Broken Read online

  The caterer gives him a look, then me a sympathetic glance. “As I was saying, Miss Eddings, the entire hors d’oeuvres platter would serve 300 guests—”

  “Three hundred!” That’s caught his attention, and he turns, mouth open. “What…Cilla, I thought—”

  I hate it when he calls me that. “Joe, darling, that list I gave you was already pared down to the absolute minimum.”

  For a moment, I think he’s going to argue with me, right in front of the caterer, who has the discretion to look down. She’s seen her share of connubial spats, I’m sure, but I’ll be damned if I give her fodder for the gossip circles. I sit up straight and fix him with a look meant to temper the discussion, and it works. He shrugs. I return to discussing the prices of petit fours and canapés.

  It’s not my fault Joe’s guest list consisted of his family and three or four friends. I know a lot of people. I have business associates, family, friends, people who aren’t friends but will have to be invited anyway because they think they’re friends. My life is as layered as the cake we sampled today, and this wedding is important to me. I tell the caterer I’ll call her by the end of the week.

  At my house, Joe takes off his jacket and his tie and stretches out on the couch to watch TV while I make us dinner. It’s simple again, whole wheat pasta in a light tomato sauce and a green salad, but it conforms to my rigid diet. I refuse to look like an overstuffed chair in my wedding dress. Joe complains sometimes, but since he’s not the one cooking, I say he’s hardly got the right. Tonight he says nothing, just eats what’s put in front of him.

  He’s a good listener, better than any man I’ve ever dated. I pause in the middle of an anecdote about my day when I catch him staring at me. “What?”

  When he gets up and comes around the table to kiss me, I can’t help the thump-thump of my heart. He tastes like oil and garlic, which means I do, too. I pull away a little. “Joe…”

  His hand slides along the back of my neck, under my hair. He tips my head back to meet his mouth. His tongue strokes mine as his hand holds me in place, so I can’t move away. I sigh and give up. Give in to him.

  His other hand drifts down to caress my breast. My nipple gets hard and I want to squirm, but I don’t. He always makes me feel this way, like I can’t stay still. As though he’s touching me all over, even when he’s only kissing me.

  “Come upstairs.”

  It’s not a plea. It’s not a request. It’s not quite a command, either, but I get up, anyway.

  He’s kissing me on the way up the stairs. He unbuttons my blouse, my skirt, pushes open my door and takes me to the bed to finish undressing me. In my bra and panties I give in to his kisses and the stroking of his hands along my body. I allow him to unhook my bra and slide it off, baring my breasts to his gaze. The sight of my bare skin seems to capture his attention more than the caterer’s samples did, but I’m not surprised. I work hard to keep my body in shape.

  His mouth drifts lower. He sucks my nipples, one at a time until I arch upward a little. He knows just how to touch me. What I like. What I don’t.

  His hand drifts over my thighs and belly, where it circles briefly in my navel. He puts his palm flat on my skin, taut and firm from hours of crunches. I tense a little bit, expecting him to move lower, down between my legs.

  His kisses have slowed. After one more, he stops and pulls away to look into my eyes. I usually like the way Joe looks at me. He’s usually smiling.

  Now he stares and his hand comes up to smooth a strand of hair from my face. He bends to hover his mouth over mine, and hot breath caresses my face. I still smell garlic, but I ignore it. My lips part, waiting for his kiss, which doesn’t come.

  “Kiss me,” I say.

  When he does, it’s on my jaw, then my throat and neck, where he nips me lightly. I make a little noise of protest and say his name in a scolding manner, but the truth is that little nip has tightened my nipples. I feel like I want to shift my hips and press upward against his hand, or push his fingers down between my legs to touch me there. So that’s what I do, impatient.

  He obliges without a word. His fingers turn and twist, stroking along the lacy front of my panties. It took us several sessions of lovemaking before Joe learned to touch me the right way, the way I like it, but now he knows it’s like I’ve got a secret sex button between my legs only he knows how to push.

  He’s on one elbow looking down at his hand on my crotch. At this angle I see the faint crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes and the way his nose has the tiniest bit of a bump at the tip. Small lines bracket his mouth, and I wonder why he’s frowning. I wonder why he looks older than he did when I met him.

  “Yes, just like that.” My voice has gone husky. I spread my legs. “Take off my panties, baby.”

  Obligingly, he hooks a finger into the lace and tugs them over my thighs. He follows the journey of my panties onto the floor and stands. Then he puts a hand on each of my ankles. When he touches me this way, I’m always surprised at how large his hands are. He can circle my ankles completely. He slides them upward, over my calves, until my body breaks the bracelets of his fingers. He shifts his hands to smooth over my knees, teasing the underside. Then to my thighs. He puts a knee on the bed to get closer to me.

  I shiver at his light, teasing touch. “C’mon, baby. Take off your clothes.”

  Joe looks up from his place at my feet, his hands still on my legs. He nods slightly and moves to take off his tie. As he unbuttons his shirt, I put an arm behind my head to watch him get naked for me. His skin is faintly golden, the hairs on his chest like burnished copper, and I admire the tufts around his nipples and under his arms. The thatch around his penis, revealed as he removes his trousers, is neatly trimmed.

  “I’m so pleased you take care of yourself.” I lick my lips in appreciation. “So many men couldn’t care less about taking the time.”

  Joe pauses on one leg in the process of removing his socks. He’s got the form of a statue, all lean lines, though I suspect he must be sneaking cupcakes on the side. His abs are still pretty tight, but his sides are bumpier than they were a few months ago. I’ll have to step up our workouts.

  He finishes taking off his socks and crawls up on the bed over me. “How many men?”

  I like his warmth and the way his body fits with mine. Not too tall, not too short. His penis is a hard, hot branch against my thigh. I’d really rather have it inside me, and I shift with impatience.

  “How many men, Priscilla?”

  He’s repeated the question I assumed was rhetorical. “Most of them, I guess.”

  I push him off a little so we can roll on our sides, facing one another. His erection rubs my belly. I want it lower.

  “Most of them in the world? Or most of the ones you know?”

  “Both. Why are you being so…combative?”

  “I’m not being combative. I’m just asking. I don’t think it’s out of line to ask, is it?”

  He’s talking when I want him to be making love to me, and it’s my turn to frown. “Exactly what are you asking?”

  “How many men have you been with?”

  I’m not sure that’s any of Joe’s business. It doesn’t impact our relationship in any way. I don’t even keep in touch with former lovers, and I tell him just that.

  “Priscilla.” Joe’s voice is slow and deep, a little amused. “Tell me how many men you’ve been with. I want to know.”

  “Enough to know you’re the one I want to be with for the rest of my life.”

  That is a very good answer, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy him. His hand goes between my legs, right where I want it, but even though I move against his hand, he doesn’t stroke me. I give a frustrated sigh.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Killed the cat.” I’m not even ashamed of using such an old cliché.

  “I’m not a cat.”

  “Ten,” I say, finally, through gritted teeth. “All right?”