Chapter 20
On the middle of the bed, Cheryl spotted a large tray with a carafe of coffee, a pitcher of cream, plates of fruit, pastries, and bagels, a tub of what appeared to be gourmet cream cheese, and a platter of smoked salmon.
Her stomach growled, and she smiled to cover her embarrassment. “I guess I am hungry.”
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I put out everything.” Jonny hit her with a sheepish smile, like he was uncomfortable being caught doing something nice.
“I like it all, but you didn’t have to do . . .”
“Sit, eat. After what you’ve been through, you need someone to take care of you.”
A warm, contented sensation swelled in her chest as she gathered the folds of the robe, tucked her legs under her, and sat on the bed. She plucked some grapes from their vine. Relaxing for the first time in days, she loved the way his biceps flexed when he poured their coffee into heavy ceramic mugs. His sleep-mussed hair fell in ebony swirls over his forehead in a very sexy way.
She reached for four sugar packets, and he laughed.
“A little coffee with your sugar?”
“Do you always have this much breakfast food?”
He tilted his head. “The answer is no. Very few women have seen this penthouse.”
“Really?” She wiggled her brow. “Cause I saw a few of those women.”
“Sometimes it got a little intense.” He threw his palms up in defense.
“I mean, how many women have you been with?” She kept her voice light, then realized she didn’t want the answer.
“At one time?” He grinned.
“Soooo, you’ve been with more than one woman at a time?”
“Hell yeah.” He paused, testing her reaction. “But those days are over.”
She thrilled at his admission, but still pressed him. “You just happened to have all this food today?”
“After you fell asleep I called my housekeeper, and she stocked the refrigerator.”
“Housekeeper, huh? Does she wear a little French maid uniform?”
“Not quite. She’s a Polish woman in her sixties who wears orthopedic shoes. She comes in every day, straightens up, and does the wash.”
“I see.”
“I kinda have a thing for neatness.” Again the rueful smile.
“I noticed. You could perform surgery in that bathroom.”
“I know. Eddie rags on me, gives me shit about being a clean freak, but he’s a total slob. His place consists of a bed, bar, and a pool table, with clothes and wet towels strewn all over. Lives like a freakin’ bum.”
“Maybe now would be a good time to make a confession.” She grinned. “Eddie isn’t the only slob.”
“Hmm. For you I’ll overlook it.”
She pointed to the barbwire tattoo on his left bicep. “I wanted to ask you about this the first time we were together, but . . .”
“We didn’t have a lot of time for questions and answers.”
“Does it mean something?” She traced the ink with her finger.
“Yeah, that I was young, dumb, and drunk. Got it on a dare when I was fifteen.”
“And this one?” She pointed to the cross under his heart spanning the length of his ribcage, inked over a thick, jagged scar.
“That one’s for my mom.”
She examined it closer. The inside of the cross with a shaded heart surrounded by thorns.
He followed her finger. “The scar is compliments of my old man and a bottle of Bud. He’d been gone for three days on one of his meth highs, and my mother had the nerve to ask where he’d been. When I got in the middle, he chugged his beer, smashed the bottle on the kitchen counter, and cut me up.”
“That’s terrible.” She dropped her hand to his arm.
“My father was a bum who spent most of my childhood in and out of jail. He was a miserable excuse for a father, and a lousy criminal too.”
“What ever happened? I mean, are they still together?”
“No.” He shook his head. “They’re both dead.”
His frankness startled her, but she took it slow, and stayed silent for a few minutes while he sipped at his black coffee. “I never knew my father, and neither did my brother. My mother wasn’t good with details. In fact, my mother wasn’t good at being a mother.”
“Looks like we both won the fucked-up-family lottery.”
Her fingertips grazed the slight crookedness of his nose that transformed his features from pretty to edgy. “I suppose this has a story too?”
He paused, debating his answer, and she feared more bad news.
“Some guy was picking on my little sister—”
“You have a sister?” She remembered the pictures in his apartment over the club.
He snatched a small frame off his nightstand and handed it to her. “Her name’s Lena.”
“She’s beautiful.” She studied the picture of the same young girl she’d seen in his other apartment. Only here she was standing in front of a sign that read Boston College. “But it’s summer, so . . .”
“She’s doing one of those study abroad programs in Spain.” Jonny ripped apart a bagel, eating the doughy center first.
“Nice.” Now she had ten more unanswered questions.
He smiled at the picture. “She’s real smart.”
“You miss her.” She stated the obvious.
“Yeah, but my life is no place for her. And I sure didn’t want her ending up with some neighborhood guy, fifteen and pregnant like most of the other girls we knew.”
She handed him the picture and again marveled at the paradox and conflict in his decisions. Safe guarding his sister at all costs, yet totally ignoring the dangerous choices in his own life.
“Lena’s lucky to have someone looking out for her.”
“Tell her that. She accuses me of trying to run her life and being too bossy.”
“You, bossy?” She plucked up a croissant, pulled it apart, then munched on the flaky pieces. “I can’t see it.”
“Ha, ha, very funny. Now it's your turn.”
“Go ahead, ask me anything.”
“Why don’t we start with how you got hooked up with a punk like Nicky?”
She expected this question, and although she wanted to be honest, it would be impossible to make him understand.
“Believe it or not, he wasn’t so bad in the beginning.” She tilted her head.
“You’re right; I don’t believe it.”
“Eddie and Dylan hated him. They warned me off him more than once,” she admitted. “Guess I have a thing for bad boys.”
Jonny threw his hands up. “Don’t put me in his category.”
“At the time, he saved me.”
They both grabbed for the last chocolate donut. “Go ahead.” Jonny pushed it toward her.
“So polite.” She snatched it up, halved it, and held it out to him. “I’m familiar with the need for chocolate.”
He held up his half. “Another one of my vices.”
“Anyway, my mother was moving in with yet another druggie boyfriend, and Nicky gave me a place to stay, and—”
“Forced you to steal and run cons for him while he wasted your money on bad bets and blow.” He cocked his head like he’d answered the bonus round of Jeopardy.
“Nicky had his faults, but I wasn’t innocent either.” She fiddled with the collar of the robe. “I’d been stealing since I was a kid. First food so Dylan and I could eat regular, but then I advanced to wallets, watches, anything I could get my hands on.” She sighed. “That’s how I met him. I was trying to lift his wallet.”
“You had to survive somehow.”
“It started that way, but then the thrill was better than the profit.”
He paused a few minutes, and she concentrated on the crumbs from the chocolate donut to avoid seeing his reaction.
“Your days of stealing are over.” He raised her chin with his forefinger. “As long as you’re with me, you’ll never want for anything, and as for the thrill part . . .”
He pushed the tray to the side, wound his arm around her shoulders, and tucked her head against his bare chest. The faint scent of his cologne calmed her. He eased his back against the headboard and pulled a condom out of the bedside table.
“Climb on.” He nudged her hips. “Ride me.”
She shrugged off the robe and threw her leg over his hips, loving him under her. She slid the condom on him, and rocked forward, drenching him until he slid home. Her hands went from his shoulders to the headboard as she rode him harder.
He captured her breast, and when he sucked her into his mouth, she moaned. “Make it good, Jonny,” she gasped as he stretched her.
He pulled his mouth from her breast and gazed at her with hooded eyes. “Unless the goddamn world comes to an end this very minute, there’s no way this could be bad.”
She moved harder, faster. Each stroke bringing her closer, hitting her spot. The friction and tension building took her to a place beyond conscious sensations.
“I love watching you work me.” His grin was lazy and sated. “Taking me in, squeezing me hard.”
She let go of the headboard and pressed her hands against his chest. Her every movement bringing her closer, bringing them closer.
“That’s right, baby. Fuck me.”
His words made her buck faster, clenching around him with each pull. His hand slipped around her neck, and he pulled her down, his breath hot against her ear. “I want you to come all over me. Drown my dick and melt for me, baby.”
Then he captured her mouth in a wet, sloppy kiss of tongues and nips and bites until she screamed around his lips in the best orgasm ever. He jerked hard a few times beneath her, and she knew he felt it too. Sweat-slicked and spent, he brushed the hair from her face and kissed her forehead.
She shifted to move off him, and he stilled her with his hand.
“Don’t. Stay right there.”
She raised her head from his chest and smiled. Their bodies still connected, his heart beating hard under her cheek, his hand gliding down her back. And again she felt content and tranquil, feelings she’d given up on for herself.
Hours later after more mind-blowing orgasms, they were still snuggled up in bed, legs and arms entwined, his hand in her hair.
“There’s something about you that makes me want to be better.” He nuzzled into her hair.
“You’re already the best to me.”
“Nah, it’s different.” He scrunched some pillows behind them, and she leaned on his chest, their faces inches apart. “When other women would ask me about my scar, I used to say I got it in a knife fight or some other tough-guy bullshit. I never told anybody . . .”
“Shhh.” She pressed her finger to his lips. “You don’t ever have to pretend with me.”
His cell phone buzzed on the nightstand. He groaned, shifted away from her, and swiped at it. “Yeah?”
“Get down to the new club. We got trouble.”
Max yelled so loud she could hear him through the phone.