Penmort Castle

Chapter Nine Dinner at Mrs. Truman’s

Abby fixed her lip gloss with a trembling hand in the vestibule while Cash waited and watched.

Thoughts about what happened that night were colliding in her head and her legs were wobbly from the colossal (and very effective, Cash was a really good kisser, as in really good) make out session in the kitchen.

She didn’t know which to focus on first so she decided to ignore both of them and carry on with the evening. She’d think about it later. Much later. When Cash was gone, her house was fixed up and she was back to her normal existence.

Then she thought she didn’t want to go back to her normal existence but she didn’t want to focus on that either so she decided to ignore that too.

She wrapped her pashmina around her shoulders, tucked her bag under her arm, grabbed the wine (Cash had the roses and chocolates, both of which Abby bought from two different exclusive shops in Clevedon so as not to put Mrs. Truman in a bad mood that they were trying to pass off rinky-dink hostess gifts) and put her hand on the latch.

“Ready?” she asked and Cash’s eyes narrowed on her.

She didn’t get a good feeling from his narrow look. She also didn’t need another reaction from Cash that would freak her out. In an effort to stop him from giving into whatever-peeved-him-this-time, she turned the latch and tugged open the door.

She’d barely stepped over the threshold when she came to a jarring stop. Cash’s hand was on her arm waylaying her.

She looked down at his hand then up at him. “Cash, we’re already late.”

His hand went away, he placed the hostess gifts on the seat of the coat stand and he shrugged off his overcoat, murmuring, “It’s freezing out there.”

She realised his intent and her body got tense.

“We’re only going next door,” she told him, hoping he wouldn’t put his overcoat on her. She didn’t want him to keep being so sweet to her (when he wasn’t angry at her that was).

She was pretty sure that most paid escorts didn’t have intense conversations about their dead husbands nor did they cuddle up to their clients in bed late at night while their clients looked over papers.

She figured she wasn’t doing her job very well. The problem was, Cash didn’t seem to mind at all which, of course, made it all worse.

She noticed with frustration that he wasn’t listening to her. He swung his coat out and settled it on her shoulders.

“That’s really unnecessary,” she finished.

“Abby, it’s below freezing,” he told her.

She looked up at him and exclaimed, “We’re walking next door!”

“And you’re not going to get cold while we’re doing it,” he retorted.

“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled, “What are you going to do? Now you don’t have a coat.”

“What I’m not going to do is stand out in the cold arguing,” he declared with annoying logic.

“All right, fine,” she muttered and turned toward the steps but something made her look to Mrs. Truman’s and she halted at what she saw.

Kieran and Jenny were standing at the door, Mrs. Truman in the door, and they were all watching her and Cash.

Illuminated by Mrs. Truman’s light both Jenny and Kieran were wearing comically-identical stunned expressions. Mrs. Truman was scowling.

“It’s seven-oh-seven,” Mrs. Truman announced loudly, “did I say dinner was at seven-oh-seven? No, I did not. I said it was at seven o’clock.” She paused and Abby saw her eyes snap to the bottle Abby was carrying then Mrs. Truman demanded to know, “Is that wine chilled?”

“Yes, Mrs. Truman,” Abby called, deciding to ignore Kieran and Jenny’s stunned looks as well as the fact that she was swimming in Cash’s warm, heavy overcoat that smelled way too much like him.

With a hand at the small of her back, Cash led her down the steps and to Mrs. Truman’s house. Kieran and Jenny were inside by the time they got there and Mrs. Truman slammed the door behind Cash.

“Cash this is –” Abby started the introductions but Mrs. Truman interrupted her.

“Take off your coats. Give me that wine,” she ordered then, for some demented reason, she shouted, “Marco!”

When everyone stood around waiting and nothing happened for a few moments, Jenny leaned toward Abby and asked under her breath, “Are we supposed to say ‘Polo’?”

Abby felt a hysterical giggle start welling up inside her that she managed to tamp down when a young, dark-headed man wearing a white shirt and black trousers appeared.

“This is Marco,” Mrs. Truman proclaimed with a flick of her wrist in his direction. “He’s seeing to us tonight.” Abby didn’t know what that meant and didn’t have a chance to ask, Mrs. Truman continued speaking. “Marco, take their coats. I’ll take the wine to the kitchen. Then they need drinks.” When Marco didn’t move fast enough (though, he did, somewhat immediately, move toward Jenny), Mrs. Truman snapped, “Chop chop! I’m not paying you to stand around and ogle pretty women!”

Marco took the coats, divested them of their gifts and Mrs. Truman bustled them into her front room then disappeared with her two bottles of chilled white wine.

Abby quickly performed the introductions, feeling acutely self-conscious as Cash shook Kieran’s hand and bent low for Jenny to touch his cheek with hers.

Kieran Kane was Abby’s height, thus shorter when she was wearing heels. He was slim, straight and had blond hair that looked highlighted but was actually his true colour, made thus by being streaked by the sun while he jogged and cycled like a madman. He had a permanent tan because when he wasn’t working he was always outdoors or taking his wife on holidays where there were beaches.

Both Kieran and Jenny were trying to study Cash without appearing as if they were studying him (and, incidentally, they were failing).

For the first time in her life, Abby was in a social situation where she had no clue what to do.

How did one go about making what amounted to her “john” and her two best friends comfortable at a dinner party?

Luckily (or unfortunately, depending how you looked at it), Mrs. Truman forged into the breach.

She charged into the room carrying a vase filled with Abby’s roses that had been quickly yet artfully arranged. She placed it on a table and demanded to know, “What are you doing standing up? Sit!”

They didn’t sit because Marco followed Mrs. Truman and asked their drink preferences. When he got to Abby and she slowly explained how she wanted her amaretto and diet coke, Marco stared at her in horrified confusion.

“Diet coke and amaretto?” Mrs. Truman snapped. “What kind of drink is that? And who crushes ice?”

Cash took pity on Marco at the same time tactfully ignoring Mrs. Truman.

While sliding his arm along Abby’s shoulders, he said, “I’m sure Abby will settle for a glass of red wine.”

To which Mrs. Truman retorted, “We’re having fish. You don’t drink red wine with fish.” Then she turned to Marco. “Get her a white wine. Go on, go.”

Marco quickly left (or, more appropriately, escaped) and Mrs. Truman settled them into her furniture.

Abby looked at her surroundings and noted that Mrs. Truman was a packrat like her grandmother. Although she didn’t have piles of books, newspapers and magazines, she had an overabundance of knick knacks, toss pillows and throws. This was all squeezed in between a crazy mix of furniture that dwarfed the room (even though Mrs. Truman’s house was the exact same as Abby’s and the room was huge).

The effect was claustrophobic.

Or maybe, Abby thought, it was all that was her life that was claustrophobic.

When Abby settled into the couch between Mrs. Truman and Cash, she caught Jenny’s eye. Cash had placed his arm along the couch behind her and, as Abby looked at Jenny, Cash’s fingers curled in to stroke her neck.

Jenny’s eyes moved to his fingers then they widened.

Abby couldn’t help it, it felt so nice she shivered.

Cash felt the shiver. He must have misinterpreted it as her being cold and his arm moved to rest around her shoulders, pulling her into the warmth of his side.

Jenny’s eyes bugged out.

Abby’s heart skipped a beat.

Unaware of any of this, Mrs. Truman asked, “Well? Isn’t anyone going to speak?”

Surprisingly it was Cash who entered the conversational void by asking Mrs. Truman, “How long have you lived here?”

“Forty-five years,” Mrs. Truman answered, “Morty moved me in on our wedding day.”

“Morty?” Jenny asked.

“My husband, God rest him,” Mrs. Truman replied.

Abby looked at her neighbour, who she’d known (and feared) for as long as she could remember, “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“You never asked,” Mrs. Truman retorted smartly.

And Abby realised she hadn’t. She’d never made any friendly overtures to Mrs. Truman at all, not when she was young, not since she’d been living next door. She’d just put up with her.

She knew her mother, father and Ben thought she was hilariously cantankerous and thus also never engaged her in simple conversation.

Abby’s grandmother, however, often had Mrs. Truman over for tea or dinner which was how Abby got to know her and Gram liked her very much.

The rest of the family never understood it.

Something about Mrs. Truman’s reply made Abby feel uncomfortable.

“When did he pass?” Kieran asked softly and Mrs. Truman’s eyes moved to him.

“Thirty-six years ago. He married me when I was twenty-five and we were together for nine happy years. Then one day, he was gone. Hit by a bus,” Mrs. Truman answered matter-of-factly but her voice was far less severe than normal.

Even though she noticed this, Abby didn’t process it.

Mainly because she’d been married to Ben when she was twenty-five and she’d had nine happy years with him before he died.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Truman,” Jenny said gently, her eyes shifting between the older lady and Abby because this coincidence was definitely not lost on her and Mrs. Truman’s back went up.

“I’m sorry too, been sorry for thirty-six years. As I’m sure you could tell. Now, let’s not talk about maudlin things, you,” she pointed at Kieran, “why are you so tan? It’s January, no one should have a tan in January. Don’t you work?”

At that, Kieran explained his love of cycling and holidays with his wife while Marco served their drinks. Conversation, shockingly, flowed easily from there.

And this was because of Kieran and also Cash.

Both men politely asked questions of Mrs. Truman or politely answered her nosy ones.

For her part, Mrs. Truman remained crabby and curious but she was unexpectedly forthright. Therefore Abby learned more about her neighbour in half an hour than she’d known in thirty-eight years.

She also learned about Cash.

Not that he shared more than absolutely necessary when asked questions, more that he was polite and solicitous to the older woman. It wasn’t something she expected from the dynamic, imposing, impatient Cash Fraser. She didn’t know what she expected, brooding silence maybe or perhaps edgy tolerance. Not a man relaxed and at ease with his company and surroundings.

At this, Abby felt the tension ebb out of her body and she started to enjoy the evening.

Mrs. Truman wasn’t a gracious host but you couldn’t say she wasn’t an interesting one. As the conversation flowed, Abby realised that the old woman was enjoying herself and it was clear she was blossoming under the men’s attention, especially Cash’s (as would anyone, Abby had to admit). She was still grouchy but humorously so.

Abby also realised that because of her reputation it was unlikely Mrs. Truman had a lot of dinner parties. She mentally kicked herself for being so lost in her own troubles she didn’t notice that, when Abby’s grandmother died, her lonely neighbour had lost her old friend who’d lived next to her for forty-five years.

By the time Mrs. Truman announced it was time to eat and demanded they all go to the dining room, Abby felt Cash deserved some gratitude for his efforts.

While Mrs. Truman headed out to see to the meal, Abby grabbed Cash’s hand, delaying him as Kieran and Jenny moved from the room.

He stopped and his chin tipped down in order that he could look at her enquiringly.

She smiled up at him and told him in a whisper, “You… are… the… master.”

His eyes lit with humour at her words but he asked, “I’m sorry?”

“Mrs. Truman. You’re handling her like a master. I know you can’t tell, because, well, she’s Mrs. Truman but I think she’s half in love with you,” Abby informed him.

The light in his eyes stayed there but it grew warmer just as his head descended and his face disappeared in the hair by her ear.

“I hope, when we’re alone later, you’ll still think I’m a master,” he murmured teasingly and Abby’s body gave a delicious tremble right before all the tension that had ebbed out of her came slamming right back.

What did that mean?

She decided instantly that she did not want to know.

Cash felt her body go solid and apparently her reaction amused him. She knew this because he chuckled before he led her into the dining room.

The minute they entered Mrs. Truman bossily informed them they were switching partners and as the men made their way to their assigned seats, Jenny grabbed Abby’s forearm and tugged.

When she had Abby’s ear close to her mouth, she hissed, “What on earth is going on?”

Abby knew what her friend was referring to but she decided to play dumb.

“What do you mean?” Abby whispered.

“I mean you and Hunky International Spy Chaser, that’s what I mean,” Jenny whispered back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abby was still playing dumb and still whispering, not wanting anyone to hear.

Jenny’s fingers tightened on Abby’s arm. “Bickering on the front step like an old married couple. The finger action on the couch. Snuggling,” she hissed, “in company,” she went on. “You’re supposed to be his girlfriend but this is…” she hesitated. “I don’t know what it is!” she finished.

“Jenny –” Abby started but Mrs. Truman was getting cross at the delay.

“What are you two ninnies whispering about? Come on, share with the group,” she called.

Abby turned toward the table, thankful for once at Mrs. Truman’s interference, and answered, “Nothing, Mrs. Truman.”

“Women problems,” Jenny, for some momentarily-possessed-by-Satan reason, explained.

“Oh dear, you aren’t pregnant are you?” Mrs. Truman asked Jenny as Abby took her seat next to Kieran and Jenny slid into hers next to Cash.

“Um, no,” Jenny answered and her eyes moved to Kieran.

It was an insensitive question even though Mrs. Truman didn’t know that (and probably wouldn’t care). They’d been trying now for three years with no luck.

Mrs. Truman speared Abby with her eyes, “Please tell me you aren’t.”

Abby was taking a sip of her wine when the question was asked and she choked in horror and disbelief before saying, “Me? Pregnant?”

Mrs. Truman rolled her eyes to the ceiling and for some ungodly reason started talking to Abby’s grandmother, “I tell you, Meg, children these days. There’s no controlling them.” Mrs. Truman looked back to Abby but jutted a thumb at Cash. “I don’t care how handsome and charming he is; don’t let him get you into trouble.”

Kieran burst out laughing, Cash turned a devastating smile in Abby’s direction and Jenny stared at her speculatively.

Abby hoped the floor would form a mouth, open up and swallow her whole.

“Mrs. Truman, why don’t you stab me with your butter knife?” Abby requested.

“And why would I do a fool thing like that?” Mrs. Truman shot back but even as she did so her lips were twitching.

“Because it’d be less painful,” Abby returned blandly and for the first time ever Abby saw Mrs. Truman laugh.

Although she was trying to be funny, and she was weirdly pleased with herself for making Mrs. Truman laugh, Abby didn’t think anything was amusing.

Instead, she thought, with everything that had happened over the past six years, and everything that had happened recently, and everything that was going to happen, it was high time to get drunk.

“Abigail, you’re inebriated,” Mrs. Truman remarked jovially – yes, jovially!

“Am not,” Abby returned cheerfully, but this was a lie, because she was.

It was after their delicious, four-course meal (not including the cheese tray), served by the silent Marco, they were having after dinner drinks in the living room.

Jenny had gotten over her freak out at Abby and Cash’s behaviour and also conquered her fear of Mrs. Truman. Once she entered the conversation, drawing Cash out more, familiarly teasing Kieran and amusingly going head-to-head with Mrs. Truman, the evening became fun.

Abby joined in and through it all she had more wine than was prudent.

But she didn’t give a good God damn.

She didn’t like what had happened to her life but she weirdly did like what was currently happening to it, even though she knew shouldn’t, it wasn’t sensible.

Further, she was scared silly at what was about to happen at the same time she couldn’t wait.

If all that didn’t make you want to get drunk indeed deserve to get drunk, Abby didn’t know what did.

“I hope you can handle sick. Men, it’s my experience, can’t handle sick. Or poo.” Mrs. Truman, who likely was also a little intoxicated if her new conversational gambit was anything to go by, said to Cash. “Sick and poo and men do not mix,” she declared. “If you need me later, call me. I can handle sick. My dogs get sick all the time.” She paused and added as an informational afterthought, “They also poo.”

“Where are your dogs?” Jenny asked, leaning toward Mrs. Truman as if her answer would cure world hunger, proving it was highly likely she too was less than sober.

“They’re locked in my room. Probably pooing on my bed,” Mrs. Truman answered then cackled loudly as if this comment was the height of comedy.

Abby and Jenny apparently agreed because they giggled right along with her.

“Why are we talking about poo?” Kieran muttered to Cash and Cash’s response was to shake his head. This caused more gales of laughter from the women.

At that Cash got to his feet. He did so with his hands on Abby’s waist, pushing her up in front of him.

Once she was standing, Abby gazed up at him and asked, “Are we leaving?”

“Yes, darling, before you get any more wine in you and pass out on Mrs. Truman’s floor, we’re leaving,” Cash replied.

“Ooo, he called you ‘darling’,” Jenny burst out, drunkenly forgetting that Abby’s place in Cash’s life didn’t exactly garner endearments then in a colossal mood swing she turned a glare at Kieran. “Why don’t you call me ‘darling’, darling?”

“Because you’re not my darling,” Kieran replied on a grin, “you’re my pumpkin.”

Jenny’s glare darkened ominously. “I don’t want to be a pumpkin. A pumpkin is a vegetable. A darling is…” she faltered then declared, “a darling!”

“How about ‘sweetheart’?” Kieran suggested.

Jenny appeared to be considering this then she grumbled, “Darling’s better.”

Kieran’s grin didn’t waver as he explained, “I’m not a darling type of guy, pumpkin.”

“Well, I’m not a pumpkin type of girl, darling,” Jenny shot back.

“Time to call it a night,” Mrs. Truman decreed, slowly getting to her feet, “marital tiffs always herald time to call it a night.”

At this Abby burst out laughing.

Cash started to manoeuvre her laughing form from the room but Mrs. Truman interceded.

“You men, get the coats. We’ll wait here where it’s comfortable,” she ordered bossily.

Kieran got to his feet muttering, “Your wish…” and he bent to kiss the top of his still-irritable wife’s head.

With a smile on her lips, Abby watched this but her attention was diverted when Cash’s hand came up, curled around her neck and he gave her an affectionate squeeze before he left the room.

She had to admit, she really liked it when Cash did that.

Abby watched him leave then forgetting her audience, she sighed.

“He’s luscious,” Jenny proclaimed, her eyes on the door Cash just went through.

For one beautiful moment, forgetting herself and her circumstances, in the direction of her friend Abby breathed a very girlie, “I know.”

Mrs. Truman broke into this exchange by starting, “When Morty died,” and Abby and Jenny’s eyes turned to her, their drunken glow slipping at the older woman’s words, “I promised myself never again. Never again.” Abby and Jenny kept watching as her face changed to an expression neither of them had ever seen, not just from Mrs. Truman, but on anyone. It was forlorn, full of regret and difficult to witness. Abby watched as Mrs. Truman’s attention focused on her. “After your man died, Meg and I talked about you. We talked about you all the time. She worried so much. She told me how grief-stricken you were. She thought you’d never recover. Meg worried you’d end up just like me,” Abby’s throat closed and Mrs. Truman’s voice got soft when she went on. “I like him, this new one. Your grandmother would be pleased, Abigail,” her voice dipped to a whisper, “so very pleased.”

Abby felt tears well in her eyes as guilt tore at her heart because, even though it wasn’t her idea to have this dinner, her “new man” wasn’t her new man at all.

The entire situation was a deception and she was inadvertently making a fool of her new friend.

Her voice was hoarse when she started, “Mrs. Truman –” but she didn’t get to finish not that she knew what to say.

The men came in bearing coats and the mood and moment was broken.

It was broken further when Abby tried to give Mrs. Truman a hug, not only as a thank you for dinner, but as a gesture of newfound camaraderie.

Mrs. Truman was having none of it.

“I do not hug,” she announced, rearing away from Abby and putting her hand up at the same time to ward her off. “Americans hug. Englishwomen kiss cheeks and even then they do their very best not to touch,” she said her last word as if the thought of touching was repugnant.

Abby was for the first time not offended or irritated by her cranky neighbour.

She simply said, “Very well, Mrs. Truman. You get the English way in your house but when you come over to my house, you have to hug me good-bye.”

“I think not,” Mrs. Truman snapped.

“I think yes,” Abby retorted.

“No,” Mrs. Truman returned.

“We might hold hands too,” Abby threatened on a tease and Mrs. Truman made a “humph” sound but Abby was guessing there wasn’t a lot of feeling in that “humph”.

Abby smiled at her and said softly, “Good night, Mrs. Truman.”

Mrs. Truman’s face ever-so-slightly warmed. “Good night, Abigail.”

Cash settled his coat on her shoulders, more farewells were exchanged and she and Cash led the way, Kieran and Jenny following, out of the house.

On the pavement in front of Mrs. Truman’s house they said their good-byes with Jenny grasping Abby’s hand and whispering a firm, “We have to chat. Call me.”

Abby pulled away and with false brightness in the face of impending doom, declared, “Will do.”

Cash steered her to her house, took the keys from her, opened the latch and pressed her inside, following her.

He then closed the door behind them and took his coat from her shoulders, hooking it on her coat stand.

Abby watched him doing this.

Then it dawned on her drunken mind that the night was over.

Then it hit her that they were in her house. Something she didn’t want. Something she needed to protect herself from. Something which she could just come to terms with if he stayed in the hall, living room and kitchen, common areas that didn’t intrude too much on her precious memories.

However, Cash wasn’t staying in the vestibule. He snapped off the light switch and grabbed her hand.

Then he led her to the stairs.

Panic beginning to pierce her drunken state, she pulled at her hand (which didn’t stop him) while asking, “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed,” he replied calmly, turning at the stairs and he had her up three of them when she came to a dead halt and he stopped with her.

“I can get to bed on my own,” she told him.

“You aren’t sleeping on your own,” he returned.

The breath squeezed out of Abby’s lungs and the beginning panic bloomed like a mushroom cloud.

She forced it back and said, “I thought we were going to your place.”

He was one step up and looking down at her. “We were, until you got drunk. But then you got drunk. Now we’re staying here.”

He turned away and started to move forward but she stayed where she was and declared, “I’d prefer to stay at your place.”

His torso twisted and he looked back down at her. “And I’d prefer to stay here.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice, she heard with irritation, sounding slightly shrill, hinting at the panic she felt.

With a firm tug on her hand, he forced her up to the step where he was standing. Then he dropped her hand and both of his came to rest on her neck.

“Because it’s late and you’re inebriated. You get in the car you’re likely to fall asleep. I don’t want you intoxicated, asleep and in a car. I want you intoxicated, awake and in a bed. This is the closest one available unless you’d like to ask Mrs. Truman if she has a guest bedroom.”

“Cash –” she started to protest but his thumb came to rest on her lips, effectively silencing her.

Once there, it slid across her lower one and she found she liked that so much she couldn’t speak much less protest.

“All day,” he said in that deeper, sexier, throatier burr that she liked so much, “I’ve been thinking about what I’d do to you tonight. All… fucking… day.” His thumb disappeared from her lip, his fingers slid into her hair to cup the back of her head as he got closer at the same time her heart started beating faster. “And after our time in the kitchen,” he went on, “all night, I’ve been waiting to get you to bed.” The thumb of his hand still at her neck put pressure on her jaw to tip her head back further. “And I think you know how I feel about waiting.”

She couldn’t say anything; she’d lost the ability to speak. Even if she could, she still couldn’t.

Because he kissed her.

And it wasn’t like any of the times before. This one was different. She knew it immediately. This one was not in her control and neither was it in his. This one was sweltering from its start, burning through her.

This one was leading somewhere.

And Abby wanted to go there.

She felt a thrill race through her that was only partly fear (a small part) but mostly something else entirely.

Her mouth opened under his, his tongue slid inside and the minute it did she was lost.

She didn’t care they were in her house. She didn’t care that she didn’t want him there. She didn’t care that her feelings were confused. She didn’t care that losing control put her on even shakier ground. And lastly, she didn’t care that she was supposed to be keeping her head screwed on straight and she most assuredly was not.

She didn’t care about anything but his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth and the amazing things her body was feeling.

She melted into him, her arms going around his back, her body pressing against his.

At her uninhibited response, his hand fisted in her hair, sending tingles from her scalp straight down her spine (and other areas besides). The fingers of his other hand tightened on her neck as he leaned into her, bending her back, deepening the kiss.

She felt this new intensity surge through her system, making her knees go weak.

Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered that it had never been this good.

Never, never, never.

And she wanted more.

She let him take the weight of her as she concentrated less on remaining upright and more on the pleasant, heady sensations rushing through her.

His mouth tore from hers, his hands disappeared and she teetered a moment before he bent and lifted her in his arms. She made a noise, half of surprise, half from desire. Her arms curled around his neck, his mouth came back to hers and he kissed her while carrying her to her room.

And Abby liked that he carried her, the strength of him, his mouth on hers. It made her world tilt; she felt wonderfully dizzy and hoped the world would never come right again.

He set her at her feet beside the bed and, mouth still on hers, he shrugged off his suit jacket, dropping it to the floor. Then he leaned into her and she was falling back onto the bed, his heavy, solid weight on top of her.

She forgot how this felt, having a man cover you, and she realised she missed it. The warmth of it, the safety of it, how it could shut out everything else and make just the two of you be the whole world.

But even though this thought sifted through her brain, Ben didn’t enter her mind.

It was all Cash, his long, hard body, the smell of his woodsy, spicy cologne, his weight, his mouth, all of him, every single inch.

She found she craved him, all-of-a-sudden she couldn’t get enough, pulling his shirt from his trousers, her hands slid up the hot skin of his back as he kissed her and she kissed him back.

He rolled, taking her with him, yanking her skirt up around her hips as he did so. He sat up, forcing her to straddle him. His mouth broke from hers and he pulled at his tie, the knot coming free, he slid it from his collar and tossed it aside.

All the while Abby’s mouth was at Cash’s neck, tasting his skin (and liking it), gliding along his strong jaw and her hands were at the buttons of his shirt, shaking with desire as she undid them.

While she was at her task, he grasped her dress, pulling it up and forcing her up with it. She happily lifted her arms as he tugged it off and threw it aside.

Then their mouths collided, his hands roaming, skin-against-skin, and it felt as if every centimetre he touched was connected straight between her legs.

His mouth disengaged and he pressed into her, arms around her, torso twisted and she heard his shoes hit the floor. He pulled back and she finished with his buttons, tugged the shirt over his shoulders, down his arms, dislodging his hands from her skin. Quickly, because she wanted them back, she yanked the shirt free of his body and tossed it away.

His arms came around her, crushing her as he fell back, then rolled, mostly on top of her, his mouth gliding down her jaw, her neck, her chest, then it was closing on her nipple over her bra.

“Cash…” she breathed, her hands sliding slowly into his hair. Then she gasped as he pulled her nipple sharply into his mouth.

It had been so long since she had this, her body so deprived, Cash so warm and heavy, his hands causing shivers, his mouth talented, the heat shot from her nipple to between her legs and she felt herself quivering.

It was early but she was ready.

She was ready now.

Her hand travelled down his arm, fingers finding his wrist, she brought his hand to the heat of her and pressed it in right where she needed it.

“Jesus, Abby,” he growled against her nipple and even his voice, rougher than ever, made her wet.

His lips came to hers and needing no more coaxing, his fingers took over. As his tongue slid inside her mouth, his hand slid inside her panties and then he was touching her.

She gasped at the sweetness of it, arching her back, straining her hips against his hand as his finger found her and started move.

It was great.

No, it was awesome.

No, it was amazing.

So much so she had to tell him.

“Cash,” she breathed, “don’t stop. That’s amazing.”

She felt his smile against her mouth and luckily he didn’t stop. He kept going. He kept going until she was squirming against his hand and she felt it. It was coming and she knew by the feel of it that it was going to shatter her world.

But something wasn’t right. She couldn’t do it alone.

No, she could.

She just didn’t want to.

“You,” she said urgently, her breath coming in pants.

His mouth had gone away but he hadn’t. When her eyes partly opened she saw he was close and watching her.

“You,” she repeated, turning into him, losing control, coming close to letting go and letting it happen.

“Abby,” he murmured and her hand went to his stomach, sliding down, feeling his hardness, hearing his soft groan at her touch and she knew she wanted all of him.

If she had a choice between breathing and having Cash inside her at that moment she would have chosen the latter.

“Cash,” she breathed, tugging at his belt, “stop.”

He gave a short, harsh laugh at her words. “Darling, I can’t stop.”

“No, don’t stop. I mean,” she pressed her torso deeper into his and before sanity could invade or she lost herself in what his hand was doing, she whispered insistently, “I want it to happen with you. Please, I want you inside me.”

She no sooner got out the words then his hand went away and so did he. She blinked in the darkness at the sudden cold, opening her mouth to object but then her panties were pulled down her legs and he rolled over her.

She felt his hand between them working at his trousers right before his mouth crushed hers in a mind-boggling kiss.

Her legs opened in invitation, his hips slid between, his tongue touching hers and then he was inside her, buried to the hilt, filling her completely.

And that felt beyond amazing.

“Yes,” she whispered as he moved, not slowly but fast, hard, hot, her body jolting lusciously with his thrusts.

She wrapped her arms around him as he pulled one of her legs around his waist, her other thigh he pushed up against his side, giving him better access so he could go deeper, thrust harder and she liked it.

No, she loved it.

And she felt it; she knew it was back, ready to overwhelm her.

“Cash,” she gasped and his mouth moved from the skin below her ear as his head came up so he could look at her.

“I want it.” His words were a demand uttered in a husky rumble that so affected her, Abby slid over the edge.

“Cash,” she repeated on a soft cry as it started.

His fingers drove into her hair, tugging it gently, pulling her head back so her neck arched even further than it did naturally with her climax. His mouth went to her neck, she felt his lips there, his tongue touching her, his body moving inside hers but it was mostly the scrumptious, momentous, earth-shattering explosion of her body she was feeling.

And it was scrumptious, momentous and earth-shattering, pounding through her body as Cash pounded inside her.

After, when Abby was coming down, her body tight around his (both her limbs and other better places), was when she heard him pull in his breath. He drove into her one, last, succulent time and she knew she had him.

And that was earth-shattering too.

When they were done his weight relaxed into her. Her arms flexed, her thigh tightened at his side and her leg curled deeper around his waist and she found, stupidly and ridiculously, she wanted to hold onto him. She wanted to hold onto the man who lit welcoming lights, who worried about her when she was late, who showed patience with an old, lonely woman, who found his mother after she committed suicide and was brave enough to talk about it.

She wanted to hold onto Cash Fraser and the magic of this moment forever.

Then sanity, as it had a way of doing, invaded.

And she wondered what, in all holy hell, she was doing.

She’d just given herself to him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Then, heartbreakingly, she remembered Ben.

There had been no one since him. When she was with him, she never even considered another man.

Now, she’d just let Cash fuck her.

In fact, she’d practically begged him to do it.

What was the matter with her?

Cash’s face came out of her neck as his hand released her hair.

“Abby.”

She tipped her chin down to look at him in the shadows, wondering how she was going to get out of her latest, stupid, stupid, stupid Abby behaviour.

She was thinking, hysterically, she’d blame it on the drink before he spoke.

“Don’t fucking shut down on me.” His voice was a warning, holding an edge of anger, making her scarily aware that, even in the dark, he could read her.

“I’m not shutting down,” she lied.

“You fucking well are,” he clipped and since he was using the word “fuck” a lot, she knew he wasn’t edging toward anger, he was there. Before she could process this (as in, let it freak her out), he went on. “What just happened was good.”

“Cash.”

“I don’t give a fuck about whatever fucking rules you have. That was you that you just gave me. I wanted it, you gave it, I took it and I’m not fucking giving it back.”

“Cash –” she started again.

“No, Abby, you’re mine,” he declared and genuine fear started edging out the beginnings of panic, the despair at her reckless behaviour and the full-tilt guilt.

“What does that mean?” she whispered and his hand came to rest against the side of her face.

“Five days ago, I paid for a part of you. Just now, you gave me all of you. And I’m not fucking giving it back.” She pulled in breath at what he said and what he might mean but he kept talking. “This is mine,” he said, moving his hips and she couldn’t help it, he was still inside her, it felt good and her own hips pressed into his in response. Then his mouth came to hers. “And this mine,” he murmured before he brushed his lips against hers then his hand left her face to trail down her side. “And this is mine,” he went on, his hand coming back to her face, his thumb gliding along her cheek. “And, darling, this is mine.”

“Cash, I think it’s safe to say you’re freaking me out,” she informed him softly and honestly, her voice proving her words true.

She saw in the dark his white teeth flash in a smile as his anger disappeared.

Then he whispered, “Get used to that feeling, Abby. Because when something’s mine, it’s mine and I never give it up without a fight. And even if someone’s fool enough to fight me, they never win.”

“Cash, you can’t have me, I’m not yours to have,” she told him, her voice now sounding a wee bit desperate.

His mouth came back to hers and she felt that he was still smiling.

“Oh yes, darling, you are,” he said there and he kissed her.

And right before his tongue touched hers and she lost herself again, Abigail Butler thought, Oh bloody hell. Now what have I done?