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?”
r /> His hand moves, then, like he’s rewarding me. “Yeah.”
He pushes my shoulder so I roll onto my back. His fingertip circles my clitoris. I’m not appeased, but I don’t stop him. I’ve gone tense, though, and it won’t be easy to make me come.
“You’ve dated more than ten men.” He kisses the slope of my breasts.
“Well, yes.”
“But you’ve only gone to bed with ten?”
Joe’s mouth covers my nipple, sucking gently. His fingertip strokes down to dip inside me before coming back up to slide over the bead of my clit. I can feel myself getting slick. I wish sex wasn’t so messy.
“Priscilla?”
“Yes!”
He says nothing for the next minute while he concentrates on licking his way down my torso. I spread my legs a bit wider in anticipation. Though I’m not a fan of fellatio, I fully support Joe’s appreciation of cunnilingus.
“Did they all get you off?”
The noise from my throat can’t be misconstrued as pleasure. “Stop it.”
“I want to know.” He licks my ribs, each one, with soft, light flickers of his tongue. “Did they do this to you?”
His quick glance toward the place his hand works tells me what he means.
“Yes.”
“And you liked it.”
“When they did it the way I liked it, yes.”
“Like this.”
He demonstrates by pinching my clit between his thumb and finger. My startled gasp trails off into a moan. This is not something I taught him to know about me, that little pinch. It’s something Joe does all on his own.
“No…yes…”
He goes back to making small, tight circles. His mouth leaves wet imprints on my skin. When he blows on them, a chill skitters up and down my spine. I open my mouth wider, breath deeper.
“Did they put their mouths on you? Like this?”
His mouth replaces his finger. I don’t answer, not at first, because that exquisite first moment when his tongue laps my clit is always too intense to allow for speech. Instead, I sigh and moan and raise my rear a little to press against him.
Joe’s tongue is soft. Hot. Wet. He flicks it along my folds and clit before settling into a slow, steady pattern of laps and licks.
He’s still talking.
“Did they make you come this way?” Every word presses his mouth and lips and tongue against me, but the words aren’t muffled. I can hear every one.
“…sometimes…”
“Only sometimes?”
When his tongue presses hard against me, I jerk. “Yes!”
“Or only some men?”
“That, too.” My voice is thick.
Joe’s hands slide beneath my butt and lift me closer to his mouth, but he pauses again in licking. “Were they the ones who took care of themselves? Or not?”
“If they don’t take care of themselves,” I answer, annoyed, “I don’t go to bed with them! Why are you talking so much?”
“Oh, I forgot. No talking during sex.”
“I never said that.” I get up on my elbow to glare at him. “I said no conversation during sex. I can’t concentrate. Talking is fine. How do you expect to know what I want if I don’t tell you?”
Joe says nothing, just dips back to my clit while he looks up at me. I don’t like looking at this, seeing him down there, but for some reason tonight I can’t look away. He closes his eyes and makes love to my vagina with his mouth. Seeing him flick my clit at the same time I feel it is a jolt for which I’m unprepared.
“Make that noise again,” he murmurs.
I shake my head, meaning to say I can’t just do it on command, but his tongue flicks against me again. I make that noise. He smiles against me. I can’t look away.
He opens his eyes. “Did any of them make you sound like that?”
“No.” It’s true. Joe’s the first.
He takes his time, now, even when I’m desperate enough to writhe. Pleasure steals my thoughts and leaves me blind, nothing but a puddle of bliss under his fingers and mouth. For the first time since we met, he doesn’t give me what I want. He makes me wait for it. Draws it out. Makes me beg.
“Oh, please, Joe!”
I come a bare second after he slides inside me. Filled, stretched, I burst into ecstasy as he thrusts. When he fastens his mouth on my throat and sucks, biting, I come again. I’m startled by this second orgasm, unexpected, and my fingers rake his back.
Joe hisses and pumps faster. His head fits into the curve of my shoulder, but I want to see his face when he comes. I push his chest so he’ll lift onto his hands, and he does.
“Open your eyes, baby. Look at me.” I urge him, but he doesn’t.
He finishes with a grunt, biting his lower lip. Sweat drips from his forehead onto my chest, and I wipe it away. I’m already thinking about the shower.
He rolls onto his back, limp and loose, eyes still closed. He yawns. I nudge him.
“Move so I can shower.”
He cracks open an eye. “In a minute.”
“Not in a minute, Joe. Now.”
He doesn’t move. What on earth is wrong with him lately? Everything about him is an effort. I sit up, frowning.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” Another yawn.
I poke him, harder. “Don’t fall asleep like that.”
“I’m not going to fall asleep.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, fine! So get up, then!”
He sits and yawns again. I scoot past him, meaning to head for the bathroom, but he snares my wrist. I stop to look at him.
Naked this way, the sheets tangled and damp, the scent of sex still lingering, I feel the urge to lean in and kiss him. So I do. He takes it, his eyes closing. They stay closed for a minute after I pull away.
“Are you upset?” I ask him tenderly. “About the men? Is it too many?”
He looks at me. “Do you think it’s too many?”
“No. Do I wish I hadn’t slept with most of them? Yes, but only because it was a waste of time.”
“Then it’s not too many.”
I lean to kiss him again. I feel flirty with Joe in a way I haven’t with anyone else. “You’re not intimidated?”
“No.”
I’d meant to tease him, but he didn’t seem to find it as lighthearted as I did. “You are upset. I knew it. That’s why I didn’t want to say. Men don’t like it when a woman has more experience than they do.”
He laughs, though I’m not sure why. “Depends on the man, Priscilla.”
“Well, don’t you worry, Mr. Wilder,” I tell him. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” If I weren’t so sated and languid, I’d be far more annoyed.
“Nothing.”
I give him a narrow look and sit up against the headboard, arms crossed over my chest. “You’re being vague.”
He sighs heavily. “God forbid I’m vague, Priscilla.”
“I don’t like your tone.”
With a low snort, Joe gets out of bed and pads toward the bathroom. I hear water running in the sink. I’m not pleased he walked away from me. I get up and follow him. He’s brushing his teeth, and I see he’s left the cap off the toothpaste. Again.
“What is your problem?” I demand. “Are you jealous?”
Another snort from him turns my mouth down. I put my hands on my hips. He slides his toothbrush back into the holder and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns to me.
“No, Priscilla. I’m not.”
“I’m not sure what’s going on with you, Joe.”
“Nothing’s going on with me.”
I study him, making note of his posture. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah. Got to be up early tomorrow.”
“I thought you were going to stay.” There’s no harm in being sweet to him.
“I can’t.”
Exc
ept when he refuses to let me.
Cross, I scowl. “Well, fine, but don’t forget we have dinner with my parents tomorrow night and the meeting with Father Harris on Friday.”
“I won’t forget.”
“Good. Let’s not fight, baby, it makes me upset.” I stand on tiptoe to kiss his mouth.
Joe turns his head.
I’m caught flat-footed, and my mouth skips along his jaw before it lands on his cheek. I pull away.
“Kiss me.”
He does nothing.
“Joe!”
He sighs heavily again, but he doesn’t move.
“Look, Joe,” I say. “I’m sorry you’ve got a burr in your briefs, but you don’t have to be so immature about this.”
Joe says nothing. He leans against the sink, arms crossed, and I am so irritated I have to stomp. The tile floor is cold and hurts my toes.
“Don’t you ignore me!”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“What?” I’m at a loss for words, a situation in which I rarely find myself.
“What color,” Joe says slowly, patiently, “is my favorite?”
My hands fist on my hips. “Why?”
“Your favorite color is beige. You like vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup, but you hate walnuts in your brownies, when you eat brownies, which is almost never. You wear a size seven shoe. Your middle name is Anne.”
“And?”
“What’s my middle name?”
I gape, catching sight of my reflection, which reminds me that it’s not a flattering expression. My jaw shuts with a snap. I don’t know Joe’s middle name. He never told me he had one. There isn’t one on the invitations.
“It’s Philip.”
I do not like where this conversation is going. “Fine. Is this about the invitations? Because if you wanted your middle name on them, you should have said something before.”
“No, Priscilla. It’s not about the invitations. I could not possibly care less about the invitations. Or the food. Or the music.”
“I knew it!” I cry. “I knew you didn’t care!”
Joe scrubs his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He’s not looking at me when he says, “I care about the things that are important.”
There is a long silence I break with a sniff and an icy reply. “If you are saying I don’t care about things that are important, then maybe you should just go!”