Mousy’s husband, Boyd McCarlye, was the exact opposite of his all-business wife. He married for money, not love. He was fifteen years junior to his wife and five years older than Sara. The perfect age of a man and the perfect setup within her grasp.
It made her ill putting any thought toward there being a sexual relationship between the two.
Belinda clicked her tongue three times, drawing back Sara’s wavering attention. “You know I must. It seems to be a pattern with you, Mecenna.”
Mrs. McCarlye had no clue Mr. McCarlye came onto the beach twenty-minutes after his wife left for the ten-hour workday. Nor did she know her husband would stride onto that beach with a smile on his face and in the buff well before Tight Lip’s rump even hit her office chair. Pattern or not, score one for vindictive revenge against mousy righteousness.
Mr. McCarlye and Sara would strike up a lengthy conversation of world politics for about five minutes, social etiquettes for another five—okay, so length was irrelevant when combined with need—and by the noon hour would be inside his house, screwing each other’s brains out on Mrs. McCarlye’s bed.
“You are more than aware we would appreciate it if you did not do this…thing…while we are at home,” Belinda added.
Sara raised a brow. “And what thing would this be, precisely?” She wanted the woman to say the words nude bathing, along with saying contractual words every so often. Belinda could do neither.
“This unusual behavior,” she said crisply.
A frown set deep on Sara’s face. God! Was this woman for real? Nudity was not a behavior. It was a natural choice of one’s inner strengths and soul. If you could pull it off, more power to you. If not? Get the hell out of the way. Every human alive had the same parts. Some of those parts pronounced more than others were, but who cares?
Unfortunately, Belinda did not look as though she was done with her near-daily lecture. “My poor husband should not have to come home to your wanton display of the female form. The man has work to do. He can only do his work while at home, inside his studio. For me to have to ask you to refrain from this behavior…every day…” A narrowed, disapproving look was cast Sara’s way.
“As I said before, Belinda…why don’t you just stop asking?” She wasn’t about to let this woman ruin her day, or get her goat. The sun was shining. Life was good. Worst, she was horny and anticipating that malady to elevate.
Ten seconds later, Mr. McCarlye strode out his back door and made his way onto the beach. Even his shadow tightened her chest and raised her heartbeat.
“Belinda, leave our poor neighbor alone.” He stood directly behind his wife and winked at Sara.
Sara had to hide her smile. Today she felt wanton and reckless. Today she wanted to make someone uncomfortable. Belinda was that someone. The more Sara could sass, the more Belinda got harassed; eventually she’d leave for work, increasing Sara’s joy.
Belinda groaned at her husband’s suggestion, severing the possibility of a good shakedown by a nude, horny, free-thinking woman, then glanced at her gold watch. They all knew she was fifteen minutes late for work. She turned on her husband, glared harder, then rushed inside the house.
More than likely, Mrs. McCarlye would have a lengthy discussion with Mr. McCarlye about staying clear of abnormal behavior from their neighbor later on tonight. And, more than likely, Boyd would ease her frozen-lips conscience, say she was the only woman he cared about…and never looked elsewhere. All lies, but rather convincing ones when told by the silver-tongue devil.
Both she and Boyd could hear the squeal of Belinda’s car tires on her Mercedes as the woman took off down the street in front of their houses. Boyd had yet to move from the fence. He and Sara gave each other another easy smile. He then turned on his heels within the sand.
Was he leaving without saying anything to her?
A sense of panic rose in her like the floodwaters. This would’ve been about the time he would be naked, they would start talking, and things would progress as they always did. Any delay to routine made her edgy.
She was about to ask him if Belinda had finally gotten between him and her, and their daily activity, however Boyd turned before the words could be said, giving her another devilish grin.
“See you inside in five. Hope you’re hungry.”
No small talk, no full-length discussions about stuff Sara didn’t give a pile of shit about, no socially accepted behavioral lectures while both sunbathed in the buff; nothing, other than five minutes…and he hoped she was hungry?
Well, she was hungry, but not necessarily for food. Her eyes strayed to the man’s scrumptious backside as he walked toward his patio. She liked a man’s butt to be firm. It meant he cared about his physique.
Sara waited until Boyd opened the patio door and walked through before she headed into her own humble domicile on her side of the fence. She did not want to seem as though she missed him, or she too eager for his attention today.
Once inside, the place reeking of air freshener to drench the ocean’s permeation, she tossed her towel onto her unmade bed, grabbed a see-through pool slipover from her open closet, and slipped her pink flip-flops on her feet, then walked over to the neighbor’s door with an easy stride—an almost spring in her step.
Her mouth watered in anticipation. Her fingers itched due to unnecessary wait. Her brain told her heart it would eventually catch up.
She found Boyd inside the kitchen pouring two glasses of wine. As Sara came inside without invitation, she glided across the pristine floor a house cleaner polished for the McCarlye’s on Wednesdays and Friday mornings, and eased right into his arms.
“I thought she would never leave,” she said.
His sigh to her statement was felt through the full length of her body as he kissed the top of her head.
Until Sara’s disappearance a full year ago, she’d been a mousy brown, same as Belinda was. Now she was bleach-bottle blonde.
She’d also been Sara Rogan, daughter of a dead woman. Now she was Mecenna Jones, a young widow. She had to tell the neighbors something, so she made up the lost husband and lost love. It was the easiest lie ever told, and the one that got her inside other’s lives.
The color of her eyes stayed the same, however. She’d not gone for colored contacts to hide their natural beauty; told many times they were an iridescent blue any man would love to willfully drown in.
Those iridescent blue pools stared up into gray orbs so closely colored to liquid silver as his mouth descended to hers like wildfire; quick, hot, all-consuming, Boyd’s lips molded to hers as if meant to be there. His hands formed to the sides of her face. His thumb pads slid over her skin, heightening the chase.
Boyd would never kiss her until they were well inside the bedroom. And he tended to do so only after the sex. This was new. It was passionate. It set her toes afire. He seemed as if not wanting to pull back. Yet, when he did, he handed her a glass of wine, and a shameless smile to go with it.
Boyd was a man of few words. Those he would say were usually done with meaningful discussion. Without this quirky nature to the man, she might not have been as attracted to him as she was. Then again, how could she not be attracted to such a rare specimen? She thought him to be as near to fine wine aged to perfection as any man could ever be. There was not a mar, a scratch, or a single flaw ruining his rugged good looks. And on this side of the street, he was the only man with any sort of intelligence.
Beach bums and actor-wannabes roamed these pristine white sands. Sara was drawn to a man with brains. Braun helped too, but he had to be able to hold an intelligent conversation, otherwise she’d give up and find another more suitable to her tastes.
Lately, she wished she could just sit with Boyd on the beach until the sun set, have him hold her all night long, and say nothing at all. She was falling for Boyd, letting a man get into her heart.
Not good.
Today however, the potentially damaging malady waylaid, she wanted the incredible, uncomplicated sex she alw
ays had with him—heart be damned.
Sara took the glass of wine out of his fingers, and let a hearty swallow of the sweet vintage slide down her throat before she set the expensive crystal onto his counter. It was a good year for the grapes; sweetened perfectly by sun and time; much as a lot of things were sweetened by sun and time; nude sun-bathers included.
The cool fluid released its stronghold on her parched throat near to a caress and settled into her empty stomach. Ten seconds later, Boyd’s hand was on her wrist and he was pulling her to his office/studio—not the bedroom, as she expected.
Boyd was a painter and a writer. He dabbled in natural landscapes—those he would show his wife and friends. His real passion was the human body. A passion his clueless wife knew nothing about. The nudes he kept under lock and key in a warehouse. He told Sara about them. She’d asked to be shown the paintings but Boyd said no. Then he made love to her and she never asked again.
As she moved into the studio behind the man, Boyd turned to her again, slid her slipover from her shoulders with practiced ease, the material pooled at her feet, and he started a long trail of fire down the length of her neck with his hot wet tongue.
He grazed this dangerous weapon over her shoulder with the skill of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. His mouth then carved a delicious path down the full length of her arm. Finally, his lips set to the palm of her left hand. A gentle kiss given to its center raised his eyes to hers and the smile on his face told her all she needed know. Sex was coming, but she would be left begging before it happened.
Even she knew nothing good ever came to those who couldn’t beg.
Finished with one side of her body, the other side more than eager for this man’s attention, Boyd’s lips found her left breast bared and ready. Perhaps the taut nipple had drawn his attention and as an intelligent man he was fully aware it needed its due before he continued onto something else.
His hot searing mouth covered her breast quickly. Boyd’s tongue circled the rosy nub until she couldn’t stand the exquisite torture much longer, panting uneven breaths. The flicks were gentle at first, then aggressive. He was playing with her, using only his tongue, and this play had set her core to burn.
Sara threw her head back, enjoying this change of pace. She liked the idea of changing things up. But her breast was quite happy it was being taken care off so sweetly this morning, and a happy breast made for a happy woman.
Boyd’s mouth slipped from her left breast to the right: licking, sucking, pulling, searing. His hands settled on her hips.
Sara felt trapped by the pressure from his palms, but it was a good trapped. An exquisite trapped. Foreplay on this man’s bed was one thing. Foreplay while they stood inside his office became nearly erotic. Wantonly erotic, filled with the possibility of caught in the act.
The change of pace seemed almost frantic.
He gave her right breast more than ample attention, then drew back to look her in the eyes.
“I want to paint you today.”
This news startled her.
Boyd had never asked to paint her before. He’d never asked to use her as a muse. In fact, he barely made their connection seem as though friendly in the eyes of others. Painting her would turn openly personal, neon sign their association.
“As you are…,” he added.
Happy? Or naked and wet? Either way worked, for she was both.
More came from his lips, drawing in Sara’s next breath. “After we make love.”
Sara’s one and only thought slammed into the side of her skull. What would mousy wife say about that? After might cut their coupling a little too close to his little wife coming home from work. Would the husband really chance this?
“Belinda won’t be home until tomorrow evening, nine o’clock sharp. She has a conference to attend. It’s why she gave you so much grief this morning, and why we have all of this day—and most of tomorrow.”
Sara’s sigh was heavy. She hadn’t known she was holding her breath until it came out in such a rush where it hurt both lungs. They had their lives timed to the seconds. Sand. Small talk. Sex. Every second of every minute was accounted for, until it somehow progressed into individual homes at night and each other only during the daylight hours. Boyd was mixing things up. He was kissing her before sex. He wanted to paint her after sex.
Sara was thrown for a loop by these changes.
“You are so beautiful, Mecenna,” he admitted openly. His large hands put to the sides of her face trapped her gaze. “All of the world should be able to see your rare, raw beauty, and the passion you try to hide from others, as I do.”
Well, when put like that, how could she possibly refuse?
He sealed the deal with another molding of his mouth. Only this one was not on her lips. Boyd was down to his knees. He grabbed her buttocks in his hands and pulled her moistened, throbbing thatch to his face. His tongue dragged exquisitely slow over her swollen nub, and he made oral love to her. No discussions, no questions asked, no permission granted, just dove right in and gave her what she needed, when needed the most.
She wanted more, however. She was so horny she wanted this man inside her. Her climax was too near in coming. The sensations were too startling in intensity. The regrets of being with him like this were all too real. And there shouldn’t have been any regrets—damn, if done correctly, should be never.
Boyd was good at what he did, and even more talented at how he went about doing it. That much was a given. After the first of many shockwaves rocketed throughout her body in an internal heat beyond imagination, he stood, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and kissed her full on the mouth.
Sara could taste herself, a sweetness she tended to avoid, more often than not. If she’d wanted a female’s moisture put to her lips, it surely was not that of her own. But she’d yet to convince him of a ménage—and it definitely would not include Belinda or another man who would compete against Boyd’s incredible capabilities.
“I want you in the worst possible way,” he whispered into her ear. His mouth slid over to the side of her head. A nip made at her earlobe, his lips then set to her closed eyelids; the slightest of kisses put to each, making her want him even more.
“I want you…,” Sara started to say; only to have a firm finger pressed against her lips to stall the words.
“I want to fuck you, Mecenna. I want to shove my cock into you as far as it will go. First, I want to go in from the back, then turn you around and gain you again and again. I want to see the look in your eyes when this happens. God! I want more than anything to watch your face when I sink so deeply into you you’ll forget your name, screaming out mine.”
Boyd would always look into her eyes the moment they came together, usually missionary style, after a few creative positions to get the nerves out. So this statement confused her, until he added more to it.
“I want to video-tape us in the act. You’ll look so incredible on film, Mecenna. The color of your eyes will pop. You’ll see what I get to see, every time we make love. I desperately need you agree to this. It’s…well, it’s my fantasy Mecenna, and both of us know you like to play out a little fantasy with your sex.”
Sara snapped out of his arms as if a rubber band. She shook her head. Fantasy or not, this new change in the sex request went beyond her limits. “No.”
She couldn’t agree to a videotape. Her life was a lie, and a lie should never be taped.
Boyd seemed stunned by her refusal as if she’d told him to go straight to hell or his pecker was on fire. His eyes narrowed in on her, shadowing the planes of his jaw and cheekbones. He stood taller, squaring his shoulders, drawing in a breath.
If ever he got moody, he tended to make the sex short and clinical. A pat on the behind as thank you, and Sara sent home before she was ready to go home—unsatisfied. Those moments were more than memorable, but rare, so she had to act quickly or she would lose him today.
She was using him, but at times, it felt as though he was
using her more. Neither would admit how they felt aloud. However, the facts were what they were. She was having an affair with a married man and he wasn’t complaining, not in the least.
“Um…I don’t think videotaping is such a great idea, darling.” She smiled sweetly at his face, only to cover up her agitation. “Can’t we have a nice day while in each other’s arms—as planned?”
Her hand set to his lower arm to hold him in place, the tightness of his muscle warned her he was pissed.
Sara could feel the moisture start to slide down the inside of her thighs from her inner core. What Boyd started with his tongue had made her body so ready for him she didn’t want to lose that. A quick glance at his shorts told her he was ready, as well. So why would he want to ruin their time together by bringing up the idea of taping the sex? Christ! His wife might find the tape. Worse, he could sell it…and Sara would be up shit creek with a broken paddle. She trusted Boyd with their long afternoons, because if he said anything about them, he could be in deadly quicksand with the little woman.
Nevertheless, this was different. Sara wasn’t ready for the difference, or ready for why she even had to question any difference.
Odd behavior from a man she trusted made her nervous, almost nauseous.
Sara Rogan—aka Mecenna Jones—wasn’t ready to let trust slip from her grasp.
She took a deep breath and a quick step forward, and this movement brushed her bare breasts against Boyd’s bared chest. The fine mat of his hair tickled her flesh, making her need far worse.
This must have changed his mind about videotaping anything because he grabbed for her like a dying man and pulled her body as close as she could get. Boyd’s huge erection pressed firmly into the juncture of her legs. Shorts and boxers shrouded the thickened sex, and Sara wanted it to come out of its entrapment as soon as possible.
She lowered her hand to his hardened cock, dragged brazen knuckles over the hard mound under what she felt as far too much material on an exquisite male body, until she sensed the slight tremor inside Boyd rise to near out of control.
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