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current of her longing, he felt her resistance, her dishonor. She didn’t want to love him, yet she yielded to him with her softness, her wetness. When she moaned again, it signaled submission, not desire. But he refused to hear her tears…
    David stirred awake at the sound, found his left hand stroking his balls. He felt embarrassed and disgusted. His writhing had caused the sheets to half fall off the bed.
    He sat up dazed. Tried to remember. He had more than a slight impression of a woman beneath him, accepting him with desire—and shame.
    A scent lingered in the air, a mixture of perfume and sex. He remembered the fleeting image of shimmering green. He had heard a soft, throaty sound, but couldn’t remember if it had been hers or his own.
    Somewhere in the distance, he had heard someone say, “We’re going to be together forever,” the voice strangled with desire and anger—and realized that it was his own voice he heard.
    He got up, left the room to go downstairs to the kitchen. Along the wall over the stairs hung photos of Ruth (the Big Bambino), Mantle, DiMaggio. These were relics from his father who’d walked out on him and his mother when David was just ten, almost a full year before the fire. They were saved because they had been in the garage instead of the attic.
    This was the house he had built for his mother almost three years ago. But just before the move, she’d decided she wanted to stay in her old home instead. The same home they had moved into after the Victorian was destroyed. This one was a Queen Anne built on a lot he purchased in the historic Oak Park district. He had tried to recreate what he had taken from her those many years ago. Walnut woodwork in the front hall, parquet floors, stained glass windows. In the living room, a marble fireplace. Outside a wraparound porch and Palladian windows mimicked the destroyed home. He hadn’t even blinked at the expense of building in a historic district; it nearly broke him, but he had thought it worthwhile if it could recompense his past sins.
    But his mother had looked at him and said, “This is your house. There’s something about you in this place. I can’t take it away from you.”
    No amount of pleading would make her see reason. She was dead wrong. This wasn’t his place. He couldn’t care less about turn-of-the-century homes big enough for a whole family. He would’ve much preferred a large apartment on North Michigan, sparsely decorated, airy with good lighting. Here, the mixture of rustic and Victorian furniture he had chosen for her matched the architecture of the home.
    Still, he couldn’t bring himself to put it on the market. Slowly, steadily it’d become the place he looked forward to coming home to every evening after a grueling day. He had even started a garden out back.
    Rick had teased him about his “bachelor pad,” telling him it was a great setting for a coke party. Or a good fucking Roman orgy with babes straddled over the French-style love seat. He told Dave that maybe he could grow some weed out back, sell it out of the garage. Dave usually laughed with him, sheepishly embarrassed that the house was actually domesticating him.
    In the kitchen floor plan, he had deliberately left out a storeroom. Instead, a large pantry stood just off the hallway.
    David walked to the faucet, ran the water cold, got a glass, downed it in a few gulps. He felt hot, sweaty, as though he had just been through a strenuous workout—or a prolonged lovemaking session.
    He needed a woman. Karen had been gone only two months and already he was falling to pieces. Women might be able to go without for weeks on end, but men were different. He was, anyway.
    He ran the water again, downed a second glass, but his thirst wouldn’t go away.
    Water wasn’t what he needed.
    What he needed was a good fuck. Then maybe things would get back to normal.

C hapter 4
     
    J ennifer DiMello sat at the breakfast table in Mrs. Carvelli’s kitchen. Small,