Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(211)

“You and Ricky Jenkins came plowing out of the door one day after school, and Ricky crashed into me.” She began packing up their untouched food, her movements automatic. “I was carrying some books and a salt map of Mexico. I fell, the books went everywhere, Mexico cracked. I was so shy then. I hated for anyone to notice me, and, of course, I was mortified. Ricky ran right on, but you stopped and helped me pick everything up. When Ricky looked back and saw what you were doing, he yelled out, ‘Don’t touch her, Eth. You’ll get cooties.’ ”


She looked over at him, and a small smile curled her lips. “I wanted to die when he said that, but you didn’t pay any attention, even though some of the other boys had started to laugh. You took my arm and helped me get up, then you handed me my books and told me I could probably fix Mexico without too much trouble.”

The clock on the screen had disappeared, and the second feature was about to begin. She folded her hands in her lap, as if that were the end of it, and he could feel her slipping away from him.

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Fix Mexico?”

She smiled. “I don’t remember.”

An ache filled him, a desire to make things better for the shy little girl Ricky Jenkins had knocked down. Ethan’s hand seemed to have a will of its own as it slipped along the back of the seat and curved around the nape of her neck.

Her lips parted. Startled. The floodlights went out, plunging the lot into darkness.

He pushed the food sack out of the way, leaned forward, and kissed her. A pity kiss. A healing kiss. All better.

And then something inexplicable happened. As he felt those soft lips move beneath his own, the world split open and music exploded in his head, not Handel choruses or Puccini operas, but the raw shriek of dirty, sweaty, throbbing, feel-her-up, toss-her-down, come-on, come-on, Come On Baaaaby! rock ’n’ roll.

His hands were all over her. Kneading her breasts, pulling at buttons, tugging at her bra clasp, delving into that sweet, plump flesh. And she wasn’t resisting. Oh, no, she wasn’t resisting at all. His lips found a small, puckered nipple offered up to him.

Her quick, efficient hands flew under his shirt, yanking it out of his neatly pressed jeans and playing feverish tracks on his back, while her breathy moans flamed his passion with fast, hot riffs.

He shoved his hand between her legs, cupping her through the denim. She pushed against him in a needy little bump and grind that took away his reason. He worked her zipper. She worked his.

The dirty backbeat of her tongue pulsed in his mouth, doing what he wanted to do. Had to do.

Skin. Soft, damp with perspiration. And then wetness. He sank into it with his fingers.

She had him in her hands, played a throbbing lick that pushed him to the edge of oblivion.

Where are You now? his mind screamed. Why aren’t You telling me to stop? He waited for the Enforcer God, the Wise God, the Mother God, but he heard only silence.

“Stop,” Kristy whispered.

His fingers were inside her body; her hand encircled him. “Stop,” she said again.

But neither of them wanted to let the other go.

She shuddered, and he realized how close she was to falling over the edge. Her voice caught on a husky note. “You can’t do this, Ethan.”

Her dearness swept through him like a clean, cool breeze. She was worrying about him, as always. Never thinking about herself.

It had been a very long time, but he hadn’t forgotten what to do. He drew her closer and moved his thumb . . . gentle circles. She gasped. He kissed her, and with all the tenderness in his heart, he let her fall.

Afterward, neither of them wanted to talk. They readjusted their clothes, moved apart, cleaned up his spilled Cherry Coke, pretended to watch the movie. He drove her home and wasn’t surprised when she didn’t ask him in, but as he opened the car door for her, he found himself inviting her to his sister-in-law’s brunch the next day.

“No, thank you,” she said politely.

“I’ll pick you up a little before eleven.”

“I won’t be here.”

“Yes,” he replied firmly. “You will.”



The phone rang as Rachel began to dry her hair from her morning shower. Gabe was in the backyard banging away at something, and Edward played on the front porch, so she wrapped the towel around her head and dashed to the kitchen to answer.

“May I speak with Rachel Snopes, please?” a woman said.

“This is Rachel Stone speaking.”

A baby fussed in the background, and the woman’s voice faded slightly. “It’s all right, Rosie. I’m right here.” Once again, she spoke directly into the receiver. “I’m sorry, Ms. Stone, but my daughter hasn’t quite recovered from our car trip yesterday. We didn’t get a chance to meet last night at the drive-in. I’m Jane Darlington Bonner, Cal’s wife.”

The woman’s voice was businesslike, but not hostile. “Yes, Mrs. Bonner?”

“Please. Call me Jane. I’m having a family gathering in an hour or so. I apologize for the late notice—to be honest, I’m pretty much throwing the whole thing together at the last minute—but I’d like you and your son to come.”

Rachel remembered Cal’s visit to the snack shop yesterday afternoon. She’d been standing right there when he’d invited Gabe, and it would have been easy for him to include her in the invitation if he’d wanted to.