by Remy Rose
“And most definitely, your mouth.”
I cannot breathe, waiting for it. My gaze is locked on his. This man’s eyes...they are mesmerizing. Not just the color, which now looks to be the hue of the ocean on a cloudless day, but the feeling I get looking into them. I see desire, amusement, boldness, and more—there is a depth in those eyes I hadn’t expected.
It’s too much to keep looking up at him. I close my eyes, trying to block out what I just saw, and then I feel the soft breeze of his exhale on my face as his arms go around me...his strong, hard arms that are somehow able to hold me delicately, like I might break. He’s pulling me gently but firmly into him, so that my breasts and his abs and my shorts and his jeans are up against one another. One of his powerful arms slides up my back, his hand cradling the very neat hair bun I created this morning, when I actually thought I might have a chance at resisting this man.
Who the fuck was I kidding?
He bends down so that he’s able to wrap his other arm around my waist, and then suddenly, he’s lifting me up. My feet are now inches off the floor, and I am in Jack Decker’s arms, helpless and dangling in my bathroom that doesn’t look at all familiar to me anymore.
My pulse skyrockets. He is holding me where he wants me—let’s be serious, where we both want me, which is my pelvic region pressing tight against his pelvic region—and the lead pipe he happens to have stored in his pants.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I am rubbing against a fucking tree trunk in denim.
My physical reaction is instantaneous, and I silently thank God for the pantiliner I put on this morning.
“I need to kiss you, Madeline,” this beautiful specimen of a man is saying, as I hang suspended over his giant penis. “I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment you opened the door.” And then I feel both his hands cupping my ass, and he hoists me up a bit higher. My legs have no choice but to wrap around him.
He shifts his hips a bit so that his cock is directly in line with my ladyparts and pulls me tight, rubbing his hard-on against me. My God...I could actually...come like this. I would be totally, absolutely mortified if I came. I cannot allow myself to. But the feeling…it’s torturously delicious.
Jack is staring at me, into me, his eyes glazed with lust. He knows. He knows how turned on I am.
“God, Madeline—your mouth,” he mutters.
Clearly, I am not the only one turned on.
Then, his kiss.
His lips are incredibly soft and mold to mine perfectly—fitting over them like he’s claiming me. He holds me tightly as his kisses transition from slow and sweet to deep and urgent, and oh, God, none of my fantasies even come close to the reality of kissing Jackson Decker. There is no kissing clumsiness or uncertainty or hesitation—it’s like we already know each other’s rhythm. His tongue fills my mouth in a sweet assault, and I have to fight to keep myself from moaning against his lips. I cannot get enough of his kiss. My hands leave his shoulders and climb to his gorgeous mane of hair, sinking in with sheer bliss. I wrap my legs tighter around his waist—oh, God, the hardness of him—hoping I’m not getting too heavy for him, hoping he won’t stop.
Hoping he’ll do more.
I am wrecked. And scared out of my mind.
Suddenly, Jack slides me down the front of him until my feet touch the floor. He breaks our kiss, looking down at me with his chest heaving. There is still lust smoldering in his eyes, but a glimmer of something else, too…a silent WTF?? Like this was not what he’d expected.
Me neither.
He leans down to me, putting his lips to my ear and speaking softly. “Madeline, I just want you to know...”
I shudder with anticipation.
“...I’m not going to charge you for that.”
Sputtering, I back away from him and in that split second realize he’s teasing. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, his deep, boisterous laugh reaching the very depths of me. I cross my arms in front of me, trying to look pissed, but Jesus, he is so charming that I can’t help but blush and smile and shake my head.
“If you’re wondering why I stopped, it’s because I felt you tense up. I don’t think you’re quite ready for anything more just yet, and that’s probably just as well. If things had gone any further, I don’t think I would’ve been able to stop.” He’s grinning at me almost apologetically. “Plus, I’ve got work to do, right?”
I am suddenly feeling very shy and stupid in his presence. The only thing I can think to do is fix my hair, which seems to have come undone—much like the rest of me. I slide down the elastic and shake my hair free, preparing to make another ponytail and coil it into a bun.
Jack is watching me. “I like your hair down like that.”
“Thank you. I’m...sorry about leaving you, um, you know—”
“High and dry? Yeah, it’s not my favorite place. But it’s my own fault, seeing as I started it. I’ll survive.”
“Okay. I’ll see you later.” Somehow, this seems like the lamest possible thing to say, given that our mouths and pelvises were basically fused together a few minutes ago, but it’s all I’ve got.
My face feels warm, and other parts of me do as well. Fortunately, I have an ocean in my backyard, which I plan to take full advantage of right now.
“Madeline.”
I turn. Jack has my bottle of sunscreen in his hand and tosses it to me.
“Thanks for caring about your skin.” He winks. “And you are one fucking amazing kisser.”
I can’t get down to the water fast enough.
Chapter 7 ~ Jack
July 15
“Still glad I asked you to play?” Drew is grinning, his buzz cut glistening with sweat. He’s in town visiting me and currently kicking my ass in our first racquetball game, 13-7, but I could get him in a tiebreaker if I win the second game. Loser buys the beer afterwards, which for me, is the whole motivation behind racquetball, anyway. That, and it’s a way for me to burn off some serious sexual energy.
“Shut up and serve.”
Drew laughs and drops the ball, bringing his racquet back. He hits the ball squarely off the front wall as I position myself for a return. We go back and forth in a long rally, our sneakers squeaking and profanities echoing off the white walls, before I two-bounce it and give the bastard another point.
“Fuck.” I call time to open the door and swipe my water bottle from just outside it.
“Whatsa matter, bud? You’re a little off your game.”
Catching my breath, I take a long swig from the bottle. “Preoccupied with my latest project, I guess.”
“Latest project...or latest pussy?”
“Ha! Both.”
“Nice. Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
“Fair enough. You ready to finish this one? I’m one point away, baby.”
“There’s a whole other game after this one, cupcake.”
Drew snorts, and I follow him back onto the court. He wins on a well-placed shot into the corner, and goes on to win the second game by six. So I sucked ass today, but after a good hot shower and a few beers at Black Bear Brewing, one of my favorite pubs, I’m feeling more relaxed, and I’ll call it mission accomplished. And I’m relaxed or buzzed or idiotic enough to ask Drew about New England Home Supply. As warehouse manager of the main distribution center in Scarborough, Drew’s always up on the latest scuttlebutt.
“Well, let’s see...do you want to know about the business, or the people in the business, or how things are going for me professionally as the best damned manager in the history of ever?”
“All of it. Fucking lay it on me.” I take a handful of peanuts from the bowl on our table.
“All right. Your father’s still basically a prick, first of all, because I know that’s what you’re wondering. But then again, you know a leopard doesn’t change its spots.”
“Very true. What else?”
“That bimbo Marsha in accounting was promoted to vice president of finance, if you can even f
ucking believe it. She must have to wash her knees after every shift, for Christ’s sake.”
I spit my beer down the front of me. “Jesus, you’re too much.”
“Yup. We’re all about helping people achieve their dreams at New England Home Supply. I know you must miss it.”
“I cry into my pillow every night. So how’s the business doing overall?”
“I know how much you want the company to tank, but there’s a rumor we’re going to open a new store in Concord, New Hampshire.”
“Ah, shit. Seriously?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” Drew looks at me closely. “I’ve got some other news, but I’m not sure you want to hear it.”
“Oh, what the fuck. Just tell me. I can get shit-faced after if I need to, since you’re driving.”
He sighs. “It’s probably better that you hear it from me first, but Brianne and James are engaged.”
The news shouldn’t be surprising, but it feels like a hornet sting—the initial piercing jab, the biting venom as it spreads and burns.
“Sorry, pal. I know it sucks.”
I drain my glass. “No worries. I’m at the point now of thinking they deserve each other.”
“They do. I give ‘em three years, tops. She’ll pop out a kid, he’ll be wigged out by her stretch marks and move on to some other gold digger who doesn’t give head.”
“You paint such a romantic picture.”
Drew shrugs and grins. “I’m a realist. But hey, you’re doing what you enjoy, and I guess I should also add who you enjoy. Lucky bastard.”
This would be the perfect opportunity to go into gory detail about my latest exploits, but I’m not feeling it right now. Even though I just met her, I already know that Madeline isn’t the type I want to share. For one thing, she definitely wouldn’t appreciate it, and for another...I don’t know. I guess I just want to keep it to myself. Part of it is, underneath that aloof facade she’s got going on, she has this vulnerable quality, and I’m a sucker for that.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around what it did to me just to kiss her. Man, I wanted her, bad. It about killed me to stop, but I knew if I didn’t, I’d scare her off and there might not be a next time. And Jesus, I want a next time. I want a boatload of next times. She was definitely into it, but there was a point where the vibe shifted, and I had to put on the brakes. Some women—quite a few of them, actually—have been ready to rock and roll from the moment we meet. I’m good with that—mutually satisfying, uncomplicated fucking works best for me. I have no doubt I’ll get there with Madeline, but it may take a little while. Ease her into it, so she’s not overwhelmed.
Christ, if the kissing is this good with her, I can only imagine how good the sex will be.
The anaconda and I are looking forward to finding out.
“Dude. Hey. Where’d you go?” Drew is looking at me with raised eyebrows.
“Little mental trip to a renovation I’m doing in Surry. But I’m back.”
“Alrighty. So are you okay about Brianne and James?”
“Yeah. Fuck ‘em.” I raise my beer glass and Drew does the same, in a mock toast to my former fiancée and her engagement.
Her engagement to my brother.
Chapter 8 ~ Madeline
July 17
After what happened with Jack a few days ago, I decide that staying away from my house is a wise move. I make sure to be down by the water early, with a glass of iced coffee, my phone and the newspaper, so I haven’t had to see him when he gets here. I listen outside until I hear a power tool and then sneak in for a food or bathroom break, so I can be reasonably sure he won’t come downstairs. I don’t eat inside the house; I either grab a piece of fruit and bottled water or walk to the lobster pound down by the public beach, and I wait till I see his truck pull out (usually around 4:30) before I head back in.
So that I won’t come across as a complete lunatic or total bitch, I left a sticky note yesterday for him on the front door: Fresh strawberries and blueberries in the fridge. Lemonade, too—help yourself! I added a little smiley face to show him that I don’t want to be mean, but surely he could understand that his mouth and the intensity of the kissing and in large part (so to speak), the shock of how his penis felt against me have all contributed to some overwhelming feelings, and I’m just not ready for all of this.
It was a pretty loaded smiley face.
I’m sure he has an idea of what this is about, and I know I can’t hide forever, but I need this time and space to get my shit together. I’m almost glad my vacation will be over soon, because then I’ll be at work instead of making up excuses not to be in my house.
Today, I’m doing some retail therapy in downtown Bar Harbor. Usually, I get a little irritated with the swarm of tourists and their Bermudas and high dark socks, the selfies taken right in the middle of the sidewalk with no regard to other people, the loud and whiny kids jostling each other and me, but this time, I’m grateful for the distractions.
Mum calls around noon to tell me everything went well with Daddy’s surgery. She seems pleased to hear I’m shopping and says she hopes I have other fun things planned on a regular basis.
That woman is persistent; I’ll give her that. And like most mothers...she’s usually right.
I escape the simmering sidewalk to go into the rock shop, browsing the jagged chunks of pink quartz and the displays of watermelon tourmaline—burgundy and rosy-colored centers, edged with different shades of green. “State mineral,” the shop owner tells me. I smile and nod. Being a native, I already know this, but I’m playing tourist today.
I stop at Purrfectly Pampered to pick up a catnip moose for Murphy (guilt gift to make up for not being at home when I should be), get a very mandatory double scoop of Heavenly Hash in a waffle cone at Butterfingers, and decide I’ll head in the direction of Cottage Street to Nathaniel Hall Winery. A bottle of wine or four might be just what I need.
The shop is invitingly cool, with smooth jazz music and rustic charm—exposed beams, tables made of polished wooden slabs for tops and old wine barrels for bases, painted antique stools. I taste several different wines and settle on one bottle each of Cherryfield Blues and Cranberry Isle.
As I’m handing my debit card to the smiling cashier, I look in the direction of the opening door. And oh my fucking fuck.
It’s him.
My ex. And the woman he left me for.
I am trapped. The cashier still has my debit card, completely oblivious to how much I want it back, and I am curling my toes as the f-word goes on repeat in my brain.
Paul Randall, former co-president of Maine Coastal Realty, reigning champion of Cheaters Unlimited, current CEO of Lying Sacks of Shit.com, staring at me like he’s shell-shocked.
Yes, it’s me, I want to yell. Still living, still breathing, although what you did nearly killed me. But here I am.
His partner in crime catches on to what he’s looking at, her frosted pink lips drawing together like two thin worms. She’d been a client and came away with not only a closing on a gorgeous lakefront chalet, but my husband.
Hard to believe that all that was almost two years ago, when this unexpected run-in makes it feel so raw. I’ve been fortunate, if you can label anything about this fortunate, that I’ve only seen them one other time since the divorce, and that was when I was significantly inebriated at an outdoor concert with Delaney, so between the Bud Lights and the shielding from my best friend, it was less intense than in a quiet store by myself.
Thankfully, the transaction goes through without a hitch. I take my card, receipt and the bag with the wine, and I even manage a smile at the cashier like my two least favorite people on the planet are not within spitting distance. They’ve moved over to a display of berry wines, but I can tell that Worm Lips is watching me. I also can tell that while her lips are thin, the rest of her is not so much. This cheers me enough to be able to look at my ex-husband as I leave, like this is some sort of victory for me. And that’s actually what it feels like, bec
ause to my surprise, he looks...defeated. I have to admit, grudgingly, that his face is still as handsome, but it’s so unhappy. His brown eyes search mine almost pleadingly, and this is so unexpected and unnerving that I exit the store like it’s on fire.
The summer air outside is stifling and not conducive to taking deep breaths, which is what I need to do. I’m walking fast, and sweating, but the more distance I put between what used to be my life and me, the calmer I feel. By the time I reach the shade of a maple tree at the end of Cottage Street, I’m okay, and pull out my phone to check the time. There is a text, sent about fifteen minutes ago.
I don’t bite, you know.
There’s no name, just a number, but I know who it is. Jack and I had texted each other a few days before he came to do his estimate. I haven’t put him in my contacts. Yet.
I’m thinking of how to respond, or even if I’ll respond (while trying to ignore my annoying burst of pleasure that he texted), when I get another message:
Unless you want me to.
Son of a bitch. How dare he, and goddamn that I am now smiling. Not wanting to be one of those people who annoy the shit out of everyone because they text while walking, I find the nearest bench and sit, placing my bags on the ground in front of me.
Game on, Mr. Decker. I’m holding back a giggle as I reply: Who is this?
I wait. No response. And then…
Jack Decker
Oh, God, this is priceless! Bursting into laughter, I text back. I know. I was teasing. Serves you right.
Madeline...I want you
I’m no longer laughing. Arousal, fringed with anxiety, begins to flicker inside my belly. I both want and don’t want to hear this. Jesus, why does he insist on going down that road when he knows I need to get out of the car?
I take a deep breath, my thumbs trembling as I text back. I am flattered to hear this, but I really would appreciate if we tried to keep things professional. I don’t feel ready for anything more and hope you understand.