Never Too Late (22 page)

She had started thinking about Pete in the way she had described to Sarah one should think about a man one loved—constantly, with a little patter of the heart, a lift, a feeling of euphoria and elation. Expectation. And not just at that moment of his touch—but at the mere thought of it.

She decided to leave him a message, telling him that the game was great and congratulate him. But he answered the phone, startling her and putting her off guard.

“Pete! You're home!”

“Just barely walked in the door. I got a reprieve from the dance since I put in such a long damn day.”

“I was just going to leave you a message, congratulating you.”

“Would you like me to hang up and you can leave a message? I'll hear it right away.”

“No,” she laughed. “Good game. Congratulations.”

“I saw you there. I was glad you came.”

“I haven't been to a Homecoming in years. But with Jason in high school…”

“Most important, it was a fun game,” he said. “Football season is almost over. When it is, how would you like to go out? Dinner or something?”

“I'd love that.”

“I'd take you out this weekend, but I have the girls. What are you doing?”

“I'm going to work on my old house. It's going to be more than a renovation. It's going to be a huge remodel. I'm going to start by cleaning up. I'll have the heating and plumbing repaired first—so I can work in the house this winter, but I already had a chimney sweep pronounce the fireplace safe, so I can use that right away. Then in spring, I'll work on the outside.”

“You're amazing, Clare. Wish I could do that kind of stuff.”

“You do other stuff,” she said. “You do wonderful football stuff.” You do something to me, she thought.

 

George would have loved to help Clare in the old house on Saturday, but he had to run the store as usual. She was just as happy about that; she didn't want her dad to overdo it. He wasn't a young guy anymore, after all.

Clare lit a fire in the hearth on Saturday morning to warm as much of the downstairs as possible. Then she started on the upstairs, sweeping up trash and finding the occasional dangling torn sheet of wallpaper irresistible. She'd grab it and tear, adding that to the other debris. She'd filled a couple of trash bags when there was
a banging at the front door. She ran downstairs and peeked out the diamond-shaped window to see Pete.

She tugged on the warped door until it opened. He smiled at her and lifted a broom. “Pete! What are you doing here?”

“My plans with the girls got canceled—some kind of birthday thing for their stepdad's side of the family.” He grinned. “Normally that would really irritate me, this last-minute stuff, but it frees me up to give you a hand. If you're interested.”

“Wow,” she said, stepping aside so he could come in. “This is great of you. I started upstairs. It's really cold up there, but I'm nearly done and it's warming up down here. Come on,” she said. She took him by the hand and led him up the stairs where she had a nice big pile of debris in one of the bedrooms and in the hall, a box of giant trash bags.

Pete took heavy work gloves out of his pockets and said, “Looks like you can sweep and I can haul. We might be done in time for lunch somewhere.”

He bent to the task of scooping trash into a bag and Clare found herself just standing there, watching his back and arms as he did this chore, though she couldn't see his muscles work—he wore his heavy jacket. But she could imagine them. When he stood and hefted the heavy bag over one shoulder, he asked, “Where are we putting this stuff?”

“Backyard,” she said.

He smiled at her and said, “You'd better sweep. If you have a little help, there will be more time to play.”

She moved the broom. Play. Yes, she thought. I'd like to play.

An hour later they were downstairs, which the fire
had warmed considerably. She swept up in the living room while he got busy in the dining room. When he removed his jacket and wore just his V-neck sweatshirt, she found the expanse of his back and shoulders most distracting. But not nearly so much as his butt in those jeans!

She took off her jacket, as well, but suspected it was not the fire that made her warm.

Clare wasn't the only one stealing hot little glances; Pete found his eyes drawn to her all morning long. The curve of her jaw; the small, compact butt; the way her soft hair would swing around her shoulders. He wanted to get his hands all over her.

“Where's Jason today? Why isn't he over here helping?” Pete asked.

“He's with his dad. They're getting along real well these days, thank God,” she said. “I think I owe a lot of that to you.”

“Nah. They'd have gotten around to it. Roger was pretty determined.”

“Still, that whole football thing…Jason wouldn't have been invited to help anyway. All I need is a complaining fifteen-year-old over here, making my life miserable.” Besides, she thought, I want you all to myself.

By noon, the living room floor was cleared with a big pile of trash in the foyer. Pete took a bag of garbage out to the backyard and when he came back into the kitchen, Clare was rinsing off her hands in the kitchen sink. His eyes warmed over as he looked at her back. Well, more specifically, her butt. She had that leggy, tight-bottom look about her; a killer in jeans. The very same that had been turning him on since he was about fourteen. It hadn't changed all that much.

“I thought the plumbing was out?” he said, taking off his gloves.

“No hot water heater. We can rinse and flush—that's it.”

He tossed his gloves on the counter and came up behind her, putting his arms around her, his hands under the cold water with hers. He covered her hands with his under the icy water, massaging them, and she leaned back against him. He bent his head, nuzzling her neck with his lips, inhaling her scent. He wasn't sure he could get close enough.

She pulled their hands from the water and turned off the spigot. She dried their hands together while he concentrated on her neck. This wasn't exactly what he'd planned, but feeling her against him was so good, he didn't care. Then she lifted his hand to her mouth and licked his fingers, gently sucking on one, and he thought he might lose his mind. He turned her around to face him and slipped his arms around her to hold her. She tilted her chin up and he lowered his lips to hers, slowly, gently, touching them softly. He pressed gentle kisses against her lips before covering her mouth in a kiss that was demanding and serious. Deep and hot. And her lips opened beneath his, inviting his tongue. He kissed her long and hard, and then he said, “Ah. You taste too good.”

“You taste pretty good yourself.”

“It's been awhile.”

“Probably too long,” she whispered against his mouth.

Probably, he thought. Yet things always seemed to happen in their own time. He was a little older now; not necessarily in a rush. There was a part of him that wanted to fall into her in a hurry and experience her body, but a stronger part that wanted to savor every
touch, every sensation. He realized, devouring her mouth, that he hadn't forgotten how delicious she was. His hands moved over her. He threaded his fingers into her hair to pull her mouth hard against his. Then down her neck and over her shoulders to her arms, to her back, over breasts and bottom, pushing her against the sink and pressing against her.

She was coming to him with heat, with passion, thrusting her small tongue into his mouth hungrily, sighing deeply. Yes, he thought. Yes, this is what I want. What I've always wanted—this woman in my arms, her mouth open under mine. He ran a hand down her back, over her bum, down her thigh to the back of her knee. He lifted her knee up to his hip and pressed himself against her. He was hard, ready for lovemaking, moving against her. Grinding against her. And she gyrated her hips against him, knowing.

Against her lips he said, “The last time I tried this, I broke your heart.”

“The last time, we didn't know anything.”

“You know what I want.” He kissed her deeply. “I want to love you like mad. If you want it, too, you have to tell me.”

“I want you,” she said. “Take me somewhere.”

“Are you expecting anyone to come here?”

“No.”

“Does the door lock?”

“Uh-huh. But…”

He dropped her knee and pulled away. He put a hand under her chin, a soft kiss on her lips and said, “Go stoke the fire. I'll be right back.”

He walked through the front of the house and out the door. Not clear what he was up to, she did as he asked.
She was on her knees in front of the fireplace when he returned, a sleeping bag under each arm. He locked the door behind him and crossed the room, kneeling beside her. Together they wordlessly spread the sleeping bags, zipping them together.

Pete sat and pulled off his boots, setting them beside the fireplace, and Clare did the same. Then he pulled her into his arms and lowered himself to the floor, his lips on hers. He rolled, pulling her on top of him. She began to move on him at once, pressing and wriggling against him, until he groaned with pleasure.

He locked his hands into the bottom of her sweatshirt and pulled it over her head. Then he unhooked her bra, tossing it aside. He cupped her breasts and ran his thumbs over her nipples bringing them to life until his attention turned them into hard little pebbles. He rolled with her onto their sides so he could get rid of his shirt, then pulled her against him, feeling her breasts brand his flesh. “Ah, Clare,” he said. “God, you feel good.”

“You have no idea how good I feel,” she whispered.

She sighed deeply, moaned with longing. She moved her hips against his erection and nearly whimpered. He reached for the snap of her jeans, opening them. Running his hands down her hips, he slid them down and helped her out of them. Next went the thong, cast away. The second they were gone, she was straining eagerly against him again, and with his hands on her bum, he pulled her to him, holding her there. Then he slid a hand between their bodies and down. Over her flat belly, slipping into that place that was dark and wet. He put a hand on her, probing with his fingers. She was as hot as a pistol. He hadn't even had the luxury of getting her worked up. She was
ready and hungry. Needy. All riled up and about to explode.

“Whew, Clare. I better take care of you right away,” he murmured.

“Oh…You better…”

“I had a vasectomy years ago, but I brought a condom.”

“You've been planning this,” she whispered against his lips.

“For years, Clare. Years. But I was going to invite you home, to my house, to a bed….”

“I never would have made it…No condom. Just you,” she said. “And hurry up.”

He rolled her onto her back and, kneeling between her legs, he got rid of his jeans. He put himself against her, right where he would enter. With her small bum in his hands, he pressed himself slowly into her, sighing deep in his chest as he felt her hot, tight body surround him, as he felt her pull him in. He'd been waiting to feel this, waiting forever. And it felt every bit as wonderful as he imagined. Remembered.

“Pete,” she whispered. “Oh, Pete. I'm not going to last a minute.”

He brushed the hair back from her brow. He moved within her, stroking deep and long and slow. “Let it go, baby. I've got you.” He moved some more, smiling as he heard her purrs and murmurs, her sighs, his name on her lips. She wasn't a quiet one, this woman. These sounds were music to his ears. She had more passion inside her than she might realize, something he had always known. She was writhing beneath him, reaching. “Let it go, baby,” he whispered. He could feel her quivering everywhere and knew she was so close, so ready. “Ah, Clare…Almost there,” he whispered, pressing
himself into her, rocking with her. He wanted to bring this to her, this magic made between a man and woman. And he wanted to be there, inside, when it happened. He held her bottom against him and pressed himself deep. She froze, gripping his shoulders, clenched around him and the spasms came, so tight and hard it almost knocked him out. She was amazing; her orgasm was phenomenal, and he felt it all over him—wild and wonderful. It was hot and powerful and long, as if it wouldn't let go of her. “God,” he whispered, overwhelmed. He had barely to touch her and it came to her, as though she'd been waiting for years. As he had. And finally she began to relax in his arms, panting, kissing him in soft, sweet, tender little kisses while she recovered. It was magnificent, what he felt surrounding him. It took her quite a while to rest easy in his arms.

“Clare,” he whispered, kissing her lips, chin, neck, shoulder. “That was nice.”

“I want you to feel nice, too,” she said, breathless.

“Don't you worry about me,” he said. “I know what I'm doing.”

She shivered in his arms. “My God. You certainly do.”

He kissed her neck. His lips slowly moved to her breast, gently drawing on one nipple, then the next. As he progressed lower, he carefully withdrew from her body and he kept kissing her—down her body, over her tummy, over her soft mound, until he reached the center of her body and he gently kissed the inside of her thighs. Then deeper, his tongue growing more urgent as he found that hard knot that was the most pleasurable, most vulnerable part of her, and he went to work on it, gentle at first, and then with much more determination, until he could feel her begin to quiver against his mouth.
She pressed into him, she moaned above him, and he rose to her, pushing himself into her again. He grabbed her hips and slid in, pulled back, slid in again, each stroke bringing the movement of her hips harder against him. She was killing him, it was so good. He lowered his lips to hers, devouring her with his urgent kiss. Her pelvis tilted up to bring him deeper; her hips moved harder and faster and he matched her rhythm. Her legs wrapped around him, she strained toward him. Greedy, he wanted to feel it again and he waited. Waited for her orgasm, which came quickly and was just as wonderful as the first. This time, when she was gripped in the peak of it, when it was at its most relentless, he pushed into her and let himself go in a tremendous blast, not sure he'd be able to stay conscious through it. “God,” he said in a breath.