Whiskey Beach

Chapter Thirteen

OUT OF PRACTICE, HE THOUGHT WITH SOME NERVES AS they climbed the beach steps, and he wasn’t entirely convinced sex was like riding a damn bike.

Sure, the basics remained the basics, but the process required moves, technique, timing, finesse, tone. He liked to think he’d been pretty good at it once. Nobody’d complained, including Lindsay.

Still.

“We’re going to stop thinking about it,” Abra announced when they reached the door. “I’m messing up my head, and I’ll lay odds you’re messing up yours.”

“Maybe.”

“So let’s stop thinking.”

She peeled off her hoodie, hung it on a peg, then grabbed his jacket, yanked it off his shoulders as she pulled herself in, as she fixed her mouth on his.

His brain didn’t explode out of the top of his head, but it sure as hell banged around in there.

“That’s how it works,” she said as she tugged his jacket off, hung it up.

“Yeah, it’s coming back to me.” He grabbed her hand, pulled her along with him. “I don’t want to do this in the laundry room, or on the kitchen floor. And they’re both looking pretty good to me right now.”

With a laugh, she spun into him, took his mouth again as she flipped open buttons on his shirt. “No reason not to get started on the way.”

“That’s a point.” She wore a soft blue pullover, or did until he yanked it up and off, tossed it behind them as they arrowed toward the stairs.

She pulled at his belt; he dragged at the skinny white tank she wore under the pullover. And both of them tripped on the base of the stairs.

They teetered, groped.

“Maybe we’d better get up there,” she managed.

“Good idea.” He grabbed her hand again.

They raced up—like a couple of kids, he’d think later, running toward the big, shiny gift under the Christmas tree. Except most kids didn’t try to rip each other’s clothes off while they ran.

Out of breath, he finally stripped off her white tank as they hurtled into the bedroom.

“Oh God, look at you.”

“Look later.” She slid his belt free, let it fall to the floor with a clunk.

He knew they couldn’t dive into the bed, not literally, but he figured they came pretty damn close. He forgot about moves, timing, technique. He sure as hell forgot finesse. But she didn’t seem to mind.

He wanted those soft, pretty breasts in his hands—the femininity of the shape, the smoothness of skin. He wanted his mouth on them—the leap of her heart against his lips and tongue, the grip of her hand in his hair as she pressed him against her.

As her body bowed up to his like an offering.

He gorged himself on the scent of her, that goddess-of-the-sea scent that brought mermaids and sirens to his mind. That sleek, sculpted body vibrated with energy, infused his own.

As they rolled over the bed, grasping, groaning, he felt he could do anything, be anything, have anything.

She yearned. She ached. Everything felt frantic, fast, fabulous. His hands on her body, hers on his. She knew the lines of him, the shape, but now she could take, now she could feel—not to soothe or comfort, but to ignite.

She wanted to fire him, and have the blaze consume them both.

All the needs, good, strong, healthy needs, she’d locked away broke free in a crazed stampede that trampled any thought of restraint or caution.

She couldn’t get enough, ravaged his mouth in her quest to feed and fill. But the hunger only grew keener, like a blade whetted on a speeding wheel. She all but clawed her way on top of him to sink her teeth into his shoulder, lost her breath as he flipped her back again and found her white-hot center with his fingers.

The orgasm ripped through her, a glorious shock. Dazzled and drugged with it, she groped for him.

“God. God. Please. Now.”

Thank you, Jesus, he thought, because it had to be now. When he drove himself into her, the earth didn’t simply move. It quaked.

The world shook; the air thundered. And his body lit up, then erupted with triumph and pleasure, with a desperate, dizzying demand for more.

She clung to him, arms and legs locked in the wild ride full of sound and speed. Fast, rhythmic slaps of flesh to heat-slicked flesh, the crazed creak of the bed, the pants of labored breath overrode the lazy beat of the sea to shore whispering at the windows.

He felt himself fall away, just fall away into that whirl of sound, into the rush, into the stupefying pleasure.

Into her.

He’d have sworn he flew, too far, too high, into a moment of exquisite pain, before he just emptied.

They didn’t move. It had gone dark sometime during the race to the bedroom and the sprint to the finish line, but he wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t been struck blind.

Better to stay just as he was for the time being. Besides, the sensation of her body beneath his, sleek and toned and absolutely still, felt so damn good. Though she’d gone lax, her heart continued to rage against his. The rapid beat made him feel like a god.

“And I wasn’t sure I’d pull it off.”

“Oh, you pulled it way off. I may never get it on again.”

He blinked. “Did I say that out loud?”

The laugh rumbled in her throat. “I won’t hold it against you. I wasn’t sure either of us would pull it off. I feel like I must be glowing. I can’t understand why I’m not illuminating the whole room like a torch.”

“I think we went blind.”

When she felt him shift, Abra opened her eyes, looked into the glint of his. “No, I can see you. It’s just dark. There’s only a quarter moon tonight.”

“I feel like I landed on it.”

“A trip to the moon.” It made her smile as she brushed at his hair. “I like it. All I need now is some water, before I die of thirst, and maybe some food before we try for the return trip.”

“I can supply the water. I keep some in the . . .” He rolled over, reached out for the nightstand, and ended up on the floor. “What the hell!”

“Are you okay?” She scrambled to the edge of the bed to stare down at him. “Why are you on the floor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s the lamp? Where’s the nightstand?”

“I don’t know. Did we end up in an alternate universe?” He rubbed his hip as he got to his feet, and stood straining to see while his eyes adjusted to the dark. “Something’s not right. The terrace doors are supposed to be over there, but they’re over there. And the . . . Wait a minute.”

Cautious, he moved in the darkened room, cursed when his toe stubbed against a chair, skirted it, then groped for the bedside lamp.

The light flashed on.

“Why am I over here?” she asked him.

“Because the bed’s over there. It was over here. Now it’s over there and turned sideways.”

“We moved the bed?”

“It was over here,” he repeated, then walked back to her. “Now it’s over here.” He got back in as she sat up beside him. Both of them sat, studying the empty space between the two nightstands.

“That’s a lot of pent-up sexual energy,” she decided.

“I’d say massive amounts. Has this ever happened to you before?”

“It’s a first.”

“Me, too.” He turned, grinned at her. “I’m going to mark it down on the calendar.”

Laughing, she twined her arms around his neck. “Let’s leave it here for now, see if we can move it back again later.”

“There are a lot of other beds in this house. We could experiment. I think . . . Shit. Shit. Pent-up sexual energy. Abra, the bed’s here, the nightstands, and the condoms are over there. I didn’t think. I couldn’t think.”

“We’re okay. I’m on birth control. How long have you been storing up your sexual energy?”

“Some over a year.”

“Same here. I think that area of safety’s covered, so to speak. Why don’t we hydrate, eat, then see what else we can move?”

“I really like the way your mind works.”

She was right about the soup. It was exceptional. He’d begun to think she was very rarely wrong about anything.

They sat at the kitchen island, he in flannel pants and a sweatshirt, Abra in one of his grandmother’s robes. Eating soup, hunks of bread, drinking wine, talking about movies she claimed he had to see or books they’d both read.

He told her about his find in the house’s library. “It’s interesting, definitely written by a woman with a male pseudonym.”

“That sounds biased and a little snarky.”

“Not meant that way,” he claimed. “Writer’s a word without gender. But this struck me as female, especially given the era it was written in. It’s a little flowery, definitely romantic. I liked it, even if it should’ve been labeled fiction.”

“I’d like to be the judge of that. Can I borrow it?”

“Sure. I thought, given the trench, I’d take a pass through the library here, read what we’ve got on the legend, the Calypso, on Nathanial Broome and my ancestor Violeta.”

“Now that’s a project I can get behind. I always meant to ask Hester if I could borrow some of the books, but never did. I tend toward fiction or self-help.”

Since he considered her one of the most self-aware and contented women he’d ever met, he had to ask, “What help does your self need?”

“Depends on the day. But when I first moved here I still felt a little unsteady. I read a lot of books on finding balance, dealing with trauma.”

He laid a hand over hers. “I don’t want to bring back bad memories, but I want to ask how long he got.”

“Twenty years. The prosecutor was pushing for rape, battery, attempted murder, and he would’ve faced life. So they pleaded it down to aggravated sexual assault, adding in the knife, and held to the maximum. I didn’t think he’d take it, but—”

“Factor in the stalking, the premeditation in breaking into your place, eyewitnesses in your neighbors. He was smart to take it. How are you about the twenty?”

“I’m good with it. Satisfied with it. When he comes up for parole, I intend to go in, speak to the board. I intend to take the photos of me after the assault. I like to think it’s not vindictive, but—”

“It’s not.”

“I don’t really care if it is, and I’ve made peace with my own needs on it. I do know I feel lighter with him in prison, and I’ll do what I can to keep him there. Away from me, away from someone else he might focus on. So I found my balance, and every now and then I like a little boost, or something that opens me up to a different way of thinking.”

With a smile, she spooned up more soup. “How’s your balance, Eli?”

“Right now I feel like I could do handsprings across a tightrope.”

She laughed into her wine. “Sex is the best invention.”

“No argument here.”

“Maybe you should write some sex into your book, unless you think it’s too female and flowery.”

“I sense a challenge.”

“Wouldn’t you like your hero to find his balance in the end?” She leaned over, brushed her lips lightly to his. “I’d love to help you with your research.”

“I’d be a fool to say no.” Eyes on hers, he slid his hand up her thigh. “The kitchen floor still looks good.”

“We should see how it feels.”

As she angled toward him, the doorbell chimed.

“Damn it. Hold that thought.”

He found Vinnie at the door, and realized he hadn’t hit balance when the sight of a cop, even an old friend, still made his heart lurch.

“Hey, Vinnie.”

“Eli. I had a call out this way, and was heading back in since my shift’s up. I wanted to stop by to . . . Oh, hi, Abs.”

“Hi, Vinnie.” She stepped up beside Eli. “Come in out of the cold.”

“Oh, well . . . bad timing. I can talk to you tomorrow, Eli.”

“Come on in, Vinnie. We were just having some soup Abra made.”

“Do you want a bowl?” she asked him.

“No. Thanks. No. Ah, I had a dinner break a couple hours ago, and . . .”

“I’ve got Eli on twice-weekly massages,” Abra said easily. “And I’m making sure he eats, which is something he’s been neglecting. And we’re having sex. That’s a new development.”

“Okay. Jesus, Abra. Man.”

“Why don’t you go in and sit down with Eli? I’ll get you some coffee.”

“I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Too late,” Abra said as she walked off.

Eli just grinned after her. “She’s amazing.”

“Yeah, well. Look, Eli, I like you. At least I liked you back in the day, and I’m inclined to like you now. Just don’t mess up with her.”

“I’ll be working hard not to. We might as well go in and sit down.” He turned toward the parlor, stopped when Vinnie studied the massage table. “She won’t take no.”

“Not on much.” Vinnie hooked his thumbs in his uniform belt. “Anyway, Eli, I know Detectives Corbett and Wolfe came to see you.”

“Yeah, we had an interesting chat earlier.”

“Corbett’s straight and smart—and thorough. I don’t know Wolfe, but it’s pretty clear he’s got his teeth in this bone, and he’s not giving it up.”

“He’s had his teeth in me for a year.” Eli dropped down on the sofa. “I’ve got the scars.”

“He’s going to chomp them into Abra now, and into me.”

“I’m sorry, Vinnie.”

Vinnie shook his head, lowered to a chair. “I’m not looking for sorry. But I figured you should know he’s going to do what he can to discredit Abra as your alibi, and take a swing at me as I play into it.”

“He’s a bully.” Abra walked in with a mug of coffee. “A dangerous one, I think.”

Vinnie took the coffee, stared into it. “He’s a hard-nosed, experienced cop with a pretty solid rep. My take? Coming up against you, Eli, when his gut and the circumstantial says you’re guilty as black-eyed sin, then not being able to prove it’s got him pissed.”

“I can’t be guilty of murder just to keep his record clear.”

“He knew Duncan.”

“I got that.”

“I haven’t looked deep, but my sense is they knew each other pretty well. So now he’s got more motivation to break you down. And this time, you’ve got an alibi.”

“Which would be me.”

“And you,” Vinnie said to Abra, “he’s going to see as a liar, protecting your . . .”

“The word these days is ‘lover,’” Abra put in. “He can try to discredit me. He’s doomed to failure. And I can see on your face you’re thinking it was easier, clearer when I wasn’t sleeping with Eli. I’ve— We’ve complicated things. But the truth’s still the truth, Vinnie.”

“I just want you to know he’s going to stir things up. He’ll dig. He’s already dug as far as can be dug with Eli, so you need to expect him to do the same on you, Abs.”

“It doesn’t worry me. Eli knows about Derrick, Vinnie.”

“Okay.” With a nod, Vinnie drank some coffee. “I don’t want you worried. Just prepared.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Have they run ballistics?” Eli asked him.

“I can’t give you details of the investigation.” Vinnie shrugged, drank more coffee. “Your grandmother’s got a nice antique gun collection upstairs. She let me see it once. I don’t recall any .32 calibers up there.”

“No,” Eli said just as casually. “Nothing like that in the collection, or in the house.”

“Well . . . I’d better get going. Thanks for the coffee, Abra.”

“Anytime.”

Eli rose to walk him to the door. “I appreciate you coming by like this, Vinnie. I won’t forget it.”

“You look out for her. She knows just how vicious people can be, but she’s still inclined to think they won’t be. Stay out of trouble.”

I thought I was, Eli mused. But trouble had a way of wiggling its way through the smallest opening.

When he stepped back into the parlor, she straightened from adding a log to the fire. Then she turned, flames licking and rising behind her back.

“However it happened,” he began, “whoever’s to blame, you being here, being with me, puts you in the crosshairs. Your personal life, what happened to you, choices you’ve made, your work, your family, your friends—all of everything is going to be turned over, dug into, examined, talked about. You’ve been through something like this once, and you put it behind you. But staying here will put it in front of you again.”

“That’s true. And?”

“You should take some time to think about that, to decide if you really want to put yourself under that kind of scrutiny.”

Her gaze stayed calm and quiet on his. “Which means you don’t think I have thought about it, and doesn’t say much for your opinion of my sense of self or my ability to reason out consequences for actions.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You’re not going to save me from myself, Eli. I do fine in that area. I’m not opposed to you looking out for me because I believe, strongly, people should look out for each other, but Vinnie’s wrong. Voices carry in empty houses, and I have excellent hearing,” she pointed out. “I do know how vicious people can be, but I’m not inclined to think they won’t be. I’m inclined to hope they won’t be, and that’s very different.”

“They usually are, given half a chance.”

“It’s a shame you feel that way, but given what’s happened, what’s happening now, it’s hard to blame you. Still, we could have an interesting debate on that subject sometime. But right now, do you want to know what I think?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“I think while the kitchen floor looks good, that couch looks even better. Want to try it out and see?”

“Yeah.” He walked toward her. “I do.”

She stayed. When they finally made it back to bed, finally exhausted themselves, she learned he wasn’t a snuggler. But he earned half a point rather than a full one in her score book by not objecting to snuggling.

She woke in light like a gray pearl, when he shifted to ease away from her. “Mmm. You getting up?”

“Yeah. Sorry I woke you.”

“It’s okay.” But she curled around him again. “What time is it?”

“About six. You should go back to sleep.”

“I have an eight-o’clock class.” She nuzzled at his throat. “What’s on your plate?”

“Usually coffee and work.” But he could adjust that, he thought, and ran a hand down her long, bare back.

“Then you have time to join me for a short morning stretch and I’ll fix you breakfast as a reward before I go.”

“We can stretch right here.”

She didn’t object when he rolled over, slipped inside her. Instead, she sighed deep, smiled into his eyes. “A wonderful way to salute the sun.”

Slow and easy, like floating on a quiet sea. The lazy counterpoint to the night’s rush and thunder slid through her like the sunrise, like that promise of the fresh and the new and the hopeful.

She could see him now, the lines of his face, the clarity of his eyes with the dark trouble still shadowed in them.

Her nature urged her to banish shadows, to bring the light. So she gave herself to him for his pleasure, for her own. She took that gentle ride up the crest, down again, and watched for a moment, for their moment, that light burn through.

She lay with him, wrapped around him, and basked in that moment.

“You should think about me today.”

He turned his head to brush his lips against her throat. “I think the odds are pretty good on that.”

“Deliberately think of me today,” she amended. “Say around noon. And I’ll deliberately think of you. We’ll send strong, positive, sexy thoughts into the universe.”

He lifted his head. “Sexy thoughts into the universe.”

“It couldn’t hurt. Where do writers and artists and inventors and all the creative people get their ideas?” She lifted her hands, circled her index fingers in the air.

“Is that where they come from?”

“They’re out there.” Lowering her hands, she ran her fingers in a firm line down his spine, up again. “People have to open up, reach for them. Positive or negative thoughts, it’s up to you. One of the ways to grab the good ones is to start the day opening up.”

“I think we accomplished that.”

“Step two.” She nudged him aside, made a dash toward the bathroom. “See if you can hunt me up a pair of sweatpants or shorts. Drawstrings would work. I’m using one of the spare toothbrushes stocked in the cabinet in here.”

“Okay.” She’d know more about the amenities than he did, he figured, as she’d probably put them in there.

He found a pair of shorts with a drawstring and dragged on a pair of sweats himself.

“They’re going to be too big,” he told her when she came out.

“I’ll make do.” She pulled them on, began adjusting them. “You can meet me in the gym.”

“Oh. I really—”

“We’ve spent considerable time naked and intimate, Eli.”

Hard to argue when she stood there in his shorts, naked from the waist up.

“I think breathing and stretching comes pretty low on the list of embarrassments.” She grabbed her white tank, wiggled into it. “I need a hair tie—got one in my bag. In the gym,” she repeated, and left him.

Maybe he stalled a little. It wasn’t embarrassment, he told himself. He just preferred starting the day with coffee, like normal people.

But he found her in the gym, sitting cross-legged on one of the two yoga mats she’d laid out, her hands on her knees, her eyes closed.

She should’ve looked ridiculous in his shorts. So why did she look sexy, and peaceful, and just exactly right?

Eyes still closed, she reached over and patted the second mat. “Sit down, be comfortable. Take a couple minutes to breathe.”

“I usually breathe all day. At night, too.”

Her lips curved a little. “Conscious breathing now. In through the nose—expanding the belly like blowing up a balloon, out through the nose, deflating the balloon. Long, deep, even breaths. Belly rises and falls. Relax your mind.”

He didn’t think he was very good at relaxing his mind, unless he was writing. And that wasn’t relaxing it but using it. He’d get coffee quicker if he breathed, though.

“Now, inhale your arms up till your palms touch, exhale them down. Inhale up”—she continued in that quiet, soothing voice—“exhale down.”

She had him stretch over his crossed legs, from side to side. Over one extended leg, the other, over both. He relaxed into it, a little. Until she told him to stand at the front of his mat.

Then she smiled at him, the day dawning behind the window at her back. If she’d asked him to twist his body into a pretzel, he’d have given it a shot.

Instead she had him repeat vertically what they’d done on the floor. Just breathing, reaching, bending, with a few variations of lunges, all as slow and easy as their morning lovemaking.

In the end she had him lie on his back, palms up, eyes closed. She spoke of letting go, of inhaling light, exhaling dark, while she rubbed his temples with her fingertips.

By the time she brought him back, had him sitting again, bending forward to—as she called it—seal his practice, he felt like he’d had a little nap, in a warm sea.

“Nice.” She gave him a pat on the knee. “Ready for breakfast?”

He looked into her eyes. “They don’t pay you enough.”

“Who?”

“Whoever comes to your classes.”

“You don’t know what I charge for my classes.”

“It isn’t enough.”

“I charge more for private lessons.” Grinning, she walked her fingers up his arm. “Interested?”

“Well . . .”

“Think about it,” she said as she rose. “And for now, do those neck stretches I showed you every couple hours when you’re at the keyboard. Those and the shoulder rolls for now,” she continued as they started downstairs. “Since I’m smelling spring, I’m thinking spring omelet. You can make the coffee.”

“You don’t have to go to the trouble. You have a class.”

“I’ve got time, especially if I can come back for my massage equipment when I bring the groceries and do the house.”

“It feels—I feel—a little weird having you take care of the house, and cook, and everything when we’re sleeping together.”

She opened the refrigerator, began taking out what she wanted. “Are you firing me?”

“No! I just think it feels like taking advantage.”

She got a cutting board, a knife. “Who initiated sex?”

“Technically you did, but only because you beat me to it.”

“That’s nice to hear.” After washing the asparagus and mushrooms, she brought them to the board to slice. “I like working here. I love the house. I love cooking, and I get a lot of satisfaction seeing my cooking work for you. You’ve put on a little healthy weight since you’ve been eating it. I like sex with you. Why don’t we say if any of those things change, I’ll let you know, and we’ll deal with it. If you decide you don’t like how I take care of the house, or cook, or don’t want to have sex with me, you let me know, and we’ll deal with it. Fair enough?”

“More than.”

“Good.” She got out a frying pan, olive oil. Smiled. “How about that coffee?”