Hard Time (20 page)

“You brought it up,” Gram reminded her.

My dad surprised me by being the one to seek further info. “So, Annie. What’s this young man do?”

And I gave him the same spiel I had my mom, emphasis on the landscaping, ix-nay on the incarceration. Thankfully the conversation got dragged off by my gram, who embarked on a monologue on the topic of What’s Wrong With Folks from the North, and I was spared further grilling for the rest of dinner. By seven thirty my dad was back from dropping Gram home, and my mom and I had cleaned up the dinner dishes. We switched on the TV, prepared to watch whatever movie was coming on at eight.

My parents took the couch and I curled up in my dad’s recliner. George Bailey was just purchasing a large suitcase, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I slid it out, my heart’s eager, hopeful beating rewarded.
Eric.

“I have to take this,” I said, standing. Blushing.

“It is this your beau?” my mother asked.

“Oh my God, Mama. Who says that?”

“That’s a yes,” my dad said.

I rolled my eyes at them both and headed for the door.

I hit Talk on the fourth ring, slipping into the hall. “Hey, you.”

“Hey, yourself. Merry Christmas.”

Fuck me, his voice. It closed around me like a starry night.

“Merry Christmas. What are you up to?” I asked as I climbed the stairs.

“Not a lot. Missing you, mostly. Missing your voice.”

I shut my bedroom door, smiling to know the vocal objectification was mutual. “Well, my voice is all yours now. We just finished dinner, and I think I can skip
It’s a Wonderful Life,
considering how I could probably recite it from memory.” I sat on my bed, suddenly needing to picture him. “Are you at home?”

“Yeah.”

“Where? Where in your apartment, I mean.”

“Couch.”

“What are you wearing?” I giggled and a soft laugh answered me.

“Jeans and a sweater.”

“What color?”

“My dark red one.”

I pictured him, long legs stretched out, messy hair mashed against a cushion. “Socks?”

“Yup. Two of ’em.”

“Okay. Got it.”

“What about you? What’re you wearing?”

“Damn,” I said with another giggle. “This sounds like a prelude to phone sex.” Oh man, and
was
it?

“Tell me.”

Ooh, and hadn’t his voice just dropped half an octave?

“Well, I’m wearing a tan corduroy skirt and a green top, and I’m about to unzip my brown leather boots. And I’m sitting on the bed in what used to be my childhood bedroom, though it’s decorated all different now.”

“That where you were last night, when we were texting?”

“Mm-hm. What about you?”

“I was in bed. Though after we hung up I wished to hell I had a copy of your keys so I could’ve driven over to yours and got all tangled up in your sheets, and smelled you in your pillowcases.” He paused. “Was that creepy?”

I laughed. “No, I think that’s sweet. And a little dirty, depending on what happened next.”

He made a low, lazy noise, like he was stretching. “So how was your Christmas? Santa bring you lots of presents?”

“Not too many. I didn’t ask for much. I did pretty bad at the white elephant swap and wound up with a harmonica. Plus some good gift cards from my parents and cash from my gram.”

“You sound even more Southern than usual,” he teased.

“I don’t doubt it. Being around my family tends to do that. What about you? Did you see your family?”

“No, just a long phone call. There might be a storm tomorrow, so that was a good excuse to lay low, in case there’s some work to pick up.”

“Were they bummed, not getting to see you on your first Christmas out of prison?” At that final word, my stomach plummeted as I imagined my parents listening in on this conversation. But I wasn’t fifteen, and this wasn’t the landline.
Get a grip, girl.

“Probably,” Eric said. “But they’ll live. I gotta get them used to me not running home the second they tell me to.”

“Sounds wise.”

“Plus I didn’t feel like seeing my dad, and I heard he’s been hanging around. Anyway.”

“Anyway,” I agreed. “What did you do for dinner? Anything special?”

“Uh, kind of. I guess. I bought a decent steak the other day at the supermarket and made myself that.” A soft
heh
. “Steak and beer, in honor of our Lord’s birth.”

“Whatever floats your boat.”

“I got you a present yesterday,” he said. “I hope that’s okay.”

Dreamy.
“Fine by me. What is it?”

I heard the smile warming his tone. “You’ll have to wait and find out. I wrapped it really badly. So bad it looks like a joke. Don’t laugh when you see it.”

“I haven’t found you anything, yet. But my mom’s sending me home with a stack of snobby gardening magazines.”

“You told them about me, then?” I could about taste the surprise in his voice. “How much?”

“Not the whole Cousins thing. But everything else.”

“I pass muster?”

“Yeah, I’d say so. You mention me to your family, on the phone?”

“My mom already knew about you, from Kristina,” he said.

“Oh, great. Because she seemed crazy about me when I spoke to her.”

“They know you make me happy. That’s all that ought to matter.”

“Ought to?” I asked, heart twisting a little.

He sighed into the receiver. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Worry about what?” And how was it that
I,
the mild-mannered librarian, was failing the family-opinion test, when my ex-con lover had basically scored a blessing?

“It’s not your fault,” Eric said. “They just don’t get that my staying away as much as I have is my own decision. Yet.”

“They think I’m trying to keep you away from them?”

“They jump to conclusions like that. About like, meddling outsiders. My sister especially. But I told them you’re not even in town, that you couldn’t care less. It’s just their way, blaming the nearest unknown entity. They’re threat-oriented folks.”

“Jeez.” What a bleak prospect, as in-laws went. I mean, not that I was imagining—

“Don’t sweat it,” he said. “They’ll get all worked up about some other thing next week and you’ll be off the shit list.”

“I’m on your family’s
shit list?”

He laughed softly. “Only my sister’s. And it’s a long list. Like I said, don’t sweat it.”

“Fine. As long as my present’s really good, I’m over it. What’s my present?”

Another laugh, a low one that made me feel all warm and squirmy. “Wait and see.”

“I’ll make it my mission to find you something tomorrow,” I promised. Something for his indoor garden, maybe.

“I like seeing you in lace, if that helps point you in the right direction.”

Actually yes, that was exceedingly helpful. “And here I’d been thinking of plant stuff. Well, I’ll see what I can do. Any particular color you’d like me to wear?” Though I was only teasing, excitement drew my sex tight and hot. Our game flashed me back to the height of summer, to those meetings in Cousins, stifling for so many reasons.

“That’s a good question,” he said. “Lemme think.”

“It’s Christmas. Maybe red?”

Whore.
Fine by me. I was quite excited to imagine being Eric’s plaything.

“Red it is,” he said.

Without meaning to, I let my hand roam low and settle over my mound, cupping through my skirt. After a long pause I murmured, “I miss your body.”

“It misses you. Did you read my email?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I haven’t even checked my inbox since I landed.”

“You made me promise I’d write you. And I always keep my promises.”

“Is it . . . dirty?”

“Find out.”

I smiled. “Oh, I intend to.”

“Last night, after we were texting,” he prompted.

“Yes?”

“Did you?”

“I did. Did you?” I asked.

“Exactly how you told me to. Exactly what you said to imagine.”

“Good. Me, too.”

“Wish I could have your hands on me for real,” he murmured.

“So do I.”

Nothing for a long moment, so I asked, “Are you . . .
Are
you?”

“Touching myself?” he whispered.

My “yeah” was so quiet, he probably sensed it as much as he actually heard it.

“Yeah,” he echoed. “A little.”

My own hand slid deeper between my legs. “How?”

“Just over my jeans.”

I pictured it, his big hand cupping his excitement through his fly. Maybe squeezing gently, stroking faintly. Just as I was.

“That okay?” he asked.

“That’s very okay.”

“Wish it was you.”

“So do I.”

“What would you want me to do, if we were together right now?” he asked.

My brain short-circuited, and the nervous energy dissipated like steam. I let the truth flow, speaking my desires exactly as they came to me. “I’d want us both in our underwear. On your couch. Kissing. And maybe I’m on my back, and you’re between my legs. Excited.”

“That’d be torture,” he breathed, voice gone reedy.
Awesome.

“No, torture for me,” I corrected. “You’d be doing it to tease me. Letting me feel how hard you were. But every time I try to touch you or push your shorts down, you stop me.” Oh man, this was way easier than I’d expected.

“You want me to tease you?”

“Yeah.” Tease me, just as he had with those letters, and with this phone call.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he said, and in my mind, I did. His thighs were thick and strong, hips fidgeting as he stroked against me, so slow. I could feel his back muscles under my palms, how they tensed in time with the torture.

“Are you hard?” I whispered.

“So hard.”

“Still just through your jeans?”

“Yeah.”

“Unzip them,” I murmured. “But only touch yourself through your shorts.”

Distracted breaths came through the line, a soft grunt. “Okay.”

My own hand eased up my skirt. I palmed my sex, my hand like ice even through my panties. But not for long. “I’m doing the same,” I told him.

“Good. Except you’re not, really. Because I’m on top of you.”

I shimmied around and flopped onto my back, the fluffy down pillow sighing. I spread my thighs, and just the flex of my hips triggered a rush of arousal. There was an extra pillow beside me, and I shoved it right where Eric ought to be, its weight and softness way off, but thrilling all the same. Jesus, I was humping a pillow in my childhood bedroom. This man really did make me sixteen again.

“I want your hands on my ass,” he said. “Begging me for more.”

I felt it all—snug cotton over hard muscle, and my nails digging into him. “Please.”

“Please what? What do you need, darling?”

What did I need? My mouth knew before my brain registered it. “I want to go down on you.”

The softest groan. “Do you?”

“Yeah. More than anything. Get your clothes off.”

“Hang on.” I heard a tap like he’d set the phone down, then distant rustling, a creak. “Okay,” he said, voice tight.

“Make your . . .”

“Make what, Annie?”

“Make your hand wet.”

The tiniest,
“Oh.”

“Then tell me what I’m doing. And how it feels.” I hugged the pillow tight, so aroused I felt a little scared. I liked it. “Eric?”

“Yeah. Okay, I’m ready.”

“I’m taking you in my mouth, now.”

“Fuck. Okay . . . okay.” His excitement was so obvious. And he sounded rattled, just the way I liked.

“Tell me,” I whispered.

“You’re wet,” he said through a moan. “And warm. Feels so good.”

I didn’t know what to picture—the act we were pretending, or just this man, stroking himself in a spit-slick fist on my orders.

“It’s everything I imagined back then,” he said. “Before we were ever together. Your hair’s so soft, in my hands. And your . . . your mouth. It’s hungry. Like you love doing this to me.”

In my mind’s eye, I released him to speak. “I do. More than I ever knew I could.”

“It makes me feel so fucking big, when you do it.” His words had sped up, and I imagined his hand doing the same. “I like it with me laying down,” he said. “Not above you, like it’s something I’m making you do. Like I’m letting you, almost.”

Fuck, yes. Exactly.
“I’d beg you for it,” I whispered. “If you told me I couldn’t.”

“What d’you like about it?”

“Feeling how much you want me, right there. So close. And tasting it. Smelling it. Feeling how helpless you get, from the way your fingers fidget in my hair, or on my neck.”

Heavy breathing, and I was so there with him I swear I felt the heat of it in my ear.

“You,” he murmured, voice taut. “You now, or I’m going to lose it.”

“God, I wish I was with you. So much.”

“Me, too. Tell me what you’d have me do to you, if you were.”

I shut my eyes, let my free hand wander. “Your mouth, I think. You’re amazing with your mouth.”

“Whatever—wanted,” he said, the connection cutting out in the middle.

I pictured that mouth as it must look right now. Lips parted, pink tongue restless. And the rest of him—that long, strong body stretched along the cushions, big fingers circling his pounding cock maybe, but not moving. Too close to the edge. I kicked the pillow away, hand sliding inside my panties.

“You still touching yourself?” I asked, breathless.

“Just holding it. I’m too close.”

And I knew this man too well. “Touch it just a little. Real light.”

When his pained groan came through the phone, I knew he’d obeyed. My pleasure drew tight as a knot from that alone. From this weird little kink I’d never known I had, my need to make a man weak. Especially one as strong as Eric. Five years he’d survived in a cage full of angry men, yet I had him writhing from a thousand miles away, from nothing but my voice, my desires. Another soft sound of desperation teased my ear, and my own hand sped, pleasure growing.

“Are you—?” Again, the line cut out a little.

“Am I what?” I asked.

“Are you close? Tell me when you’re close.”

“Now. I’m close now.”

And I could tell from the way his voice went shallow then, he was going to join me. “Good. Keep imagining it.”

“You still touching yourself?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s what I’m imagining, now.” Big dick, big hand, dark eyes closed to slits, lips parted. “Fast?”

“Not too fast. Not until you get there.”

I slowed his hand in my mind, moving that tight fist up and down in luxurious strokes.

“You’re—”

He cut me off.
“Fuck.”
And that was
not
the exclamation of a man climaxing. “Sorry. Hang on.” The connection went flat for a moment, then he came back on. “I’m so fucking sorry, Annie, but I have to go.”

“What? Go where?”

“Nowhere, maybe. But I have to take a call. It’s family shit.” Ah, that would be the cutouts. Incoming calls he’d been ignoring.

“Oh,” I said, deflating utterly. “That’s okay. Do what you need to do.”

I heard the frustration of ten thousand inmates in his sigh. “I’m really sorry. But go read my email, maybe. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. I hope everything’s all—”

“Merry Christmas, Annie,” he said, and then he was gone.

I stared at my phone, at the call duration blinking at me in the dark.