Exposure (18 page)

Sam refilled a glass and passed it to Elvis the minute he dropped into the seat next to his. Scraping his own chair nearer to his friend's, he stubbed out his cigarette, shoved aside the overflowing ashtray in front of him, and said sarcastically, "I thought at the very least we'd get to see a little blood flow.

Damn, E, when did you turn into such a pussy?"

Elvis tore his eyes away from the skirt that swirled up around Emma's waist and then flared out again before finally swinging back into place around her thighs. He transferred his scowl to his best friend. "What the hell are you talking about, Mackey?"

"I'm talking about that sad display out there on the dance floor, man. Jesus, Elvis, I thought you'd be crackin' some heads together, but you just let those two yahoos horn right in on your woman."

Elvis shrugged, raising the glass to his lips, his eyes narrowed as they once again tracked Emma's progress around the floor. "So let 'em have a thrill," he said to Sam without removing his gaze from the floor. "Trust me, it's gonna be a momentary one. When the Anchor shuts down tonight, she's going home with me." Pulling his gaze off the floor, he looked at his friend and then added seriously, "But I'd just as soon the entire town doesn't know and speculate about it, Sam. No sense in wrecking her standing in the community if we don't have to." He looked back at the dance floor in time to see Emma whirled around again. She should never have been let out of her room wearing that skirt. It was too damn incendiary.

When the music changed, Emma went from one partner's arms into another man's. Sam and Clare got up to dance, and just to be polite Elvis turned to Ruby and asked if she would care to dance. He was caught by surprise when she took him up on his offer.

"Which floor?" he inquired as he escorted her from the table. "Line?" He tipped his chin toward the tiny floor where line dancing was held. "Or two-step or swing?" He gave her a quick, assessing glance. She'd pick line.

"Let's see." Ruby gnawed her lip for a second as she considered the logistics. Line dancing would be simpler, of course, for there was no touching. And yet ... "Two-step, I think."

Again he was surprised, but his expression didn't change. He hadn't given away his feelings on any subject he didn't intend to give them away on since he was seventeen years old. "Good enough. I caution you, though, that we'll have to wing it on any spins instigated off my left hand." It was fair warning, for which he received in return a grin so spontaneous he found himself smiling back at her in sheer reaction.

"What the hell," she said cheerfully, raising her voice to be heard over the music. "I've seen you move, Sheriff, and at least I know you're light on your feet. Better we fumble a couple spins than my tootsies get trampled." She shrugged good-naturedly as she explained, "Standing on my feet all day every day, I tend to get a tad protective of them."

Ruby had never actually seen him dance before; the few times they'd been in the Anchor at the same time he'd simply sat on the sidelines and watched. As far as she knew, he had never once asked anyone to dance, not needing to be told, most likely, that most of the women in town would turn him down flat. She did, however, see him daily in the cafe and around town. And more than once she had noted his natural grace.

Besides, she'd seen him with Emma. When the two of them had first walked onto the dance floor, he'd handled her as gingerly as if she were made of the finest, most easily shattered china. Ruby found herself completely at ease with him, much to her own surprise, and not even a little apprehensive at the idea of touching that metal hook. Hell, even the scar on his face didn't make him seem so threatening tonight.

She recognized that her attitude regarding this man had changed quite a bit since Emma Sands had come to town.

They danced together with surprising smoothness, and Elvis didn't hesitate to ask her a second time later in the evening. He also danced once with Clare. The entire time he was on the dance floor, however, and while sitting at the table between dances, drinking beer and exchanging rude comments with Sam, he kept track of Emma's movements. When at the end of a song he saw her disappear down the dim hallway that led to the restrooms, he pushed back from the table.

Emma dried off her hands, used the edge of her little finger to smooth away a smear of eyeliner, fluffed up her hair with her fingers, and stood back to survey the results.

Not bad; the ravages caused by the whirlwind of dances were mostly invisible, thank God. These Western men were an energetic bunch. Girding herself, she exited the ladies' room—and walked straight into Elvis Donnelly's chest.

"Hey," he growled. Sparing a quick glance up and down the hall, he clamped a hand around her wrist, maneuvered them into an old cloak room that in the summertime was never used, and backed her up against the wall. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

It was hot and urgent, all bold, ravenous suction and aggressive, probing tongue. When he finally lifted his mouth, Emma was gripping his waist with both hands, and mutually stunned, they stared into each other's eyes for a few moments, surrounded by a pocket of silence that was broken only by the sounds of their ragged breathing. Emma licked her lips. "I thought you'd changed your mind," she said hoarsely.

"Why the hell would you think that?" He bent his head to nuzzle her ear, pressed his open mouth against the side of her throat.

She gave him a little shove. "Why wouldn't I think that, you big bozo? You said you wanted to take me to your room, but then you just walked away. Mon Dieu, you haven't even bothered to dance with me since then."

"Oh." He thought about his actions from her point of view. "Don't be angry with me, Em. I guess I was too damn subtle for my own good." His eyes closed briefly at the feel of her breasts flattening beneath his chest and he pressed a little harder, rubbing against her once like an overgrown cat looking to be stroked. Then he pushed back slightly with the forearms he'd braced against the wall on either side of her head. He looked down at her. "My intentions were good. I was protecting your reputation."

"You were? Why, what an amazing coincidence, cher," she said, and one corner of her mouth tilted up in a wry smile as she gazed up at him. "When I didn't chase after you, screamin' 'Breach of Promise,' I was protectin' yours, too."

He stilled, dropping the tendril of hair he'd hooked around his forefinger and begun to fiddle with. "Yeah, right," he agreed stiffly, an edge of sarcasm coloring his voice as he slowly straightened. "A fella's only got his good name after all." And his wasn't worth shit in this town.

"I wasn't mocking you, Elvis, if that's what you think," she said quietly. "Anyone who gets too close to me tends not to have to worry overmuch about collectin' their social security benefits. If Grant's goon is still hangin' around I would very much like to avoid constructin' a big ol' neon arrow that points straight at you." She touched gentle fingertips to his jaw. "That's all I meant, cher."

"Oh. Sorry." He was surprised and discomforted by his own sensitivity on the subject. Generally, he couldn't give a rip what Flannery Island had to say about him. With Emma, though, everything seemed to take on new and crucial overtones.

Huh. Impatiently, he shouldered the thought—and all the ramifications that arose from it—aside.

"Listen," he said instead, "when last call comes, what do you say I offer to walk you home? It's the neighborly thing to do, after all."

The corners of her mouth ticked up. "Being a good neighbor is such an important quality," she agreed solemnly.

"Oh, yes, ma'am, very important. We put a great deal of stock in that kinda thing here in Port Flannery." He gave her a lopsided smile. "So how did you and Ruby get here, anyway? Did you walk down from the boarding house?"

"She drove us," she said; then her head dropped back against the wall when he went back to kissing her neck. Her hips were beginning to make little instinctual bumps and grinds before he finally pushed back with palpable reluctance. "Damn," he breathed out. Shoving his fingers through his hair, he stared down at her. "You'd better go back to the table, Emma. I'll follow in a few minutes."

"Promise that you'll dance with me one more time before last call," she demanded. She smoothed her hair and tucked in her tank top.

"Yeah, sure. We better make it one of the fast numbers though. Otherwise I might not be able to walk off the dance floor."

Emma grinned and patted his cheek. "Why, Elvis Donnelly, you little ol' sweet talker, you. I bet you say that to all the women, just to make 'em feel allurin'."

Elvis snorted. He watched her walk away.

Then he went into the men's room and bought out the condom machine.

The early morning air was cool, wafting off the harbor with a faint scent of sea salt, and the town was dark and quiet when the door of the tavern closed behind them a short while later. Emma and Elvis stood in the parking lot with Ruby, Sam, and Clare, saying good nights that became protracted every time someone introduced something they swore would just take a second and that ultimately reminded one of the others of something that must be said. Though they were exceedingly careful to keep a distance between them and not allow so much as their fingertips to brush, the tension that arced between Emma and Elvis was nearly an audible crackle by the time Ruby and the Mackeys finally climbed into their respective cars and drove off. Then, unsmiling and authoritative as if he were conducting her off to jail, Elvis put a hand beneath Emma's elbow and escorted her from the tavern's lot to the sidewalk, politely ushering her out of the path of departing pickup trucks and American-made cars.

The last set of headlights had flashed past them by the time they walked past Mackey's General Store. Glancing down the deserted street, Elvis yanked Emma into the shadows cast by the side of the building, and she had but a scant instant to register the quiet lap of water against pilings before he kissed her. By the time he raised his head, the back of her skirt was rucked up around her waist, his hand was underneath it alternately squeezing and stroking a rounded cheek, and the back of Emma's knee was hooked up over his hip, her arms clamped tightly around his neck.

"Jesus," he said hoarsely, sliding her leg away and taking a step back. "Making it home at this rate could turn out to be something of a trick."

"As my bebe would say, I yike twicks," she assured him.

Elvis gave her an ironic smile that involved only the right corner of his mouth. "Keep in mind that you said that, doll," he advised her dryly. "Because the next trick might involve getting nailed by a horny sheriff on a public street."

"Oh. Good point." She took a giant step away from him. "So, how fast can you walk, anyhow?"

They managed to make it through the front door of his room. Then for the third time that evening Emma found herself whirled around and pinned between Elvis' massive body and a hard surface, this time the wall next to the door. Hook thumping down next to her right cheek, his fingers tangling in the hair behind her left ear, he kissed her with voracious need. His tongue penetrated and withdrew from her mouth in a rhythm so insistently carnal, she ignited like a Molotov cocktail with an extremely short fuse.

Emma's thought processes weren't involved when she wedged her hands between their bodies and fumbled to unbutton his shirt; she was running strictly on instinct. Accomplishing her task, she worked the tails out of his waistband and ripped her own tank top free of her skirt, jerking it up to bunch beneath her armpits. She reached behind her and unhooked her bra, yanking that up, too. Then she arched her back, thrusting her bare breasts against his bared chest. A breathy sound of satisfaction rose in her throat.

Elvis ripped his mouth free. "Ah, Jesus, Em," he said hoarsely, and rubbed his chest rhythmically against her, feeling her breasts rub and glide across hair-roughened muscle and skin. He reached behind her and fumbled for the zipper to her skirt. Usually agile with his hook, it felt like a millenium before he accessed the series of movements necessary to get her out of the combination skirt and pantie set. But finally it dropped down around her ankles, and as she kicked free of it he scooped his prosthesis beneath her buttocks and raised her up.

Emma spread her legs, prepared to wrap them around his waist, but then she said, "No, wait—wait, Elvis," as she reached between them to wrestle with his fly. He raised her up a little higher just as she succeeded in lowering the zipper, bringing her breasts up to face level.

"Oh, God, these are beautiful," he said gruffly. "I knew they would be, Emma, but I didn't know they'd be this gorgeous." His tongue came out to moisten his lower lip as he stared at her breasts.

They were a young man's fantasy, something out of a girlie magazine. Soft-skinned and pale in the dim light, they were firm and high and full, capped with pert beige nipples.

Emma laughed deep in her throat. "Enjoy 'em while you can, cher," she advised. "If I ever have another baby they'll probably be down around my waist."

"Did you use 'em to breast-feed Beans?" His eyes didn't leave the lush curves.

"Um hmm."

"Yeah?"

"Oui."

"Oh, man, I would have liked to have seen that." Lowering his head, he nudged aside the gold lace bra that tangled above the thrust of her breasts and opened his mouth around one of her erect nipples.

Electric blue eyes flashing up to lock in intent gaze on her face, he gave the nipple an experimental suck.

"Oh!" she breathed, staring down at him, watching his eyes watch hers, seeing his cheeks flex, feeling her nipple distend and then the heat, like a renegade live wire, streak from it to vaginal muscles deep between her legs. Those, in turn, clenched with a force almost painful. He sucked again and her head thumped back against the wall. "Mon Dieu!"

Back braced on the wall, knees wide and the soles of her feet flat against his hips, she used them to slide his pants and shorts down. She reached between them to grasp his penis in one hand when it sprang free of the constricting clothing. It was long and thick, a hot, rigid length that pulsed beneath soft, veined flesh as she stroked it with her fist.

Emma's nipple left Elvis' mouth with a pop as his head reared back, and he swore a blue streak. Then, "Oh, God. Oh, Jesus, Em. Put your legs around my waist," he commanded, groping down around his knees for his pants. He fumbled a condom out of a pocket and brought it up to his mouth, catching one edge between his teeth and ripping it open. "Help me. Please . . . Jesus. Oh, God; oh, there, Emma. There . . . thank you." And protected, he braced her back against the wall, hooked his right hand beneath her left thigh and the base of his prosthesis beneath her right thigh and pulled them wide. Her hand guided his erection and he pushed into her firmly, steadily, until he was buried deep. Breathing hard, he dropped his head to her neck.

"Hold still a minute, Emma," he begged. She brought her arms up to wrap around his neck and locked her legs tighter around his hips. "Jeez-us God!" He sucked air into his lungs, fighting for control. "Hold still, hold still, please. Jesus, Em, please. You feel so good."

Gritting her teeth, Emma did as he requested: she held herself perfectly still. He was big and hard inside her, and she throbbed like crazy along every inch that stretched to accommodate him, but she held still, sucking furiously at her lower lip to keep from crying out against the strain it imposed.

Elvis saw her lip disappear in a flash of white teeth and contracted his hips, nearly withdrawing, then thrust back in again, one time, hard and fast. "God, it makes me crazy when you do that," he said, and leaned forward to take her lip for himself. Sucking at it, gnawing on it, he rotated his hips, and then began to pump steadily.

Emma whimpered. Friction built with the continued firm and rhythmic oscillations of his hips, and each new thrust elicited a fresh little cry from her. Elvis pulled his mouth away, a groan rumbling up from his chest. He stared at her from beneath heavy eyelids.

"Oh, God, yes, that's it; I want to hear you," he demanded hoarsely. He began to slam into her and neither one noticed when a nearby picture bounced off its hook and slid down the wall. "Let me hear you moan, Em. I want to hear you scream."

Her moans grew higher in pitch. She tightened her thighs around him, gripping him like a vise, her crossed heels banging into the small of his back. Tension coiled tighter and tighter deep inside of her.

"Oh, Elvis," she whispered raggedly. "Oh, Elvis, oh, Elvis, oh ..." She broke into a torrent of French.

Her arms constricted around his neck, her fingernails dug crescents in the solid muscles of his shoulders, and her head lolled back against the wall as if suddenly too heavy for her slender neck to bear upright. Interior feminine muscles suddenly compressing, she climaxed in hard, fast contractions around him.

Her voice degenerated into a long, drawn-out, soft-voiced wail.

Elvis' breath exploded out of his lungs and he snapped his hips back and then slammed them forward one last time, scraping her back against the wall with the jerk of his grip against her thighs and the uncontrolled power of his thrust. "Emma!" He came explosively, emitting a deep, guttural groan with each hot pulsation. When the last throb finally died away, his head dropped forward and his forehead hit the wall with an audible thunk. He gathered Emma into a crushing hug.

"Damn," he said when the breath had finally quit blasting aut of his lungs as if from an overworked bellows. "I'm sorry, Emma." He raised up his head to look at her. "I'm sorry; damn, I don't believe this. I usually manage a little more in the way of foreplay than 'Brace yourself.' "

Emma laughed and tightened her grip around his neck. "I feel so good, Elvis," she said. "Ah, cher, I don't remember the last time I felt this good."

"God, you're a generous woman," he murmured, bowing his head to press kisses into the curve of her neck and along her shoulders. Securing his grasp on the undersides of her thighs, he stepped back from the wall, prepared to carry her, still joined to him, to the bed several steps across the room.

That was when he discovered the pants he'd forgotten he still wore were down around his ankles, hobbling him.

"Oh, man, this is too pitiful for words," he muttered, taking shuffling steps toward the bed. "My damn boots are still on." He dove the last few feet, carrying her down onto the mattress beneath him but immediately pushing up onto his forearms and rolling to one side to spare her his weight. Tenderly he brushed the hair out of her eyes.

"I really wanted to do this right," he said. "My aim was to sweep you off your feet—something along the lines of Rhett carrying Scarlett up the staircase." The left corner of his mouth curled up. "Instead I came up with Abbott and Costello." Removing the condom, he leaned over, plucked a tissue from the box on the nightstand and deftly wrapped it around the spent protection. He tossed the bundle into the wastebasket beside the bed, then rolled back to face her.

"Yes, and it's a fine mess you've gotten us into this time, Stanley," Emma said pedantically. Then she let out a deep, rich, belly laugh. "You're too much," she gasped when the laughter finally subsided. Wriggling out from under him, she tipped him over onto his back and scrambled down to the end of the bed, where she presented him with an unobstructed view of her backside as she straddled his shins. Grasping one boot heel in her hands and then the other, she pulled them free. They hit the floor with muffled thumps, and she looked at him over her shoulder. Sprawled out on his back, his elbows wedged under him to prop him up, he returned her gaze.

Emma shook her head ruefully. "I love this," she said with a tiny smile. "You give me lovemakin' better than any I've ever known, and then you apologize because it wasn't on a bed of rose petals. Well, I'll tell you what." She climbed to her feet and faced him, reaching to pull her tank top over her head. The little shake she gave her shoulders sent her bra straps sliding down her arms, and the gold undergarment floated to the floor, leaving her gloriously naked. "Kick off those pants, sugah," she said, and when he complied, she climbed back on the bed and knee-walked over to him. Daintily, she settled herself astride his thighs. "What about your doohickey, cher?" she inquired, indicating his prosthesis. "Wouldn't you be more comfortable if you took it off?"

Elvis froze, but then reached for the leather straps that held it in place. After removing the prosthesis, he waited for her to comment on the naked stump.

But she didn't give it more than a cursory glance, let alone take the time to say anything. Instead, she smiled gently and scooted lower, bending to brush the blunt-cut ends of her hair back and forth over his upper thighs, his lower abdomen, his groin. Elvis' penis, which had been curled in soft satiation on his thigh, rapidly straightened to stand at attention. Emma collapsed on her stomach between his sprawled thighs and reached out to wrap her fingers around his erection. She gave it one delicate little lick and then looked up at him.

"As you said, cher, I'm a generous woman." She met the gas-flame glow of his blue eyes, her brown ones holding traces of wicked humor although her expression didn't show a hint of a smile. "So, I'm goin' to give you one more chance. I don't want to hear any more excuses afterward either, Donnelly. You'd better get it right this time."