by HELEN HARDT
“Why you look for a woman if you not want to care?”
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He could never explain the sugar mama concept to his mother. She wouldn’t understand. Hell, he no longer understood. What had he been thinking? He was many things, but a user of women had never been one of them. He’d been a womanizer after Beth, yes, but the women he bedded had always gotten what they wanted.
Getting old in an industry that focused on the young sometimes led to desperation. He’d seen it before. Too bad he hadn’t recognized it in himself. But hell, was he any less desperate now? His appetite was nearly non-existent, and he’d been whacking off like an adolescent to Stacy’s image in his memory since the conference.
If only he could go back, do it all over…
But would he have met Stacy otherwise, if he hadn’t been searching for an older woman who might be willing to take care of him?
No, he wouldn’t have. He wouldn’t have been looking for a woman at all. He would have made do with the scads of women who threw themselves at him, who meant nothing to him.
Stacy wouldn’t have been one of them. She was too shy, too inhibited.
Aw, hell no. She’d proved she could get over that. She wouldn’t have thrown herself at him because she had too much class. That’s the kind of woman she was. Classy. Like his mother. Like Beth.
“You going to answer me?”
“Sorry, Ma. I went looking for a woman for all the wrong reasons. I see that now.”
“And what you find?”
“I found someone amazing. Someone who lights up my world.”
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s beautiful, and smart. She’s amazing. She’s older than I am.”
“How old?”
“Forty-five.”
“So what? That still young enough to give me grandbabies.”
Michael couldn’t help but chuckle. “You do have a one track mind, Ma.”
“Michele”—she scooted her chair closer to him, cupped both his cheeks in her soft hands—“as much as I want grandbabies, I want you happy more. If this woman can make you happy, I don’t care if she a hundred years old. Can this woman make you happy?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Why you not with her then?”
“I screwed it up.”
“Then fix it.”
He chuckled. If only if were that simple. “I don’t think it can be fixed, Ma. I tried.”
“You love her?”
He closed his eyes, gripped the edge of the table. “Yes,” he said, his heart opening, freeing what he’d locked inside for so long, since Beth had died. “I love her.”
God, how he loved her. Her incredible big brown eyes, her silky auburn hair. He loved her shyness, yet how her inhibitions seemed to cease to exist at opportune times, like when she’d told him her breasts were real the first time they met. He loved how she’d fought him tooth and nail about sky diving but then how her face had lit up as she’d described the experience later. He loved how she kissed him, how she’d painted his hard cock with chocolate sauce and then licked it all off in the best blow job of his life. He loved how perfectly she fit into his arms when they danced, when they showered, when they made love.
“I love her,” he said again softly.
His mother touched his forearm, but her gentleness didn’t extend to her face. Her features were taut, her lips pursed. “Try harder.”
Chapter Eleven
StacyStarr: I found out something about Michael.
Hollygolightly: What?
StacyStarr: He had a fiancée. She died nine years ago in a car accident.
Hollygolightly: Oh, wow, that’s awful.
StacyStarr: That’s not even the worst of it. She was pregnant with his child.
Hollygolightly: I take it you haven’t contacted him yet.
StacyStarr: No, I couldn’t. Not after I read this. He adored this woman, this Beth. I could never take her place. I don’t think I want to.
Hollygolightly: He’s not the first person to lose a loved one. And it was a long time ago.
StacyStarr: But it makes sense now, why he’s a womanizer. Even why he was looking for a sugar mama. He never got over Beth. I think he may be punishing women now. Punishing them for what he perceived as Beth’s abandonment. I don’t think he’s ever going to let himself have feelings for a woman again.
Hollygolightly: You don’t know that. You’re making a lot of assumptions, Stacy.
StacyStarr: I know. But I’m afraid of rejection, Holly. What if he really only wants a sugar mama?
Hollygolightly: Remember that he tried to make up with you once already. You won’t know until you ask.
StacyStarr: If he really wanted me, he’d come to me.
Hollygolightly: Not necessarily. He may be afraid of you rejecting him.
Michael Moretti afraid of rejection? Was she kidding?
StacyStarr: I don’t think that’s an issue. I guess I haven’t given you his full name, but trust me, if you saw him, you’d know he would have no fear of rejection.
Hollygolightly: Stacy, good looking people have just as many insecurities as the rest of us, lol.
StacyStarr: He could have any woman he wanted.
Hollygolightly: Don’t forget what you know about him now. He lost a fiancée he adored along with an unborn child. That can devastate a person. You said yourself that he adored her. It was a long time ago, and he might be ready to open his heart again to the right woman. But it’s been a long time, and you’ve already rejected him once.
StacyStarr: I suppose…
Hollygolightly: It’s true. You rejected him.
StacyStarr: But only after he rejected me. I mean, I guess he didn’t technically reject me.
Hollygolightly: No, he didn’t. And when you found out why he’d gone after you in the first place, he tried to make it up to you.
StacyStarr: You think so?
Hollygolightly: Based on what you’ve told me, yes, I think so.
StacyStarr: Maybe…
Hollygolightly: Have I convinced you to contact him yet?
StacyStarr: I think so. Yes.
Hollygolightly: Good! I hope it works out for you. Promise you’ll get back online and let us know, okay?
StacyStarr: I will. I definitely will! Thank you, Holly!
Stacy logged off, elation filling her, and surfed straight to Michael’s official website. This time she didn’t let the mouse hover over the “Contact Michael” link. She clicked, and an email form popped up.
“Dear Michael,” she wrote, “I hope this finds you well. I’ve been thinking about you and the time we shared at the conference. I’d like to talk to you if you’re still willing. I think we both left a lot of things unsaid. You can reach me at this email address. Take care, Stacy.”
Perhaps she’d hear from him, perhaps she wouldn’t, but one thing was for certain—after hitting “send” she felt better than she had in days. At least she’d done something, been proactive.
Right now, she couldn’t get Michael’s hard body and thick cock out of her head. He’d given her her first orgasm. Her body longed to fly again.
She smiled to herself. After her divorce from David, she’d swallowed her inhibitions for about five minutes and strode into a sex shop on the other side of town. There she’d purchased a vibrator and some lube, hoping she’d be able to produce an orgasm. Though she’d managed to pay for the items and leave the store without fainting or vomiting, once she’d returned home, she hadn’t had had the nerve to try them.
She had the nerve now. This was something even Starr Shannon had not done.
Stacy’s nipples tightened at the thought. She shed her clothes quickly, opened the bottom drawer of her dresser where she’d hidden her toys underneath her long underwear, and pulled them out. The vibrator, still encased in plastic, shone a hot pink.
Hot pink!
Why did manufacturers choose such strange and vibrant colors? Right now, though,
the toy no longer looked like the menace it had seemed when she first plunked it into the bottom of the drawer over a year ago. No, now it looked like a plaything, a bauble, a colorful treasure that could produce pleasure for her until Michael Moretti came back to her bed.
And if he didn’t? Her heart slacked a little. She’d miss him, yes. But there were other fish in the sea. She’d find someone else worthy with whom to share her newfound sexual prowess.
Stacy Oppenheimer would not be alone forever, and neither would she enter another passionless relationship. Twenty years she had wasted with David! But time was still on her side. Forty-five was a long way from dead.
She discarded the plastic packaging, inserted the batteries, and fingered the silicone toy. Soft and pliable, it was warm to her touch. Just the thought of her impending orgasm made her drip.
She lay down on her rumpled bed. Her nipples seemed a good place to start. They were already taut and hard, and just the brush of her fingers over them made her squirm. Tiny sparks skittered across her flesh. She plucked at each turgid nipple, twisted, pinched, until she had to leave one breast to rub the erect nub of her clit.
Her folds were slick with nectar, and she dipped a finger into her moisture and smoothed it over her clit, circling, teasing, until…oh! She hit just the right spot. Time for the vibrator. Stacy was so wet she didn’t need the lube. Though taking her free hand from her breast left her nipple aching, it paled in comparison to the throbbing inside her wet tunnel. She needed to be filled. Now.
She gently eased the pink phallus into her pussy while she continued to manipulate her clit. In and out, thrust and thrust—faster she went. She closed her eyes and visualized Michael’s thick cock tunneling in and out of her, slowly at first, easily, and then gaining momentum until he was pounding into her with every thrust. Tension built within her, until her entire body burned with a blistering fever. Perspiration covered her molten flesh. Still in and out she plunged, the vibrator humming as she continued her self-pleasure. She twirled her fingers over her swollen clit until the intensity reached the highest peak, and she burst.
Electrifying embers shot through her, radiating outward, taking her to the summit she had only recently discovered. Her own moans and wails filled the room, seemed to float from the ceiling and down the walls, until she drifted downward and landed on her soft mattress.
Wow.
To think she’d gone all the adult years of her life without this feeling of exhilaration, of escape, of pure joy and satisfaction. She sighed and smiled to herself. Starr would definitely be having a masturbatory orgasm in Stacy’s next book.
As wonderful as her self-produced orgasm had been, though, it paled to what she’d experienced in Michael’s arms.
No use crying over what might not be, and no use sitting around waiting for him to return her email. What she needed was exercise. She’d become quite a slouch, sitting around the townhome doing nothing but crying, eating, crying some more. Those days were over. She hadn’t run since before the conference, and her body was feeling the loss. She went to the sink and washed her private parts and then her toy, put it away, and put on some fresh jogging clothes. After tying her long hair into a ponytail, she smiled to herself. The sun shone brightly and the temperature hovered around seventy degrees—perfect running weather.
She locked the door, hooked her house key to her jogging pants, and started at a steady pace to the park where she jogged regularly.
The sunshine warmed her skin, the sweet scent of fresh flowers permeated her as she inhaled. She had missed this, missed running.
She turned the corner of the street that would lead her to the park. She looked up at the cerulean sky. Such a beautiful day, such a beautiful world.
Her neck jerked at the shrill shriek of tires skidding.
Then a thousand knives cut into her body as her head thudded onto the cement. Crack… Blackness enshrouded her.
* * *
Michael stood nervously on the cement doorstep of Stacy’s townhome. She’d emailed him, so she must still care. He’d returned the email as soon as he’d received it two days ago.
Then…nothing.
Was this some sort of cruel joke?
He’d called in a favor to his cousin, a private investigator, who’d helped him uncover Stacy’s real last name—Oppenheimer—and her address in a Chicago suburb. Lucky for him, she didn’t live far. They’d both flown to the conference in Denver.
He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
A man answered.
Oh, shit.
He was nice looking, tall with graying dark hair, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Was he Stacy’s boyfriend?
“I’m looking for Stacy Summers…Oppenheimer.”
“Are you a friend of hers?” the man asked.
Michael cleared his throat. “Yes. Is she here?”
“I guess you haven’t heard,” the man said. “I’m Kevin McNeal, Stacy’s neighbor. Come on in.”
Heard what? Michael stepped inside. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”
“So far, she seems to be. It’s still up in the air.”
Michael’s heart plummeted to his stomach. “Oh my God.”
“As you probably know, Stacy doesn’t have any immediate family living.”
Michael nodded.
“She carries my name and number in her wallet as her emergency contact information. Two days ago, she was hit by a car while she was out jogging. The jerk didn’t even stop.”
“Oh, God.” Nausea rumbled in the pit of his stomach. Beth all over again.
“She’s alive. And out of ICU as of this morning, thank God.”
ICU? “Is she conscious?”
“Yes. I talked to her a little earlier today. But they have her pretty sedated. She’s got a broken arm and collar bone and contusions all over her body. She’s lucky more bones aren’t broken. She had some internal bleeding in the stomach and intestines. That’s why she was in ICU. But that’s been resolved.”
“Thank God.”
“Oh, and there’s more good news.”
Good news? His heart rejoiced. “What?”
“So far she hasn’t lost the baby.”
Chapter Twelve
Baby?
Michael nearly lost his footing. Stacy was pregnant?
It couldn’t be his. They’d used protection.
Damn her! She’d written him, made him believe there was a chance, when all this time…
No. He willed his mind to settle. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was all right. That she was alive.
Stacy was alive, not dead like Beth. God damn it, Michael would see that she stayed alive. If she carried another man’s child, they would deal with it.
“You look surprised,” Kevin said.
“Yes. I didn’t know she was pregnant.”
“Neither did I. We’ve been pretty good friends since she moved in here after her divorce, but I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone.”
Damn. If her friend and neighbor—the man who was her emergency contact—didn’t know she was seeing anyone… Could it be?
Condoms weren’t one hundred percent effective, but he didn’t remember one breaking. Of course, he hadn’t looked carefully either, and they’d gone at it harshly at times. Despite the situation, he smiled faintly at the memory.
“She isn’t very far along,” Kevin went on. “The ER doctors detected a faint fetal heartbeat when she was initially brought in. They told me at first that she’d most likely lose the child. When she didn’t, they said it was pretty much a medical miracle.”
No shit. A fucking miracle. A wonderful baby who was trying desperately to enter this world despite condoms and hit and run drivers.
God, the baby had to be his. It had to be.
A beautiful baby with the woman he loved—it was a dream he’d thought long dead.
“I’ll take you over there if you like,” Kevin said, “I’m going myself.”
“I’ll follow you
,” Michael said. “I don’t plan to leave until she does.”
“Oh.” Kevin’s eyes widened. “You’re not…?”
“The father of the baby?” Suddenly, it didn’t matter whether he was the biological father or not. That baby was his. His and Stacy’s. The need to take care of both of them enveloped him in a thick haze. “Yes, I am.”
“Wow. Let’s get over there then. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you.”
Michael’s heart raced until the moment he stood outside Stacy’s room. His Stacy lay in the bed, one eye swollen shut, the other open and alert as a nurse held a strange instrument over her abdomen.
“That’s a Doppler,” Kevin said. “She’s checking the baby’s heartbeat.”
A rapid staccato sounded from the device. “Is it supposed to be that fast?”
The nurse turned around. “Yes,” she said. “It’s supposed to be that fast. Baby is nice and healthy so far. Hello, Kevin.”
“Hello,” Kevin said. “This is Michael, another friend of Stacy’s.”
Stacy’s head jerked forward a little.
“Michael?” Her voice was soft and raspy.
“Yeah, baby, I’m here,” Michael said, his heart pounding. “Can I come in?”
The nurse looked at Stacy, and Stacy nodded.
“Just for a little while,” the nurse said. “Stacy needs her rest.”
Kevin excused himself and left. The room smelled sterile when Michael inhaled. No flowers graced the surroundings. He’d remedy that as soon as possible. He pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed.
“You look beautiful.”
She winced. “Don’t make me laugh, Michael. It hurts.”
“God! I’m sorry.”
“Did you get my email?”