My hands fall to my thighs, as I'm pushed to ride his hand, finally reaching to roam to the solid ridge of Heath's cock still encased in denim, as captive as I am in this moment. Pleasure begins to light up all the nerve endings in my body, the slight sheen of sweat on Heath's brow the only indication of his discomfort as concentration carves deep furls in his forehead.
My breath hitches slightly as I feel my breaking point nearing, Heath's eyes suddenly focused intently on my own, trying to read my face, when his thumb suddenly presses firmly on my clit, causing me to cry out. I drop quickly, trapping two of his fingers in my core as my thighs refuse to support me any longer, and Heath's lips rise to meet mine again, his tongue sucking my own as if trying to wring all of the juices from my body.
Uncontrollable spasms continue to race through my thighs like aftershocks, my mind floating dreamily against the tide as the hand grasping my ass finally relaxes. Dropping my head forward to rest against Heath's shoulder, my position shifts and the pressure in my core slips away, leaving me empty. I miss the fullness of Heath's fingers as they creep upward to sweep my hair from where it hangs across my face where I rest, drowsily sated, against his shoulders.
Two fingers rub softly against my lips, and my nose twitches at the evidence of my release, as I lift my heavy lids to find Heath watching me, pleasure etched in his face. The fingers rubbing against my lips move from my mouth to his, then they’re sucked hungrily between his own lips, as if to consume the proof of my pleasure.
"That was nice," I whisper against his shoulder, cuddling even closer as a slight chill races against my cooling thighs. Heath shifts his body and eases horizontally against the couch, still cuddling me in his arms while drawing the brightly colored throw over us.
Drifting into oblivion, I'm startled by the deep purr echoing between us and raise my head in confusion to see if Heath has suddenly developed a rogue heart murmur. The rise and fall of Heath's chest display the normal, deep rhythm of sleep, when I realize Daisy is perched on the back of the couch near Heath's head, one small paw kneading his scalp, and rumbling like a freight train above us.
"Some guardian you are," I whisper. "Does that mean he passed the test?"
A soft meow reassures me before I drift off to sleep in his arms.
Chapter 12
Regrets and Recriminations
Something's wrong. I can't put my finger on what's making me so uneasy, except to say that I don't feel like myself. My body feels constrained as I struggle to take a deep breath, my chest squeezed uncomfortably, my neck at an awkward angle. The wooly fabric under my cheek alerts me to the fact that something more is amiss, the scratchy surface irritating skin that feels unusually hot, not just flushed from sleep.
Dragging my heavy eyelids open, I squint into the morning light and groan at the incessant pounding of my head and the fuzzy film unpleasantly coating my teeth. My eyes drift across the living room to the kitchen where Heath sits, Daisy perched on the tabletop, gratuitously forcing her head under and around the fingers that scratch at her ears and chin.
I'm momentarily confused as I try to remember why Heath is in my kitchen while I have apparently been asleep on my couch, my wool throw smothering me in unwanted heat.
"Hey, sleepyhead. About time you woke up. I thought I was going to have to leave you a note."
Why is he shouting at me? Isn't he afraid the neighbors will hear? My voice cracks, a dry cough barking from my throat as I struggle to sit up.
"Why are you here?" I whisper, running my hand through the snarls of my hair, matted on one side from rubbing against the rough surface of the sofa cushions.
"It didn't seem polite to just leave money on the nightstand and leave."
Again with the shouting! Surely, it's a talent to shout and yet sound so dry at the same time.
Wait. What?
"Did you just say…"
The loud laughter is too much for my poor ears as I cup my hands protectively around them, rocking slightly where I sit, eyes squeezed shut against the glare. Only the soft hand on my head ceases my motion as a glass of water is thrust toward me, and a second palm unfurls to offer two ibuprofen.
"Thank you," I croak, sipping at the water, my parched throat finally relaxing as the glorious wetness is gulped until the glass is empty.
"What happened? No, don't shout it, just let me think for a moment."
Flashes of images begin to filter into my consciousness—food, wine, bantering with Mark, wine, Heath's return, wine, bantering with Heath and Mark, wine. My mind rebels at the acid bubbling in my stomach, no doubt pickling all my organs to be exhumed in a preserved state a hundred years from now after I'm long dead. I knew there was a reason I wanted to be cremated.
Ok, there was a car ride. We came home, I smacked his nose… My eyes fly open to stare at Heath, who realizes the exact moment that I remember our activities together. The self-satisfied grin annoys me. Why do men always want to pat themselves on the shoulder after sex? I swear they'd fist bump themselves if they could. Although, it was pretty great from what little I remember.
The look of concern that suddenly mirrors my own endears him more than anything else could at this moment.
"Do I need to apologize?" Shit, I didn't mean to cause that note of uncertainty in his voice.
"Well, next time, try to cut me off a little sooner so I can remember enjoying the experience, will you?"
"Trust me, you did." His look of relief would be comical if I didn't feel like dying at that moment.
"I'm sure I did," I assure him. "But knowing and remembering are two different things."
Strong hands begin to massage the base of my neck as I twist my head left, then right, and back again, until the sound of a loud crack makes us both wince.
"Ouuuuuuuuch! I can't believe I'm that sore just from sleeping on the sofa. It never bothers me to nap there." I'm not proud of my whining tone.
"Well, you're usually not crushed against another person when you do it," he says reasonably, before adding what he really wants to know. "Are you?"
"Definitely not. Did you manage to sleep at all, and what time is it? Don't you need to be at the clinic?"
"It's ten am, I slept for a few hours, and I was supposed to be at the clinic at eight-thirty." A tired smile floats in my vision. "I was trying to wait until you woke up to make sure you were ok, but I was getting ready to leave you a note. Dr. Carson's a good guy, but his bedside manner leaves something to be desired. If I don't get there soon, the vet techs will riot."
Stroking my hair, he lifts my chin lightly to press a soft kiss against my lips.
"Besides, I didn't want to leave without kissing you good morning."
How does he do that? I smile against his lips as he kisses me quickly again.
"What are you going to do today? You're not working, right?"
"No." I sigh, glancing at my laptop and my notes strewn across my desk. "I really need to write today. I'm so far behind. Some days I think I'll never catch up."
"Write? What are you writing? Are you taking a class?"
I begin to shake my head and immediately think better of it as a piercing pain stabs behind my left eye. Can drinking cause a brain hemorrhage? Because I'm certain I just burst a blood vessel as I cup a hand protectively over my eye.
"No, I'm writing a Regency romance. Kind of a more modern spin on something Jane Austen might write." I should be flattered by the curiosity, but instead, it just makes me feel worse because now I have to tell him the hard part. "It's not going well. My other book did ok. I pick up a few dollars here and there, but it actually costs me more to write and market than I earn."
I give my laptop the evil eye. Today it is the enemy.
"Really, I don't know why I'm even trying anymore. If I haven't made it happen by now, the chances of it taking off are slim. I just don't understand what I'm doing wrong. Everyone else makes it look so easy."
"What does your publisher say?" I'm touched by his interest, and at the same ti
me, mortified I ever mentioned it.
"Umm…I don't have a publisher. I'm not big enough for that. I self publish. There's actually a lot of people that do it successfully…" I trail off, the obvious conclusion to that sentence being, I just don't happen to be one of them. Still, I'm marginally cheered by the spark of interest in his eyes, until he speaks.
"Can I read it?"
No! God no! Why did I ever open my mouth?
"You don't want to do that. I'm sure Regency romance isn't your preferred genre, although it's really sweet of you to ask. Hey, don't you need to get to work?"
"Don't deflect. I do and I will, but why can't I read it? I'll even buy it and let you make a few dollars off it." His shoulder bumps mine in solidarity as I choke back a laugh.
"That's really funny. I only make about one dollar off of every book I sell, so I'd make out better if you bought me breakfast." The thought of food reminds me of Mark and all of the confusing banter last night. "You really should go. I need to get cleaned up and at least make a pretense of getting some words on the page."
"What's not working for you?"
I should have never opened this can of worms. As a fellow booklover, it's logical that he would be curious. I can tell the idea intrigues him, and he's going to keep pushing until I spill it all.
"Honestly, I don't know. Emma claims it's because I refuse to write racier scenes. She thinks every book should be full out raw sex. I like writing relationships. Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, their stories were about the characters' emotions and how they dealt with society. They didn't use sex as a crutch. I don't want my books to be valued by the number of orgasms the main character gets. It just feels cheap."
"But how do—"
"No. We are not discussing this." Pushing him forcibly off the couch, I stand as well, wincing at the pain in my lower back. I must really have been curled up awkwardly to feel that bad. Like muscle memory, I suddenly remember Heath's fingers grasping tightly to the backs of my thighs, and what eventually came after.
"Oh." I gasp, looking at him mutely as he grins.
"That's what you said last night, too." A quick kiss drops on the bridge of my nose before he turns toward the door.
"I'll call you later. Take a real nap. Your mind will be clearer with some good sleep. And if you do want to write a sex scene and need to do some research, just yell."
* * *
It's moments like these when you wonder at what point your life shifted so subtly that things look the same on the outside, but have completely rearranged themselves on a subconscious level.
In another time and place, I would have been mortified to wake up to Heath sitting at my table while I slept. I would have obsessed over bad breath and messy hair, and not looking young and fresh and dewy like a sacrificial virgin just released to the masses on the marriage market.
Apparently, I have come to terms with the idea that I am not perfect. Whether that thought should make me laugh or cry is the crux of my problem. I no longer know what I'm supposed to feel, which could be why I don't allow myself to feel much at all.
I’ve clung to the concept of perfection as something attainable, when I know it doesn't exist. It's the ultimate self-sabotage. After forty-two years, you would think I'd know better, and I do. It's just that up until this point, I've stubbornly refused to settle. It's easier to pretend not to know.
Trailing my hand along the edge of the sofa, I stare at the imprint of my head in the cushions and realize Heath's head was right there as well. There was no discussion of expectations or some manufactured significance to him being here, other than he's a DILF who, for some mysterious reason, likes me.
The soft meow sounds like approval as Daisy jumps to the back of the couch, prancing along the edge like a gymnast on a balance beam, before curling up in a ball where Heath and I slept.
The little Jezebel.
Not only did she not give Heath a hard time, it's almost as if she wants to be near the memory of him. If I'm honest, so do I. I'd like to see what it would feel like to curl up together and lazily explore each other's bodies until our curiosity had been sated. Although, stretching my neck and shoulders again, I recognize that I wouldn't mind experiencing it from the comfort of my bed next time.
It's nice to feel confident that there will be a next time, I muse, stepping into the bathroom to turn on the shower, then reeling away from the mirror in horror. Holy hell! Peeking back at the mirror, I barely recognize the red-rimmed eyes smeared with mascara, the snarled hair, and the red line across my jaw and cheek where the cushion seam left its mark.
The thunk of my head hitting the mirror sends stabbing pain behind my eyes once more. The only consolation is that Heath was the only one to see me. Thank God Mark didn't get a glimpse of the freak show. Although why I should care what Mark thinks is a mystery. Yeah, maybe I haven't come as far as I think. Spinning away from the mirror, I strip quickly and step into the shower, hoping to cleanse my soul of the dirty fantasy of exploring Mark's body, too.
* * *
The relief of clean hair, a freshly scrubbed face, and my favorite sweats sinks into my bones with drowsy pleasure. Showers have to be one of the world's greatest inventions, and anyone who says otherwise is a big, fat liar or hygienically challenged.
A muted song repeats from the living room as I recognize Emma's ringtone. The song stops, and I make a mental note to call her later as I squeeze the water from my hair with a towel, when the music begins again. Ignoring it once more, I'm annoyed to hear it go off a third time.
Hurrying to the living room, I snatch my phone from my purse and swipe it on.
"Daisy's Ranch of Recriminations."
"Where have you been?" Strident tones of annoyance combined with concern make me wince. I'm definitely going to need more ibuprofen for this conversation.
"What are you talking about? I just got out of the shower. And please stop shouting, my head is pulling a Humpty Dumpty."
"Not now," she huffs. "Yesterday. I called to find out how the walkthrough went, and Nate told me the whole grisly story. I've been calling you ever since."
"You're kidding?" Pulling the phone away I quickly thumb over to the call log only to realize I have seven missed calls since yesterday.
"That's so weird, I didn't hear it ring last night… Although now that I think about it, I didn't have this bag with me when I left. I never even realized I hadn't brought my phone."
"Where were you? I was afraid I was going to find you three pints deep in a sea of butter pecan. I can't believe that bitch Kenzie ruined your walkthrough. Nate said Patsy is pissed. What are you going to do?"
"If it wasn't so horrifying I would have been laughing my ass off. Just wait, she's going to make six figures on some reality show after dark, and we're going to be wondering how the hell the bitch pulled it off."
"Big brother is watching and the too stupid to live shall inherit the earth," Emma intones, then I join her in a fervent, "Amen."
"Anyway, Heath took me back to Lulu's for dinner to try to console me. Then he got called away, so Mark and I had dinner and played a game, but Heath came back, then everything got really complicated." Crossing back to the couch, I nudge Daisy aside to make room for me. "My life is a mess."
"Nate said something about you promising to get Mark Isaacss for a culinary class. How are you ever going to pull that one off?"
"Oh, that's the least of my problems, it's done."
"Get out! How on earth did you manage that?" Emma's tone is admiring.
"I told you, we played a game last night and I won. That was my prize."
"Okay, I'm going to need you to back up a bit. A, how did you end up alone with Mark Isaacss, and B, how did you get him to play games with you?"
"What are you doing later? We're going to need some drinks for this one."
Chapter 13
A Knotty Situation
It's mocking me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can feel it taunting me from the corner of the desk.
>
Did I not buy it a beautiful hard cover to feel special? Is there no appreciation for all of the expensive writing programs and apps I've installed? No. It just sits there, green light charged, blinking at me like a coy beacon to show me what a waste I've made of my life.
The memory of Heath's kisses begin to float to the forefront of my consciousness, making me feel beautiful and powerful. I can do this, damnit. I gave you birth with my hard-earned money, and I will make you my bitch! I'm not afraid of you, I vow resolutely, grabbing my MacBook from the charger and heading back to the sofa to snuggle in the spot where Heath and I lay.
The faint whiff of cologne that wafts from the cushion reminds me that last night, I was a goddess. There was no hesitance, no self-consciousness, just a recognition of my needs and giving in to the demands of my body.
That's easy to do when you're too drunk to form words or thoughts, my subconscious taunts.
"Oh hush!" Did I really say that out loud? An answering meow sounds inquisitively from the bedroom. Apparently, I can only beat back my subconscious with verbal conviction. That's not crazy at all, I sigh.
A second puff of air from the sofa cushion releases another faint whiff of Heath's cologne as Daisy settles herself beside me, staring at my laptop as if waiting for something to happen.
"Don't rush me, I'm getting there," I assure her, finally flipping the case open to the current document. I hate to admit it, but maybe Emma has a point.
Perhaps the reason I'm having difficulty writing Lady Sydney's story is that I've chosen to write her as someone I don't know. She's a young woman trapped and controlled by a world of men, all in the guise of doing what society dictates.
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