Free It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead by Julie Frayn

hadn’t found any happiness. Not
until tonight.
    He leaned against the counter, bread and
garlic forced back by his hips, his arms crossed against his chest. “What about
love?” His voice had a softer quality than usual.
    Finn pushed a strand of hair from her cheek
and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re young. Beautiful. Brilliant. Any guy
would be lucky to have you. Maybe it’s time to look for that kind of happiness
again.”
    She stared at him in silence. She’d thought
about it many times. When Gerald had been missing more than a year she started
taking notice of other men. When she lost hope she would ever see him again, loneliness
consumed her and everything had a bitter, jaded edge. But no matter how long he
was gone, no matter how nuts he was when he left, the mere thought of it smacked
of betrayal. Disrespect. What if being with another erased the gorgeous,
formerly sane man she loved from her memory banks? What if he came home and
she’d been unfaithful? She couldn’t do that to him. Even though he’d abandoned
her without as much as a goodbye.
    “Jem?” Finn’s long fingers grazed her arm.
    She snapped out of her daze. For the first
time since she’d met him, he looked vulnerable.
    His eyes locked on hers. He licked his
upper lip then scraped his bottom teeth across it. He took a deep breath. “What
about me?”
    She blinked hard. “You?”
    “Look, I know we’ve only ever talked about
Gerald. Every time we’ve met, every conversation we’ve had. It’s all been clues
and leads, questions and hard truths. Pain, coping, grieving. But Jem.” He
stepped towards her and took one soapy hand in his. “I’ve grown very fond of
you.”
    She felt like a high school nerd being
asked to prom by the star quarterback. Until Gerald died, she’d never looked at
Finn as anything except the tough-but-kind cop who was searching for the man
she loved. He was handsome, sexy. That was hard to miss. But not her normal type.
And she was certain she wasn’t his.
    She stared at his tan face, the furrows
between his trimmed brows. The deep green flecks in his pale blue eyes. The
dimple that dented only one cheek, even when he wasn’t smiling. Why hadn’t she
noticed that before?
    He bent his head towards her but stopped
shy of a kiss.
    She froze. It had been more than four years
since a man had stood so close. Since her heart fluttered and her legs flushed
with warmth. Gerald had only been dead for a month. This was not a good idea.
She was not ready for love. Not romance. Her breasts hollowed and then filled
the cups of her bra with each heavy breath. Maybe three glasses of wine had
muddied her judgment.
    Screw love and romance. But sex? Hell yeah,
she could handle some of that.
    She tipped her head back, threw her arms
around his neck and crushed her lips to his.
    His hands went up her back and entwined in
her hair at the nape of her neck. He smelled of wine and cologne and musky,
sweet sweat. She pushed her body against his hard form, her breasts pressed
against his torso.
    He slid his lips down her face, along her
jaw line, then feasted on her neck. The stubble of his nine o’clock shadow
scratched at her delicate skin and sent a shockwave aching through her body.
    Four years. Four damn years.
    She tugged his shirt free of his belted
waistband and slid her hands along his smooth skin, from his waist up to his
broad back. She couldn’t stop herself. Didn’t want to. She fumbled his belt
open and popped the button of his pants.
    He stopped kissing her neck, pulled back and
looked into her eyes, his breath heavy.
    He shoved the bread aside. Garlic bulbs skittered
across the counter. The margarine tub slid and landed in the dishwater. He tucked
his hands under her armpits and lifted her with little effort. He sat her on
the countertop, reached under her dress and peeled off her underwear. His pants
landed at his ankles, the belt buckle clanged against the adobe floor. His eyes
locked on hers and he pulled her