JENNIE
Seven and a Quarter Months Ago . .
"What do you want to do today?" The soft stroke of Lisa's fingers lightly on my bare arm gives me goose bumps. I shiver and she chuckles, holding me closer.
"Don't stop," I tell her quietly when she wraps that hand around my waist instead.
"Your wish is my command, Swan," she replies saucily, already sweeping her fingers over my flesh once again.
I sigh, utterly replete. We're curled up in bed. Naked. Blissful. Momentarily sated.
After arriving yesterday afternoon, we were greeted by Sheila, the plump innkeeper, who told us all about her five grown children (all girls) and six grandchildren (all boys). She also informed us if we heard any unusual noises, it was just Pierre LeMars, the original homeowner—who hung himself in the attic after his wife and daughter drowned in a boating accident. He is apparently their resident ghost and friendly, she assured us. Lisa just shrugged but I was a little unnerved as she ushered us up a wide, grand, two-tiered staircase. The energy changed. Unseen eyes were on me. I was convinced I walked through a pocket of cold air.
I squeezed Lisa's hand so hard she winced. All of that nervousness evaporated, though, the second she opened the door to the King's Suite—one of four bedrooms in the old mansion—and settled us in a very stately, spacious room.
An enormous, antique-looking sleigh bed sat in the middle, covered in an ivory eyelet comforter and a mound of neutral throw pillows. The bathroom boasted a walk-in, all-glass shower and a sunken whirlpool tub that could fit four. There was an expansive turret with a cathedral-like ceiling off to our left. A small table and two chairs sat in the center of the glassed-in area. It would be lovely for a cozy cup of coffee in the morning or cocktail in the evening. And the views from the tower were spectacular.
But what drew me like a magnet were the walls. Above the whitewashed wainscoting was the most unique wallpaper I'd ever seen. Secrets whispered from it. They echoed softly in my ear. I could feel haunting pain radiating from the foreign words even before Sheila spoke. My breath caught when she told me it was a replica of a love letter written by a young Italian woman who had fallen in love with an American soldier during WWII.
"This letter was supposedly found in the young soldier's pocket by his brother. The soldier died in his brother's arms from several gunshot wounds to the chest. And rumor has it in a strange twist of events, the young lady ended up marrying the brother," Sheila whispers to me as Lisa checks out the bathroom.
She married his brother? My heart pounds. Is this some sort of strange coincidence or was I meant to be here hearing her story? Seeing her words? Feeling her pain?
"Was she happy?" I ask absently, tracing my fingers over softly muted print. Did she love the second as much as the first?
"I like to think we all end up in the place we're supposed to be eventually," Sheila answers wistfully. "The sum total of our choices carries us to our destiny."
Is that true, I wonder? Or do those choices really change our future instead? I want to believe her. I want to believe that I'm standing here in this room for a reason other than the stacks of bad decisions I've made.
"Do you think so?" I turn then and look at this woman I don't know at all but who radiates this innate purity that's enviable. Maybe it can wash away all my sins. Maybe that's why I'm here. She stares into my eyes as if she knows exactly what I'm thinking. What I've done. Can she see inside my guilt and free me?
She reaches out to gently wrap her fingers around my arm and smiles warmly. "I do."
I'd never wished I could speak another language until right then. I wondered about her. That woman. Although I couldn't read the words, they looked forlorn, wistful. Were the rumors true? Did they go on to live a long and fulfilling life together? Or did she look at him and always think of the one she lost? Is it possible to lose the love of your life then find it again in the most unexpected of places?
Four months ago I would have said no. But now, I think the answer is maybe.
Even at this moment, as I lie in Lisa's arms, I'm still thinking of her. Hoping she got her happily ever after. Feeling like I actually might get mine when not that long ago, I felt hopeless. I imagine that's how she felt when she discovered her American lover had died.
"Earth to Jennie."
"Hmmm," I hum absently against her chest. I twirl the few hairs she has smattering between her pecs around my index finger.
"Care to don some clothes and do something or do you want to lounge in bed, naked, all day?"
Naked sounds like a good plan to me.
I tilt my head up. "You mean you don't have the entire weekend planned, minute by minute?"
She laughs. Lisa may do things off the beaten path, but she's a planner while I'm more comfortable winging it. As much as it makes her itch to do it my way, it makes me equally itchy to plan every single second of life. That leaves no room for spontaneity. I'm not sure if I'm like this to spite my mother, who is spontaneity's deathblow or if I was born this way. And although my impulsive tendencies have gotten me into more than one mess, I feel like they also may have led me to my true destiny.
Lisa.
"I'm free-balling this weekend," she tells me.
Yep…naked it is.
"Mmm. I like the sound of that," I quip. My hand snakes down beneath the sheets but doesn't reach its intended target.
"As much as I want your hand wrapped around my cock, Swan, don't you want to get out and see the historic city of Saint Paul?"
I run my tongue along her throat, whispering in her ear, "I was kind of digging the naked and lounging suggestion." I try to break her hold, to no avail.
"We could have just done this at home," she says. "Come on, baby. I want to show you the city. You'll love it."
As many times as I've been to Minneapolis, I've never spent time in its redheaded stepchild. But right now, I don't care to get out of bed. I want to live in this bubble we've created for as long as possible before we have to head back home and face our real lives. As much progress as I'm making eradicating Hanbin from my soul, it's a laborious process. Somehow not being in the same vicinity, knowing he's not just ten minutes away, makes it easier to forget about him.
"It's cold," I whine, snuggling closer. It's December in Minnesota. It hasn't snowed yet, but the temps are about ten degrees cooler here than in Dusty Falls.
"That's why I brought your favorite sweater. I hear the Cathedral of Saint Paul is supposed to be one of the most elaborate in the entire country. I know how much you love old churches."
I push up on my elbow, resting my head on my palm. I run my other hand, which she's now freed, over my breast, down my torso, and sweep the globe of my ass before I use my finger and thumb to pinch my nipple to a pointed peak.
She groans, long and needy.
"You really want to leave this?"
Then I'm on my back, my hands stretched above my head. She's wedged perfectly between my legs. I already feel how fast she's thickening. Her breathing has picked up and her eyes have gone dark.
Yes.
I win.
Only she doesn't make a move to use the impressive equipment she's been blessed with. It's mere inches from home plate and twitching like mad. "As much as I'd like to say otherwise and as much as your romance novels contradict me, I can't physically fuck you all day. You know this, right?"
We've had sex three times already since we left Dusty Falls less than twenty-four hours ago. A quickie in a dirty public bathroom. Languid lovemaking last night after an intimate Italian dinner at a hole-in-the-wall down the street. And a rough and dirty round this morning when Lisa whispered all the sinful things she's been dreaming of doing to my body as she made me come repeatedly with her mouth first, following that up with her talented cock. I'm pretty sure I screamed her name more than once. I bet I screamed so loud even Pierre LeMars heard me.
Just thinking about it makes me all hot and bothered again. I wiggle, trying to align her the way I need. "Care to test that theory out?" I taunt, my breaths now coming in short pants. I move my hips down and tilt my pelvis up. Almost…there…
Lisa dips until her mouth brushes mine when she says, "No. I care to show off my sexy as fuck wife around town, then come back here and fuck her all night long on every surface of this room instead."
I stop moving. "Oh? All night, you say?"
She laughs even though her lips now cover mine. I wriggle my hands free so I can wind them around her neck. I bury them in her hair. Scrape my nails along her scalp as she kisses me slow and sure.
"Now, come on," she tells me, drawing back all too soon. "If I have to lie here any longer and smell fresh cinnamon rolls and hazelnut coffee, I'm going to start eating my limbs."
I grin. "You can eat me instead," I offer. Selflessly, of course.
Chuckling, she shakes her head and pushes herself off me. She's hard as stone. I bite my lower lip, letting my eyes drink in the erotic sight of my wife stark naked. "You are a wicked temptress, you know that?"
"I do." I lever up to my elbows, acutely aware of my tight nipples pointing in her direction. "But apparently not tempting or wicked enough."
"Oh, trust me, Swan. You are," she rasps. "I just happen to have tremendous self-control." After a quick, hard peck, I watch her fine, tight-as-a-running-back ass saunter away. I sigh when she disappears into the bathroom, flopping back. My entire body is throbbing with unfulfilled need.
"Shower, Jen," Lisa yells from the other room.
"Shower, Jen," I mock quietly.
"I heard that, snotty girl." She pokes her head around the corner and holds out her hand. "How about I offer to wash your back?"
That perks me right up. "Just my back?" I ask, sliding off the soft sheets and making my way toward her. The subway tiles are cold on my feet the second I step from the carpet into the bathroom.
When she presses me against her manly nakedness, she whispers, "Be a good girl and you can get me to do anything for you."
My skin tingles as chills break out.
"Anything?" I look up into her brilliant brown eyes, a big smile on my face.
"Yeah," she replies softly, tucking wild hairs behind my ears. It's a gentle move. One she's probably done more than a hundred times before, but it feels so different now. At least for me. I'm getting that it's always meant something more to her. "Anything."
The way she says that one word is ominous. Foreboding, even. Like she would kill, lie, cheat, and steal for me. "I think you mean that."
Her lips turn slightly before flattening back out. The moment turns from playful to serious in an instant. "I've never meant anything more." Then, the moment passes before I can blink again and she brightens up, all good-natured again.
Less than forty-five minutes and two more orgasms (mine) later, we're heading down the theatrical stairs. I'm relieved that I don't feel any cold air or that sense of being invisibly stalked. We wind our way through the grand parlor where two guests sit reading the paper and enjoying their coffee. We politely say good morning, but keep walking.
"Is breakfast over?" I whisper to Lisa, noting it's almost 10:00 a.m. already.
"Got it covered, Swan," she whispers back.
"Ah, the newlyweds." Sheila beams when we walk into the luxurious dining room. The dark damask walls are beautiful, along with the ornate maple ten-person dining room table, which only holds two place settings.
"I hope we didn't cause too much trouble for you by being late," I apologize as I take a seat.
"Oh, pffft. No trouble at all dear. I may be old, but I remember what it's like to be a newlywed." She winks conspiratorially before heading through a swinging door, presumably into the kitchen.
"Why didn't you tell me we had to be down here at a certain time?" I chastise Lisa, knowing very well breakfast must have been served quite a while ago.
She leans over, taking my chin between her finger and thumb. "Because we don't. I want this weekend to be fun and relaxing and not on anyone's timetable but our own. Okay?"
"Okay," I say, a bit breathless. She places her lips chastely to mine right as Sheila returns holding a tray stuffed with quiche, breakfast sausage, fried potatoes, fruit, a stack of powdered-sugar-dusted French toast a mile high, and the cinnamon rolls Lisa was going on about earlier.
"This looks incredible. Thank you, Sheila," Lisa tells our hostess.
"My pleasure. And I took care of everything for you just as you asked." With a wink, she wanders back into the kitchen. Wordlessly, Lisa takes my plate and starts filling it with bits of everything. She picks the pineapple chunks from the fruit bowl because she knows I don't like them.
I just watch her, waiting. When she hands me my plate and picks up her own without offering an explanation, I laugh. "Free-balling, huh?"
She eyes me, her mouth and brows quirking up simultaneously. "Is commando close enough?"
The corners of my mouth stretch into a giant grin. "No woman in her right mind would complain about her wife going commando."
"Good." She winks playfully then sits with such grace I sigh.
We eat in silence for a few minutes before something hits me. I should keep my mouth shut. I tell my vocal cords not to press any air through. It doesn't work. I vomit the question I've been wanting the answer to for almost a month now. "So, how's everything going with that National Guard contract?" I ask, trying for nonchalant. I pass. I think.
Lisa eyes me shrewdly.
Nope.
Missed the boat there.
"Why do you ask? You never ask me about work."
Busted.
"No reason. I guess just coming here made me think of it is all." Quick thinking, Jen. Way to go.
She holds my gaze steady and answers me straight-faced, no inflection. Nothing to make me think she'd be lying. "It's delayed." But there's something in the way she says her spiel—as if it's been smoothly practiced—that has my red flags flapping in the wind.
"What happened?" I press, wanting to see what she'll say.
Her shoulder rises and falls at the same time her mouth turns down. "You know the government," is her only reply. She goes back to her breakfast, indicating our conversation is over.
I don't want it to be. I want to ask more questions. Ferret out what she's hiding because now I'm convinced it's something. Under any normal circumstances, I would end it with that. Federal contracts are the worst. They're competitive and drawn-out and we lose far more than we win. We both know this.
But I can't ignore that feeling in my gut. The one that screams she's keeping something from me. Something major. Opening my mouth to push the issue, a single word spills out instead when Lisa starts grinning into her plate. "What?"
"What, what?" she asks, eyeing me from underneath those ridiculously long lashes I envy more with each year.
"Why are you smiling like that?"
She sets her fork down, lavishing all of her attention on me. "Like what, Swan?"
Her grin is an epidemic infecting the air. With a single breath, I catch it, too. "Like that." I wave two fingers at her. When she quirks one brow, I add, "Like…like you just swallowed sunbeams." She looks…jubilant, almost.
"I know you like the palm of my hand."
I lean back and cross my arms. A little grumpily. "Spend a lot of time in the palm of your hand, do you?" I throw back. Very grumpily.
She barks a laugh, followed by a headshake. "Oh yeah. My hand knows every single ridge and vein in my cock very, very well. We became almost inseparable when I was milking myself to fantasies of you all these years."
My mouth falls open. I sputter when I hear Sheila's sharp "oh my" from behind me. Lisa isn't fazed in the least. She keeps that Cheshire grin planted firmly on her lips. The sudden sound of the swinging door brushing the doorframe back and forth indicates Sheila's quick exit as our conversation has taken a deliciously salacious turn.
"You did that on purpose," I chastise. "You saw her there." She has a direct line of sight to that kitchen.
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Lisa pushes her chair back and comes to pull mine out. She grabs my hands and helps me stand, enfolding me into her embrace. "Now, I want to take my wife out and have every man we meet envy me."
I grin ridiculously, everything else forgotten.
She grabs my coat, which I'd hung on the back of the chair and slips it on. She zips me up. Reaching into my pocket, she removes my fluffy white gloves and slides them on my hands, one of by one. Her tender care of me is sweet and endearing. After she's done, she efficiently eases into her own winter gear.
Cupping my cheeks with her now leather-clad hands, she presses a kiss to my lips. "Ready?"
"Ready."
It's not until we're striding out the front door, hand in hand into the cold winter day, that I realize she stealthily redirected our entire conversation.