Dreams of a pack rouse in me, images of living day by day with people to laugh with, play with, and love hard. These faded for years, particularly when the girls still lived at home making us a family pack of sorts.
Then, they moved out, one by one, laughing and saying they didn’t want anyone looking over their shoulder, scrutinizing their every decision. That left Corin, Max, and me rattling around in this too-big place, without half as much laughter, music, or touch. We were still family, but we weren’t as close as before, not as close as I remember my parents in their fifties.
Family matters. Corin and his daughters are my family, and I love them.
But the most basic kind of pack doesn’t involve children; it’s three or more people coming together and choosing to interweave their lives to the point they cannot easily be separated, if at all. There’s love. Usually there’s sex—lots of iteven if the quantity dwindles with age. More relevant in this moment, with me rattling around an oversized house: there’s almost always someone to cuddle with.
Corin’s still here, but I can’t lay my burdens on his shoulders. He has his own. Sharing helps, but we’re just two beans in a pod made for more. The last thing I want is to make his road harder.
Rubbing my hands along my arms doesn’t dispel the goosebumps lining my skin. I pull out my warmest nightgown, which isn’t saying that much. Max bought most of my nightgowns, and he liked looking at me in slinky things. Loved the texture of silk over skin.
So do I, or I’d have laughed and bought warmer gowns.
He used to pet me, watching the ripples in the fabric.
Pet.
Maybe I’ll get a dog, now that Max’s allergies aren’t an issue. Something warm and affectionate to snuggle with. Or a cat, if I can find one that likes cuddles.
Still, I’m petless tonight and facing a cold bed. No piled clothes tower over me as I slide between the sheets. Shiver. Pull the blankets close. Tangle my toes in a welter of sheet and blanket.
The shivers fade, but my toes remain cold, and my fingers too. Sleep eludes me, blocked by the cold of my body or my heart—or both.
Getting up, I dart through across the cool floor to grab an extra blanket from the closet shelf. No need to arrange it nicely or tuck it in at the corners, I toss it over my spot, and then dive back under the covers.
My body welcomes the added weight, yet somehow the layers fail to warm me enough to rest.
Time to try another tactic. I, too, enjoy the sensation of silk over skin. Max’s appreciation was a mix of aesthetic, and the sensual pleasure of cuddling with layers of soft, slippery fabricbetween us. In fact, he bought himself new pajamas almost as often as he added to my nightgown collection.
My pleasure in silk ranges from sensual to sexual. Max usually got up before me, though I don’t know whether he was aware that, when he left, I touched myself through the silk with different purpose than his playful petting.
Passes of hands over arms, chest, belly, and legs. Stroking, pressing, circling—all to send ripples of pleasure coursing through me. Make nerves prickle and breaths turn uneven. Rouse every mote of my body into full awareness.
Then, keep that sharpness as long as possible. Walk through the day taking any opportunity to reawaken it, without tipping over the edge. Pleasure for pleasure’s sake, and pleasure in anticipating the moment when I’d finally cross over into orgasm.
I’ve lived this for thirty years. Managed to rouse tantalizing almost-there responses in my body under all manner of conditions.
Tonight, I fail.
Stroking my shoulders eases the goosebumps, but little more. My nipples turn to taut, crinkled buds, but from the lingering chill, rather than my hands plucking at them and cupping my breasts. Despite circling my clit, it refuses to give more than a halfhearted throb.
Too cold, no matter how many blankets.
Too alone.
For the second night, I leave my room and walk down the dark hall. Anamaria’s upstairs, but unlikely to hear anything. My passage creates little sound beyond the pitter-patter of bare feet and my uneven breathing.
Corin sits up in bed, an angular shadow against the paler gray of the wall. “Johanna?”
“I’m cold.”
The covers rustle as he holds them up, and I dive under to curl against his warmth.
Chapter 10
A Key to Courting
CORIN
