For Want of a Memory Read online

  The cold had broken, finally, and it was a whopping thirty-one degrees outside. It almost felt like spring, as far as Kris was concerned. When Lulu answered the door, she looked dressed for spring, too. On this night she had on a white tank top, with leopard print straps and matching piping around the neckline. Again she wasn't wearing a bra, but he didn't know that just because her nipples spiked when the cool air hit them. He could see the dark circles of her areolas through the shirt, too. It was almost see-through and she had to know that. Below that she wore dark blue hip hugger jeans and big fluffy house slippers made to look like twin baby leopards. Kris just stood there, running his eyes up and down her body.

  "I see we're feeling a little cat-like tonight," he said.

  "It's not polite to stare," she said. He noticed that her chest arched forward ... just a little ... as she stood back to give him room to enter.

  "When a woman answers the door like that, she expects to be stared at," Kris countered.

  "What happened to that shy little boy who came to visit me just last week?" she asked sweetly.

  "Oh, he's around somewhere," said Kris, stepping in. "He's been hiding ever since the girl next door kissed him."

  She laughed. "I'm anything but the girl next door."

  "Only because the house next door wasn't for rent when I was looking," he said, smiling.

  "Well aren't you sweet," she said. "Have you remembered anything else?"

  "Nothing," he said, his shoulders slumping. "I'm beginning to think I never will."

  "Would that be so bad?" she asked. "I mean you've sort of started over here. You have a job and you're writing a wonderful book. Is this life so miserable that you can't think of anything other than going back to your other one?"

  "This life is fine," he said. He realized he really meant that. It was a nice town, full of nice, if slightly suspicious people. He was writing here, even if it wasn't what he usually wrote, whatever that was. And, if he could sell what he was writing, and find a place to live that wasn't quite as expensive as the rental he was in ...

  And, of course, there was Lou Anne. He wasn't sure what that meant, but he liked her a lot. He decided it was more than that. She captivated him. His thoughts flickered to the sirens of yore, sitting on their island, luring seamen to their destruction. He didn't feel like he was being destroyed. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  "Good," she said, unaware of his thoughts and their complexity. "What did you get written last night?"

  "I did the scene with Duchess Clayworth," he said. "Where he takes her the first time."

  Lulu tilted her head. "This is the Henrietta woman, right? She's the one who inherited her lands and the shipping business when her father died."

  "Yes, she's the Duchess of Fellborough, she's the one who sets the hounds on him when she's released," said Kris.

  "And she's not married, right?" asked Lulu.

  "Nope. She's an old maid at twenty-four and a firebrand. All the men who work for her are scared pantless of her."

  "Well, I'm twenty-four, and if I were a duchess, and single, I'd want all the men around me to be pantless." She grinned.

  "You're a hussy," said Kris. "The Duchess of Fellborough isn't. She's pure as the driven snow."

  "Until Quigley gets a hold of her," said Lulu, who actually managed to look like she was leering.

  Kris laughed. "She's going to be a tough nut to crack." He tipped his head. "Somebody told me I had to make her that way."

  Lulu put on a Betty Boop look, both on her face and with her body. "But he'll bust a nut anyway ... right?" She fanned her face with one hand.

  "I can not believe you said that," said Kris. "That's just way below your noble breeding."

  "First I'm the girl next door and now I'm a noblewoman?" Lou Anne laughed. "I'm beginning to think you're having fantasies about me."

  "Only all the time," he said. He hadn't meant to say it quite like that. "I mean when I'm not writing." He frowned. "No, that isn't right. You're always in my mind when I'm writing."

  She looked at him in that way that let her hair fall to cover one eye. The other had a lowered lash.

  "Why Kris, have you been pretending that you're Quigley and I'm ... all those women?"

  More comfortable with her flirty banter by now, Kris was able to join in.

  "Well, you told me I'd have to ravish you. And you have the most fascinating multiple personality disorder," he said. "You seem to be all women, wrapped up into one delightful bundle."

  "Would you like a snack?" she said, changing the subject suddenly.

  Thinking that what he'd like to snack on was packed into those dark blue jeans, Kris nodded. She turned and he followed her to the kitchen. Two places were already set, as if she'd been expecting him. There was a napkin beside one plate. The other had gotten blown off the table, perhaps by the wind of her passing, and was on the floor. She bent over to pick it up.

  Kris saw that gorgeous bubble butt in those tight jeans and just couldn't resist. He reached and slapped her right cheek as she grasped the napkin. She froze and her head slowly turned to look up, over her shoulder.

  "Ow," she said softly.

  There was a smoky look in her eyes. He could see both of them now, because her hair had fallen away from her face. The bare left side of her scalp gleamed. He had no idea why, but it looked erotic as hell. When she didn't stand up immediately, instinct made him slap her tight butt again.

  "Ow," she said again. Then she stood up and turned to face him. "You're very bold."

  "I'm the most feared pirate on the Spanish Main," he said hopefully.

  She didn't bite. Instead she held out the napkin she had just picked up and dropped it.

  "Oops," she said.

  When he saw her drop it, he expected her to bend over to pick it up again. He was primed to slap her ass again, too, and he could suddenly feel his prick getting hard.

  "Would you be kind enough to get that?" she asked.

  His thought process swerved and jerked as she did something he wasn't prepared for, and which seemed totally out of character for her, at the moment.

  He bent over automatically.

  He felt her hand hit his butt hard, on the right side, copying where he'd smacked her. It stung. She'd hit him a lot harder than he'd hit her. He staggered forward and came up without the napkin, his face flushed. He was half angry ... and half titillated.

  Quite suddenly he remembered something. It wasn't from his past ... at least not from before the accident. He remembered writing the scene in which Quigley had picked up a squealing captive, over his shoulder, and carried her to his cabin. Before he thought things through, he moved towards Lulu, bending over. His right shoulder impacted her stomach as her hands tried to ward him off but missed and slid along his back. Effortlessly he straightened. She wasn't as heavy as her solid frame looked.

  She squealed most satisfactorily.

  "Put me down!" she yipped, with what little breath was left in her lungs.

  He carried her toward the living room.

  "Kris!" she gasped. "Put me down!"

  His right hand came up and fell on her rounded buttocks, pulling, to keep her from falling off his shoulder. He squeezed her butt and she started kicking wildly.

  "Kris!" she laughed.

  "Quiet," he growled. "You'll wake up Ambrose."

  "What are you doing?" She wiggled on his shoulder as he groped her butt.

  "You're about to find out how bold I really am," he warned.

  By then he was at the couch. Displaying more strength than his appearance suggested he had, he rolled her off his shoulder and down his front, controlling her so that as he plopped down on the couch, she was lying across his lap. She tried to get up immediately, and he put a hand on the middle of her back to hold her down.

  "Don't you dare!" she laughed.

  It took four hard smacks before she stopped fighting. He gave her one on the right, which he already knew might be a little sore, then switched to the left. Th
en he repeated that.

  "Okay, okay," she moaned. "I give up."

  "Do you?" he asked, stroking her jeans-clad butt.

  She rolled away from him suddenly, falling to the floor at his feet, laughing.

  "Of course not, you twit!" she giggled. Her giggle turned to an "Eeep," as he leaned forward and covered her with his body, ending up sitting on her thighs while he took one of her wrists in each hand and pinned them to the floor.

  "A lot of good that's going to do you," she said. "You can't let go of my wrists, or I'll get you back. I fight dirty too, tough guy!"

  "You do?" he asked with a rising voice. "That's funny. Me too."

  Pulling her arms in an arc to her sides, he scooted down. His weight pinned her lower legs to the carpet and his strength kept her wrists on the floor beside her hips. He lowered his head and nuzzled her belly until he got the hem of her shirt in his teeth. She wiggled and giggled, complaining that he was tickling her, until she felt the cloth pull away from her stomach.

  "What are you doing, Kris?" she asked breathily.

  "Yul phee" he said through clenched teeth.

  He started working his way back up, dragging the shirt with his teeth, exposing her belly.

  "You can't do this!" she said. She wasn't laughing anymore.

  He let go of the shirt and stared at the silver curved barbell, with a ball on the top and a sun on the bottom, that pierced her belly button.

  "I like that," he said, kissing the ornament.

  "Thank you," she said. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to see something I've wanted to see for a while now," he said calmly, looking into her eyes.

  "And what makes you think I'll let you?" she asked, still firmly in his control.

  "I think you'll let me because I think you want me to see them, too."

  It was a pivotal moment. Up to this point, it had been sexual play. No rules or limits had been discussed and this was, after all, a fairly sudden escalation of things.

  "If you think I'm just going to show you my boobs, buster, you'd better keep thinking," she said.

  "Let me see," he said. He paused to lean down and tongue her belly button. The barbell felt cool against his tongue. He heard her make a tiny noise, deep in her throat. "If I was thinking about it and you say I should keep thinking about it ... okay. I'm okay with that."

  He captured the hem of her shirt in his teeth again and pulled upward.

  "Kris!" she whined. "You're stretching my shirt!"

  "If you'd cooperate I wouldn't have to," he mumbled.

  She rolled to one side and then back to the other, as if she were struggling, but he noticed that her movements allowed the shirt to ride up, instead of being caught under her back. He got it all the way to the bottom of her breasts before he couldn't go any further. He stopped.

  "This caveman stuff is a lot harder than it looks," he said, breathing deeply.

  "Is that what this is all about?" she giggled. "You're trying to be my caveman?"

  "Don't mock me, woman!" he said sternly. "I'm a little out of practice, but after I get my second wind you're in big trouble, Missy."

  She laughed again.

  "Let go of my arms for a minute," she said.

  "And let you get away so some other caveman can have you? Ha! Not likely!"

  "Just let go for a minute," she said. "My shirt is all rolled up under me and it's not comfortable."

  "Oh, well of course, then. Paaardon meeeee," he said, shaking his head. "I might be trying to be a good caveman, but you have a long way to go as a cavewoman if a little rolled up shirt is going to bother you so much."

  He sounded whiny, but he leaned back and released her hands. What he'd been trying to do hadn't worked out anyway and the mood was lost.

  She arched her back and reached behind her with astonishing flexibility, pulling the back of the shirt higher. Then she flexed her stomach muscles and pulled her upper torso four inches off the carpet, until she got the back of the shirt clear up to her shoulder blades. Then she lay back down and let her arms fall to the floor ... right where they'd been when he let go of her.

  "That's better," she said. She stared into his eyes.

  He broke eye contact to look at her chest. The shirt was now pulling up on the lower swells of her breasts. He could see where her breast flesh joined her chest.

  Suddenly, the mood was back.

  "Show them to me," he almost whispered.

  "You have to work for it," she said softly. "I'm going to push you off of me in thirty seconds, so you'd better hurry."

  He captured her wrists again. The cloth was pulled so tightly across the bottom of her breasts that he couldn't get a bite, and he was reduced to pressing his face between her breasts to get the shirt in his teeth.

  "Gently," she warned. "I like this shirt."

  He pulled up and felt the tension on the cloth suddenly change. He let go with his teeth and ... there they were.

  She was very pink. Her areolas were a darker pink and smooth, about two inches in diameter. Proudly straining outward from the middle of each one was a nipple the same color as the surrounding flesh. The nipples were hard ... obviously hard ... and were thicker than he'd expected, being about the diameter of her pinky fingertip. They stood up at least half an inch. The luscious looking nipples and their backgrounds perched on breasts that might require a bra in the thirty-four range ... if she ever wore one. He felt drool about to escape his mouth and sucked it back in and swallowed.

  He didn't ask. He was afraid to, really. But he let her wrists go as he leaned down to suck one of those delicious nipples between his lips. Her "mmmmmmm" told him everything he needed to know. He kept going as he felt her fingers slide over his close-cropped hair.

  Sometime later, during which he tried to remember doing this to some other woman and couldn't, something told him to stop and look up at her. He'd been alternating back and forth, completely happy to be making love to her nipples, and it had been a long time. He didn't want to make her sore.

  "Too much?" he asked.

  "You're very gentle for a caveman," she said, smiling. "More."

  Twenty minutes later he pulled back. She lay there, a dreamy smile on her face, and he felt the thrill of knowing he'd made her happy.

  Now was another crunch point, however. Their lovemaking had been unhurried, almost sedate, as he licked and sucked her nipples gently. It had been foreplay, but without the urgency of the usual kind of foreplay. He was stiff as a board in his pants, but wasn't sure he should let her know that. He wasn't sure about anything, except that he loved making her happy.

  He looked at her belly button again. It was about three inches above the waistband of her jeans. The creamy, pink skin between it and those dark blue jeans looked smooth and soft. He didn't see any stretch marks, though he wouldn't have cared if they were there. He leaned down to kiss her belly where he'd been looking.

  "Mmmmmm," came that somehow throaty sound from her lips. Her hips arched up off the floor.

  Now he felt urgency. But he controlled it. Slow was a good thing right now. He sat back on his calves, which were thick enough that he didn't put too much pressure on her shins. Very slowly, he reached for the button that fastened her jeans. He looked up to find her greenish blue eyes staring back at him. Her lips were parted and he noticed her breasts rise and fall as she breathed deeply.

  As if in slow motion his fingertips gripped the cloth and stretched it, while his other fingers tipped the button through the open hole. The button snapped through, quickly, and the tab to her zipper was suddenly exposed. The first three or four teeth of the zipper were already apart. He looked back up at her face. Nothing had changed. She was just lying there, watching his face.

  He knew, somehow, not to say anything. Words would only break the mood. Again, as if in slow motion, his right thumb and forefinger reached for the tab of her zipper and gripped it. He tugged gently and four more teeth came apart.

  It took him fully thirty seconds
to pull the zipper down and the whole time, her smoldering eyes stared into his. He finally looked down. Her panties were black and right in the middle of them was a red and white heart. The edges of the zipper had pulled apart and were sticking up, as if they were the mouth of the jeans, begging to be pulled down.