Chapter Eleven

Della couldn’t believe her luck when Arlo’s pager went off just before eight p.m. that night. It had been kinda awkward between them this evening with their accidental meeting outside Frieda’s so obviously fresh in both their minds. Thank God for the television giving them something to focus on other than the sexual contraband stashed under her bed.

Waiting for Della’s attention.

Had she not been busted by Arlo with her Frieda’s Palace bag, she’d have pleaded a headache and retired to her bedroom two hours ago. Hell, if it had been up to her, she’d already have worked her way to The Suck-u-buzz. But given that he had, Della didn’t feel she could take herself off to bed too early.

Too…eagerly.

And if that meant watching the true-crime docs that her brother liked so much until her usual eleven p.m. bedtime, then so be it. She didn’t start until two tomorrow afternoon—she could sleep late. In fact, she planned to. She planned on being exhausted.

Arlo stood. “There’s been a pileup on the interstate. Denver wants all hands on deck.”

The news didn’t surprise Della. It’d been storming for the last two hours. Heavy rain, hideously loud thunder, and lightning illuminating the entire house. The lights had even flickered on occasion, too. And it was almost a guarantee that every time the weather turned nasty there’d be some idiot traveling too fast for the conditions wreaking havoc on the interstate.

But tonight, that was at least going to work to her advantage.

“Okay. Sure.”

She stood as he headed to his room to get dressed, tapping her fingers on her leg impatiently. He was back five minutes later, dressed in his uniform, his hat in one hand, his raincoat slung over the opposite arm.

“Be careful out there, okay?”

She knew he would be. Arlo was an experienced officer—he’d probably be the most experienced one on the scene—who was a stickler for doing things by the book. But the conditions would be dangerous. Dark and wet and slippery. And then there was the other side of things. The human side. Having to sort through twisted wreckage to rescue people who could be critically injured.

Recover bodies.

It was a hell of a job, and Arlo had witnessed some terrible things in his career. It never seemed to affect him, though. He always seemed so…stoic. She’d been the exception, of course. Della’s rescue and what she’d suffered in her marriage had affected him deeply. He’d shared some of those feelings with her and Selena in those early therapy sessions.

But everything else seemed to slide off him like Teflon.

Another flash of lightning lit up the house, and the lights dimmed again momentarily.

Arlo scowled at the fixture overhead. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”

Della was going to be fine. More than fine. But she knew why he was concerned. “Of course. I have my flashlight, don’t worry.”

He nodded uncertainly. “I’ll keep you up-to-date if it looks like I’m going to be there for hours.”

She smiled. “Okay. Thanks.”

He left then, and, out of habit more than necessity, she locked the door after him. Most people didn’t lock their doors in Credence. In a place where everybody knew everybody else and had for generations, there was very little petty crime. But in the beginning, before the news of Todd’s death in prison, Della had locked up obsessively. Arlo had even installed locks on the windows for her so she’d feel safe in his house.

Della waited until she heard Arlo’s police vehicle drive down the street before making a beeline for the shower. She had an evening of debauchery ahead of her, and she wanted to start it right with her cupcake-scented body wash and fully shaven legs. Okay, it may not be a real date, but it was the first time she was staring down an orgasm—or three—and hell if that wasn’t worth some pre-pampering.

Once out of the bath, she got into her pajamas, then changed the sheets on her bed. Next she lit a half dozen large, slow-burn vanilla candles and placed them strategically around her room. Crossing to the door, she locked it and switched out the light. The room glowed soft and pretty—the perfect setting for a romantic liaison, even if it was with herself.

Heading to her nightstand, she opened a Winona Crane story on her Kindle to really get her all sexed up, then pulled the pink bag with the black print out from under her bed. Her pulse did a funny jump as she upended the contents onto the sheets and three boxes tumbled out.

Della took a while unboxing everything, reading instructions, checking batteries, and testing settings before lining her BOBs up on the bedside table in order of use.

Dildo first. Rabbit next. Suck-u-buzz last.

She noticed that Frieda had included a small tube of flavored lube, which Della tossed back into the bag and stashed under the bed again. She sure wasn’t going to need any artificial lubricant tonight. She was already wetter than the rain hitting the windowpanes.

Stupidly nervous, Della slid under the covers, grabbing the dildo as well and tucking it under her pillow for the appropriate time—whenever the hell that might be. Then, taking a steadying breath, she opened Winona’s book.

It didn’t take long to get her in the mood. Just the way Winona wrote an exchange of longing looks between her hero and heroine was enough to get Della’s engine revving in her current state of sexual readiness. Within ten minutes, her body was at DEFCON 5, and Della was easing her underwear down her legs, ready to deploy the heat-seeking missile under her pillow.

Right…deep breath in, let it out. She could do this.

Della spread her legs and nudged the hard plastic dome of the dildo at her entrance. Slowly, she inserted it, trying to breathe and relax as the unfamiliar object slid inside.

Fortunately, there was no sign of the holy hymen, proving her revirgination theory wrong.

By the time it was seated as far as possible, Della’s pulse was so fast she thought for a few seconds she might actually be having a heart attack. Which would be just her luck—dying before she got to the good bit. With a dildo wedged up her hoo-ha.

She could see it now: the crime scene officers gathering up the rabbit and The Suck-u-buzz and the discarded bag under the bed with the unused lube. Fingerprinting her Kindle, still open at Winona’s book. The cause of death on all the official paperwork would be sexual misadventure.

And her epitaph? Here lies Della Munroe. She died with a smile on her face. Or maybe—Here lies Della Munroe. Curiosity really did kill the cat. Or, more likely—Here lies Della Munroe. Masturbator!

Della shut her eyes against the ridiculous thoughts and forced herself to breathe, to relax, to settle her madly beating heart. It was just a dildo. Millions of women did this all over the world—probably very few of them died of a heart attack in the process.

Focus, Della.

Shutting everything out, she concentrated on the sensation. Down there. On the fullness. Frieda had said it would fill her up, and it did. She didn’t feel stuffed full or stretched to her limits, but she was aware of the solid hardness between her legs, and gradually she relaxed.

Opening her eyes, she picked up the book again, flicking to one of her favorite scenes, where the hero sits the heroine in his lap, her back to his stomach, in front of a mirror. She’s naked and he’s fully clothed, and he massages oil everywhere.

Clearly Winona had no problem getting this couple to do it.

By the time the hero’s fingers furrowed between the heroine’s legs, Della’s fingers had followed suit, eagerly exploring uncharted territory, finding the hard nub of her clitoris and stroking.

Oh yesss.

It took a pathetically short amount of time to climax. Seriously, if she’d had minute rice cooking in the microwave, she’d have been done before it. But that didn’t make it any less cataclysmic. The orgasm rose up out of nowhere, her sex suddenly clenching tight around the dildo as waves of pleasure washed over her in a series of hard, frantic pulsations.

As quickly as it started, it was over, and, excruciatingly sensitive down there, Della pulled the dildo out and curled into a ball, waiting for all the scattered cells in her body to reassemble themselves.

If that was possible.

She had never had an orgasm until tonight. And hell yeah…she could definitely see what all the fuss was about.

She cried then, tears welling in her eyes. Cried at the realization that Todd, who had taken so much from her, had also taken this—pleasure. Had taken the path of sexual discovery and exploration from her—a path they could have taken together—and erased it. He’d made her feel so…unworthy of pleasure that it had taken her three years to realize she wasn’t. That she deserved to have pleasure in her life, too.

And for that she had Winona to thank. And Frieda. And Rosemary. And, yes, Tucker Daniels. Definitely Tucker. He more than anyone had woken her body, stirred it into life, spurred her into seeking out what she’d been missing.

She’d thank him the next time she saw him, she decided as a wave of overwhelming malaise mixed with the tangle of her emotions and she drifted to sleep.

Half an hour later, Della woke to a massive thunderclap. The room danced with candlelight as she sat up, temporarily disoriented. Her hand came to rest on a cylindrical object in her bed, and it all came flooding back. A huge grin split her face, and Della fell back against the mattress, stretching languorously.

She’d had an orgasm, and, glancing at the rabbit standing taut and ready on her bedside table…she was about to have another.

Stripping off her pajamas, she reached for the cactus-shaped device and its remote. Flicking it on at the bottom, she watched for long fascinated seconds as the head of the vibrator rotated. It was hard to believe that would feel sexy, but it had been given a resounding thumbs-up by multiple women at Frieda’s today, and she’d be an idiot to ignore that kind of market research.

Switching it off, she lay down and got to work. She was still so crazily aroused the rabbit slid in with no problems, it just took a little squirming to get it anatomically correct both internally and externally. But as soon as those ears slid properly against her clitoris, it was like glories streamed from heaven. A whimper slid from her throat, and Della sucked in a breath as she took a moment to just appreciate the feeling.

Oh yeah…the eagle (or the bunny, as the case may be) had landed.

Assessing the remote control for a second or two, she turned on both the internal and external motors. The control dropped from her fingers as everything pulled taut, and her eyes practically rolled back in her head.

This orgasm took an even shorter time.

Had she been more sexually educated and a dude, she might have started to worry about her staying power. But she was neither, so she let it lift her up and spin her around and tumble her over and over and over, thinking about Tucker touching her and kissing her until she was gasping and crying out his name until she was utterly, utterly spent.

And she’d only put it on level one.

Della woke an hour later, and this time she wasn’t remotely disoriented. The rain was still heavy on the roof and against the window, and the candles were still burning, and with the rabbit still inside her, everything came back in full, wonderful Technicolor. Wow. She must have fallen asleep as soon as she’d climaxed. Who knew this coming business was so damn exhausting?

Either that or she’d developed some kind of post-orgasmic narcolepsy.

She sighed, and her brain involuntarily drifted to Tucker. To how she’d fantasized about him and called out his name as she’d climaxed. Was it okay to think about a guy like that? To…use a guy like that? Would Tucker mind?

Would he care?

Who did he think about when he…touched himself? When he masturbated. Did he think about kissing the hell out of her in Wade’s apartment last week? About those dizzying moments when he forgot himself and just unleashed?

Her internal muscles twinged deliciously. Della contemplated finding the remote for the rabbit and trying it out on level two. But given the first level had knocked her out for a good hour, she wasn’t sure she was ready for level two. Not when she wanted to be awake enough at some point to try The Suck-u-buzz.

Reaching down, she slid the rabbit from her body, an involuntary shiver sparking a wave of goose bumps that prickled every cell in her body awake. Discarding it on the bedside table, she grabbed device number three.

“Well,” she whispered as she contemplated the strange-looking contraption, which seemed more UFO than Big O. “Let’s see if you live up to the hype.”

Although clearly, she was very easy where vibrators were concerned.

Shutting her eyes, she once again fiddled around for a bit, positioning the vibrator so it was sitting right. She was glad she was doing this alone because she was pretty sure her getting the vibrator in correctly face was not her sexiest. Once she was satisfied it felt right, Della took a couple of calming breaths, focusing on the sensation its presence was creating.

It definitely wasn’t as filling as the rabbit and didn’t sit as high. Frankly, Della had serious doubts it was going to have the same result, but the mouth part was sitting bang on target and…Frieda hadn’t led her wrong yet.

Reaching between her legs, she switched it on. Or tried to, anyway. Frieda was right about having to blindly grope, and God alone knew what setting it started at, because Della was just wildly pushing buttons and hoping for something.

She was unsuccessful for frustrating moments, then suddenly—bam! The alien spaceship whirred to life and oh dear Lord. She did have a G-spot after all.

Clutching the bedsheets with a gasp, Della surrendered to The Suck-u-buzz.

…

Tucker’s cell phone rang just as he was pulling into his drive. The power had gone out at Jack’s twenty minutes ago, and he’d sent everyone home. While power outages in Credence were common, they didn’t tend to last beyond a few hours, and the cold room would keep everything safely chilled until morning at least.

“What’s up, Arlo?” he asked as he sat in his pickup in the pouring rain.

Arlo didn’t exchange any pleasantries. “Power out there?” he yelled. Wherever he was, the rain was much louder and there was a dull kind of machinery noise, too.

“’Bout twenty minutes ago,” Tucker confirmed.

“I’m out on the interstate at a pileup. Probably will be for quite a few hours yet. I’ve texted Della to let her know, but she hasn’t answered. Could you go around to my place and check that she’s okay?”

A chill pricked at Tucker’s neck. “Do you think something’s wrong?”

“No. I just…” There was a pause, in which Tucker could hear nothing but torrential rain and the background warble of a CB radio. “She’s scared of…storms.”

Tucker remembered that night in his pickup. The night she’d first kissed him. How her knuckles had gone white around the steering wheel as she’d driven through the thunder and lightning. He’d thought then being alone in the dark with him, with a guy, might have caused her fear, but maybe it’d been the storm.

“Of course.” Tucker could no more have disregarded that request than chopped off his own testicles. The thought of Della alone and frightened was as abhorrent to him as it was to Arlo, and even though he’d been trying to avoid her, he couldn’t ignore this plea for help. “I can hang out till you get home, if you like.”

He knew the offer would put Arlo’s mind at ease. Arlo, who probably needed to be concentrating on other things right now—life-and-death kind of things. And he had to face Della sooner or later. Probably best to do it in a private setting rather than at the bar or Annie’s or somewhere public, where any awkwardness between them could and would be picked up by any number of locals who knew them too well.

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

Tucker was pretty sure if Arlo knew what had already happened between him and Della, he wouldn’t feel so charitable, so he just grunted and said, “Be careful out there,” then hung up.

It only took ten minutes to get from his place to Arlo’s on the other side of town. He pulled up out front under the big tree that had grown through the sidewalk about fifty years ago and glanced at the house. Along with the rest of the street, it was in darkness. Hell, the entire town had been eerily blacked out as he’d driven here.

Was she in there cowering under the covers somewhere? Was she scared? Was she upset? Was she having flashbacks from her life before Arlo had brought her to Credence?

Those thoughts drove Tucker out of his pickup. They took precedence over the other thoughts that made him shift and squirm in embarrassment. His behavior had been unforgivable in Denver, but he was just going to have to locate his balls and man up like he’d done the morning after. He’d already apologized and suggested they move on. So maybe he needed to heed his own advice.

Dashing through the steady rain, he made it to the porch. His Henley and jeans, which were already damp from his run across the parking lot, were wetter now. Ignoring the chill against his skin, he knocked on the door. He had a key, but he didn’t want to scare the bejesus out of Della by just appearing in the house. If she was still awake and already frightened, it wouldn’t help.

No response. He tried again, bashing the door this time with the flat of his palm. When there was still no response, Tucker shoved his key in the lock and entered the warm house. It was dark, but there was enough ambient light for him to navigate a house that wasn’t exactly huge and that he knew like the back of his hand.

There was the living room in which he was now standing. To the left was the kitchen/dining area, to the right were two recliner chairs and a futon clustered around a coffee table with a huge television against the wall. Ahead, an archway led to a short hallway, where two bedrooms and a bathroom could be found.

It was obvious Della wasn’t out here, which meant she must be in her bedroom. Tucker hesitated. Was she okay in there or scared out of her brain? Or hell, was she just…asleep? Should he check on her, knock and ask if everything was okay, or just go fold down the futon and crash until Arlo got home?

“Della?” he called.

It wasn’t really loud—hell, his heart was pounding louder—but this way he figured it gave her options. If she heard him and she was frightened, she’d either come out or call out, and they could go from there. But if she was asleep, it probably wasn’t loud enough to disturb her slumber.

He thought he heard a noise coming from the hallway, and his pulse spiked. Was it her? Had she cried out? Called his name? His legs kicked into action before his brain had fully decided on a plan, striding through the archway and down the hall to her bedroom.

His pulse was thudding loudly through his ears as he pulled up short, noting the strip of light at the bottom of the door. Did she have a flashlight in there, or candles? Was she awake?

There was silence now, and for a moment he wondered whether he’d imagined the noise. Perhaps it had just been the scrape of an overhanging branch against the house? Still, he stood and stared at the door, listening for any signs of distress.

He wanted to knock, to go in and see with his own eyes that she was okay. But he was very aware of the stuff that had gone down between them. Of their recent history. He’d crossed a line—they both had—and now they were in this strange kind of limbo.

Realizing suddenly the inappropriateness of standing in the hallway outside her door like some fucking pervert, Tucker turned and took two steps away.

And then that noise came again.

He froze as it reached right through the door. A moan, followed by another, then another, then a whimper. And not the kind of distressed whimper that came from fear. But the low, chilled whimper that came from a completely different source. Tucker shut his eyes as a full-throated gasp from behind the door wrapped tight around his gut and snaked around his thighs, anchoring him to the spot. He knew these sounds.

Della was pleasuring herself.

Probably lying on her bed, probably naked, probably using whatever the hell she’d bought at Frieda’s today. He swallowed against the images in his head as a series of low pants tickled his ears, and he fought the ridiculous urge to turn back. To knock on her door and stride inside her room and lend a hand. Caress her nipples, kiss her mouth, whisper filthy things in her ear as she climaxed.

Christ.

His dick was hard as stone, and he had to curl his palms into fists to stop himself from obeying the thick, hot pound of his blood. It was a struggle for supremacy between his big head and his little one.

The big head won, and it was not impressed with the situation.

Jesus. Dude. Get the fuck away from her door. Taking another two steps away, he was almost at the archway when the sound of his name stopped him in his tracks.

“Tucker. Oh Tucker, yes, yes.”

He sucked in a breath. Oh Della, no, no. Please no.

He shut his eyes, no hope now of denying himself this experience, especially with the fibrillation of his heart and the handicap of his giant, painful boner making movement prohibitive. He wasn’t sure which one was going to kill him first or if a massive lightning bolt was going to come through the roof, but he knew he was going to die and go to hell for standing in Della’s hallway, listening to her climax.

Her final gurgly moan sounded, and it took Tucker long moments before he was able to coordinate enough brain cells to do what he should have done a minute ago.

Get the fuck out of the hallway.

Striding on unsteady legs, he headed for the kitchen, for the bourbon he knew Arlo kept in the cupboard that jutted out over the counter on the far wall and the special heavy crystal tumblers he also kept there especially for the bourbon.

With his forehead pressed into the cupboard overhead and his erection pressed into the cupboard beneath, Tucker splashed the alcohol into the bottom of the glass. A bit spilled onto the countertop, but he didn’t care—he just threw it back, willing his pulse to settle, the hitch in his breath to smooth out, his erection to just fucking die already.

Everything about this was inappropriate.

He was in Arlo’s house lusting after Arlo’s sister. Listening to her masturbate. He was going to go to hell for this. Ninth-circle-of-hell hell.

Peeping Tom hell.

Pouring another glass, he swallowed that down, too, and poured a third glass, drinking half of it before setting the tumbler down and taking a breath. Sliding his palms wide apart on the counter, he dropped his head down between his shoulders and wished he was anywhere but here. It had been hard enough to stop thinking about Della these past weeks without knowing it was his name on her lips as she came.

“Oh Jesus!”

Tucker’s pulse spiked at the shocked gasp behind him, and he raised his head so quickly he smacked it on the cupboard above. “Fuck,” he hissed, a hand grabbing the crown of his head as pain lanced through his skull.

He spun around to find Della standing just inside the kitchen doorway. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was in some kind of silky kimono-style gown that fell all the way to the floor with long, voluminous sleeves. Unfortunately, that was the only place it was voluminous, tying firmly around her waist, the fabric sitting in a tight crisscross across her cleavage.

The hit to his head may have made him see stars, but it wasn’t affecting his night vision. Tucker could definitely see the unfettered swells of her breasts and the puckering of two nipples. Which meant no bra. Hell, he’d bet good money there were also no panties under that thing, but he refused to drop his gaze any lower.

He only hoped his erection wasn’t as obvious, because it was showing no signs of flagging. Hell, if he’d been a dog, someone would have turned the hose on him already.

“Sorry… I didn’t know you were here. I didn’t hear you arrive.”

“I only just got here,” he said with a shrug and then wished he hadn’t when she looked like she was trying to figure out if he’d heard any of her sexy alone time.

She frowned. “Why are you here?”

Tucker rubbed his head absently. “Your brother was worried when you didn’t answer his text. He’s not going to be back for a while. He asked if I’d hang here till he got back.”

“Oh. I’ve been…asleep. I didn’t hear his text.”

She averted her gaze, and Tucker didn’t call her on her lie. She may not be telling the truth, but he was damned if he was going to tell her how he knew she was lying.

“It’s fine, you know.” She found his gaze again. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know.” Tucker nodded. “But I don’t mind, and he said you…don’t like storms, and I’m here now. Besides, I’ve just chugged two and a half generous shots of bourbon. I doubt I’d be legally under the limit.”

She quirked an eyebrow, a small smile playing on her face, and Tucker noticed how chilled-out she was looking now that the initial shock of his presence had dissipated. “Storms drive you to drink?”

No…women he had the hots for calling his name as they masturbated drove him to drink. Off-limits women who were looking for some entry-level fun and flirting drove him to drink.

Ignoring her question, he prodded his skull gingerly, wincing at a particularly sore spot. “I think I gave myself a head injury,” he grumbled.

She laughed, then smothered it with her hand. “I’m sorry. That’s not funny.” But clearly she found him smacking his head highly amusing. He probably would have, too, if it didn’t hurt so fucking much.

“Hang on.”

She moved across the kitchen, all loose and limber. Stopping at the fridge, which was about five feet to his left, she grabbed a bottle of water and then opened the freezer section, reaching for something before heading in his direction. “Use this,” she said, holding out a small bag of frozen peas.

Tucker took them, halting her trajectory. “Thanks,” he murmured, placing the bag on the lump already forming.

Settling her hip against the counter about three feet away, she placed the bottle of water down. She was so close he could reach out and touch her, pull that cord secured at her waist, grab the crisscross of her gown, and yank. If he suddenly lost his fucking mind.

“You want me to look at it?”

He shook his head. God no. The last thing he needed was her touching him right now. He had an erection that he was beginning to think might actually require medical intervention, and she was naked under that gown. Oh…and he’d just heard her orgasm. “It’s fine. I’ll live.”

Her very relaxed gaze wandered over his chest. “You’re soaked.”

“Well, yeah…it’s a real frog drowner out there, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“You should get out of those wet clothes.” She dragged her attention back to his face. “You don’t want to catch your death.”

And then she was looking at his chest again, her lazy gaze roaming all over like she was already stripping him in her head. Jesus, she was killing him. Between the dark and the rain and this hazy-eyed, ironed-out Della, he’d never wanted to kiss her more.

He put the frozen peas on the countertop. “You should go back to bed.”

“I’m fine. As long as you don’t want me to operate heavy machinery.” Then she laughed, and everything under her gown shifted very, very nicely.

Oh man… “Good night, Della.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, just took two steps closer, picked up the peas, and took another step until there was only a handbreadth separating them. Every cell in Tucker’s body went on high alert as the aroma of cupcakes and something much richer, much earthier, invaded his senses.

Going up on her tippy-toes, she placed the packet on his head. “You need to keep it on for longer,” she whispered.

Their gazes locked for long beats, and Tucker could practically see the steam rising from the warm blue pools of her eyes. It might be dark, but her desire for him was plain as day. He was pretty sure his desire for her was also obvious.

“Ice is good for swelling.”

And then, just when he thought she was going to kiss him and his mouth went dry as flint, she dropped her hand and pulled back, giving him that sweet, chilled-out smile as she grabbed her water and turned away. Within seconds, she was gone, and Tucker was staring at thin air.

Grabbing the bag of peas off his head, he stuffed them down the front of his jeans as he slowly exhaled. What in hell was he going to do about this? About wanting Della? About her wanting him?

It wasn’t just going to go away, no matter how much he wished it would.