Inappropriate

"Really, Mother. That's really inappropriate. I probably shouldn't even have told you I'm pulling my hair out from boredom. I haven't been out of the house in days; Steve hasn't e-mailed this week, which is so unlike him. And these medical transcriptions are about to send me up the wall. But if I thought you had an answer to that—"

"Just because Steve can't have any fun doesn't mean your life should be completely on hold, Susan. Go out. Find a group of friends your age, and get out of the house."

"Steve isn't just 'not having any fun,' Mother. For christ sake, he's in a war zone. He's in Afghanistan. The least I can do is not go partying while he's gone. And I do get out occasionally."

"Teaching basic grammar to juvenile offenders at a detention center at night is hardly 'going out,' honey. You need to—"

"Hey, thanks for the chat, but I've got to go. Mom. A car's pulled up outside."

Susan hoped the sudden stress in her voice hadn't conveyed down the line to her mother. This didn't look good, not good at all. She was quaking, her knees ready to give out, watching them approach the door through the picture window in the living room as she stumbled toward the foyer.

A khaki green sedan, two soldiers, a man and a woman—oh, dear lord, a woman solider—all squared away and walking stiffly, almost reluctantly to her front door.

The male soldier—so tall and handsome and strong, just like her Steve—was supporting Susan in strong arms from foyer to the living room, giving her over to the woman soldier as they got to the couch, standing back, stiffly, almost at salute, while the woman took over.

"Is there anyone we can call for you, Mrs. Shelby? You shouldn't be alone, without friends at this time. Lieutenant Gordon here will go to the kitchen for some water for you, if that's OK. He can call in a friend for you when he gets back. Is there a telephone list somewhere?"

Susan couldn't think of anyone off the top of her head. She'd moved here less than a year ago to be close to where Steve had been deployed for Afghanistan—where she had expected him to return to her. And—and she realized it was so inappropriate—all she could do was watch the movements of the male lieutenant around her house. He was so much like Steve. It had been so long. Steve had been an attentive, firm lover; their sex life had been torrid. She'd gone so long. All she could do was watch this lieutenant moving around her house—like he belonged here, lived here—the cut of his trousers making his butt look so good. Steve had had a great butt.

But she'd been able to pull herself away from her inappropriate thoughts and asked them to call Candace, in Doctor Willard's office. It was sort of funny. She and Candace weren't that friendly; Candace was just the last person Susan had talked to on the phone before she spoke to her mother, who was half way across the country. Her mother would come, of course, but these military folks seemed to think they couldn't leave until someone else was here. Her mother was over a thousand miles away from here. Doctor Willard's office was just fifteen minutes away. The only reason Susan even knew Candace was because Susan typed up the doctor's patient notes and Candace was his office receptionist, the one who Susan worked with in his office.

Susan didn't know if Candace would even come—but if she did, Susan knew they'd be best of friends now.

Candace did come. She dropped everything at the doctor's office and was there within ten minutes of being called. And she expertly took everything in hand without questioning why she had been the one to be called in. And this shared experience did bond the two.

Doctor Willard's receptionist wasn't the only friend Susan acquired from this tragic experience, though.

Lt. Ian Gordon had been sent with the team to notify Susan of his husband's death in Afghanistan not just because he was on "death" duty that day but also because he was one of the lawyers assigned to the unit that notified next of kin in person. For the foreseeable future—until Steve's body was returned for burial and all of the death benefits were established and the Army had helped Susan take over full control of the family's affairs and finances—Ian Gordon was her lawyer.

Over Susan's objections, Candace moved into her house for that first week.

"I can't let you do that, Candace. You have a family to take care of."

"There's just my husband—and my father who is living with us temporarily. He and my mom have separated, but we're all hoping it's temporary. But football season has started, and my Harry knows how to order pizza and do the laundry, so they'll be fine. They won't even know I'm not there."

Truth be told, Susan had been grateful for the company.

During that week, Lieutenant Gordon twice came and sat patiently at Susan's dining room table, with all of her household papers strung out there, and helped her put her life in order. She had done nothing with the family finances when Steve had been there, and had only reluctantly tried to fathom what he'd showed her before he left—and then just pecked at it in his absence. He was only supposed to be gone for eighteen months.

"How much trouble can our affairs get in just eighteen months," she said to Ian as, with knitted brows and an occasional sigh, he sorted through her bills and papers.

"Apparently a whole lot, and he'd only been gone for seven months, hadn't he?" he said, looking at her with a smile that gripped her heart and made her turn her face away.

"God, he's even got Steve's smile," she thought. But did he really? Was she just saying that because he was a nice-looking man with a comforting smile? What did Steve's smile look like, really? This gripped at Susan's heart even more. Steve had only been gone for seven months—and only

really

gone for less than a week—and already she was beginning to forget his smile. And so many other things about him too.

Candace walked into the dining room with refreshed cups of coffee.

"Wow, what a pile of papers," she said. "Looks like this is going to take a heap of time to straighten out."

"Yep, it sort of looks that way," Ian said as he reached out for the coffee cup with one hand and started digging into the pile of bills with the other. "What are the chances that there are some ugly letters in here?" he asked—almost cheerfully.

"I've paid all of the bills as they arrived," Susan answered, trying to keep it from sounding defensive. "But I'm sorry about the mess."

"Don't, worry. I'm here to keep you from worrying about this," Ian answered. "It's great you've managed the bills; many I work with haven't." He gave her a warm, approving smile, and she smiled back and relaxed.

"What about all of this stock stuff, though?"

"I don't know. Steve inherited all of that. I couldn't make heads or tails of it."

"Well, I guess we'll have to set up a couple of more dates for me to visit then."

"Sorry," Susan said.

"Don't be. My pleasure," Ian shot back. And from his smile, Susan almost believed he meant it.

Two weeks later, Lieutenant Gordon was still showing up regularly. Candace had moved home. Susan looked forward to Ian's visits, and if she didn't think of a reason why he had to come again, he did.

In time it dawned on Susan to think on that. If she didn't think of a reason he had to come back again, Ian thought of one.

Oh, god, she thought. It had been so long. Not just since Steve's death, but now going hard on eight months since Steve had moved in between her thighs. Their sex life had been quite frequent—and joyful. Dare she think that Ian Gordon had an interest in her? Since Candace and a circle of her friends had brought food in for Susan, she'd been filling out. All of those months of worry about Steve and how he was doing in Afghanistan and whether he was in danger had made her thin and gaunt. And now, with him dead, she was eating again. And both Candace and Ian had remarked—favorably—on that. Not just Candace; Ian too. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she could see that she had curves again and, if she wasn't careful, was going to steam right on by voluptuous.

Does Ian like his women curvy, she wondered as she stood, naked, in front of her mirror and ran her fingers down the lines of her body. And then she could see the blush steal across her body. That was an inappropriate thought, she told herself. She'd just buried her husband two weeks before.

Ian Gordon had been at the service, standing tall and straight—and handsome. There for Steve—and for her. Standing not more than two paces away from her, attentive to her every need.

She wondered if he was as good in bed as Steve had been. Oh, god, she groaned. Talk about inappropriate.

Then came the day when Ian left the house without setting up the next appointment. Susan had to admit her affairs were completely in order now. Ian had some other widow to go on to.

She walked the house for nearly a week, not going out—even calling the detention center and saying she couldn't make it back that week when she'd had every intention to return. That she had too much to do. They understood, of course. The woman had just buried her husband. But she didn't have too much to do; she had practically nothing to do. Even Candace was protecting her from medical transcription work. This was well-meaning, of course. But Susan needed something to do. The dull routine of the medical transcriptions probably would have been exactly what she needed.

Susan regretted not going to the detention center. Some of the students she worked with there were making real progress and seemed to appreciate her help. One young man, a black youth named Caleb, in particular, was someone Susan thought of frequently. He'd been so rough and sullen when she'd first met him, but he was really trying now—and was making progress. She'd helped him with a GED, and she knew he was now planning on going on to a community college. He'd age out of the system before she returned to the detention center now. She really regretted not being there in his last weeks—to see his smile when they handed him his diploma. He had a nice smile.

But she couldn't go in the condition she was in now. As inappropriate as it was, now all she could think of was Ian Gordon and how he no longer would be coming to her house.

She couldn't take it anymore. She picked up the telephone and called his office.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant Gordon is out on an assignment this afternoon. May I help you?"

"I . . . I found. . . . I'm sorry, this is Susan Shelby. Lieutenant Gordon has been helping me put my husband's papers in order."

"Ah, yes. I see that he's assigned to your case."

Susan breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn't going to be told that her case was closed—that Ian was closed to her now. "Thanks. I've found some more papers I need help with. Could I possibly schedule another appointment for him to come by the house?"

"Let's see, ma'am. Why, yes, if you don't mind late in the day, he could come at about 6:00 pm on Wednesday. Or is that too late in the day for—"

"No, no, Thanks, that's perfect." And indeed it was. It was just perfect.

She spent all Wednesday preparing for him. When he'd stayed late before, she'd fed him. Well, Candace and her friends had fed him. But he'd eaten here at the house, which was the main point. Feeding him at a 6:00 appointment wouldn't be inappropriate, she didn't think. And he deserved a nice meal.

So, she cooked him a nice meal, spending most of the day preparing it. And when she wasn't preparing food, she was bathing and powdering and fixing her hair and finding something really nice to wear and getting the good china and silverware out—and candles for the table.

At 6:00 pm she met him at the door, and the first thing he said to her—the worst thing he could have said, but, ultimately the best thing he could have said—was, "I thought we were finished with your papers, Mrs. Shelby . . . Susan. What other questions—?"

Susan almost collapsed at the door. He wanted to know what question she had for him. She'd prepared for this encounter for days—she'd perfectly orchestrated how a fantasy would unwind as she wanted it to—and the one thing she had forgotten to do was to pin down a legitimate reason from him to be there.

She burst into tears and fled through the living room, with a fire just set in the fireplace; through the dining room, with its table set for an intimate dinner for two; and into the kitchen and to the kitchen sink, where she stood, leaning over the sink and crying into the basin.

A bewildered Ian followed in her wake—not missing the fire in the fireplace or the dining table setting. He'd already been knocked back by the spaghetti-strapped slinky cocktail dress she been wearing and how she had let her hair down in soft ringlets—and by the evocative hint of the perfume that had swept over him as she opened the door to him. He came into the kitchen and close up behind her.

"Oh, Susan," he muttered softly into her ear, as he wrapped his strong arms around her from behind.

She felt his hard body against hers, feeling that he had a need as great as hers. He had a slight musky smell that wanted her to melt—the same brand as Steve's. She turned her tear-stained face to his and they kissed. And then, for moments, they just stood there, leaning into the kitchen sink, as Ian's hands went to Susan's shoulders and pushed the straps of her dress down her shoulders, the bodice dropping to her waist, and then fumbled at the clasp of her bra between her breasts. And when her breasts were free, he was cupping them in both hands, rolling her nipples as she groaned, until one hand continued down her belly, bunching up the skirting of her dress around her waist, and then journeyed under the waistband of her panties, finding her wetness with his fingers, making her moan and tremble for him.

He pulled at the material of her panties. She would have stepped out of them for him, but that would have required him to stop touching her intimately, if only for a brief moment. And he wasn't willing to do that. Nor did she want him to. His fingers and the bulb of his cock pushed the material aside between her thighs, opening the door for his assault on her slit. And then he was in. And in and in and in.

They swayed there in languid rhythm, standing and his buried, searching cock trapping her against the sink cabinet as he grew and hardened and stroked up into her. His hands went to grip the edge of the cabinet out wide on either side of her for leverage, as her body rose and fell on the strength of his cock alone.

He was every inch the man that Steve had been. And he knew every trick that Steve had to make her groan and moan and flow for him.

Trying to hold herself steady, Susan reached out with her hands and covered his.

And that's when she felt it. The ring. On his left hand. A wedding band.

Why in the hell had she never noticed that before?

Feeling her tense up, Ian misinterpreted the reason. "Am I hurting you? Should we move into the bedroom?"

"Why the hell not?" Susan hissed through clinched teeth. She was too far gone now to stop.

He carried her into the bedroom, laid her on her back on the bed, crouched between her thighs, and leaned down, smashing her breast against his chest, and took her mouth in a crushing kiss that stifled her groans and moans as he entered her strongly, deeply, fillingly again and began to work her deep in long, long, short, long strokes.

He had lost his uniform blouse and undershirt now and her hands prodded and clutched the bulges of his muscles—even more muscular than Steve had been. Filling her more deeply and at greater stretch and more relentless pounding inside her than she ever remembered from Steve. No longer being able to fully remember Steve inside her. Not soon being able to forget Ian inside her.

And then his lips went to her nipples, and she no longer cared about the ring on his finger. He could come to her—in her—as often as he wanted.

And come he did—but not until he'd sent her over the top twice as pent up as she had been from the months of doing without.

* * * *

"You've been seeing someone, haven't you? Now don't hold back on me. I can see it in your face. You are radiant."

"Oh, yes, I'm surprised it shows. There is someone I've had a few dinners with, yes. And we've had some interesting conversations. Just a bit of companionship to take the edge off of boredom. Nothing too serious, yet."

On the floor because we didn't make it to the bed. Clothes strew everywhere from the dining room table and down the hall. Gasping. Digging into the hair at the back of his head, holding him close into the center of me. His lips and tongue and teeth searching between the folds. Thrashing under him. His hands squeezing prodding, thumbing my breasts, my nipples. Oh, god, Ian oh GOD Ian. OhohOhoooo. His lips at mine now. Crushing me to the floor. Entering, entering, entering. Taking my breath away. Withdrawing. Oh, no, don't leave . . . plunging oh GAWD, withdrawing, plunging, withdrawing, plunging. Holding. Ohoooooooo. Withdrawing. Plunging. Panting a duet. Knuckles hurt from grabbing onto the footboard of the bed we'd almost made it to. The bed creaking. Creaking in rhythm to the pumping of his shaft pinning me to the carpet. Oh holy shiiiittt! Plungingwithdrawingplunging. A cock that . . . will . . . not . . . give up. Mooaan.

"Well, I'm glad you finding some social outlets. You're looking good. Glowing. You were skinny as a rail just a couple of months ago."

"Yes, thank you, Candace. I think I'm coming out of the blue funk. And you and your family have been lifesavers. I don't know what I'd have done without these evenings with your family."

"We've enjoyed you too. Especially Dad. He's been down. The tough times with my mom and all, you know. Although I do so hope and pray that they get back together. I've had to stop encouraging him to go to church with us, though. The old widows are all over him them there. I've had to almost beat them off with sticks. He's got to get back with Mom. But he's enjoyed having you with us these evenings for dinner and a board game or just watching TV. He's really come out of his shell."

And although Susan couldn't tell Candace that it was Ian—

their

Lieutenant Gordon—who was responsible for this glow in her—and certainly couldn't mention that he was married, although Susan had never asked Ian about this and he most surely hadn't volunteered the information—Susan hadn't been lying when she said she valued these at-home evenings with Candace and her family. Candace's father, Frank, was a courtly gentleman. And he didn't look or act that old in Susan's view. He and his wife must have had their family early. In any event, Susan felt more like family when she spent an evening with Evanses than even when she was with her own mother. This is the only time she laughed.

She didn't laugh with Ian.

Susan's mother was always after her to socialize more—and she hadn't let up since Steve had died. She hadn't shown up yet, either—other than for two days at the funeral. She droned on about how hard it was to leave Cleveland for any length of time, saying she just couldn't manage to get away from all of her charity work obligations. And then there was Sport, the cat, who was on his last legs, and Susan's mother couldn't leave him alone with strangers to die. In a relentless litany, though, she had drummed at Susan about coming out to Cleveland for a while. A change of scenery. And Susan needed to socialize more.

Yeah, Mom, right, Susan thought. If you could see what Ian and I were doing on your afghan the other afternoon . . .

But Susan's mother wouldn't have understood or approved of Ian. That wedding band. Susan's mother would have picked up on that wedding band the instant Ian had walked into the house. If Susan had mentioned any of this, her mother would have gotten snide—she'd have asked Susan how many young widows Ian had on this string of his. Susan didn't understand or approve either; she couldn't have defended it as being in the least appropriate. But she had no argument against the feel of Ian inside her—sending her to heaven.