by Nenny May
He fought the pressing thoughts and allowed himself a bit of trouble. “So, you think I’m hot?” She shook her head and turned away reaching for a bottle and placing it back where it belonged on the shelf.
“Putting words in a lady’s mouth isn’t very gentleman of you.” Paul bent his head, left then right relishing in the satisfying crack. Anxiety gurgled within him. He paid more attention to the adrenaline that surged in his veins.
His mouth twitched with an almost smile. “I could be putting other things in your mouth, Darling. I’m not trying to be a gentleman.” She looked at him, in her eyes was a short-lived shock, with it accompanied a dull flame of desire, a flame he’d lit. It was his choice to fan it and watch it grow or stomp it out. He’d made one too many bad decisions the previous night. What was one more?
Deliberations sent him into a lust-driven haze.
He reached for the empty glass cup she’d left by him and ran his pointer finger gently over the rim.
“You’re married, Mr. Campbell.” She’d chosen her words carefully, her eyes concentrated on his lips. She was hesitant. She’d tried to keep her tone neutral, to keep the curiosity and faint concern from her breathy trembling voice.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten a little naughty?” He looked up at her, an eyebrow raised.
She swallowed hard. He had easier things she could swallow.
He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, aroused at the idea.
Once more leaning against the counter, she pretended to consider his words, a hand over her rosebud lips. Closer, he’d taken the time to drink her in, savor her. She had skin a rose hue, eyes flecked, a cornflower blue. Her face was heart-shaped, brows carved, and nose pointed. She was anything but his type. He’d allowed his eyes linger on her chest, full and round, she had the breasts of an actress, a foreign one, perhaps French.
He’d never craved a woman of her nature before. It was new to him. Exciting.
Her breasts jiggled as she moved and closer he was beginning to doubt she had a bra beneath her loose-fitting blouse. How hadn’t he noticed it before?
He loathed to admit it, but the slow subtle bounce they made against each other made him harder than he could comprehend.
There was a futile desire within him that he was fighting to control.
Pressed against marble they seemed swollen, curiosity nudged at him and temptation urged him to assess just how soft they would be beneath his large hands or pushed against his chest. “That depends, Mr. Campbell, how naughty do you mean?” For a moment, his jaw clenched.
“Bad girl,” He scolded. “Just the way I like my women. Now tell me, you’ve never had fantasies of being with a married man?”
He should have stomped it out. He was getting reckless.
He continued to fan the flame.
“Now that you mentioned it, I’ve had a few,” She turned scarlet.
He smirked, thrilled. “Do you have somewhere I can bring these fantasies to life?” She straightened, turned, undid her apron in a swift motion and tossed it on the countertop, and opened a small door at the other end of the bar.
There was something about danger that roused an intense craving in him. Something about being wicked for the first time since life had taken his family from him.
Since life had taken his home from him.
“We’re not opened for a little while anyway. And I’m the only one here,” He rose from his seat, his legs stretched. Susanne was a woman on a very illicit mission. She went for the door first and turned the lock. Unmoved he’d taken in the rest of her. Her body was petite aside from her voluptuous chest. Her legs were strong like a runner.
He didn’t know her, he didn’t need to, nor did he want to, and yet his skin burned with an unexplained need to feel hers on his, to run his hands over her bare torso as their lips painted the color of their fleeting passion.
He didn’t need anything more. She would be his painkiller. He, her poison.
“And besides, what the wife doesn’t know won’t kill her, know what I mean?” He said more to himself. It did nothing to ebb the guilt that nibbled at him.
It would come back stronger with time, for now, it was nibbles, later it would be overbites and he would be a helpless prey.
“She’s a really lucky girl,” She said sarcastically.
She led him to a table at the back of the bar like some cattle to the slaughterhouse and he’d followed willing to die in a sinful creamy release. If there was anything that made his pants tight at the waist, it was a woman who could take the lead.
She’d pushed him softly against a chair by the wall and joined, straddling him. “Yes, she is,” He’d whimpered, an answer to her comment even if she didn’t need one. It was a vain last attempt at backing out. A last attempt at saving himself.
Here he was a play toy in the hands of guilt and grief, anxiety waiting in the corner to take a turn when the sun retreated at dusk, his mother alone on some cold coroner’s examination table, cut open and scrutinized, her case open for public discussion and the last family he had, his fiancé; shoved aside, ignored and neglected and all he wanted were those strong, athletic legs of the blonde sensual bartender wrapped around his waist as he pounded his pain away.
He couldn’t be saved.
She had the same idea, because gently, teasingly, she’d brushed her lips against his, testing the water. His heart jolted in his chest. He hadn’t pulled away. She’d claimed his lips, static exploded within him, her kiss, urgent, demanding.
This was different from Claire’s, which was patient, caring.
Susanne ached for him as much as he did her.
It meant nothing.
It was a spur-of-the-moment affair. An impulse. Claire didn’t need to know.
His eyes squeezed shut, he returned the kiss, a hand brushing against her neck, sending her quivering. She was desperate for him.
He wasn’t the useless son who couldn’t play a part in his mother’s murder investigation.
That morning, in the arms of the blonde bartender, he was the man that could run her mad with a delicious pleasure.
Groaning, he pinned his hands on her hips and held her in place. She hiccupped a laugh. It had been a while since he’d given in to his bad side. His hands cupped her butt cheeks. Running, walking, whatever she was doing was exquisite for her glutes.
She smelled of liquor and coffee. A taunting blend.
Her tongue was sweet like a morning cup of Joe. Stopping wasn’t an option, not with the way she’d thrust her tongue between his parted lips, greedy, her head bobbing softly. She kissed like an expert. He had a hand curled around her neck, another up her shirt. She hadn’t thrown a bra on underneath. He was drunk with lust. Her skin against his hands was breathtaking, smooth as silk, and deliciously immoral.
His tongue swirled with hers and she’d leaned into him, clinging to his shirt, a black loose-fitting round neck.
She hadn’t held back. Claire would have, she was always obsessed with getting the mood right.
Susanne didn’t care about the mood.
She acted of a primal hunger that made a reckless man of him.
She’d claimed him with her sinful tongue and his inhibitions had melted away.
That was the last thread of control he had.
He’d gone ravenous, her shirt thrown over her head and flung on the wooden floor, scrapped.
He didn’t care for the starving smile she’d pinned him with.
Claiming her fluffy right breast in his hand, thumbing the nipple, and grinning at the way she’d responded to him, he pressed his face into the left one, his tongue running over the perked nipple.
Awarded by a low insistent groan from the back of her throat. Arching her back, she leaned into him.
He savored and tormented her with a slow graze of his teeth against her sensitive spot. He was granted a breathy moan.
He circled between sucking, nibbling, and twisting her nipples on his damp tongue, his right-hand twistin
g and pulling her left breast.
Her demands were louder, he pulled away. “I’m only getting started, Darling, you might want to hush-up.” He met her blue eyes; they were ablaze with a crazed look. She hadn’t protested, but her body had quivered against him. “Get up,” She frowned, unmoving. “Can’t you hear me, get up.” He gestured with his head for her to get off of him. Her eyes squeezed shut and she let herself off his solid frame. “I want to have a little fun, pants down, Princess.” Her response was slow. He rose to his feet. “You’re opening in a few minutes; we could do this now or when customers are banging against the door?” He’d said, standing, his cock pressing hard against the zipper of his jeans. He wasn’t sure how much he could take before he would have to seek release in her gooey middle.
She did as she was instructed and unbuckled her pants letting them fall by her ankles. He gave a lopsided grin as he took in the disarming sight of Susanne naked. He dampened his bottom lip and nodded for her to get against the table. She did and he’d kicked her legs apart and lowered himself to his knees at her backside that was better than most in his opinion.
Her panties, a lacy, speedy red, called to him. He drew them out of his way, sent them on a one-way trip to where her pants were at her ankles. Paul ran his tongue over the tinted back of her thighs. She trembled, he continued to work his way inward. He hesitated before meeting her in the middle and run his hands slowly downwards from the side of her hips, he wanted her to beg for it. Her whimpering was tempting, and he’d trailed a sloppy line from her back of her thighs inward. He paused again, this time, she’d spoken up. “Please,” She’d forced, he couldn’t see her face, but he assumed it was scrunched up and crimson, strained and mad with an insatiable desire.
It had been years since he’d tamed a woman. Years since his demons had resurfaced.
“Please what?” He’d said mere inches from her dripping core.
“Touch me, Mr. Campbell,” Her voice, a squeak.
He trailed circles with his fingers on the back of her thighs. “I am touching you,” She shuddered.
“Asshole, either finish what you started, or I will.” He chuckled.
He missed this power.
A killer had stripped him of all power.
Death had taken everything from him.
When he’d met her center, a warm pool, he’d heard his name. Not Mr. Campbell as she’d called him, no, she’d moaned his first name. Paul.
He hated the sound of it. Because knew that name belonged to Claire. Not a random bartender. At the thought of his fiancé, he was tempted to pull away to put an end to what he’d started. He did, and her head had jerked in his direction, a gasp escaping from her lips. “It’s Mr. Campbell,” He grumbled and smacked a hand against her firm butt, pleased by the branding mark he’d left behind. “Face forward, until I’m done, you aren’t to look left, right, or backwards.”
Claire didn’t need to know about this. She would never need to find out about this.
He returned his face to Susanne’s core before the guilt could get its claws on him. Much like how she’d thrust her tongue into his mouth, he’d repeated the motion between her legs, and her moans had grown impatient, louder. He parted, squeezed her cheeks in his hands, and rose to his feet, taking his time to stretch his legs. She was a good listener. She hadn’t turned. Satisfied with this, he’d pressed a hand on the small of her back, until her upper half was completely bent against the table. And one finger after another, he explored her, prepared her. She was dripping on his fingers and he had two in when he’d reached his limit.
He withdrew his hands and ran them over his tongue, she was squeamish. He could imagine how red her face would be. He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to be reminded of what he was doing and how it would crush his wife.
Undoing his belt buckle, he pushed his pants and black boxer briefs out of the way, and with an up and down motion with his hands against his shaft, he guided himself into Susanne.
A hand pinned against the small of her back he held her in place, thrusting slowly and building up a pace, her moans and groans kept up and the closer he got, he’d noticed a hand of hers teasing her clit. Yet again she’d called out to him, he’d ignored it, speeding up the pace until all he could hear was the ‘ta, ta, ta’ of their skin clashing.
He could never tell Claire.
His thrusts were harder.
She would leave him if he would.
He was faster.
He couldn’t lose anyone else.
In a white urgent release, he’d crumbled onto the bartender, his eyes fluttering shut and regret breaking down his walls.
What the hell had he just done.
◆◆◆
Regan Sinclair was late.
The office of the District Attorney of Tillamook county had Lisa Patterson’s jaw slaking. With an enticing view of the running city, the office was on the seventh floor.
A soft blend of Jasmine and Cinnamon helped her unwind as she shrugged off her jacket and lowered herself to one of the empty seats in the room, the one by the pinewood desk.
The walls much like the desk were pinewood and gave off a dark secluded aura. Shelves lined her left, neither one had room for one more book. To her right were two fabric armchairs, a table between them, a floral centerpiece of daisies bunched in a slim clear vase, an accent to the table, and a wine rack against the wall to Lisa’s right. Behind her was a fireplace, above which a single sculpture had been placed.
There were no pictures in the room. Very little personality to read from. Almost as if Regan Sinclair hadn’t wanted to make a mark in the office during her tenure.
Lisa had abandoned her jacket and perched herself like a bee to nectar by the daises. She’d always wanted to start a flower garden. The last time she’d been by a homegrown garden had been in her mother Nora Patterson’s Tillamook home on 4th street. She was always by the gazebo. Listening to the breeze flirt with the dainty lilies, her eyes on the way the sun would kiss the orchids.
“They’re quite a piece, aren’t they?” The door to the office opened and shut.
Startled, Lisa straightened, mouth ajar and eyes broad. “I’m quite the enthusiast,” She defended her actions.
“And they’re real. A pain in the ass to maintain, but they have a way of bringing out a room.” Regan said.
Lisa bobbed her head. “I’m Regan Sinclair, it’s nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Patterson. Julie has told me a lot about you,”
“Only good things, I hope,” Lisa chuckled, her nerves frayed. “And you can call me Lisa.”
The woman had mesmerizing eyes sienna brown eyes.
“Alright Lisa,” Regan pulled out her desk chair and got comfortable. Lisa returned to her seat. She entertained a glace out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the gradually moving traffic below. Slowly, she felt the tension in her shoulders melt as Jasmine and Cinnamon did their work on her.
She looked back at the District Attorney. It had been a while since a woman’s mere gaze had her transfixed.
Regan Sinclair was a very beautiful woman to say the least, slender with porcelain skin, cat-like eyes, neatly carved eyebrows, and an aquiline nose. She had thin glossy lips and sleek pin-straight hair that fell to the middle of her back. Lisa Patterson could see flecks of her neighbor Julie in Regan.
That did nothing to suppress the flutters in her stomach.
She was in awe of the county’s District Attorney. She hadn’t been expecting someone so… visually appealing.
Regan Sinclair gave Madeline a run for her money and Madeline had all the boy’s attention on campus.
“What brings you to my office?” Regan steepled her fingers and pinned her with a stare, one Lisa often used on her clients, it was an intense stare. “Julie mentioned I would need to draw up a contract exempting you from liability of some sort?”
Lisa cleared her throat, wriggled beneath Regan’s stare, and said; “Yes, I need a contract. I have a special client I’m working with and h
e’s off record and that’s not allowed. And I would just like him to know and agree to being off record and to… not disclose to the board that he is working with me off the grid.” She felt judged even if the Regan had merely just nodded at her words.
That wasn’t like Lisa.
She released a breath and sat up straight in her seat. Her skin felt warm and tingly.
She couldn’t forget who she was in the presence of someone who eluded more power than she. More graceful authority than she. At the end of the day, she was Counselling psychologist Lisa Patterson, and no one could take that away from her. The worst Regan Sinclair could do was turn her down, refuse to draw up the contract, and forget they ever met. Any other lawyer could do her bidding.
“Did you bring a copy of your employment contract?”
She found it hard to convince herself Regan turning down an opportunity to collaborate officially was truly the worst.
Lisa Patterson shook her head easing into her seat and mirroring Regan’s stare. “I wasn’t told to bring anything with me.” She tilted her head, a small smile on her face. “I can forward you an electronic copy…That is, on the condition you agree to work with me.” A statement.
Regan smiled, impressed. “I like you, you’re a quick thinker, Julie never mentioned that.” She ran her hands over her keyboard and turned on her desktop.
Lisa scratched the back of her neck. She knew the D.A.’s words meant nothing. She liked her personality, but Lisa couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like if the high ranked woman liked her. “But as I mentioned over the phone, I’ve got my plate full with the Campbell murder and I was hoping I could draw it up right now,” Lisa hadn’t expected that. “I would just need to peak at your employment contract with the… Umm… Tillamook Wellness Center… if I’m not mistaken?” Lisa nodded. She clicked open a pdf copy of the document.
“Ooh,” She reached into her jacket and drew out her phone. Ever since landing her job as lead psychologist with the Wellness Center, and nearly being cheated out of a fair pay months into her service, she’d logged around a copy of her contract. She was yet to renew her terms and conditions.