The Parent Plan Part 2. Paula Riggs Detmer
flannel. “Help me,” he grated, his voice sounding thick as molasses.
Between kisses, she helped him free her from her gown. With one snap of his powerful wrist, he sent the thin material whooshing halfway across the room. His other hand shook a little as he skimmed his palm over her rib cage, over her belly where a few silvery lines attesting to her pregnancy still remained, to the soft nest of springy curls between her thighs.
He palmed her first, and felt her shiver. Burying his face between her breasts, he slipped one finger past the swollen folds protecting the tiny nubbin nestled just inside. He massaged the hard kernel of acutely sensitive nerve endings and felt her shudder, then come alive, arching, tearing at his hair, bucking against his thigh.
“Soon,” he whispered, trying to gentle her the way he gentled a skittish mare, but she wouldn’t allow restraint. On a groan of surrender, he slipped two fingers into the warm, moist sheath and felt the tremors shaking her. She was so slick, so hot, her readiness like a rare and precious gift that he would treasure always, especially in the dark nights ahead.
Panting, her breath coming in little sobs of need, she moved against his fingers. Gritting his teeth, he forced his mind off the hot, throbbing pressure in his groin and concentrated on stroking her into readiness.
Inarticulate cries broke from her as she moved faster and faster, her hair a tumble on the pillow as she arched her head backward. Awash in the musky, womanly scent of her, driven nearly to breaking, he strained to feel the first tiny shivers deep inside her, where his body craved welcome.
When he felt the spasms take hold, he drew back, his knee nudging her thighs wider. Bracing himself, he plunged downward, filling her. She cried out, her eyes flying open and her hips thrusting upward to take him deeper. Moaning, her breath came in rasping gasps now. She gripped his buttocks with hard, desperate fingers and urged him to move with her.
Pain tore at him, mingling with a rising urgency until finally he felt the hot tension inside her give way, and she cried out. He thrust harder, seeking desperately to escape the black prison cell where his sins had confined him.
His heart thundered in his ears, mingling with the guttural cry of his own release. At the same time, he heard Kari call his name and wrap her arms and legs around him. Once, twice, he felt himself convulse into her, until he was at once depleted and sated.
Later, as she slept in his arms, he let his eyes drift closed and told himself they could work things out. He wasn’t sure he could stand it if they didn’t.
Chapter Seven
Waking to a predawn gloom, Karen found herself alone. A quick check of the clock told her that it was past the time Cassidy usually awoke. Even so, she felt a pang of disappointment that he hadn’t lingered long enough to kiss her awake. Still, she took heart in the fact that he’d made love to her so thoroughly she felt utterly cherished. No matter how fierce his need to control his life might be, there was still a part of him that she could reach. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.
Shivering in the morning chill, she hurried down the hall to Vicki’s room where she discovered her daughter snuggled into her bright coverlet, her small heart-shaped face as peaceful as an angel’s. Something poignant and sad passed through her as she bent to kiss her daughter’s temple. Today Vicki would find out that life wasn’t always warm puppies and frisky colts.
After slipping into the slippers she’d left by the bed earlier, Karen headed toward the kitchen and the aroma of fresh-perked coffee. Double-strength and black as the road to hell, she thought as she poured herself a cup. Moments later she was standing by the kitchen window, staring out at the still-darkened buildings, while she waited for the caffeine to wake up her tired brain.
There should be a light in the barn, she realized with a fuzzy frown. Although it was still too early for the hands to begin showing up, Cassidy had a rule about checking things out early. By the time Billy and the others arrived, he would have his gelding fed and saddled, and the day planned out for each man.
No doubt he was waiting to break the news to Vicki before he started his day, she decided, taking another greedy sip. It wouldn’t be easy for either of them, but she trusted Cassidy to break the news gently. That realization made her sigh. The tenderness he showed their daughter never failed to move her. And dammit, it made her ache inside because she wanted some of that tenderness for herself.
A few seconds later, her cup gripped in one hand, she approached Cassidy’s office. The polished pine door was ajar, and light from within spilled into the shadowed hall in a long, thin wedge. Like the man himself, the room was unpretentious and spare. Everything had a purpose—his accounting books, breeding logs, a top-of-the-line computer that he hated but used with precise skill.
The desk itself was a one-of-a-kind treasure, a massive slab of western pine fully eight feet long, crosscut by some gigantic saw blade long ago and darkened by age and hard wear. One corner, the right, bore countless scuffs where Cassidy invariably propped his boot heels when lost in thought. There were no keepsakes on the desk or the floor-to-ceiling bookcases other than the ones Vicki had made for him and no pictures on the wall except her crayon drawings and a recent watercolor of Goldie she’d done for a 4-H art project.
Cassidy sat in his big, worn chair behind the desk, his back to her, his bare feet propped atop a stack of printouts. His favorite coffee mug with the broken handle and chipped rim was close at hand, still half-full of the same black sludge steaming in her own mug.
His ebony hair spilled onto his forehead, and his jaw showed the dark shadow of unshaven whiskers. He was wearing jeans so old the hems had long since frayed away and a faded blue shirt, the sleeves of which had been carelessly rolled back to the elbows, revealing roped forearms.
A spreadsheet glowed on the computer screen in front of him, but instead of studying the figures in their neat columns, he was gazing down at something in his hand. A photograph, she realized after a moment’s study. Of Vicki and Goldie, she suspected, from the sadness that seemed to grip him.
He suddenly lifted his head and shifted his gaze toward the door. At the same time he slipped the photo in his hand beneath the desk blotter.
“Come in,” he said quietly.
There was a stillness about him that made her uneasy. It was as if he had pulled everything inside, where it could be protected as fiercely as he protected his daughter.
“Vicki’s still sleeping,” she told him as she entered. “I’m glad it’s Sunday so she doesn’t have to go to school.”
“Might be better if she did.” He let his head fall back against the age-dark leather of the chair. “I hate to have her watch while the meat wagon hauls Goldie off.”
“If I know Vicki, she’ll insist.” Life goes on, she thought as she moved to the window. After opening the drapes, she leaned against the heavy material and stared out at the new day.
The rain had stopped, and the sun was nudging the horizon, the first fingers of daybreak already turning a brilliant orange-red. She stood silently, letting the splendor soothe her.
“It’s almost dawn,” she murmured, loving the look of the ranch bathed in early morning mist. Then, turning slowly, she offered him a smile. “I missed you when I woke up.”
His mouth softened a little. “I’m not much for sleeping past dawn.”
“I know. I guess I was hoping you’d make an exception.” She let her smile take on wanton edges. “I wanted to make love with you again.”
“Kari, after last night I’m thinking I’ll be lucky if I can ever make love again.” Though his voice was tinged with a laconic humor, a flush spread over his hard cheekbones and into the silver-flecked thickness at his temples.
She felt something loosen and curl inside her. Hope, she realized, taking a step forward. Glorious, miraculous hope.
“Cassidy, we can work this out,” she said eagerly. “I know we can.”