasionally dropped her a letter or note—and I could not help believing that was because she knew Stella was the only way she could reach me. If she ever wanted to.
“How is she?” I asked.
“All right, I guess. Living with a mechanic or a musician. Something like that.”
“Did she give you an address?”
“Nah. Likely she’s moved on already.”
Likely.
My glass was cold and slippery between my palms. I hated to ask the question, but couldn’t help it. “Did she ask about me?”
Stella shook her head and sipped her lemonade. Dean settled his hand on my thigh.
“Looks like you’ve had a warm spring, Stella,” he remarked. “I noticed the tulips along your front walk.”
Stella brightened a little and began chatting about her garden. I rubbed my shoe over the brown shag carpet and tried not to wonder where my mother was now. Tried not to wonder if she ever thought of me.
We stayed through a dinner of meatloaf and potatoes. Dean asked Stella what she put in the meatloaf to make it so moist (it wasn’t). He listened to Henry’s description of repairing a chain-link fence as if it were interesting (it wasn’t). He wondered if the serving spoon was an antique (it was).
He asked about the town, the local businesses, Henry’s electrician job, and Aunt Stella’s bridge club. He asked about the schools, their church, the last state election, the farmers’ market. He asked how much snow they’d gotten last winter.
When we returned to our room at the only motel in town, I watched Dean as he unbuttoned his shirt.
“I love you,” I said. It was the easiest confession I had ever made.
He stopped in the motion of pulling the shirt off his shoulders. My heart skipped a beat. For a frozen instant, he just looked at me.
Then he smiled—slow and beautiful.
“I’m really glad to hear that, beauty,” he said. “Because I love you too.”
The words sang through me, filling my whole being with light, hope, and happiness. I flew across the room into his open arms. He enclosed me in a hard embrace. I wrapped my legs around his waist and lowered my head for a kiss.
I love you. Love you. You.
Within seconds, our kiss was deepening with heat, our tongues sliding together. I ran my hands over his smooth shoulders, his skin so warm and taut with muscle. His breath brushed my cheek as he trailed his lips down to my neck and the hollow of my throat. I shivered, squirmed.
He lowered me to the bed, his eyes darkening as he undressed me. He eased my skirt off, pulled my shirt over my head, flicked open the front clasp of my bra.
Naked, I felt different, bared to the depths of my soul. I watched with a pounding heart as he kissed his way down my body, licking the peaks of my breasts, smoothing his hands over my hips, dipping his tongue into my belly button.
He slipped his hands between my thighs and eased them apart.
I lifted my head to stare down at him. “Dean…”
“Easy.” He stroked my thighs in a soothing motion, much the way he had the first time we made love. “Do you trust me?”
“I… of course.” I trusted him with everything—my heart, my soul, my life.
“I’ll make it good,” he promised.
And he did. He always made it good. He rubbed me through my underwear, pressing the damp cotton into my cleft. So smooth, so adept was his touch that I started twisting my hips and panting. Urgency spiraled through me.
Dean moved lower, his fingers tangling in the elastic as he pushed it aside. His hot breath contrasted deliciously with the sudden rush of cool air. My eyes drifted closed, my body strumming with excitement as he probed gently with his forefinger. Then he slipped his tongue into me. I gasped, bucking upward so hard that he settled his hands on my hips to keep me still.
“Oh, God… Dean… Dean.”
Pleasure cascaded over me, in me. I stretched my arms over my head and pushed toward him, trying to intensify the stroke of his tongue against every intimate crevice.
I shifted, reached down to grab a fistful of his hair. “Dean, please.”