I was dying. I pulled his head away. “Let’s go where I won’t wake the baby,” I said.
He gave me a wicked grin and stood, sweeping me up with him. The belt of my robe trailed along the floor as he carried me down the hall to the bedroom and closed the door.
I grabbed his neck and twisted in his arms until I was straddling him. I could feel him hard against me as we took the last few steps to the bed.
He bent forward to lay me down, dragging the robe away.
“Quickly, before she wakes up,” I said, but he shushed me with a kiss. He wasn’t going to be in a hurry.
He pulled my shirt over my head, breaking our connection to let the fabric pass between us. Then he made his way down, slowly, making me crazy with how he took his time.
He kissed a path down my collarbone, up the crest of one breast, then down to my belly button. He slid my panties down with a simple tug, then followed the newly exposed place until I arched up against his mouth.
His tongue teased me, circling the nub, until his fingers joined in. I quit thinking about the baby, or time, or the risk of her waking, and got lost in his work. Everything disappeared other than that pulsing need that was spiraling up and taking me over.
Chance knew me so well, reaching up to lightly tease a nipple, and I burst right over the edge, thrusting against him as I peaked, trying to contain my voice, hanging on to his shoulders for dear life.
I had barely caught my breath, still seeing lightning shards in my vision, when he grasped my hips and turned me over. I could hear his buckle jingle, and clothes hit the floor behind me.
Then his skin connected with mine, hot and rough. He slid inside me without any resistance. I dropped my head to the mattress, braced on my elbows, waiting for his first stroke.
When it came, I crashed back into him, taking him in hard. Chance groaned and sped up, holding tight to my hips.
For long moments he worked me, keeping a strong rhythm, then reached around for me again.
My hair was everywhere, flowing across the bed. When he touched me, I lurched back again. I was so hot, so full of need.
His fingers worked me, and I tightened around him. He felt me go and unleashed inside me, pulsing as I muffled this second round of cries in the blankets.
When he was spent, we stayed there a moment, breathing hard, trying to find our bearings. Chance’s arms came around me, lifting me against him, my back to his chest. I stayed there, loving the strong arms around me, until my thighs quaked, and he lay both of us down across the bed.
We stayed there a while in the quiet when I heard, in the distance, my phone chime with Corabelle’s ringtone. It was late to be hearing from her.
“I don’t think I can get that,” I told Chance.
He chuckled. “That’s one of your girlfriends, right?”
“Corabelle. She’s in Houston with Tina.”
“Seems like you’d want that call.” He shifted away from me and headed toward the living room.
He came back, my phone pressed to his ear. “She’s right here,” he said, passing the phone to me.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. The cold hit right about then, and I shivered. Chance covered me with my robe and kissed the back of my head. I mouthed a silent “Thank you.”
“Today was tough,” she said. “We moved the baby from the grave to the crematorium. I didn’t go back when they opened the casket, but Tina said he was fine. She held him.”
“Whoa.” I tried to picture this, but couldn’t do it. “Is she all right?”
“Yeah. The ashes will be ready tomorrow to pick up.”
“Is she coming back?”
Corabelle sighed. “I don’t think so. She’s got an artist studio she’s renting and seems pretty set on staying a while.”
“What about Darion?”
“She won’t talk about him. Or Albert. She just diverts the conversation to other things.”
I tugged the robe around me. Chance headed to the bathroom. “Can’t you do anything?”
“I think I’ve done all I can. It’s not up to us. But she is okay. She’s got a friend or two here.”
“So, we’ve lost her?”
The phone was silent for a moment.
Then finally Corabelle said, “I think we have.”
Chapter 23: Tina
I had forgotten how Houston exploded with azaleas in the spring.
The dead-looking bushes surrounding the greenhouses at the artist studio had burst with color practically overnight. There must be some weather condition, or timing of the sun, that made them all know when to show up at once.
That morning when I saw them, I stopped futzing around with the cemetery image and started painting flowers. I hadn’t been able to do solid work for a week, and the blooms were like a fresh start.
Sarah, the woman who owned the studio, popped into the greenhouse to check on a section of glass that had been replaced the day before. The artist who had been sharing the space with me had gone on a rampage after a bad review of his gallery opening and thrown his metal stool right through one of the panes.