One Last Weekend Read Online Free PDF Page A

together. Does that mean—?”
    â€œTomorrow, Caitlin,” Joanna said.
    They rang off.
    â€œShe’s a baby herself,” Teague said.
    â€œCaitlin is a grown woman, Teague,” Joanna reasoned, feeling the strangest mixture of joy and sorrow. “She has a college degree, a husband, and a good job.” My baby, her heart said. My baby. And she started to cry.
    â€œCome here,” Teague said, holding out a hand.
    Joanna let him pull her onto his lap. Nestled against him, she buried her face in the curve between his neck and shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent.
    She thought of separate Christmases.
    Separate birthdays and Thanksgivings.
    And she cried even harder.
    â€œHey,” Teague said gruffly, stroking her back, “I think we’re supposed to be happy about this.”
    â€œI am happy!” Joanna sobbed.
    Sammy, laying his muzzle on the arm of the chair Teague and Joanna were huddled in, gave a low, worried whine.
    â€œIt’s okay,” she told the dog.
    â€œI don’t think he believes you,” Teague said.
    Joanna stroked Sammy’s head, brushed some coffee grounds off his nose. “Really,” she said. “It’s all good.”
    Teague held her. “Right now,” he said, “I like it fine.”
    Sammy gave a doggy sigh, turned, and went back to his window seat, climbing the special carpeted stairs Teague had built for him when the vet first diagnosed his arthritis.
    â€œThis is hard,” Joanna whispered.
    Teague propped his chin on top of her head. “Somehow,” he said, “I don’t think that’s a comment on my manly virtues.”
    Joanna giggled moistly.
    â€œOf course, I did bring you to three or four screaming orgasms—Grandma.”
    Joanna laughed and swatted at him.
    But he caught her face between his hands and suddenly his expression was serious. “Joanna, about the sports car—”
    She stiffened. Teague had said he didn’t have a trophy wife waiting to plant a firm derriere in the passenger seat of his ridiculously expensive ride, and she believed him. But once the divorce was final and he was on the market, it wouldn’t be long. He was smart, good-looking, successful, and great in bed—or out of it.
    No, it wouldn’t be long.
    â€œJust for tonight,” she said, making herself relax, “let’s pretend we’re not getting divorced, okay?”
    â€œSounds good to me,” Teague replied, sliding a hand up under her sweatshirt to caress her breast.
    Joanna was instantly hot. She swallowed a groan as Teague leaned forward to nibble at her neck, her earlobe, the base of her throat.
    An image of Teague’s next wife invaded her mind.
    Pretend, Joanna told herself silently, pretend.
    He began, very slowly, to undress her, and soon she was straddling him in the chair, her body already moving to the age-old rhythm, straining to take him inside her.
    But Teague would not be rushed.
    He took his time, fondling her breasts.
    He tongued her nipples, but only sucked them when she begged.
    He cupped her buttocks, squeezing them firmly.
    And then she felt his right hand sweep around, find the core of her, and part her to ply her clitoris between his fingers. Joanna was instantly transported back to college days; they’d made love like this then, in the backseat of Teague’s rattletrap car, in her dorm-room closet during a wild party, once on his parents’ bed, while they were downstairs, playing bridge with neighbors.
    In their first apartment, after they were married.
    Teague slid a finger inside Joanna and worked her G-spot until she was half frantic with the need to come. But he always withdrew, just at the crucial moment; he loved to make her wait.
    Once, he’d loved her.
    â€œTeague,” she murmured, throwing her head back, abandoning herself to his hands, his mouth, his damnably infinite patience. “Teague, oh,