“Well, I did. I did what I thought was best and I suppose I’ll have to deal with the consequences, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to town. If Weatherly comes down, tell her I’ll be back before dinner.”
And with that, I walk off. I leave my mother behind. I leave Weatherly behind. But I take all my messed up feelings over this with me so I can sort through them and figure out how the hell to turn this around.
—
The warm August sun is low on the horizon when I pull back into the drive. I fully expect to smell food when I walk in, as Mom called a couple of hours ago and said she wanted to fix us a special dinner tonight. To celebrate.
But I smell no dinner. I hear no voices. It’s just quiet. Oddly quiet.
I walk through the first floor, looking for signs of life. I find none. The kitchen is dark except for the single light that shines over the island. I take the stairs two at a time and find that our bedroom door is still closed. I knock softly, but get no response, so I knock again.
“Weatherly? Are you all right?”
Still no response, so I open the door and peek inside. I can see the outline of her on the bed. It doesn’t look like she’s moved since I left. Alarm streaks through me. I push the door the rest of the way open and walk quietly to her side.
“Weatherly?” I whisper.
I can see the side of her face now. Her eyes are open and she’s staring at the wall, at nothing. I can see the dying, orangey light revealing to me what she won’t. It shines on the wet tracks streaking down her cheeks. It sparkles in the damp spikes of her lashes. She’s been crying. Again. Recently.
Gently, I slide my hands under her shoulders and knees and lift her into my arms. I cradle her against my chest as I turn to sit on the bed. She’s limp, but stiff, too, in a way. She keeps her arms down at her sides, doesn’t attempt to put them around my neck or touch me in any way.
My stomach feels heavy. Something is very, very wrong.
“Talk to me, baby,” I say against her hair. The endearment just slips out, but it feels right. She feels right. In my arms, in my life.
She makes no move to speak, just stares straight ahead. I brush a silky curl away from her throat, but she still won’t look at me.
“Weatherly, you’re scaring me,” I tell her. And I mean it. This isn’t like her. What the hell happened?
I feel as much as hear her sigh. She swells and then shrinks in my arms. “Just let me sleep tonight. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
I don’t know how much to push if she doesn’t want to talk about it, so I stand and turn again, putting her right back where I found her. I bend to kiss her cheek and then she rolls away from me, goes back to staring at nothing.
TWENTY-FIVE
Weatherly
I wake to the feel of Tag’s weight bearing down on the mattress and, a few seconds later, his arm sliding around me to drop over my waist. His body heat almost burns me from behind. My body wants to move toward it, to sink into it, but my brain keeps me perfectly still. It’s the same war that I’ve been fighting for hours now. My brain and my heart can’t agree on anything. And my body . . . well, it’s just a damned unruly traitor.
I don’t move a muscle until I feel the steady puff of Tag’s breath against my neck grow deep and even. Only then do I relax enough to fall back to sleep.
—
In my dreams, lips that feel like heaven are kissing my neck. I arch my back and press my hips into the rigidity prodding me from behind. A breathy sigh tickles the hair by my ear and the hardness presses back. Heat pours into my belly, saturating the place where my thighs are squeezed together.
A warm hand glides over my hip and pulls my nightgown up to my waist. A rough palm settles on my stomach and inches its way down. Down, down, down to the ache that never seems to abate.
Long fingers cup the inside of my thigh and lift my leg, setting it on a firm, slightly hairy one. The cool night air hits the damp material of my panties and I groan softly. The hand shifts and I feel the snap of elastic breaking. Silk parts, leaving me open to the insistent fingers that find my core. I gasp at the first contact. A gentle exploration of my folds proves that I’m wet, more than ready for whatever my dream lover has in mind. A naughty explicative is growled into my ear and then the hand disappears. There is movement behind me and then something broad presses into my entrance. I tilt my hips back toward it, craving fulfillment on an unconscious level.
I feel hands again, teasing and taunting, pinching my nipples as the smooth head rocks between my legs. I whimper, desperate to know the pressure of it inside me, filling me up.
The palm skates down my stomach again, finding my clit and rolling it gently between skilled fingertips. I reach back and dig my fingernails into a firm, muscular butt cheek, pulling it toward me, begging for more. And I get it. All at once, he dips down just enough and then pushes up and into me, stealing my breath.