Tempted

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There’s no place like home. Ain’t that the truth? Home for me would always be the smells of cigarettes and cheap hairspray, and the taste of greasy, kettle-cooked chips. I suddenly felt weepy, all at once, my emotions as much of an up-and-down roller coaster as the ride I’d taken with Alex the day before.

My mother, bless her, didn’t seem to notice. We had a lot of practice avoiding the discussion of sadness. I think maybe it had become habit for her to talk over the sound of surreptitious sniffles. She chattered on about some movie she’d watched and a cross-stitch pattern she was intending to try. I got myself under control by concentrating on finishing my sandwich, but it was time for me to go.

I wasn’t fast enough. The back door slammed, the way it had done a hundred thousand times when I was a kid. I heard the clump of heavy boots.

“I’m hooooooome,” boomed the voice of my father.

“Dad’s here,” my mother said, unnecessarily.

I stood. He came into the kitchen. His eyes were already red, his smile broad, his forehead sweating. He held out his arms to me and I went obediently, no choice but to suffer the embrace. He smelled like sweat and liquor, like maybe he sweated booze now. I wouldn’t have been surprised.

“How’s my girl?” My dad, Bill Byrne, stopped himself from knuckling my head … but only barely.

“Fine, Dad.”

“Staying out of trouble?”

“Yes, Dad” was my dutiful answer.

“Good, good. What’s for dinner?” He looked at my mother, who looked almost guiltily at our plates.

“Oh … are you hungry?” She began cleaning the mess like she was destroying evidence. She’d cook him a full dinner even if she wasn’t hungry herself.

“What do you think?” He grabbed for her, and she giggled, flapping her hands at him. “Annie, you staying for dinner?”

“No, Dad. I’ve got to get home.”

“Bill, she’s got to get home, of course.” My mother shook her head. “She’s got James waiting for her. And a guest. Alex … what did you say his name was?”

“Kennedy.”

My dad looked up. “Not John Kennedy’s boy.”

I laughed. “No, Dad. I don’t think so.”

“Not John Kennedy the president,” my father said. “John Kennedy who’s married to Linda.”

“I don’t really know.” Leave it to my dad to think he knew Alex’s parents.

“Ah, well. Doesn’t matter. What’s he doing in your house?”

“He’s James’s friend,” my mother put in quickly as she pulled the makings of dinner from the freezer. “He’s come for a visit. He’s been in Singapore.”

“Yeah, that’s John’s boy, then.” My dad looked satisfied with himself, like he’d sleuthed the answer to some great mystery. “Alex.”

It was useless to point out I’d already told him his name. “Yes. You know his dad, huh?”

My father shrugged. “I see him around sometimes.”

Around. I knew what that meant. At the bars.

“He’s James’s friend,” I repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. “He’s just staying for a little while.”

“But you got to get back to him, I get it. Go on. Go.” My dad waved a hand. “Get out of here.”

My dad opened the cupboard and pulled out a glass. Another cupboard gave up the bottle. I loved my parents, both of them, but I couldn’t stay to watch. I made my goodbyes and stole away the photos of them in their youth, leaving them to what they’d made of their lives.

Chapter 05

Alex wasn’t home when I returned, but James’s truck was in the driveway. He couldn’t have been home for long, as he hadn’t even showered. I found him headfirst in the fridge, and I took the chance to squeeze his denim-clad ass.

“Hey, you—” He whirled, his grin faltering for a moment before he grabbed me around the waist. “What are you doing?”

“I should ask that of you. What are you doing home so early?” I slipped my arms around his neck and tipped my face for a kiss.

“I was waiting on a couple of the subcontractors to bring some stuff and they cancelled, so I came home.” He brushed his lips to mine. “Hello.”

I laughed. “Hello.”

His hands crept from my waist to my ass. “I’m hungry.”

“I thought we were going to go out for dinner tonight ….” The nip of his teeth on my jaw stopped me, and I wriggled. “Have a snack!”

“I know what I want for a snack.” His hand slid between my thighs and pressed upward. “Some of this, and a little of that …”

Any other time I would have opened my legs and my mouth for him. Today I pushed him away. I laughed as I did it, but it was still a refusal.

“If you want a snack get one from the fridge,” I said. “If you want something else—”

“I do.” He reached out, pulled me close again. Inside the worn denim of his jeans, his cock was stiff.

I didn’t yield. “James, cut it out.”

He got the picture. He didn’t let me go, but he did stop trying to feel me up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. But we can’t get busy in the kitchen, okay? In case you forgot, we have a houseguest who could come home at any moment.”

I pushed past him to open the fridge myself. The chips had made me thirsty. I pulled out a can of diet cola. As I was popping the tab, James grabbed me again around the waist, snugging me in close to him. He tucked his chin against my shoulder, his cock hard on my ass and his hands flat on my stomach.

“That will make it more exciting,” he whispered. “We’ll hear his car in the driveway, anyway. C’mon, baby. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“No!” I tried to sound stern, but his hands had begun roaming again. He cupped one of my breasts while the other hand rubbed my side. “James, no. Forget it. We wouldn’t hear him, he’d walk right in on us. It would be awful.”

“Why would it be awful?” His voice had taken on a familiar, seductive cadence, the one he used to get me to do pretty much anything.

“It would be … rude, at the very least.” I wasn’t winning this argument. His hands were too skilled. I wanted to please him too much.

“Alex wouldn’t care. Trust me.”

I turned to face him, my can of cola held out to the side to prevent spilling. “He might not. But I would!”

He stopped. Looked at me. I’ve always been able to read James’s face, and he’s never had any reason to hide anything from me. Today, though, his expression was familiar and still indecipherable.

“Think about it,” he murmured. He turned me as he spoke. Put my hands on the center island. His hands went to my hips, anchoring me as he pushed my feet apart with one of his. “Think about me fucking you, right here like this.”

The marble was cool under my fingertips. I pushed the soda can aside to spread my hands flat. James pressed against me from behind.

“All I have to do is take down your pants and your panties,” he continued. His hand moved between my legs again, stroking me through my jeans. “I’ll rub you. Think how good it will feel.”

It did feel good. Pleasure coursed through me. I looked to the back door, to the small square of driveway I could see. I pushed back against him.

“It will feel good in the bedroom, too,” I said. “And we don’t have to worry about Alex coming home.”

“C’mon, doesn’t it get you hot, just a little? Thinking about him finding us?” He rubbed a little harder. Under his fingers my body responded. I got wet for him. “Think about me fucking you, just like this, Anne. And he comes in …”

“And what?” I turned to face him, effectively saving myself from further seduction by fingertip. “What happens then in your little fantasy, James? Is he wearing a pizza delivery costume and I suck him off while you finish fucking me?”

I spoke louder than I’d meant to, and James stepped back. I felt on edge, tingly, aroused and disgruntled, too. Random fantasies were one thing, and we’d never been shy about sharing even the most ridiculous. But they’d never been about anyone real.

James said nothing. I stared. I heard the faint fizz of my soda’s carbonation evaporating.

“James?”

He smiled. Smirked, actually. “Well?”

He glanced over my shoulder, and I actually whirled, expecting to see Alex in a pizza delivery costume. The doorway remained empty. I refused to be disappointed. Instead, I smacked James on the upper arm and pushed past him to stalk down the hall.

“Anne, c’mon ….”

I wasn’t sure what I meant to do in our bedroom, just that I wanted to get away from him. I’m sure he thought I was angry. I was acting that way. It wasn’t, however, anger that urged me into pacing. It was a jumble of confusing emotions, coupled with the day on the lake and my visit with my parents. It was everything in my life. It was PMS. It was many things, but not anger.

“Anne, don’t be like that.” He leaned in the doorway for a moment, watching me. “I didn’t think you’d react that way.”

I focused on the basket of laundry waiting to be folded. “How did you think I’d react?”

He came into the room and stripped off his shirt, tossing it toward but not quite into the dirty laundry. He undid his belt and slid it from the loops, then eased open the button. My fingers smoothed T-shirts into neat squares, but my eyes followed his movements.

“I thought you might, you know, get excited.”

“By exhibitionism?” I tried sounding shocked, but didn’t do a very good job of it.

James stepped out of his jeans and stood in front of me in boxer briefs. “Haven’t you ever thought about it?”

I straightened. “About having sex in front of someone else? No!”

“We did it with your roommate in the room,” he reminded me.

“That was different. We didn’t have anyplace else to go. And it was only once.”

Once, making love under covers. Making sure not to moan too loudly, or rustle too fiercely. Listening to be certain the bed wasn’t squeaking in a telltale way. James’s mouth between my legs, licking me as I arched and tensed and came in agonized silence.