with me tonight? Was that Oliver’s true question? No, of course it was not. But Celia found herself whispering: “Come with me, Oliver.”
Oliver searched Celia’s face, and Celia wondered if the acknowledgement, understanding and desire on Oliver’s expression reflected her own. Celia saw fear too, causing her chest to squeeze. “Never mind,” she muttered. “I’m going home. Good seeing you again.”
“Celia?”
“What?” Could my voice be any more choked?
“Dad never—and you’ve never mentioned your father. What’s up with him?”
Celia’s heart warmed. Oliver doesn’t want me to go. “I never knew who he was.”
“That sucks.”
“Mmm. My mother used to be an alcoholic. She blacked out a lot. Slept around a lot. Remembered very little.”
“Oh.”
Celia laughed, trying to break the awkwardness. “Maybe I’m a long-lost princess. I’m heir to the throne of an obscure European country. Her Royal Highness Celia Hall. You know what? Your father is the princess now. If only the kiss of love would wake him—her—up.”
“Have you tried?”
“Tried what? Kissing him awake? No.”
“You going to?”
“No.”
Oliver went to his father and lowered his lips to David’s forehead. This big, strong, muscular young man was like a porcelain doll, delicate and fragile, half in moonlight, half in shadow. Celia’s heartbeat sped up. She imagined Oliver was kissing her instead of David, and her arms prickled. She knew why the son was kissing his father—because the son was about to make love to his father’s wife. The kiss was pre-emptive forgiveness. The kiss was so Oliver could say: “True love didn’t work. Dad really is dead.”
Excuses. Justifications for taking Celia as his own.
Celia’s neck longed for Oliver’s mouth. Could we have a fling and come out of it okay, with no hurt feelings? Without anyone finding out? Without falling in love? What if David wakes up? And and and and...
“Wake up, Dad,” Oliver said. “We miss you.”
“Come with me,” Celia repeated in a whisper. “Just to talk. We could catch up.”
Oliver exhaled a heavy sigh. “Yeah, yeah. All right. Talking. Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter Eleven
Oliver got to his apartment first and stayed in his car to wait for Celia. Great going, Oliver. He should have left the hospital the moment he entered David’s room and realized Celia was asleep in the cot. And Oliver had left. Kind of. He got as far as the elevator banks before returning to the room. He’d told himself he was being silly. There was no reason to flee Celia. Celia and Oliver were adults.
So, Oliver had settled into the chair, rested his eyes and...wham.
Celia was spending the night. Not with David, but with Oliver. He was ready to get the agony out of his system. He and Celia needed to fuck, to get the fucking over with, preferably tonight.
Oliver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Where was Celia?
*****
Thoughts swirled through Celia as she drove. When she got home—and she was going home, she was not going to Oliver’s, no way—she would…what? Rattle around the darkened living room while Richard slept? Break out the home movies again, see David in his full glory at the beach, skiing, at their wedding? Pray Caleb would not cry? Masturbate? Celia’s throat ached. Her pussy hummed hotly. If she masturbated, she would not come easily. Because she would be thinking about Oliver.
Oliver waiting for her. Oliver abandoned. By Celia. Oliver who would never write her a letter again.
Come off it. Nothing will happen. She and Oliver would talk. And go to sleep. All there was to it. Certainly there would not be sex. Celia had to remember that her pussy was a thicket of weeds. She had not trimmed since David’s crash. No way was Oliver going anywhere near that area. Or her breasts.
*****
Oliver flicked on the lights to his bedroom, and Celia’s gaze fell upon the bed. Queen size. Black covers. On the nightstand was a lamp.
Oliver searched Celia’s face, and Celia wondered if the acknowledgement, understanding and desire on Oliver’s expression reflected her own. Celia saw fear too, causing her chest to squeeze. “Never mind,” she muttered. “I’m going home. Good seeing you again.”
“Celia?”
“What?” Could my voice be any more choked?
“Dad never—and you’ve never mentioned your father. What’s up with him?”
Celia’s heart warmed. Oliver doesn’t want me to go. “I never knew who he was.”
“That sucks.”
“Mmm. My mother used to be an alcoholic. She blacked out a lot. Slept around a lot. Remembered very little.”
“Oh.”
Celia laughed, trying to break the awkwardness. “Maybe I’m a long-lost princess. I’m heir to the throne of an obscure European country. Her Royal Highness Celia Hall. You know what? Your father is the princess now. If only the kiss of love would wake him—her—up.”
“Have you tried?”
“Tried what? Kissing him awake? No.”
“You going to?”
“No.”
Oliver went to his father and lowered his lips to David’s forehead. This big, strong, muscular young man was like a porcelain doll, delicate and fragile, half in moonlight, half in shadow. Celia’s heartbeat sped up. She imagined Oliver was kissing her instead of David, and her arms prickled. She knew why the son was kissing his father—because the son was about to make love to his father’s wife. The kiss was pre-emptive forgiveness. The kiss was so Oliver could say: “True love didn’t work. Dad really is dead.”
Excuses. Justifications for taking Celia as his own.
Celia’s neck longed for Oliver’s mouth. Could we have a fling and come out of it okay, with no hurt feelings? Without anyone finding out? Without falling in love? What if David wakes up? And and and and...
“Wake up, Dad,” Oliver said. “We miss you.”
“Come with me,” Celia repeated in a whisper. “Just to talk. We could catch up.”
Oliver exhaled a heavy sigh. “Yeah, yeah. All right. Talking. Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter Eleven
Oliver got to his apartment first and stayed in his car to wait for Celia. Great going, Oliver. He should have left the hospital the moment he entered David’s room and realized Celia was asleep in the cot. And Oliver had left. Kind of. He got as far as the elevator banks before returning to the room. He’d told himself he was being silly. There was no reason to flee Celia. Celia and Oliver were adults.
So, Oliver had settled into the chair, rested his eyes and...wham.
Celia was spending the night. Not with David, but with Oliver. He was ready to get the agony out of his system. He and Celia needed to fuck, to get the fucking over with, preferably tonight.
Oliver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Where was Celia?
*****
Thoughts swirled through Celia as she drove. When she got home—and she was going home, she was not going to Oliver’s, no way—she would…what? Rattle around the darkened living room while Richard slept? Break out the home movies again, see David in his full glory at the beach, skiing, at their wedding? Pray Caleb would not cry? Masturbate? Celia’s throat ached. Her pussy hummed hotly. If she masturbated, she would not come easily. Because she would be thinking about Oliver.
Oliver waiting for her. Oliver abandoned. By Celia. Oliver who would never write her a letter again.
Come off it. Nothing will happen. She and Oliver would talk. And go to sleep. All there was to it. Certainly there would not be sex. Celia had to remember that her pussy was a thicket of weeds. She had not trimmed since David’s crash. No way was Oliver going anywhere near that area. Or her breasts.
*****
Oliver flicked on the lights to his bedroom, and Celia’s gaze fell upon the bed. Queen size. Black covers. On the nightstand was a lamp.
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