59 - Pillow Talk

Pillowy lips brushed Jon’s, and a whisper soft tongue slid inside to snuggle against his.  It was the latest in a parade of lush and sensuous kisses from the woman who lay on top of him, legs straddling his waist.

As much as she craved her rough sex, Delaney wanted her after-play that much softer, and he didn’t mind indulging her delicate side. The fingers of his one hand soothed the length of her spine while the other drifted easily through tousled hair without a tug.  When she nuzzled in behind his ear, he gave a quiet chuff of pleasure. 

She was nothing but a sweet, affection-seeking kitten in the wake of their ruthless and noisy fucking.  Maybe it was because her reasons for putting him off this weekend included a fear of being overheard, but he was conscious of her every growl, preening cry and howl.  She was vocal about her gratification, and it was enough to make him believe she was right about not going at it with other people in the next room. 

They were going to have to work on a way to muffle it, because he spent much of his summer in the Hamptons.  He expected her to join him often, and abstinence wasn’t an option.  Not since she was responsible for renewing his sex drive to that of a teenager. 

What had become mundane was new again with her.  It helped that he didn’t have to inhibit himself, but Jon also found himself addicted to the transformation of her features when she crossed from endurance to bliss.  When furrows of distress smoothed with the cry of release, she was the epitome of feminine beauty.  It stroked his inner barbarian’s ego for a job well done and made him greedy for the next. 

The chase was more intense than his regular cardio regimen, and a hell of a lot more fun. 

Clinging lips placed a final prolonged kiss against his jaw, and she slid off with a contented purr.  Delaney didn’t go far, though.  She simply cuddled against him, and a cheek came to rest on his shoulder while lazy fingertips scraped over his stomach.

“So… how do you see this going?”

Jesus Christ.  Really?

Chin tucking into his neck, Jon scrutinized the mop of violet hair.  It was all he could see clearly with her nose touching his collar bone. 

“Are we back to words, Mou?”

She chuckled and lifted her head to grant him a clear view of sex-flushed features.  There was laughter hugging the corners of her eyes as she drawled, “No.  I was actually talking about furnishing your apartment.”

That was a surprise way out of left field.  She hadn’t exactly refused to do it, but she hadn’t mentioned it again since the night on the porch.  He had just about resigned himself to calling his assistant and asking her to find a decorator tomorrow. 

“You’re actually going to do it?”

“Might as well,” she theorized with a rueful smirk.  “My mother called and asked me if I was a homewrecker tonight.  If I’m going to get accused of wrecking one, I should probably help you get another set up.”

“She saw the pictures?”

“Why do you think I’ve been drinking?  The women on her bowling league were all over it, and she didn’t waste a freeping minute before waving them in Papa’s face.”

Dave and Matt both sent him TMZ links for Pearl’s snapshots after Delaney left this morning, and since he hadn’t bothered involving himself in the photo selection, Jon looked.  The women had jointly chosen to release an array that showed them walking hand in hand toward the ocean, laughing and playing in the surf, and him smiling down at her after tackling her to the ground. 

They would both look like water-logged shit if it wasn’t for the aura of happiness that was obvious even to a man.  He knew it wasn’t just him, because his brother and friend both made remarks, too.  Matt said it was nice to see him back, and Dave wanted to know if they were always that happy or the jellyfish had just gotten free porn.  Jon followed with an invitation for David to see for himself, and that led to a dinner date in a couple of days.

Which he’d tell Delaney about after ensuring that her parents weren’t going to be a problem.

“So they’re pissed?”

“Not really,” she denied, resuming her spot on his shoulder.  “They’re just yelling about how nice you and your wife were to visit the hospital when I got hurt.  What a good, solid couple you are.  Were.  This couldn’t possibly happen in mere days, so we must’ve been screwing around already.  Yadda, yadda.”

“Think it would make ‘em feel better to know that was the day I decided we were gonna be screwin’ around?”

His skin warmed with the heated blast of her snort.  “Probably not.”

“Yeah.  I didn’t really think so.  Are they going to be a pain in the ass for you?” 

“It’ll be fine.  They wouldn’t listen to anything I said, but Ma will call Petra.  Unlike me, Petra will scream until she’s heard.  You can do no wrong in my sister’s eyes, so she’ll have them on board in no time.”

Good.  He didn’t want to cause problems with her remaining family, but Jon wasn’t giving her up, either.  It was more a matter of determining whether he had to take care of it personally or not.  If Petra was going to be his ambassador, maybe he would let her come back to the Hamptons again. 

“So, anyway.  As long as you provide some general guidance, I guess I’ll pick out your couch and tables.”

Did he tell her now or wait until she figured it out on her own?  With an orgasm under her belt, it was probably better to seize the moment, right? 

No.  It wasn’t.  He could casually slip in his need for dishes, sheets, towels and everything else later.  There was no point in making it a big deal now, when she’d just barely agreed to do any of it.  Baby steps would be better.

“You’ve seen the Hamptons house, the Greenwich apartment and my dressing room.  I’m sure you can piece something together.”

“Yeah, but I’ve also seen a couple pictures of your New Jersey house.  There’s a vast difference, and if that’s what you’re looking for, I may change my mind.”

“Why?”

“Honestly, because I wouldn’t pick out that décor in a hundred years.  Maybe it was fine when you built the place, but now….  If I had your money, that house would look very different.”

“Then why in the hell did you go out of your way to ensure I keep it?”

“I told you, already.  Your kids.  And if they like it, I’m sorry.  I hope all of you love it, in fact, but it’s not my thing.”

The place in Jersey was his very first house, and he had a shit ton of money to spend on it.  Maybe – maybe – he’d been trying to prove that with the design.  He wasn’t ashamed of it, nor was he a huge fan of change.  Once things were done, they stayed that way, mostly because he didn’t want to have to think about fabric and colors.  Ever.  Decorating and redecorating were two very prominent circles of Hell that he’d prefer to avoid at all costs.

Recruiting Delaney’s help was avoidance with a personal touch.  She would navigate the Fiery Lake of Interior Decoration shit far less impersonally than a hired designer.  If she’d just do it, Jon could be very flexible about what “it” was.

Within reason.

“If the apartment was yours, what would you do to it?  Bright colors like you’ve done here?”

“No,” she immediately denied.  “Quirky and colorful fits in Queens, but this look isn’t meant for a multi-million-dollar apartment.”

“Then what is?”

Hooking her leg around his, she drew the covers over them with an indecisive hum.  “Manhattan is cold and stark enough on its own, so I’d avoid the black, white and gray that’s so trendy right now.  Sophisticated warmth, I guess.  Something that feels like home instead of a museum.  Inviting to guests.”

“That’ll work.  Go with that.” 

She laughed quietly and hugged close to his side.  “I know the guide to being obscenely rich probably tells you ‘go with that’ is the accepted means of accomplishing almost anything, but…  I live in a world that requires mundane details, Bongiovi.  The most basic of which is money.  I can’t just waltz into a furniture gallery, pick out thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff and pay for it with my dimples.  That means we’re back to my original question… How do you see this going?”

“Oh.”  In this case he was guilty as charged.  His assistant had a credit card for expenses and the bills went to his accountant, so “go with that” was normally how he rolled.  “I’ll give you Kathleen’s number.  She’ll make it work.”

“Thank you.”

He returned her hug, absently stroking her hair to inquire, “When can you take a couple days off work?”

“I just took four, in case you don’t remember.”

“I remember, smart ass.”  Rather than pissing him off, her sarcasm only made him smile.  “And I’m not talking right away.   I’ve got shit to do this week, including going out of town for a couple days.  I probably won’t even see you until the weekend.  We have dinner with Dave Saturday, by the way.”

“We have dinner with Dave?”

“He saw the pictures, too and started in with the ‘Bounce’ shit again.  After I told him to fuck himself and provided explicit instructions on just how to do it, he decided he wants to see us and reassess the situation personally.  He’s a stupid fucker, but since you asked about him the other day, I told him we’d go out.  S’okay?”

“Sure.  I’ve seen his wife, though.  She’s very… fashionable.  Is this a fancy thing?”

“Lexi likes her fashionable clothes, just like you like your jeans.  Just like Lema likes his jeans, for that matter.  Wear what you want.  It’s just a little place in Greenwich Village.”

The slight tensing of her shoulders suggested that she was going to give this more thought than it warranted, but she hummed agreeably before asking, “Going out of town anyplace fun?”

“Not really.  Jess wants to start moving west with the wine, so we’re going to go visit a couple of distributors.”

He neglected to mention that it was his idea, and one that hatched only today.  Jesse possessed the same unabashed motivation that Jon held at his age, though, and quickly jumped on the idea.  He would spend tomorrow making the contacts that would get them meetings later in the week. 

The other thing Jon purposely neglected to mention was that those meetings would take place in Chicago, where he also planned to conduct business of a more personal nature.   

Something nagged at him about the daughter who so completely severed ties from her family.  There was more to the situation with Poppy, and since Delaney continually refused to discuss it, he’d go in search of his own answers.  Maybe he wouldn’t even talk to the girl, but he was damn sure going to find her and check her out.

Delaney needed resolution or closure with her daughter, and if he could facilitate that….  Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d made her take something she needed.

“The Midwest and wine distributors.”  The dry voice was completely unaware of his intentions, and he chose to believe it was for the best.  “I can’t say I’m going to envy you that trip.”

“Iowa or Israel, Denver or Denmark.  Work’s work,” he rationalized and bent to press a kiss to her forehead.  “But I thought you and I would go someplace just for fun, if you can find the time.”

“Fun?”  There was a definite interest in the soft gray irises that peeked up at him.  “What kind of fun?”

“Rock climbing in the Adirondacks fun.”

Interest became excitement, and she pushed the covers away to stand on her hands and knees.  It brought her within inches of his face when demanding, “Are you freeping kidding me?”

“You said you wanted to go, didn’t you?” he teased, resisting the urge cup her cheek.  There would be no need to coerce her into this trip, and Jon found that her eagerness made it all the sweeter.

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t expect you to take me.”

“That’s part of what makes it fun.  We’ll go next week.”

She was back to straddling his waist again, but the kisses she peppered over him weren’t sensual this time.  The pecks raining across his cheeks, nose, chin and lips carried sheer excitement.  “I think I’m going to like dating you.”

“Fuck that ‘going to’. You already do,” he scoffed, and when a chastising hand smacked onto her butt, she just deluged him with dimples.   

 “Yeah.  I kinda do.”

*58 - Give Me the Beat

[7:48 PM]JON:  I’m coming to fuck you.

[7:48 PM]MOU: You are, huh?

[7:49 PM]JON: Fact.  NON-NEGOTIABLE fact.

[7:50 PM]MOU: Guess that means I should tell this other guy to get lost…

Jon’s self-satisified smirk vanished in a puff of annoyance.  He didn’t believe a damn word of it, but horniness and impudence didn’t mix.  He was fast approaching his lack of patience for the combination and tapped the icon that would enable him to vent that annoyance.

“Hello?”

“Not fucking funny.”

Delaney’s sultry giggle told that her opinion differed.  “It kinda was.”

“No.  It goddamn was not,” he steely reinforced. 

Jesus, she loved to jerk his chain.  She’d done it all day yesterday, last night and today by putting him off.  The kids were in the house, so she wouldn’t fuck in his bed.  Petra and Pearl were in the guesthouse and she didn’t want them as an audience because they didn’t know how she got her freak on.  She didn’t want to fuck on the beach because just that quick, wet roll on the sand was enough to tell her she wouldn’t like it. 

She wouldn’t fuck in the pool, in the yard, with a fox, in a box, on train or in the rain.  He swore she was getting off on turning him down, but with his car turning down her street, that shit was about to come to an abrupt halt.

“Just a little funny?”

“No, Delaney.  Not even a little.  We’ve had sex once in the last four days.  It was good.  Life-altering and all that shit, even, but it did not appease my aggressive nature.  You will appease it tonight.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“Interesting is how I’m going to make you pay penance for denying me the last two days.”

He didn’t have the faintest damn idea what that penance would be, but he trusted his impromptu instincts.  When it was time, it would come to him. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m not home right now.  Please leave a message at the beep.”

Part of him was still a little irritated with her sassitude, but he lost his battle with a grin as the Town Car glided to a halt.  She was a cockblocking tease with a bad case of denial and repression, but damn she could make him smile. 

“I’m in front of your building and can see the kitchen light is on.  Busted.”  Within seconds, the third-floor window went dark, and Jon laughed outright.  “I’m hanging up.  Unlock the door and don’t give me any shit.”

After thanking the driver, he grabbed his bag and went in search of the woman whom he might keep up all night, just out of spite. 

It took only moments to reach her floor, and when Jon apprached the door, it was to find it cracked.

Good girl.

When it swung inward, however, he didn’t find quite what he expected.

The lights were still out, but candlelight led him out of the little foyer and illuminated his girlfriend standing next to the dining room table.  With a dozen or more flames casting a yellow glow that most women would consider romantic, she wasn’t the picture of romance or seduction.  Loose hair framed a face of cosmetics, and he was pretty sure that her version of “lingerie” was his pilfered black t-shirt that hit her bare leg at mid-thigh. 

The most romantic thing about the whole scene was the glass of wine she offered with one dimple, but he wouldn’t have changed a damn thing about any of it.  Her utter lack of pretense was one of his favorite things, and the friends he’d introduced her to at last night’s party had agreed. 

Ron Perleman called her a breath of fresh air in a stale beach town. Allie Wentworth showed a little more flair by saying that, if he was going to show up at these things without Dorothea, Delaney would do.  When Delaney offered to bring Dorothea with them next time, Allie developed a girl crush and didn’t leave her side the rest of the night. 

Jon let his carryall hit the floor to accept the drink with a curious, “What’s all this?”

She lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug.  “The guy I ran outta here liked this kinda thing, but if you don’t…”

The wineglass went on the table beside an empty bottle so that he could reach out grab her shirtfront in both fists and haul her close.  “This how you wanna play tonight?  You want me good and pissed off so I’ll fuck you harder?  I’m not the jealous type, but if it gets your panties wet, I can fake it.”

“Not wearing any panties.”

His jeans got too tight in the crotch with that breathy admission.  With her face now close enough to really see, Jon could see that slumberous eyes were glazed with more than candlelight.

“What’ve you been doing since you got home, Mou?” One hand unfisted from the shirt fabric to dive under the hem, where he found her bare, wet and swollen.  “I told you when you left the house this morning that I was coming to fuck you.  Why’d you start without me?”

“Mmmnh.”  The husky moan sent another surge of blood below his beltline.  “I got thirsty.  It made me impatient.”

A translator wasn’t required for that interpretation.  Delaney was drunk and horny.  At least that explained why taunting him with another man qualified as funny.

“Oh, I know all about impatience,” he unsympathetically assured against her cheek, while cramming two fingers in the sucking heat that would soon wrap him like an erotic glove.  “But I didn’t jack off in the car.  I waited.  You didn’t wait for me, though.  Did you?”

“Kinda.”

The noises coming from the back of her throat were feral and sexy as hell as she bore down on his hand, pushing him deeper.  When she teetered to one side, Jon was forced to release his remaining grip on the shirt and anchor a stabilizing arm into her lower back. 

“What’s that mean?”

“I didn’t come.  Just almost.”  Her face buried into his shoulder with the raspy promise and Ms. Impatience humped into his touch.  “I couldn’t help… it.  I have a very… good imagination.”

The compact body that tantalized him all weekend in that damn bathing suit was writhing against Jon like he was a stripper pole, and his pole wanted in on the action.  The trouble was, his curiosity was enflamed almost as acutely as his dick.  He wanted to know more about the concocted fantasy that had her fingers doing some premature walking. 

“Tell me.”

Full breasts raked against him, and when her nipple ran over the zipper on his leather jacket, she groaned softly, “Maracas.”

His fingers stilled inside the clenching muscles of her womb, and Jon leaned back to peer down at sightless eyes that were closed with ecstasy.  “You fucked the maracas?”

Because that was… something he’d never considered.  Ever. 

“No.” 

An eager pelvis swiveled in a silent reminder that he was supposed to be doing something here, but he only gave her a little.  One stroke and a quick thumb swipe across her clit was all she got before he again demanded, “Tell me.”

“I like the way they sound.  Reminds me of you.”

That still didn’t give him the kind of detail he was looking for and hand that held her steady reached down to swat the curve of her ass.  “Don’t make me ask you again.”

Heavy lids fluttered open as her hands burrowed under his shirt, and glassy eyes boldly latched onto his as she stroked the hair around his navel.  “Have you ever heard yourself grunt during ‘Faith’?  Have you ever seen the face you make while never missing a beat with those maracas?  Or the way your Adam’s apple bobs?  Or how the spotlight shines on lips that you’ve licked at some point?  How am I not supposed to masturbate when I think about it?”

His fingers resumed their in-depth search of her hot sheath, but Jon leaned forward and nipped the tendon in her neck – harder than he normally would.  Hard enough so that her inner muscles clamped around harsh fingers while Delaney whimpered. 

“This pussy is mine.”  The terse whisper was barely recognizable as his voice.  “Nobody fucking touches it without my permission.  Nobody.  Not even you.  Got it?”

“You weren’t here.”

There was nothing that felt like the slick warmth of a woman’s intimate places.  If he had that slippery wetness at his disposal all day, every day, he’d never get his hand out of his crotch.  The fountain of arousal that was spilling out of Delaney made it all the more enticing.  He couldn’t really blame her for playing with herself, but if she was going to, he would have a front row seat to the show.

“You finger fuck yourself or rub your clit?” he grated in her ear before biting the lobe.  Her sharp gasp was a turn-on.  He liked delivering this kind of pain.  The kind that was offset by a finger driving through silk pinkness to the nub of flesh that was beaded with anticipation. 

“Both.”

Muscular thighs pulled wide to offer – request – more, but he didn’t want to give it.  Not now.  

Jon pinched her clit and dropped his hand, to which she whined with protest.  The denial would only enhance her appreciation of what was ahead, and he spun her away from him with another swat to the ass. 

“Bedroom.”

“But…“  Tiny, bare feet were reluctant to move, and Delaney peered over her shoulder as he slipped off his jacket to toss it over a dining room chair.

“Go.”  Forceful hands cupped her shoulders, propelling her forward.  “You’ve had your fun, now I’m going to have mine.”

She liked that idea.  Languid eyes glittered in the lamplight as she climbed onto the bed that had obviously been lain on, if not in, and damn if the maracas weren’t right there in the middle.  She started to scoot them toward the opposite side, but he interrupted.

“Nuh-uh.  Throw ‘em here,” he ordered, casting aside the black t-shirt that matched hers.  A light toss had them seated familiarly in his right hand.  They felt right and normal in his grasp, just not in the bedroom.  This was going to be a first, and Jon pulled a chair up to the bedside.

Her shirt landed on his, and now Delaney was naked on a rumpled sea of pale blue, watching him with curiosity as he took his seat. 

“What are you doing?”

“Seeing what I missed.  Show me how you play with your pussy.”

“I’m not doing that when…”

A calculated flick of his wrist brought the maracas to rhythmic life, and whatever she’d been about to say died on her lips as she watched the repetitive motion. 

“Lay down, spread your legs and show me,” he commanded softly.  “When I’ve seen enough, we’ll move onto something else.”

Goosebumps pimpled the flesh along her thighs, and Delaney’s nipples hardened into dusky diamond peaks that could cut glass.  Warming up to the idea, she leaned back on the pillows, and her hips settled to the mattress in time to the scrape of beads against plastic.

“Spread your legs.” 

This time, she didn’t hesitate.  With both heels on the mattress, she guided bent knees open to display one of the sweetest parts of a woman’s anatomy.  Smooth lips were already drawing apart of their own accord, and she pushed her middle finger down the center seam. 

“Thatta girl.  Put on a show for me.”

Delaney’s heart raced excitedly, but it had little to do with the pleasure of touching herself.  The mere sound of that simple instrument was capable of spiking her pulse.  The visual of a bare-chested Jon responsible for that sound – in her bedroom – was a whole new level of exhilaration. 

His dancing for her to “Color Me In” was a fun, sexy experience, but this was different.  She had history with those maracas that he couldn’t begin to understand.

With them rocking in his hand and marbled blue eyes fixated on her every move, Delaney was cradled in the fissure between fantasy and fact, rock star and reality, legend and lover.  This was the juncture where years of fandom tangled tantalizingly with the actuality of life, and the bottle of wine she’d drunk this evening encouraged her to be fanciful.  To let her imagination run wild.

“Mmmmmm…”

Her eyes drifted shut as her fingers drifted south, circling her belly button in time to the music before slipping lower.  There was no resistance.  Her body already knew what was on the horizon and it wept with anticipation.  The flooded folds glided easily under her touch, guided by the gentle rhythm Jon orchestrated. 

“Fuck yourself.”

She didn’t hesitate to obey the harshly murmured direction.  Fingers delved into her core with a mind of their own, uninterested in the sensuality of the act.  That’s not what he wanted.  It wasn’t what she wanted, and Delaney pumped roughly in accordance with the crudeness. 

“Nnnnhhh.”

“Hurt good?”

The pillow shifted under her head as it shook.  Maracas flooded her ears, desire flooded her fingers and anticipation flooded her veins, but it was only a prelude.  It would take him to make it good.  It would take his touch.  His manipulation.  His hurt.

“I want you.”

"Then tell me it's just fun tonight, baby.  No hiding behind brutal fucking to avoid something else.  Just me and you, doing what feels shamelessly right."

"Only you.  Only the places we go."

The beat came to a halt, with plastic and wood clattering gently against the rug.  When Delaney slit open her eyes, it was to find him peeling open his belt.  His jeans hit the floor, the mattress dipped and he locked hard fingers around her wrist.  Pounding fingers were slowly and deliberately extracted from her center as blue eyes mottled with desire locked into hers.  The mottling went murky as those fingers slipped through his lips and were subjected to a tongue bathing that had Delaney squirming. 

“Gamiseme,” she breathed, unable to bear it. 

“English.”  The harsh command came through lips that shone with her, and it was so erotically filthy that Delaney almost came from nothing more than the formation of his words.  “Ask me to fuck you in English.”

“I don’t say that.”

“You do tonight,” he countered with steely resolve.  “Or I won’t bite you.  Pull your hair.  Fuck you like a goddamn caveman the way you want.  Ask me, Delaney.”

God, he was beautiful.  So intense.  So focused.  So determined to do anything to get his way.  To give her her way.  He knew how to make it unforgettable and life-changing, and Delaney trusted him to do it.

“Fuck me.”

It was no more than a breath that he stole when clamping his musky mouth over hers, driving inside with the same ferocity in which he drove into her womb.  Calculated fingers tangled and tugged, and he swallowed her moans.  A cruelly twisted nipple, a gasp of agonized ecstasy.  A bitten neck, a yelp of pleasured pain.  A violent meeting of man versus woman, wails of rapture.

Fantasy.  Reality.  Torture.  Bliss. 

Everything came together under his touch.

Everything.

57 - Life's a Beach

Delaney frowned at the pile of wet sand that should be taking on a grandiose form.  It simply wasn’t cooperating.  Anyone who thought that building sandcastles was anything like pottery or sculpting clearly held a different perspective than hers.  

There must be a trick to solidifying the shape.  She was going to have to read up on sand sculpture.

“You have a fucking art degree and that mess is the best you can come up with?”

“This shit is harder than it looks,” Pearl grumped supportively, planting sandy fists on her thighs.  “Especially without those cool turret-shaped buckets.”

“Art degree, not architecture, so bite me,” she blandly advised the man criticizing her with a cockeyed grin from behind his sunglasses.  Flinging a pinch of sand toward his beach chair, Delaney took on her own cockeyed grin when he swore and began digging granules from his navel.  “Let’s see you do better.”

“I know where my talent lies, and it ain’t in visual art.  You art, I’ll music.”

“How about you take a nap and she’ll do both?  Delaney sings your music as well as you.”

Jon turned to the woman in the chair a few feet to his left.  Petra was pretending to enjoy a book under the shade of an umbrella, but Delaney knew her sister was really people watching behind the designer sunglasses.   

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Obviously deciding he wasn’t going to get any satisfaction from her sister, he redirected his attention back to Delaney, who was busy scraping the pile of sand into something more interesting than a sandcastle. 

“Mou.  You sing?”

“As much as anybody does,” she mumbled distractedly from under the brim of the Patriots’ hat borrowed from his closet.  Smooth curves were much more suited to the palm of her hand than the sharp angles needed for a sand castle.  It felt more natural, and she let instinct elongate the wet mass until it tapered down to a blunt tip. 

“Show me.”

“What?”  Her aviators were firmly in place but she still squinted up at him while pulling together a smaller collection of sand and butting it up against the elongated piece.   Now that there was a solid inspiration in her mind, the sculpture crowded out everything, including the conversation of three seconds ago.

“Sing something.”

 

Frowning, she went back to shaping this lump into a distorted bean shape and absently started the first song that came to mind.  “I don’t wanna be another wave in the ocean…”

There was a faint masculine chuckle at her musical selection, which Delaney disregarded in favor of her sand.  She continued with efficient movements to pack, sculpt and detail through the first verse and chorus, and by the time she finished, so was her simple alternative to a sand castle.

“It’s bad enough you can do both,” Jon groused, playfully toeing a spray of sand over her mermaid's tail.  “You have to do ‘em both at the same fuckin’ time?”

“Told you.”

“Nobody likes a smartass, Petra, and it’s not like she nailed the key change in ‘Prayer’.”  The dimples of both twins at the same time had him pushing out of the beach chair and to his feet.  The sunglasses were tossed aside as he ordered, “C’mon, Mou.  Let’s go swimming.”

Hard fingers enclosed her hand and hauled Delaney toward the shore, barely allowing time to shed her own sunglasses and hat before Petra called out the reminder that he obviously liked a smartass.  Flipping a middle finger behind him got Jon nothing but Pearl’s praise for a good photo to send TMZ.

“Your sister and Pearl aren’t invited to the beach anymore.  They’re pains in the ass,” he griped good-naturedly as they waded into the surf. 

Shallow waves lapped at her shins as Delaney laughed into his face.  The weather was gorgeous, the temperature was perfection, the pink kiss of sunshine on his cheeks and shoulders was sexy as anything as she could imagine and Jon held her hand like it belonged to him.  This day was turning out to be memorable for far better reasons than puking in the bushes.

Brunch went better than she could’ve hoped.  Jon was unexpectedly sweet in the reassurance she insisted he provide, and none of the kids offered an objection.  Stephanie went so far as to wish her luck. 

Jake and Jesse were openly accepting of Delaney and, more specifically, her profession.  Jesse now had a floral designer on call to pimp Hampton Water, which he considered more of a perk than she believed it to be.  Jake put in a prom flower request for next weekend and threw in appreciation for her cooking, as Jon had warned, and it was fine with her.  The kid was entertaining.  She agreed to feed him anytime he liked.

Romeo was the most reserved of the Bongiovi children, but he didn’t seem to hate the idea.  So, while everything might not be Brady Bunch happy, it could’ve been much worse.  Delaney took it as a ray of hope that chased away the lingering shadows in her mind – the darkness Jon wasn’t as readily willing to put aside. 

At his insistence, they left everyone else to clean the kitchens so that they could “go sort shit out”.  The bottom line was that he wanted to know what sent her running out the door earlier, and Delaney didn’t want to go to that recess in her mind again.  Later, maybe, but not while she was in a sweet spot and feeling good about the way life was progressing. 

He adamantly demanded to know “what the fuck was going on in her head”, fully expecting an answer.  Delaney didn’t want to answer and gave him her best puppy dog eyes, asking him not to ruin the first moment of inner peace she’d had since Stephanie arrived.  It was a dirty shot, and Jon muttered something about getting wrapped around her “little fucking finger” but relented in the end. 

She didn’t know how long the reprieve would last, but she should make it through the day, at least. 

“You knew freeping well what you were signing on for,” Delaney teased over his complaint about her travel companions and lightly kicked water at him with the side of her foot. 

He kicked it back and countered, “Yeah, but it was the only way to get your stubborn ass out here.  And I put up with David on tour.  Those mini pains in the asses got nothing on him.”

“Have you talked to him lately?”

Water covered her ankles now that they had meandered further out into the tide, but Jon was still moving forward. 

“Not since Montreal.  Why?”

“Just wondering if he was still calling me Bounce.”

“Probably.  He gets something stuck in his head once, and it’s there forever.” 

With the rolling surf now up to her thighs, Delaney reclaimed custody of her hand to cup both and scoop up some floating seaweed.  Nothing was worse than brushing into it unexpectedly and fearing that a sea monster – or at least a jellyfish – was making its move.  It and a fair amount of water were tossed out of harm’s way, toward where Jake and Romeo were body surfing.  Jesse, Ali and Stephanie had opted to stay home by the pool.

“I’m glad you came, Mou, but I hate that it’s been so goddamn traumatic.”

She turned with a smile, finding that Jon was also picking a piece aquatic plant life from the drink.  His face was creased from both squinting in the sunlight and frowning, making for a fierce expression. 

“The good outweighs the bad,” she assured, wading over to encircle his waist with wet arms.  “And I’m glad I came, too.  Where else am I gonna get the chance to see you looking like a very sexy beach bum, live and in person?”

The squint was still in place, because the man hated being unprotected from the light, but a flash of brilliant white scoured away most of the fierceness.  Heavy forearms folded into the curve of Delaney’s back so that he could disregard her rhetoric with a husky, “Have I mentioned how amazing your tits look in that bathing suit?”

“Nope.”  Ever since shedding her cover-up, she had caught his eyes repeatedly sticking on the ruched bra of her modest two-piece, though.   

The black suit been chosen for its underwire support to kept heavy breasts lifted and tucked, and the retro bottom sat at her natural waist.  It knotted lower on one side to provide a visual distraction from the tummy bulge it was designed to hold tight.

“Your tits look amazing.”

“Thanks,” she accepted with a snicker. 

“Ever fuck in the ocean?”

His abrupt bluntness and exaggerated waggling of eyebrows had Delaney bursting into whole-hearted laughter.   “No, and I’m guessing you haven’t either – not within fifty yards of your kids, anyway.  You need to cool it, buddy.”

Sliding out of his grasp, she again cupped her hands together and plunged them beneath the water’s surface. This time when she dipped out the brininess, it wasn’t to fling it further down the waterline but into Jon’s chest. 

It only took a beat for masculine nipples to reveal how cold the seawater was against his sun-warmed pecs.  They beaded instantly, and Jon took time for only a single sucked breath before swearing and drenching Delaney’s “amazing tits” with the same nipple-puckering punishment. 

Her competitive instinct kicked in along with a burst of adrenaline and she returned fire, shoveling water as fast as he did until rivulets ran from both their faces and hair.   He was merciless in his assault, meaning that Delaney ended up with as much water in her mouth as her hair, and she didn’t appreciate the taste. 

Deciding that she was at a disadvantage due to the difference in hand size, Delaney chose to even the odds by hooking a foot around his ankle and giving a powerful jerk. 

Muscular arms flailed as he tried to keep from going under, but she didn’t hang around to find out if he succeeded.  Her sole focus was on making a break for dry land and running through the thigh-high water as fast as it would allow.

It wasn’t until dry sand squished between her toes that she slowed long enough to look back, and when she did, a moving force collided with her.  She was clotheslined at the waist and propelled backward, making her squeal with alarm when shoulder blades dug into the warm beach.

It knocked the wind out of her, and a heart that was already beating with exertion took on a livelier cadence with the added spike of adrenaline of impact.  Delaney breathed deeply, willing it into normalcy, and eyes that had scrunched shut on landing eked open to meet the wolfish grin of a very drippy Jon.  Arm muscles rippled with the effort of keeping his upper body from crushing hers, and water dripped from his chest into her cleavage as his hair dribbled on her forehead. 

It was a combination of hot and cold that caused her flesh to pimple for all the right reasons.

“You didn’t fall,” she observed breathlessly.

“Not in the water.”

The thumping behind her breast bone had nothing to do with running or impact now.  His unspoken meaning paired with the thoughtful kaleidoscope of blues studying her were responsible for the staccato thumping that felt a whole lot like “Keep the Faith”.

He saw her.  Delaney felt his intent perusal of all the things she kept hidden from the world, and even better, she felt his approval of it all.  There was nothing there he wasn’t willing to accept.

A fact that was proven by his quietly smiling, “You make me happy, Mou.”

Just like that, he plugged another hole in her broken heart.

56 - On the List

“Wanna tell me what happened in here?”

Petra’s muttered question when dropping a baking dish in front of Jon was not that of a happy woman.  He glanced up from the farmhouse table suitably dressed for the cover of Better Homes & Gardens, and that glance was all it took for her darkened features to confirm his assessment.

He’d obviously known something was wrong when Delaney flew from the kitchen like a bat out of hell, but it felt more important to act normal than to chase after her.  His daughter didn’t need to know that her words, facial expression or simple consumption of oxygen was responsible for triggering unpleasant emotions – and Delaney wouldn’t want her to. 

That, coupled with Jesse and Ali’s timely arrival, was why he stayed behind to pour a cup of coffee and listen to them relay last night’s Surf Lodge events to Stephanie.  Meanwhile, he was stuck wondering what the fuck had set off the girlfriend who was still mysteriously absent, even as Pearl added another plate of baked goods to the existing mountain on the island and introduced herself to Stephanie. 

“Where is she?”

“Brushing her teeth.”

“What’d she say?” he murmured into his coffee while lifting a corner of tinfoil from the baking dish.  Whatever it was smelled of onion and savory spices.

“Say?” Petra scoffed quietly, and perched on the adjacent chair’s edge.  “Not a frigging thing, but she threw up in the bushes.  You didn’t get her pregnant did you?”

“God, no.”  There wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening.  That possibility was snipped away soon after Romeo’s birth, when it became clear that four kids was enough.  “She was chatting with Steph one minute and out the door in the next.”

“Fuck.  Pregnant would be preferable.” The sigh was bigger than the woman who leaned close to whisper, “If you think there’s a chance in hell you can make her actually deal with this shit instead of swimming in denial, I’m begging you to do it.  After suffering a life-altering tragedy, all she does is act like those girls never existed.  If you could’ve seen how involved in their lives she was….  Nobody can flip a switch and make it all go away.”

That involvement was yet another similarity in their stories.  He would’ve sworn to any and everybody that he and Dorothea knew every facet of Steph’s life.  They talked to her every day, knew all her friends, were aware of every political view the child had.  None of it could’ve prepared them for that night, but even if it had ended differently, Jon thought he would hold his other kids closer instead of allowing them to walk away.

He didn’t quite understand, but he hoped to.  When she would let him.

“How do you think she’s supposed to act?”

“I don’t know,” sighed the woman whose pinned hair, dress and diamonds were overkill for having cereal with his brood.  “Genuinely happy to spend time with my kids and yours rather than wearing a mask of happiness that slips every once in a while?”

It wasn’t that he disagreed with Petra’s assessment.  He knew Delaney was holding onto unhealthy shit.  He’d seen it himself and knew she’d be undoubtedly happier after working through it.  The trick would be convincing her to do so.  She’d already put him off a couple of times for valid reasons, but would she continue to find reasons until someone forced her hand? 

Was he the one that should be forcing her?

You’re the one who can see past the surface.

“Mou’s strong,” was his noncommittal response.

“Nobody’s that strong, Jon.  Not even a bitch like me.”

He inspected irises that were physically familiar but couldn’t see past the color when he looked in Petra’s eyes.  They didn’t let him see inside the way Delaney’s did, and it required her pucker of impatience to tell him that she was waiting for him to literally do something.

What the fuck that might be, he couldn’t fathom, but giving a good faith attempt was less troublesome than pissing off Petra.  It was the first time he saw a valid reason for Delaney’s willingness to dress in accordance with her sister’s wishes.

Focus, Bongiovi.

“When’s the last time she saw Poppy?” he asked quietly as Romeo entered and joined the others picking at the food-infested island. 

“About a year after Violet died, on the girls’ birthday.  She flew out to Chicago one day and back the next, saying she’d never make that mistake again, but that was all she’d say.  And of course, that little shit Poppy won’t speak to any of us.  I could just wring her neck.”

“You don’t find it strange that she’s held a grudge against the entire family for this long?  I mean, if Delaney was so close to the girls, it seems bizarre that Poppy can just cut everyone out of her life without looking back.  What am I missing?”

“I don’t know.”  With the return of her twin through the back door, Petra’s response was muttered from the corner of her mouth as she rose.  “Figure it out, and I’ll get you all the corporate and private solo performances you could ever want.”

He didn’t bother telling her that there weren’t enough days in the month for the offers he already had and that work would never be a reason for reassembling the pieces of Delaney’s broken heart.  His sole interest was in seeing how beautiful this brokenly perfect woman could be once she was glued back together.

“I’ll talk to her.”

That was good enough for Petra.  She gave him a quick nod before pasting on the Congressman’s Wife smile and going to introduce herself to Stephanie. 

“Mou.  C’mere.”

Determined dimples faltered a bit at his summons from across the room, and she held tight to the oven door with a potholder at the ready in her other hand.  “I’ve got to pull this quiche out before it burns.  Where’s Jake?  Everything’s ready.  Can somebody yell at him?”

Jon sighed and stood with his coffee mug in hand.  Now wasn’t the time for an in-depth conversation.  He got that, but she could spare two seconds to tell him she was okay.

“Romeo, go get your brother’s ass out of bed,” he directed, taking the long route toward the coffee maker to intercept Delaney and her quiche.  “Jess, you’re in charge of mimosas.  The rest of you grab a plate or pitcher to take with you to the table.”

“Excuse me.”  A smile as polite as the request was in place, but gray eyes pled with him not to turn this into a scene. 

She needn’t have worried.  Making things more complicated wasn’t his method of operation.  Jon was all about the KISS method whenever possible, and “keep it simple, stupid” was definitely a good fit here.

“Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

Turning his back to the rest of the room and hooking a knuckle under her chin, he spoke softly enough so that only she could hear him over everyone else’s chatter.  “Later, you’ll tell me what happened here.”

“Nothing-“

“Don’t waste your breath on that bullshit,” he advised gruffly.  “You’ll tell me later.  End of discussion until then.”

There were arguments aplenty sparking in flinty eyes, but she didn’t utter one of them.  Delaney only issued a terse nod that convinced him to let her pass, and Jon continued to the coffee maker for a refill. 

“I guess if I hadda get out of bed, there are worse reasons.”

A smirk kicked up one side of Jon’s mouth at his middle son’s groggy entrance.  Jake loved to sleep but more than sleep, Jake loved to eat.  It came with the territory of being a sixteen-year-old boy, and that particular boy owned the territory.  He was the one Jon had in mind when saying the kids would turn up on Delaney’s doorstep begging for food.

Pouring the rest of the pot into a thermal carafe, he returned to the table to place both it and his cup next to his place-setting at the head, where a mimosa also awaited.  The crystal glass that held it was the one he chose to stand behind the chair and raise. 

“You all can see that our guests went above and beyond the call of duty this morning.  I, for one, appreciate all the time and effort it took to create this bountiful brunch feast, so thank you.” 

The rest of his clan lifted their juice, coffee and mimosas with sincere, if not effusive thanks.  It was still early for most of them, but the three women didn’t seem to mind.  Petra smiled while peeling back tinfoil on the dish she brought, and Pearl lifted her glass briefly before knocking back half the mimosa in it. 

Delaney was wedged between Jesse and Ali cutting the quiche, and when finished, she straightened to pat them each on the shoulder.  Jon again intercepted her en route to the empty seat beside Petra, and stepped sideways to hook her waist, leaving his arm looped around it when positioning her in front of him. 

“And before anybody gets too far into a food coma, I’d like to say something else, so attention up here.”  Hands went from grabbing muffins to being tucked in laps as three pairs of brown eyes, three blue and one gray all obediently turned his way.  “This isn’t going to be Hall of Fame induction long, but it’s gonna take a minute, so bear with me.”

“Dude.  War and Peace wasn’t as long as that damn speech.”

“Spoiler alert, Pearl.  Unless he changes his mind, you win at the end of this story, so shut it,” Delaney warned, and he cinched his arm for an approving hug.

 Before the gentle warmth of relief washed over him, Jon hadn’t realized he was unsure about her desire to proceed with this.  Her mad dash out the door could’ve included a change of heart, whether he wanted to admit it or not.  It was good to know that, while her every thought wasn’t clear, she was still his Mou.

“Using as few words as possible…”  He shifted his grip on the champagne glass so that his middle one could flick a quick salute down the table.  “Delaney and I are seeing each other, and it’s serious.  I was going to take her back out to Montauk last night and make it public, but she wouldn’t let me since you guys hadn’t officially been told.  Any objections before Pearl feeds the tabloid wolves their first pictures?”

A pointy elbow found his gut, causing Jon to grunt before he scowled down into a similarly scowling face.  He’d obviously done something wrong from Delaney’s point of view. 

“What?”

“You’re not supposed to throw it out there like a hand grenade and hope nobody has objections before it blows up.” 

Her criticism incited a few laughs and Jon directed his scowl at them.  “It’s Pearl’s fault.  I was gonna make it more eloquent, but she was all bitchy.  Make her do it.”

“How about you do it – the right way?” She suggested with a cattily arched brow and a blunt fingertip in his sternum.  “This is your family, and if they aren’t okay with it, this isn’t happening.  Reassure them it’s not as crazy as it seems.  Explain it to them, Jon, and then listen to what they have to say for as long as it takes them to say it.  The public can wait.  Your children take priority over anyone else.”

He adored the little woman giving him hell.  It didn’t make a difference that she had such deeply personal issues with one of those children.  It didn’t matter that she’d run twice because it was too much to handle.  It didn’t matter that she was suffering her own deep-buried trauma. 

Delaney was adamant that his children were the priority here, and Jon didn’t give a fuck how broken her heart was.  There might be a million pieces that would never fit together quite right again, but even shattered, she still had one of the purest and kindest hearts he’d ever known. 

“I think you just gave them all the reassurance they needed, Mou.” 

He lifted smiling eyes to each of his kids to find that they were all smiling back.  They knew.  Anyone that looked at the events of this morning would know.  Delaney Gardener was one of the good ones, and Jon would be crazy not to take the chance he’d been given.

Delaney wanted it all on the record, though.  “Freeping fish sticks, Bongiovi!  Stop being an aardvark anus and do what’s right already.” 

“I’m sorry.  What did she just say?”

“Freeping fish sticks,” Petra reiterated to Jon’s daughter with a sigh and grabbed her mimosa.  “Freep is her version of the f-word.”

“She isn’t from Jersey,” Jon informed his kids as lightning-lit eyes flashed at him.  Mou wasn’t impressed with the side banter.  She wanted this shit handled already.  “She either swears in Greek or in a Sesame Street version of her own making.  Aardvark anus is about as insulting as it gets and means I’m on her shit list.”

“You’re working on a permanent spot if you don’t start talking.”

I see your soul, and it’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw, Delaney Gardener.  

Lifting his chin, Jon met each of his children’s gazes in turn to tell them about how they met, Matt and David’s insistence that she was his rebound girl, the semi-innocent friendship that built, Delaney’s ignorance to the upcoming divorce, his visit to her shop, her visit to Dorothea and Dorothea’s stamp of approval. 

“Delaney’s been different from the minute I met her,” he concluded.  “And I mean that in the very best way.  If you guys have concerns about the relationship, we’ll talk until they’re resolved.  The public won’t get anything until then, but Delaney’s with me.  Period.  Any questions?” 

Jesse’s attention shifted to the woman who’d stood quietly beside Jon throughout his short speech.  “Yeah, I’ve got one.   Delaney, you do realize Dad can’t get through a conversation without saying ‘fuck’, right?”

The tiny florist raised a dimpled face to Jon, drawling, “Oh, I’m aware.  He can swear like a mother trucker, but as long as he’s not on the anus list, it doesn’t bother me in the least.”

“Shit list, Delaney," Jon sighed.  "We call it a shit list, because ‘shit’ is less offensive than ‘anus’.  And am I off it now?”

The laughing agreement around the table was loud, but Jon could still make out her quiet, “Yes, androuli mou.  You are.  Thank you.”