Worth The Wait Read online

  Except for the day at Bob Evans, he hadn't spoken about not having a family. She'd asked him during that meal if he had any memory of his mother. He'd said no, but he'd had a peculiar look as if that wasn't entirely true. Maybe he had some sense of her, a scent, the sound of her voice, buried in an infant's subconscious.

  She wanted to know more of his story. She wanted to be part of his story. It was time to stop fighting it and resign herself to future heart-pulverizing pain when he turned out to be an ass, as they always seemed to be. But he felt so...not like that.

  She moved to one of the front row seats, propping her tired feet on a crate she dragged over. As she loosed her hair and ran her fingers through it, she tipped her head back to study the rafters. They still had to repaint the ceiling inside, obliterate the water spots, but that was a chore for another day.

  At the creak and rumble of a wheeled something coming out on the stage, she tilted her head down. Des was pushing a rack of long, formal dresses, raising her curiosity. But he wasn't ready to explain them yet.

  "I just walked Missive and Billie to their cars," Des informed her. "I told Harris we'd lock up. I also told him the boss lady said they could all take the day off tomorrow."

  She smiled. "You walked Billie to his car?"

  "Her car. 'She' was still in character, so psyched about the show the only thing she'd changed was her shoes, because she said her arches were killing her. Linked her arm through mine and said if I was giving ladies escorts to their cars, that would include her tonight. The way she was working that dress, I wasn't disputing it. I don't dispute much of anything with her, since she could bench press my truck. Plus, I don't argue with a lady. Unless she's being stubborn."

  He winked at her, and she tucked her tongue in her cheek. "You protected yourself pretty well on that one. Clever guy."

  "Guy has to be clever around intelligent, attractive women, of any gender variation."

  "Hmm. Where did you meet Billie? You never said."

  "I first met him at Frolicon, down in Atlanta. Billie's a top who loves to Dom men or women. I'll take you to see him perform in Fayetteville sometime. The military guys there adore him."

  "Really?"

  "Really. Billie has a remarkable way with a crowd. Well, you saw it tonight when he was doing the emceeing. First time I met him and I remarked on his build, he batted his lashes and told me he'd been born in Belhaven." Des affected Billie's tone and cocked a hip as he propped against the rack of dresses. His deep voice and complete inability to emulate a woman made Julie giggle.

  "'Honey-chile, let me tell you something about being gender queer in rural North Carolina, particularly around a bunch of the brothers. White people may have their hang-ups about it, but they're all rainbow flags and 'woohoo to diversity' compared to how most black men react to it.' He said he started pumping iron and learning how to fight as soon as he could lift a barbell and form a fist. 'Which is dreadful for a manicure, by the by.'"

  Des sobered. "When his mother kept catching him trying on her dresses and wearing bras under his clothes to school, she bought him a burial plot. He was fourteen years old. He said she didn't know what to do with him and figured it was the only way she could show her love."

  "Wow. He didn't try to hide it much, even then."

  "Yeah. It's kind of a miracle he survived, and survived to be as cool of a guy as he is. Or woman. Or both."

  "You should stay away from a drag queen career, by the way," Julie advised. "You couldn't do female if you tried."

  "Well, I am a roofer. Not a lot of room to explore my feminine side around the guys at the job sites."

  Her lips curved, but she was thinking about Billie's mom, and Des's. "Do you ever feel sad about your mom? Lonely, from not having a family in the traditional sense?"

  He left the rack of dresses and sat on the edge of the stage, swinging his feet. He was back in his jeans and one of his quirky T-shirts. King Kong held a voluptuous Jessica Lange in his palm while he screamed his rage from the Empire State building. She noticed Des hadn't tied the laces of his thick-soled work shoes.

  "I guess I was sad at the beginning," he said. "But I think it's harder to be a kid who knew his family and lost them, rather than one who never had them at all. It's easier to make your own family as you grow up. I'm fairly tight with some of the guys on my crews, and the rigger and BDSM communities are close knit, if you fall in with the right group. Come Christmas or Thanksgiving, I've never lacked an invitation to join someone at their table."

  He fell silent, watching her with those brown eyes that contained so many things she wanted to know as much as they scared her. He knew it, too. She felt it, in a waiting, coiled energy from him. It was a different version of a wolf patiently stalking a rabbit, but not one he planned to kill. He simply intended to catch it and never let it go. At least that was what she hoped--and feared--in that perverse conflict she had inside her.

  "Did you have girlfriends as a kid? Before you went on your dating dry spell?"

  "Some." He left the stage and straddled the crate, picking up her foot to put it in his lap and massage her stockinged toes. She barely swallowed a moan of bliss. "What are you after, love?"

  "Loneliness, I guess. It's a powerful word, and I think it affects some people more than others. Maybe becomes an obsession."

  "Or a pit they can't climb out of," he said bluntly. "They keep waiting for someone to reach in and pull them out. Yeah, I went there a couple times, before I had a get-over-myself moment. You have to crawl out of that pit yourself. When you do, you realize there are six billion people wandering around, six billion chances to form connections, friendships, shared experiences."

  He shrugged. "If you shut yourself away from everyone and say 'I'm lonely', it doesn't make a whole lot of sense, when the rest of the world is waiting outside that door. It doesn't happen instantly, those connections. You've got to be patient, work for them. And that's just normal friendships and family relationships. It's been my experience the soulmate stuff happens when you're not looking for one, when you finally get comfortable with where you're at. When you're a whole person rather than a puzzle piece looking for a matching lock."

  He swept his hand around himself, gesturing to the theater. "I know you've been in that pit, but this looks like you're one of the ones who clawed out and found something that works for you."

  She lifted her other foot off the floor, twitching it left and right in invitation. He let it replace the one in his lap so he could massage it too.

  "Brat."

  She didn't deny it. "Is there any time loneliness isn't selfishness? Wanting that one bright line of connection that belongs to you alone? You really think that's just romanticism gone amuck?"

  "No, not necessarily. But I think it has the irony of putting blinders on you. Such that when that person's right in front of you, you might miss that they're there because you have this perfect picture in your head of what he or she is supposed to be."

  Another silence ensued. As it drew out, it began to have weight. She felt his eyes on her, and shifted. She wanted to tell him to stop looking at her like that, but she didn't really want him to stop. So she straightened, putting her feet on the floor, and gestured to the rack of clothes. "What's that?"

  "Glad you asked." He rose from the crate and came to her. When she lifted her face, he bent and slid his arms beneath her, picking her up off the seat. Not expecting to be carried, she caught his shoulders with a little yelp.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I had a sudden craving to carry you. You're a nice armful."

  He carried her up the side steps and let her feet down in front of the rack, her back to the stage curtain. The dresses were in shades of ivory or white. The full skirts and beaded bodices told her they were all wedding dresses.

  "I picked these out at secondhand shops. They're in your size, more or less, so they should have a reasonable fit." He gestured. "Show me the dress you'd want to be married in, if these were the choices you
had."

  She'd had a lot of unexpected experiences with eccentric people. This one took her by surprise, followed by a pressing sense of dismay.

  "I'm kind of tired." She stepped back, but he caught her hand.

  "Julie."

  At his look that could penetrate her so deeply, she couldn't keep herself from saying what was at the forefront of her brain. But when had she ever had a filter?

  "I can't do that as a game, Des. I'm a middle-aged woman who's never even gotten close to it, and I'm one of the pathetic saps who really wanted it to happen. It took a long time for me to accept that I'm likely never going to have that, and to figure out how to be happy with my life regardless. It's a can of worms I don't really want to open. Okay? Lot of dysfunctional shit goes with it, and I don't want to feel that with you tonight. I just want..." She swallowed over the ache in her throat, unable to continue.

  He drew her against him, his fingertips pressing into her lower back and the upper rise of her buttocks in that firm way that miraculously conveyed just how in control he was. It also reminded her that, while she was exhausted, the exhilaration of the night and the simmering she'd felt ever since he'd kissed her and given her that tiny, intense orgasm were within reach.

  Hell, the whole damn night had been an overflowing tub of erotic stimuli. Though she'd been busy doing her job, an important part of her brain had been eagerly drinking in all the pheromones, just like everyone else in the theater. She fully expected a few hundred people had gone home to copulate like rabbits. Some would explore things they'd never thought about, or had carefully buried up until now. Hopefully there'd be no ER visits. That was the kind of publicity they really didn't need. Thank goodness they'd put a bunch of "don't try this at home without proper guidance" caveats in the program, as well as had Billie reinforce that mantra in his emceeing.

  When he spoke against her cheek, her hand flexed in his simply from the vibration through her skin. Her internal babblings weren't enough of a buffer against the things he wanted to break open inside of her, force her to release.

  "We're back to my earlier reminder, love. This isn't a request. Choose. Trust me to take you somewhere you want to go."

  He guided her reluctant hand to close over one handful of rich fabric. "It worked out nicely that you're wearing white lace tonight," he observed, sliding a finger just under the neckline of her black silk blouse to trace the edge of the undergarment. A tingle of sensation shot straight to her nipple.

  Shifting behind her, leaving her facing the rack, he reached in front of her to slip the buttons of her blouse. She'd noticed he preferred to remove her clothes himself and, since he combined it with plenty of caressing strokes of his strong fingers, she had no objections.

  He'd revealed the lacy cups of her white bra. It was low profile and pushed her up, which won his hum of approval as he slid his touch back over the quivering curves. Her grip tightened on the dress. He moved his hands down her arms, making her release the dress as he drew them back behind her, dropping his grip to her wrists to hold her in that position. His knuckles pressed against her ass as he nudged her hair aside to kiss her throat, tease it with his tongue.

  He did that for a while as she swayed in his grip, staring at those dresses, the sparkles and satin. Releasing her wrists, he slipped the button of her slacks and took the zipper down with a quiet tick-tick noise. After he had her step out of them, he looked down at the knee high stockings she was wearing.

  "Take those off for me, love. My rough hands will snag them for sure." But he held her as she removed them, leaving her clad only in her filmy underwear.

  Her eyes closed. Her head was already tilted for the light kiss he brushed over her lips.

  "My gorgeous woman," he murmured, thrilling her. Molding his palm over her buttock, he played with the elastic of her panties for a musing, provocative moment. Then he stepped back, gesturing to the rack again.

  "Choose. I'll be setting up behind you." He stroked her hair, caressing her bare back. "Are you cold?"

  She shook her head. "Not right now."

  He hadn't addressed her reluctance about the dresses. He didn't try to reassure her about things no amount of words could fix. He refused to turn the light away from the dark chambers of her heart, and she kept stepping into those rooms to risk herself with him.

  As he retreated, she looked at the dresses. "Des." Her voice sounded strange to her, strained. "I love you. I mean, I'm falling in love with you. Is that a problem?"

  A pause, then she heard his footsteps as he came back to her. She was grateful and wary when he pressed against her back and folded his arms around her, one over her breasts and one around her waist. They constricted almost to the point of taking her breath, and he kissed the sensitive and pulsing spot just beneath her ear.

  "Yeah, it's a problem."

  She couldn't tell what he meant, not with the mixed message of being in his embrace. He nipped her lobe, dipping a hand to pinch her buttock. "Stop stalling and pick a dress. Don't turn around until I say you can."

  "I tell him I'm falling in love with him and I'm stalling," she muttered. But his tone hadn't rejected her feelings. It was just a response she couldn't decipher.

  Since she sensed he would work back around to an answer in his own way, she let the statement hang in the air, drift and fill the space with feeling and density that increased as she flipped through the dresses. When she found the one that was right, she knew it, but she still checked out the other half dozen.

  "This one." She'd been listening to his rustlings, but she hadn't been able to discern much from them. Not turning around to look was difficult. She was curious by nature, but he knew that. She suspected it was just another way he'd found to torment her.

  Before her curiosity overrode his direction, he returned to her. As he reached over her shoulder and unhooked the dress from the rack, he put another of those pleasant kisses at the base of her throat. She leaned into him as he held the dress against her, a crinkling crush of satin, his palm warm on her breast even through the layers of fabric. "Let's get you into this."

  The beaded bodice had an off-the-shoulder, scalloped neckline that framed and outlined her breasts, offering a provocative amount of cleavage that pleased him, if the flare in his gaze was an indication. In the back, the dress dipped down below the shoulder blades, leaving a lot of bare flesh to stroke.

  He had her raise her arms so he could handle the side zipper. He hooked three small fabric buttons at the lower back that sculpted her upper torso further. When he turned her to him, the dress floated around her, covering her bare feet.

  "I think someone a few inches taller than me had this dress."

  "That's all right. You look perfect." He ran a hand down her arm, back up to her biceps. Drawing her past the curtain line, she saw the set up was a cushioned mat and a few lengths of rope. So simple, yet it still made her breath shorten.

  Taking her to the mat, he used the pressure of his hand and the direction of his gaze to tell her what he wanted. The skirt was yards of soft satin that, when she knelt before him, looked like a rippling lake reflecting an ivory sky.

  He guided her arms behind her, adjusting them into a boxed position as he dropped to one knee and held her that way with his hands instead of rope, a flesh and blood restraint.

  "A beautiful bride," he said, his voice a low rumble of meaning and emotion in her dark theater, a setting of drama and dreams come to life. Pushing her hair forward, he bared her neck and set his teeth there. She drew in an erratic breath as he kissed her, giving her a hint of his tongue. He held her overlapped arms, keeping her still.

  "We're going to get this resolved tonight, Julie, once and for all. So for the next little bit, I'm going to talk and you're going to listen. I want you to listen with your whole heart. Not with your fears. Can you do that?"

  She closed her eyes, bowing her head. He knew. Of course he knew. He'd been dropping hints, some subtle and some not-so-subtle, like sending Missive with her confiden
ce about her scene name.

  "I can try," she whispered. "I want to."

  "Good." He paused, his mouth on her, and then she gasped, arching up against him in involuntary reaction as he closed his teeth on her again. Not gently. A hard, painful clamp. His arm snaked around her waist, holding her against him, his other hand still tight on her overlapped forearms. He increased the pressure of the bite and she whimpered. He wasn't breaking skin, but he was close, and he'd put his mouth over her carotid, so she heard the rush of her blood.

  "Hurts," she managed. He made a noise of assent, agreeing with her, but he still didn't release her or change the pressure. The pain was burning through her throat, but the endorphins were swirling in her vitals, her fingers curling and uncurling against his arm around her waist.

  He released her arms to slide his fingertips up one and around her throat, stroking her there lightly, a tender contrast to the ruthless lock of his jaw. She kept her hands clasped on her forearms the way he'd put them, because he hadn't given her permission to do otherwise. Everything in that throbbing bite was a command for her attention, and he had all of it.

  When he at last eased the hold on her throat and licked the spot he'd offended, the slow swirls of his tongue were met with tingling response. He kissed her throat again, tiny presses of his lips down to her collar bones, and he came to a rest there, nuzzling the pocket between them.

  "You asked me if I was lonely," he said, low. "No. Lonely isn't something I've felt, not often. I had an ache, though. In my cock and balls, in my gut. I wanted something I couldn't explain. Haven't ever really been sure what it was. Just knew when and if I ever saw it, it would always be mine and no one else's."

  Lifting his head, he touched her jaw, guided her face around so she was staring up at him. He was standing on his knees, leaning over her left shoulder. The position in which he held her head wasn't comfortable, but when he shifted his grip under her jaw, he put enough strain on the tilt of her head that she knew he was reminding her again of that edge he liked. That did crazy things to her insides.