Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  The one thing we don’t talk about is his reason for being here, and I thank my lucky stars he’s letting it rest.

  By the time we pay our bill—dutch, much to Bobby Lee’s consternation—I’ve almost forgotten why I’m mad at him. Until he reminds me.

  “I don’t suppose you’d let me sleep on your sofa, would you?”

  I turn to look at him as we walk side-by-side down the sidewalk.

  He throws a hand up. “I have a hotel reservation, don’t worry. I just think I’ll feel better knowing you’re safe in the next room.”

  If I thought for one minute this actually had anything to do with my personal safety—a notion that’s preposterous in itself—I might not respond how I do.

  “I’ve been here a month and I’m doing just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

  “Don’t get so bent out of shape. I’m just looking out for you.”

  Looking out for me, my ass. He’s just trying to make sure I’m not sleeping with Mac!

  I stop in my tracks and he has to back up a few steps. “You never felt the need to stay at my place when I was living in Savannah,” I throw back at him.

  His hands come to his hips. “Back in Savannah, you didn’t need protecting.”

  According to him, I apparently didn’t need orgasms either—not that this is the time to bring up his antiquated wait-until-marriage sex policy. But with the way he’s acting, maybe it’ll do us some good if I clear the air by declaring to all the citizens of New York that I’m no virgin and my maidenhood doesn’t require protecting. But perhaps that’s a bit off topic.

  “And I still don’t. Nobody is breaking into my apartment, Bobby Lee. You watch too much TV.” I shake my head and start walking again.

  “Sometimes we need protecting from ourselves, Poppy!” he calls out after me.

  The nerve!

  I’m good and pissed now so I snatch my phone from my purse and hit Mac’s contact. He picks up on the first ring.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi, Mac. We’re done with dinner and I’m ready for you to pick me up. Bobby Lee is gonna stay at my place tonight and save some money on a hotel.”

  Bobby Lee is shooting me daggers and I don’t give a good goddamn.

  “Right. Be there in twenty.”

  Mac hangs up and I stalk down the sidewalk, not even waiting to see if Bobby Lee is following.

  * * *

  I don’t consider the implications of Mac coming to pick me up until I’m packing an overnight bag and avoiding Bobby Lee’s pacing in my living room. Not only am I spending the night at Mac’s place, I’m spending the night with Mac. The thought has my knees going weak and my hands reaching for two more pairs of undies. I haven’t the first clue what to pack so I throw in a variety of potential sleepwear in addition to a change of clothes for tomorrow. I’ve got an oversized t-shirt and stretchy shorts, a silky nightie Iris insisted on buying me over the weekend, and a pair of long-sleeved flannel pajamas Cookie got for me when I told her I was moving up north.

  The other thing I didn’t give enough thought to is the fact that Bobby Lee is likely to call Bunny the minute I walk out that door. Word of my scandalous night at my lover’s place will have made the rounds by breakfast. Unless Bobby Lee’s pride gets in the way of him sharing—and, oh, how I hope it does. I mean, really, it’s my own damn business if I want to spend the night with a man I’m maybe dating. Hell, most everybody already thinks I’m in love as it is, so what’s the big deal?

  I huff and zip the bag closed just as a familiar knock hits the door. My heart slams against my ribs and I race to answer it before Bobby Lee can.

  Mac’s thick hair is damp from a shower and is haphazardly swept back from his face. He’s wearing a fresh pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt and an expression full of possession and hunger. It looks damn good on him.

  “Come on in,” I tell him and he doesn’t wait to be asked twice before stepping up into my space and dropping a hard kiss on my mouth. Yum.

  I blink a few times and then get my wits about me again.

  “Bobby Lee, I put fresh sheets on the bed and I’m leaving a key on the counter for you.” I look over my shoulder to see him with his butt leaning against the back of my sofa and his arms crossed. I ignore whatever his posture is supposed to be communicating. I’ve said everything I need to say. Well, except what’s required of me if I don’t want Mama shaking her head in shame. “Help yourself to anything and call if you need me. I’ll be back first thing.”

  Mac doesn’t bother saying anything. He just takes my bag and ushers me out the door.

  By the time the taxi drops us off at Mac’s studio, I’ve practically chewed a hole through my bottom lip and my foot has tapped out the entire soundtrack to Hamilton on the floorboard.

  For once, I haven’t been jabbering, instead just letting my mind race while Mac holds my hand on his hard thigh and traces patterns on the back with his thumb. I’m so caught up in my head that it doesn’t really hit me until Mac unlocks the front doors that we’re at his studio, not an apartment building.

  “What are we doing here?” I finally ask.

  “I live here.”

  I gawk at him. “You live here?”

  “Yeah. Got a place upstairs.”

  My mouth drops open. “How big is this place?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  He locks the door behind us, then picks up my bag and catches my hand before striding down the makeshift hall. We pass Elle’s office, the forge, the retail studio, and move on to the room where I first laid eyes on him doing his battling ropes and stealing my breath. There’s a door on the far side of the room which I’d previously just assumed was a closet or something, but when Mac crosses us to it and swings it open, I realize it leads to a staircase.

  The stairs turn on a landing and an entryway opens to reveal a spacious living area complete with two couches, a huge television, an open-plan kitchen full of stainless steel, and a large table with enough chairs to seat close to a dozen people. And that’s just the part I can see from where we stand.

  I bark out a laugh and Mac’s head turns sharply at the sound. I can’t help it. His gaze flits from me to his “place” and back again.

  “What’s funny?”

  My chest shakes as I try to get ahold of myself and I grip his arm with my free hand. “I’m sorry. It’s not funny.” I laugh again, belying my statement. “It’s just… this set-up is pretty much exactly what the magazine would feature as an entertainer’s paradise.” I pat his arm a couple times. “And you, Mac, are the last person I can see having a dinner party for ten of your closest friends or hosting an Oscar’s watch party.” I let my hand sweep the giant room and his eyes follow.

  His shoulders tick up in a pseudo-shrug. “I like big spaces.”

  This sends me off into another fit of laughter.

  The man has one of the nicest apartments in Manhattan and he acts like he just invited me into his garage.

  I gather myself again. “All I can say is the furniture business must be booming.” I let my eyes go wide in an exaggerated fashion as I sweep the room one more time. I can tell right away he didn’t hire a decorator, but instead, chose pieces he found pleasing to the eye while still putting comfort above all else. His sofas are made from buttery cognac leather and the rug beneath them begs to be rolled on where it covers the weathered hardwood floor beneath. The kitchen has a huge stainless-steel island that doubles as a bar and the counters behind hold the usual appliances plus what appears to be the most complicated blender in existence. Mac is definitely a protein shake kind of guy, so it makes sense.

  “Glad you find it amusing.” He sends me one of his smoldering looks while his lips quirk to tell me he’s not offended.

  “I find it beautiful is more like it.” I smile at him and his eyes drop to my mouth. Eek. I pull my hand free of his and take a few steps forward, unable to remain under his gaze without squirming or exploding into a quivering mass of shattered nerves. I’m in M
ac’s lair and I’m pretty sure I know what happens to small animals who wander into the den of the beast.

  They get eaten.

  But, as usual, Mac surprises the heck out of me when he walks forward, drops my bag on the couch and makes his way to the kitchen.

  “Want a drink?”

  “Sure,” I answer, less because I need a drink and more because it will give me something to do with my hands.

  “I got wine, beer, and water.”

  “Wine would be great.”

  He nods and pulls a bottle of white from his fridge.

  “I would never have pegged you as a wine guy,” I tease.

  “I’m not,” he says to the counter where he’s uncorking the bottle.

  “Oh.” What does that mean? Does he keep it around for his various women? God, why doesn’t he communicate and put me out of my misery? I consider asking him straight out, but I hate being the only one of us who doesn’t hold onto information like it’s the last Oreo.

  Mac slides the glass across the island, so I walk over and take a seat on one of the barstools. He reaches back into the fridge and pulls out a water. Of course, he’s not drinking. That would put us too close to a level playing field. With that in mind, I don’t sip my wine but spin the glass with nervous fingers on the stainless-steel surface instead.

  He watches me for a few moments, taking a long swallow of his water. My eyes are immediately drawn to the bob of his Adam’s apple as the muscles of his throat work the liquid down. Despite the comfortable temperature of his apartment, I can feel a sheen a sweat forming on my lower back.

  When he finally brings the bottle back to the counter, eyes never leaving mine, he leans forward to prop his elbows on the surface. Then he blows my mind as only he can do.

  “I read sci-fi novels.”

  My head jerks. “I’m sorry, you… what?”

  He looks down at his water for a second and then back to me. “I was sixteen and getting into all sorts of shit, driving everyone I knew up the damn wall. My pops comes into my room one night and throws this book at me—almost hits me in the face.” His finger flips up, pointing toward his face. “Tells me if I want to be a little shit that’s my prerogative but to at least do him a favor and not be a dumb little shit.” He shrugs and continues, “Being the punk-ass kid I was, I told him what he could do with his book. But seeing as he then sold our TV and took my set of truck keys, I got bored. Picked up the book. It was Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. That was all it took to get me hooked.”

  I find my voice but it comes out rusty. “And you stopped being a little shit?”

  A grin curves the corners of his mouth and it does things to me. “Didn’t say that. But I figure maybe I wasn’t such an idiot after that.”

  I can’t help the smile from spreading across my face. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Mac’s grin drops and he leans forward on his elbows, his teeth grazing his bottom lip as he chooses his words. “Because you give me you without even meaning to and every damn piece of it is a gift. And I’m a selfish bastard so I take it without giving anything back.”

  My throat is too dry to swallow.

  “And because even though I know I should stay away, I can’t.”

  Cue full-body collapse. I hope he has a mop in this giant apartment ‘cuz it’s the only way he’s getting me off the floor.

  “Mac.” I’m surprised the word is even audible with how tightly my throat is constricting.

  “I didn’t ignore you because I wanted to.”

  I nod, even though I know I don’t fully understand—I know there’s a warehouse-sized storage unit of things he keeps hidden inside himself.

  “And I sure as hell didn’t leave you in your apartment looking like a man’s dying dream because I wanted to either.”

  I nod again, this time getting what he’s saying.

  “I just didn’t want to be the one doing all the taking anymore.”

  I remove my fingers from the wine glass and slide off my stool. My feet take me right around the island and directly to him where I let my palm slide over his t-shirt from his stomach to his chest as he turns to me. There’s no way I can do this on my own, so I’m relieved as hell when he dips his head down and meets my mouth halfway.

  Twenty

  “Live in the present ‘cuz no amount of wishing will bring it back tomorrow.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  I honestly never thought of myself as a wanton kind of girl. Sure, I enjoy sex, and who doesn’t love a good orgasm, but the complete lack of control over my own body comes as something of a surprise. Although, maybe it shouldn’t.

  Mac doesn’t waste any time letting me do my little seduction routine and instead takes control of our kiss right away. His hands are on my ass as he turns us so my back hits the island and then my feet are off the floor and my butt lands on the metal surface. I’m still wearing my work clothes, so when he pulls me to the edge of the counter to nestle his hips between my thighs, my skirt gets in the way.

  But Mac’s mouth doesn’t leave mine. Instead I can feel his growl of frustration against my tongue and it makes me want to strip naked and climb into him. With an efficiency I’ll only properly appreciate later, he hoists me up again, shoves the fabric up with one swipe of his big paw and sets my butt back down again. I yelp in surprise when the bare skin of my thighs hits the cold stainless-steel. But when Mac’s hands settle on the tops of my thighs and both thumbs skim from my knees up along my inner thighs to my panties, the cold races away and is replaced by nothing but molten fire. The hard-earned rough pads of his fingers ruin me for smooth hands of white-collar guys for the rest of my life.

  I squirm and my head falls back, opening my neck to his seeking lips and tongue. I fist his hair and probably pull a little too hard, but I’m no longer in control of my own senses or actions—or anything for that matter. It’s spectacular.

  Mac’s hands slide back toward my knees and I whimper a little until he pulls my hips into him and the firm evidence of his arousal presses hard against my panties. I moan at the contact and Mac’s head snaps up so he’s looking down at me. I focus enough to see the tension lining his jaw and cheeks and mouth, but it’s his eyes that steal the breath from my lungs. There’s probably a fine line between the look this man might get when he wants to murder someone and when he wants to screw their brains out. I’m banking on this being the latter. His expression is fueled by an inferno behind his eyes, one that would probably render his forge completely unnecessary were he to work out how to source it.

  And it’s all focused on me.

  His lips are wet from our kisses and I want to lick them and then mount them. Like I said… wanton.

  But this is clearly Mac’s show and I’m more than happy to see what happens next. What I don’t expect is for me to lose his hands.

  He releases me and steps back, letting his eyes roam from my sex-hair to my bruised lips and on down to where I know my nipples are straining the fabric of my top. I can see his chest rise and fall with labored breaths when his eyes drop lower still to the apex of my thighs where only the thin cotton of my panties covers me.

  So I do the only thing reasonable for a wanton girl in this moment and I let my knees fall to the sides, opening my thighs wider for his eyes.

  I seriously don’t know what’s gotten into me. I mean, I’ve been known to be playful in the sack and try out new things. If sex isn’t fun, then why bother? But fun is the absolute last word I’d use to label my encounter with Mac. Intense, yes. Arousing, hell yes. And so absolutely imperative. As in, my body and soul are telling me if I don’t get this man inside me, my entire existence might be in peril.

  Mac appears to be of the same mind when he groans a ragged breath and plucks me off the counter like I’m a lunch sack and he’s off to work.

  “Mac!” I wrap my arms around him and hold on for dear life.

  He doesn’t slow down. He stalks straight past his sofas and on by the giant dining table t
o a door at the far side of the room. It bangs against the wall as he throws it open and flips on the light, and then I’m airborne for a second before his bed cushions my fall and he’s pulling off my shoes.

  Thump. Thump.

  They both hit the floor and his lips are tracing along the inside of my knee while large hands smooth over the skin of my outer thighs and on up to my hips.

  The tickle of his scruff has my hips lifting off the bed but he pushes them back down with a grunt I interpret as, “stay.” Normally, I don’t like being bossed around, but I know for a fact I’d be missing out on a whole lot of amazing if I bother making a fuss. If Mac wants to be the boss in bed, I can work with that. Especially when he’s paying his employee in orgasms. Wait, that makes me sound like a hooker. But my brain can only do so much when his tongue is licking a path up my inner thigh.

  My hand flies to his hair again, whether to pull him off because my skin is so agonizingly sensitized to his touch or to urge him on, I’m not sure.

  “Mac,” I moan into the cool air of the room.

  He must take that as a sign because his hands sneak up under my bunched-up skirt and his fingers hook into the sides of my panties. He brings his head up and watches as he slides my undies down my thighs.

  Despite my newly-found lust-driven self, I have to fight the urge not to bring my knees together. I’ve never had anybody stare so openly and hungrily at my lady town before. It’s always been more of a means to an end rather than a headlining feature of its own, if you know what I mean.

  But by the ticking of Mac’s jaw I’d say it’s this year’s Broadway smash hit, a notion that’s reaffirmed when my panties join my shoes on the floor and Mac buries his face between my thighs.

  I can’t let myself think too hard on exactly where Mac acquired his skills between the sheets. If I do, I might either cry or go on a killing spree of all the women in his past. Or, perhaps I should buy them flowers. Anyway, I settle for just reveling in everything he’s doing to me.