24. Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Kate
We, all five of us, and our security team, shiver in the chill wind as the parade goes by. Squares are taped off on the sidewalk to help people remember to spread out from one another.
I’m not sure what I expected. Something more? Something spectacular? It isn’t your average December holiday school parade, but it isn’t the New York Macy’s parade, either. There are bands, floats, and Shriners zipping around in go-karts with advertising slogans on the sides of the carts.
In deference to safety and sanitation of all sorts, masked clowns hand out tiny plastic bags of pre-wrapped candies instead of people throwing the goodies from the floats as they go by. I remember James and I scrambling under and around adults and bigger kids to get our share of the treats.
Cece plasters herself against my thigh and shivers. “I can’t see,” she complains.
Charles turns toward her, but I place a light hand on his arm. His hip troubles him more and more. This cold cannot be doing it any good. How little I had understood about Charles that long-ago day of his wife’s funeral, or how much it must have cost him to hold Cece through the last thirty minutes.
“James?” I asked.
“Sure,” my brother replies. He reaches down and swings Cece up to his shoulders.
“I see Santa!” Cece crows.
I stand on tip-toe, barely able to see over the crowd. Sure enough, there is a float headed our way, with someone dressed in a red and white costume. Other people, dressed in green elf costumes, roller skate among the viewers, handing out “goodie bags” shaped like holiday stockings.
Larry, the custodian who had carried my bag down out of the Agri-Oil tower, snags one of the Santa stockings and hands it up to Cece.
“Thank you,” she says from her perch atop James’ shoulders.
I sneeze into my mask. Charles quickly turns to me. “Are you all right?”
“It’s just cold out here,” I say, fishing in my pocket for tissues and a fresh mask.
A final band goes by, playing the “To All a Goodnight” medley. Cars start creeping along the street behind the parade. People cross the street randomly.
“We should all go in and have some lunch and something hot to drink,” Grace says. “Where is a good place?”
“I vote for room service,” Charles says. “The hotel has a good menu. We can enjoy it in front of that magnificent fireplace in our suite.”
“You’re the boss,” James says cheerfully.
“Giddyap,” Cece seconds her father’s vote. “I’m hungry, an’ Miss Kate probably won’t let me eat any candy until it gets checked all over.”
She makes a face at me, and I laugh. “You are absolutely right. Although those bags were packed at random, it still doesn’t hurt to be safe.”
Our hotel is only a four-minute walk from where we watched the end of the parade. We all hurry toward its cheerfully lit entrance, decorated with artificial poinsettias, pinecones, and greenery.
James sets Cece down at the revolving door, and we all walk through it and into the lobby.
It is a beautiful lobby, decorated in Grand Central Station style, but with a large central fireplace. A gas flame burns under a hood, carrying away any fumes.
The Grand Hotel is new. It is connected by a series of sheltered train tracks to most of the local attractions. The corporate suite has twelve individual bedrooms, a large central living room, and a small en suite kitchen. Each pair of bedrooms shares a luxury bath, including giant dipping tubs with whirlpool jets.
Room service delivers their special guest lunch which includes a variety of a la carte foods, ranging from hot dogs to caviar, as well as assorted drinks from fancy water to coffee or wine.
I know it is gauche, but I blurt out, “Can we save some of this for later?”
Charles laughs, James looks at the ceiling while tapping his fingers on his arm, and Grace rolls her eyes. Clearly, all of them know something I don’t. But I stubbornly stand by my question and don’t back down.
“Of course,” the waiter says. “It’s part of your room package. You’ve already paid for it. Will all of you be here for dinner?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Charles . . .?”
“Depends on what we do this afternoon,” he replies. “We’ll discuss it over lunch and let you know. ”
“Thank you, sir,” the waiter says. “It helps the cook if guests can order ahead.”
“I want to go on the gingerbread ride,” Cece says. “And get my picture taken with Rudolph and Santa. Please Daddy, please, Miss Kate. Please, please?”
I hesitate. I can see that Charles is not feeling well. Standing outside in the cold had not done him any good at all. But we came to Branson mostly for Cece and to get all of us out of that dismal little cracker box of a house, since the strawbale arks James is building are not ready for occupancy.
For once, James does something both kind and useful. “Grace and I can take her. I see that neither of you feel like going out on the lake in a showboat.”
“Are you sure?” Charles asks. “It’s within Grace’s job description, but not yours.”
“It will be fine,” James says. “She’s a sweet kid, and we’ll have the security guys as backup in case anything goes wrong.”
“All right,” Charles says. “She’s been more excited about that than anything else. I’ll admit that the only water I’m interested in is one of those nice bathtubs with the water jets. They aren’t quite a jacuzzi, but they are the next best thing to it.”
“I can go,” I start to say.
“Stay,” Charles says. “You were sneezing, so I know you aren’t feeling all that great either.”
I’m not sick. Or at least I don’t think I am. But I have to admit that an afternoon with Charles, perhaps in a nice hot tub, has far more appeal than spending time out on a windy lake in December.
In short order, James, Grace, and an excited Cece are headed out the door with half our security team .
As soon as the door is closed, Charles says, “Am I doing that thing again? Did you want to go?”
I shake my head. “No. I could not love Cece more if she were my own, but even real moms want a day off now and then. I’m not that enthusiastic about amusement parks, but James loves them. Cece will have a grand time with him and Grace.”
“Then come have some fun with me,” he says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I have some ideas about how to spend our afternoon. I’ve hardly had a chance to get two words with you alone since we hired Grace.”
“You aren’t angry with me?” I ask, thinking of the play set near-disaster and the hot pepper.
“No, oh, my no,” Charles says, taking my hand in his and pulling me down beside him on the couch. “Kate . . . I’m not really sure how to say this. I loved Em. She was the light of my life, my business partner, and we were as happily married as most people. But with you . . . it’s so much more. And how you are with Cece . . . I can’t even begin to describe all the ways that you’ve made her life better.”
I feel heat rising in my cheeks at his praise, while at the same time I feel as if there is an electrical flowing from his hand to mine. He tugs me toward him gently, and I let him reel me in.
We kiss. It is not the terrified life affirmation I had felt in the storm shelter, or the wild desire to test new-found feelings that we had shared in the camper, or the thrilling explorations we’d carried out on the waterbed in his office tent. This is gentler, deeper, like the earth deep flow from a mountain spring before it tumbles down the rocky hillside toward the river and finally into the sea.
I open my mouth to him, and he explores it, finding all the sensitive places, letting the smoldering embers we’d kept banked around child, brother, and best friend burst into a roaring bonfire. It’s as if we are letting layers of social convention fall away from us, leaving only pure feeling.
Charles slides his fingers through my hair. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, “Like a shower of silk. ‘She walks in beauty, like the night . . .’”
“Lord Byron,” I acknowledge softly. “But I think you give me too much honor . . .my love is not innocent.”
“Innocent enough. You give with your heart, not just with your body.” He cradles me in his arms, shifts me so he can kiss below my ear while softly caressing the back of my neck.
I shiver. The soft kisses and gentle touches are stoking the fire I had carefully banked.
Charles misinterprets the shiver. “You’re cold. Let’s go run some hot water in that tub and get it going. We can share — the thing is big enough to seat four.”
That brings an image that is almost a splash of cold water. “Not with my brother!” I exclaim.
“No,” he agrees, “And not with Grace. She’s a sweet kid, but not at all my type.”
That surprises me, because from the pictures I’d seen, Grace looks a lot like his departed wife. “What is your type?” I ask.
“Tall, willowy, smart, sensitive, charming . . .”
I can feel the blush burning from my navel all the way up to the top of my head.
“I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” I say.
“Not a bit,” Charles denies. “I’m talking about you.”
He unfolds himself from the couch and pulls me up after him.
In the bathroom, which is big enough to house an Olympic swim team, he continues to hold my hand while he runs the tub full of water. “Not too hot…don’t need anyone passing out, not too cold because we want to stay a while…”
When the tub was full, he says, “Mind if I go in first? ”
Mutely, I shake my head and steady him as he climbs into the tub. He slides into the water and leans back against the sloped side of the tub with a sigh of relief. “Oh, that feels good,” he says.
That tells me that not taking him out on a cold, windy lake had been a good decision. “Are you sure you don’t want to just take a nice soak and then have a nap?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
His eyes snap open. “Don’t tease me, woman. I’ve been wanting this ever since you had the idea.”
“Me? Tease?” I can see that he really needs the warm water soak, so I make a production of slowly getting out of my clothes. I pull off my cable knit sweater, then slowly unbutton my blouse. Finally, I undo my jeans and slide out of them.
Then I carefully fold everything, stacking them on a towel rack, where they will stay dry for later.
By the time I turn around, his erection stands tall and proud in spite of the warm water. There is a glint in his eye that says Charles is not going to stay in that tub much longer if I don’t get in there with him.
I slide in, the warm water engulfing my cold skin. The tub is big enough I nearly float. Charles pulls me to him, the buoyancy making it easy for him to position me astride his lap.
I use my knees to hold onto him and hook my feet over his thighs. His big hands cup my bottom, and his long fingers begin a teasing exploration that has me melting with eagerness. It is one of his favorite things to do.
“I would draw this out,” he murmurs, “but I’m not sure how long I will last.” Then gripping me firmly, he pulls me to him and thrusts firmly up into my core.
The sensation! I nearly explode. I throw my head back, then forward, swallowing the scream I want to let out. No way do I want the hotel staff in here!
He holds me, anchoring me, as he begins a steady rhythm that throws me into greater ecstasy with each and every thrust. Then, just as I think I can bear it no longer, the world dissolves into a kaleidoscope of light and sensation.
Moments later, he fills me.
We drift there, cradled in the water. Amoeba must feel like this, drifting on the ocean, mingling their parts together.
All good things must end. After a while, the water grows cold. Charles does something and lets it drain away.
We stagger like two drunks, helping each other out of the tub, giggling like giddy school children.
We don’t bother getting dressed. We pull on the fluffy, white hotel robes, then go out to lounge on the couch.
Charles feeds me grapes from the bunch left on the lunch cart. Then he teases me by smearing honey on my nipples. When I protest, he licks it off.
That must give him ideas, because he dribbles the sweet sticky stuff down my stomach, in spite of my protests, then slow licks every bit of it off. By the time he is done, my skin is aflame with tingling desire. I wriggle around on the couch, opening myself wide to him. He continues his teasing exploration of my body with his tongue.
I want more of him. So much more. He slips his fingers inside me and uses his thumb to tease my clitoris until I am squirming with need for him. “More, Charles,” I beg. “Please, more!”
“Not quite yet,” he says. “You don’t want it enough quite yet.”
“Yes, I do!” I insist. But he continues using his tongue and hand until he brings me teetering to the brink again.
Then he positions me on my stomach, over the edge of the couch, and kneels down behind me. He slides his penis into my vagina from behind while he strokes my clitoris with one hand and steadies himself against the couch with the other. I bite the pillows to keep from screaming as I dissolve into the most volcanic orgasm I’d even known.
While I am still wobbly and a little dazed, he eases me onto my knees beside the couch. He then works his way around me and stretches out on it before pulling me up onto his stomach.
“I’ll stick,” I say.
“Why?” he teases, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mischief.
“All that honey you poured on me.”
“Mmmm, honey. So sweet, but not as sweet as you.”
To my amazement, I feel him stirring again. “Your turn to do the work,” he says, easing me into what is becoming our favorite position. The couch cushions slide out from under my knees, and Charles has to support them with his hands. It keeps him pinned and gives me a chance to explore his muscular body with my hands. Yet somehow, he manages to slide me down on his cock and to begin a slow, teasing rhythm. We enjoy each other, moving languorously. I savor the slow, long strokes as he slides in and out of my well-lubricated spaces. When we climax together, it is a long, deep shuddering earthquake that moved me to the core.
I collapse against him, and he holds me there. Slowly, he runs his fingers through my hair. “Kate,” he murmurs. “Dearest Kate.”
“Dearest Charles,” I murmur back. The words “I love you” hover on my lips, but I’m afraid to say them. Afraid that if I do, all of everything will end. Too tired to indulge ourselves any more, we fall asleep on the couch, a sticky, tangled mess in front of the gas log fire.