I screwed Clinton Alvarez. I screwed Clinton Alvarez.
And I did it at the cupcake shop. On the counter where I serve tea and cupcakes to little, old ladies. And children. Beautiful, innocent children.
I nearly sprained my arm from scrubbing the spot where he ejaculated all over the cupboard door. Now there’s a smooth, faded circle just beneath the cash register to forever remind me of this colossal failure in judgment. I screwed Clinton Alvarez…
But the worst part of this whole situation?...I liked it. I really, really liked it. There I was, hanging off the edge of the counter, clenching my thighs around his hips, hoarse and begging him for the orgasm that shook the very essence of my being.
When it was all over, he left me there, shaken and trembling, aching so good. I’ll never forget the victorious smirk on his face as he helped me off the counter and swaggered out the door.
I spent hours comparing the event to every other sexual experience I've had. I won't pretend that I've had many lovers because I've only ever been with Ernie. And yes, sex with my ex was...nice most of the time. A bit mechanical but nice. As an added bonus, he was a very tidy lover. I barely ever had to straighten the sheets when it was all over. But Clinton? He was powerful and demanding with no qualms about talking dirty, getting sweaty or making a mess.
Sex with Ernie always left me a little—how do I put this tactfully?—chafed. With Clinton though, I was soaking through my panties, dripping to the point of embarrassment. I never imagined that I could get so—y'know—aroused. It was very disorienting. My cheeks are blazing from just thinking about it.
I've never been this irresponsible, this reckless. I had sex with the man with no condom.
I don't do things like that.
It's so outside of my personality that I'm tempted to think that I was momentarily possessed by the ghost of a demented sex addict.
In any case, it can't ever happen again. Never. Never ever.
The next morning, I march through the front door of the Rusty Razor with every intention of telling Clinton just that but when he turns away from the razors that he's sanitizing and his gaze hits me square in the gut, my steps falter, my breathing hitches. The expression on his face tells me that he's reliving the experience all over again. He's remembering quite vividly every sound I made, every twitch of my features, every pleading word that spilled from my mouth. And he's enjoying it as I squirm.
All eyes in the room are on me. "Can I help you, pretty lady?" A tall, handsome, immaculately-groomed man approaches me with a very suggestive smile.
Clinton’s eyes immediately narrow. "Cruz, back the fuck off!" I suck in a harsh breath as the territorial growl tightens something at the apex of my thighs. Cruz throws his hands up in surrender, his dark eyes glinting knowingly as he backs away.
I clear my throat, hating that I feel so vulnerable. "Can I get a word with you?"
Clinton’s gaze moves over me from head to toe at a slow, deliberate pace. "Fine," he says as he plunges a comb into some type of cleaning solution. He folds his arms over his chest and he waits for me to speak.
I grind the toe of my shoe into the cracked linoleum tiles. "In private?" I motion to the hallway with my eyes.
He responds with a sharp gaze and a hiked brow. He's gonna make me beg. Damn you, Clinton Alvarez!
"Please?" I sound meek and weak, completely put on the spot. He smirks.
"Fine." Without another word, he leads the way down the hall and pushes a door open. Following after him, I stumble into a dusty storage closet. He flips a switch and a lone bulb sputters to life.
I tense up, careful not to brush against anything as he leans around me to close the door. "Don't you have an office or…?" My stare moves around the place with trepidation.
"You're looking at it." He folds his colorful arms across his chest. “I have customers waiting so…” He rotates his wrist, making a speed-it-up gesture with his hand. So rude.
I scowl at the cobwebs covering the flickering bulb. Oh god. I just need to say what I came here to say and get out of here.
I clear my throat again. "So yesterday...yesterday was a mistake."
"What part of yesterday was a mistake?" With furrowed brows, he feigns ignorance.
Is he kidding me right now?
"If you're talking about that tablecloth dress you were wearing, then I wholeheartedly agree."
"Hey! There was absolutely nothing wrong with my dress!"
He ignores my protest. "It did nothing to accentuate your hips”—his fingers land on my waist—“and your long legs”—his touch trails down my thigh—“and it sort of got in the way when I had you pinned to the edge of the counter.”
My nostrils flare with rage. My hands itch to slap him clear across the face.
Meanwhile, his eyes twinkle mirthfully. “Oh wait—are you talking about the sex?"
He’s so exasperating! "Yes, I'm talking about the sex!" I yell out.
He's fighting back a laugh. I can see it. "Well I don't think the sex was a mistake." He closes the space between us with each rumbling, slowly-delivered word. "I actually think the sex was a very, very good idea."
I feel my body heating up in a familiar way. "You need to stop," I warn darkly.
His fingers settle on my waist, clenching there. "You know you don't want me to."
Just before we had sex yesterday, there was a crazy static electricity moving in the air between us, a silent communication taking place somewhere beneath the surface. That same energy is building again right now, gaining power as Clinton’s touch moves across my skin. Emergency bells go off in my head.
"You need to stop..." This time it sounds like a plea. He has to be the one to stop. Because I know I don't know how. I'm fidgeting all over. My stomach has more turbulence than the Bermuda Triangle. I take a step back and feel the metal rung of a ladder pressing into my back.
"Here. I have something that will put your mind at ease." He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a crinkled envelope. I notice the local medical clinic’s logo at the top as he slaps the letter into my hand. "I went to the clinic yesterday and got tested, Vivian. I'm all clean and ready to go if you are."
My whisper is so quiet I can barely hear it above the stomping of my heart. "What happened yesterday won't ever happen again."
"Won't it?" Clinton teases. He grips the side of the ladder with his free hand and squeezes my waist with the other. "Because you're here with me in a closet and you're so turned on I can smell it." I gasp and my cheeks heat with shame. "So tell me what's it gonna be, Vivian. You get to decide." He presses one strong, muscular thigh between my legs and I find myself moving back and forth on it.
I have a strong suspicion that I'm currently under hypnosis. Or maybe it's voodoo. Yeah, that's what I'm going with. Sex voodoo.
"Tell me what you want..." he rasps out, his dark irises reaching into my mind to quell the lingering filaments of my self-control.
The word floats past my lips like a breeze. "Sex..."
His lips slant with a smile and brush over mine. "Well, what a coincidence. I want sex, too."
He hushes me with a kiss before I can spit out an insult or a protest. His hands smooth down my body then cup my bum. I hear myself groaning as the envelope falls from my hands and I slide my fingers into his hair.
He props me up on one of the ladder's rusty stairs and tugs my panties down my legs. His thick fingers sweep through my wetness. I open wide for him, spreading my legs and deliberately suppressing all the reasons why I shouldn't be engaging in this activity with this man all over again. All that matters right now is how much I'm aching for his solid length.
I don't understand it. How can I feel like this with someone who does everything to make me mad, some one who goes out of his way to make my life miserable?
Right now really isn't the time for deep psychoanalysis because he's angling his erection at my folds. And I'm edging forward, moaning as my slick flesh sucks him in. Clinton thrusts into me, lifting my foot high on a ladd
er rung for deeper access.
Oh god—and at that angle—he’s hitting it just right, so hard, so deep, in the most perfect spot. Again and again, he pounds himself into me and my fingers curl around the back of his neck as his tongue laps at my collarbone.
I'm so close to my climax. I don't understand why it's happening so fast. But my skin is growing tight. My muscles are straining as the tension swells. Clinton bites the tender flesh of my throat and I can feel him fighting off his own climax. It's so insanely hot. He slides his hand down the hollow of my belly and presses flat just as he hits the very best spot from the inside. I clench his shoulders and howl with pure abandon.
"I'm fucking coming," he whispers as he jams his cock into me, harder and faster and again and again. “Come with me, Vivian. Come now!”
Those words…
I break. I crumble. What’s left of me shoots into another layer of the atmosphere and I see stars. The overwhelming pleasure scatters my self-restraint. I scream, long and loud as I cling to his furiously pumping body.
And that ladies and gentlemen is the story of how I had the longest, hardest, loudest orgasm in recorded history. In a supply closet. In the back of a grimy barbershop. With a guy I hate.
Oh Lord, I’m a heathen…
Chapter Eleven
Clinton
Sonny squirms around in his car seat, trying to get comfortable. His face is sticky from tears and his lingering dismay is clear on his pouty, little mouth.
But I can’t blame him for his petulant behavior. You can't expect a child to be 'better' than the circumstances they're living in every day. He's living in absolute chaos so I can't fault him for acting out.
As I’m pulling Lisa’s Tercel into the driveway, Rachel’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Where’s Ducky?” she asks innocently.
My head snaps around to look at her. “Ducky isn't in the backseat with you guys?”
She shakes her head. “No.” Sonny looks around frantically, his eyes going wide.
“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask Rachel.
“When Sonny was with the doctor, Ducky was sitting on the table next to him to get his ears checked,” she tells me matter-of-factly.
“And you didn’t take him when you were leaving?”
She shakes her head again.
Argh! I cut the engine and drop my forehead to the steering wheel.
I’m driving Lisa’s car today. I dropped her off at the diner for work this morning, then I stayed home with Sonny and Rachel until it was time to go to their appointment. They’ve have been sick for too long. It became clear to me that cough syrup and Vaporub wouldn't be enough to clear up that nasty chest cough. So I made the decision to take them to get checked out.
Cruz opened up the barbershop and I’m pretty sure he didn’t mind being boss for the day. He probably went overboard with the self-grooming since I wasn’t there to monitor him. I can imagine him now, passed out on the fumes from the excessive styling product he spent the day piling into his hair. I don’t have the right insurance to cover that. Shit! I should be at work now. But as usual, the kids’ needs take priority. For me, at least. I don't know what Lisa's priorities are.
I slide a shaky hand through my hair and blow out a frustrated breath. This is getting to be more than I bargained for. Why the hell am I doing this to myself?
I silently wonder how Vivian would feel if she knew about my ‘situation’ with Lisa and the kids. I dismiss that line of thought pretty quickly. Vivian doesn't want anything to do with me. She made that clear as I ushered her out the back door of the barbershop after I fucked her in the storage closet a week ago. Actually, I think she's just afraid of what she feels with me. She keeps telling herself that I'm a bad guy but then she finds herself with my cock inside of her while she's spread eagle on a counter or pressed up against a ladder.
I can see how that would be confusing for a girl.
That whole incident in the storage closet was never a part of my plan. I had no intention of ever touching her again after we went crazy on each other, bumping and grinding in the cupcake shop. But then she showed up at the barbershop, all sexy and nervous and smelling aroused and well…carpe fucking diem.
Anyway, I don't have the patience or the time to justify our explosive chemistry to her. If she wants to shrug it off, then she has nobody to blame for her misery than herself. I didn't come to Copper Heights to help her figure out her quarter-life crisis. I came for the kids buckled up in the back seat. I came for my fresh new start. With people who need me, whether they like it or not.
In my peripheral vision, I see Lisa’s blazing eyes on me. “Y’know what, Clinton? If you don’t want to be here and you don’t want to help us, that’s fine. We didn’t ask for any of this. We didn’t ask you to come here and save the fucking day. So if you don’t want to be involved anymore—”
“Shut up, Lisa,” I snap.
After finishing up with the doctor and buying the antibiotics at the pharmacy, the kids and I picked her up from work at the diner. You’d think she’d be grateful for my help but instead, she’s pissed for some reason I don’t care to figure out.
She twists in her seat to face me. “Don’t you talk to me like that in front of my children! We were getting by just fine before you showed up here like a fucking white knight, Clinton.”
“Don’t swear in front of the kids.”
“They’re my kids. I decide if I swear in front of them.”
"Shtop! Shtop!" Sonny yelps.
Rachel's panicked voice rings out. “You need to go get Ducky!”
Now Sonny is crying, “Ducky! Ducky! Ducky!”, adding to the hysteria in the car.
I’m gonna lose my mind.
I glance into the rearview mirror just as a group of Harley Davidsons roll down the quiet residential street in formation. My stomach tightens at the sight of the King Vultures patches on the backs of their leather vests. Their attention stays on the house for a moment before they disappear at the intersection. I shake off my discomfort, reminding myself that I put that life behind me. I have no beef with them. This domesticated, suburban existence is my reality now.
“Okay, fine! I’ll go get the duck!”
The car falls silent at the booming sound of my voice. Lisa pauses and gives me a sharp look before she climbs out and grabs Sonny from the back seat. My temples are throbbing. Why the hell am I cleaning up some other man's mess?
Just as Rachel is sliding out of the car, our eyes hook in the rearview mirror. “Thank you, Clinty,” she whispers. “I love you.”
And damn it, my heart flutters. This is what I’m doing it for. They need me.
Lisa gives me the silent treatment as I help her get the kids settled in the house. I don't care. This isn't about her. With Sonny and Rachel lounging comfortably in front of the TV, I jump in the car and head back toward the clinic at Town Square.
Chapter Twelve
Vivian
"Ma'am, are you a habitual drug user?"
I tear my eyes away from the forms that I'm signing and search her face for some indication that she’s joking. But the woman behind the desk looks up at me with a perfectly neutral expression.
"Uh...no. I'm not a habitual drug user. I'm not any kind of drug user." It's the truth but for some reason, I'm not sure that's the answer she's looking for.
My suspicion is confirmed when her disdainful gaze sweeps over my face and she scrunches up her nose. She jots down some notes in my file.
Suddenly, I'm just a little bit nervous. "Umm...Is that going to be a problem?"
She sighs heavily then leans close and speaks in a low voice. "It's just that people who've never taken drugs tend to get a bit loopy under the effect of the anesthetic." I cock a brow and she nods in response. "One time, I had a girl kick me in the shin with her four-inch pumps. Don't get me wrong—she was a nice girl before they drugged her up—but that anesthetic brought out the devil in her."
Well...
I take a
quick glance at the door. If I hadn't been in absolute agony for the past week, I'd bolt right now. But the thought of spending one more night in this kind of pain is the only thing that keeps me from running out the door. I need to get this surgery done.
Braving a smile, I flick my wrist dismissively. "Drug me up," I say. "I drink no less than four cups of yerba mate per day. I can handle a little sleeping pill."
She gives me an unconvinced look but I smile self-assuredly. With a long sigh, she rises from her chair and moves around her desk. “Follow me.”
I check my phone as we go down the long, brightly-lit hallway. There's yet another panicked text message from my sister.
Reese: Tell receptionist to call me as soon as ur done ur surgery so I can come pick u up. Dont forget, ok?
My sister is sort of freaking out about this. Apparently she watched YouTube videos of people having their wisdom teeth extracted and more often than not, things got really gnarly. She wanted to come with me and sit in the waiting room the whole time. I told her that was plain ridiculous. She's needed at the shop more than I need her here holding my hand. I'm a grown up. I can handle it on my own. And besides, she's been so sick lately. The last thing I want is to have her hanging out in some clinic where she could pick up a nasty infection to add to whatever the hell is going on with her.
She's pregnant. I'm sure of it. She just doesn't want to tell me because she thinks I'll feel bad. It shouldn't be that way. My sister should be able to come to me and be open about what's going on in her life. She shouldn't feel the need to hide her joy just so I don't have a meltdown.
The problem is me. My insecurities. My expectations. They're getting in the way of my relationships with the people I love most. I really need to take a good, hard look at my life.
It gets pretty lonely on the inside of these walls I've built around myself. Sometimes, I wish I could let someone in. But I don't know how. I've spent so much time trying to act like I've got it all together that now, I don't know how to be vulnerable and admit that I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.
The Blue Collar Bachelors Box Set: The Complete Blue Collar Bachelors Series Page 49