“Yes, Livia. Would you like to show me what your cunt looks like?”
The flush is now creeping up her neck, and she takes a small drink of water, as if to buy herself time. But when her eyes meet mine again, I can tell her hesitation isn’t because she doesn’t want to show me.
It’s because she does.
“If I...wanted to...how would I show you?” she asks, the faintest quiver in her lower lip.
God, I still can’t fucking breathe. She’s so much right now, so quivery and so big-eyed and so flushed. Her nipples are still so hard—what must be achingly hard—through her dress, and she keeps smoothing this one curl over and over again around her finger. All I want to do is dive under this table and press my face between her legs, tongue her until she can’t remember the difference between a filet mignon and a Kansas City Strip, between rare and well-done.
“Well,” I say, once I can remember how to speak again, “you’d spread your legs under the table. I’d pretend to drop something. And then I’d duck under the tablecloth and see if you’re telling me the truth about wearing panties.”
Something about the word truth seems to trigger a surge of rebellion in her.
“I’m telling the truth,” she says, with an indignant toss of that thick, silky hair. “See for yourself.”
And then she spreads her legs under the table.
“So my little librarian is brave,” I murmur. And then I hook my ankle around her chair underneath the table and easily yank her closer to me. “And bold.”
She gasps as the chair moves underneath her, and I don’t give her a chance to catch her breath before I knock both menus off the table. And then I bend down to retrieve them, my body half under the table, my hand making a pantomime of searching for the lost menus. All while I duck under the tablecloth and see for myself how she’s prepared her cunt for our date.
It’s dark under the table, too dark for what I want, and so I move off my chair to one knee at the side of the table. The restaurant is dim and our table is conveniently screened by enough plants and low walls that I’m not worried about being seen. As I grab for the menus with one hand, my other finds her ankle.
She startles, glancing down at me with fearful delight. “Chase?”
“I couldn’t see under there,” I say, my hand sweeping up the firm curve of her calf to the bend of her knee. “I needed to feel.”
Her thigh trembles under my hand...and then she spreads her legs even wider. “Good girl,” I whisper. “Let me feel you.”
She holds her legs open for me as my whole hand slides under the hem of her dress, and then my fingertips brush against something impossibly silky and soft and—oh fuck me—groomed completely bare.
The bare skin has made her extra sensitive, I think, because even the light ghosting of my fingers over her mound sends shivers through her. “So you weren’t lying,” I murmur. “You came here with a naked pussy.”
Her voice is tight and breathless when she answers. “I told you I was telling the truth.”
“Did you do it for me, Livia?” My fingers brush lower, and there between her lips is the plump button of her clit.
She sucks in air as I give it a firm circle with my thumb. “I don’t know,” she confesses. Her voice is embarrassed, but her hips are currently rocking against my hand trying to get more pressure against her clit as I rub her.
I could do this literally all night, but I know we’ll start to draw attention if I don’t stand up soon. I allow myself one more caress, this time dipping a finger even lower into her folds. “Fuck, Livia,” I mutter, my self-control evaporating the moment I find how wet she is. “You’re so fucking wet.”
“Mmm,” she says. There’s a flush creeping up her neck now, goose bumps everywhere, non-stop shivers. She looks like she has a fever, and the sight of her so physically undone just by this simple touch has me ready to push down my jeans and mount her right here at the table.
I don’t do that, but I do peer up into her face and ask, “Can I put my fingers inside you? I want to feel. Just for a minute.”
Her eyes are half hooded as she nods and licks her lips. “Yes. You can.”
I do. I slide one finger inside of her, easily finding a spot that makes her arch her back, and then I add a second finger, watching her face carefully as I do it. Her eyes are completely closed now and her chest is rising and falling so fast that the fabric is pulling against her tits. God, I just want to shove this table out of the way, yank her ass to the edge of the seat and fuck her while I’m kneeling between her legs.
With a small groan, I slide my fingers out of her tight, wet box and go back to my seat, relieved that nobody seems to have noticed my little exploratory session, and also disappointed that the explorations are over.
Livia’s eyes are open again when I get there, but just barely. “Holy shit,” she mumbles to herself. “Holy shit.”
I grin at her and then start licking my fingers, like a contented cat. She tastes good, sweet and primal, so good that I know I need to taste her again. Soon.
Her eyes widen as she watches me lick her taste off my fingers. “I can’t believe we just did that. I can’t believe I let you.”
My grin gets bigger. “And we haven’t even ordered our food yet.”
She shakes her head. “We haven’t even kissed yet,” she says, with some wonder in her voice.
“Yet?” I tease. “So does that mean we will kiss?”
That draws a smile to her face, along with a fresh flush. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she protests. “I meant—” She goes to cross her legs and then she gives me another one of those soft inhales.
“Are you pressing your thighs together right now?” I ask in a husky voice.
“I—yes.”
“Can you squeeze your clit like that? Can you feel how wet you are?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “How are you doing this to me?”
I hold up both my hands. “I’m not doing anything right now, if you haven’t noticed. You’re doing it to yourself.”
She looks down at her lap, taking a deliberately deep breath.
“I think...I think I’m doing this wrong,” she says worriedly.
I don’t like that, because from my vantage, everything is going utterly and completely right. “Doing what wrong?”
She gestures between the two of us, still looking down at her lap. “This.”
I’m confused. “The date?”
She closes her eyes for a moment, and then opens them, pinning their dark depths onto me. “Kind of,” she says slowly. “But I meant for this to go differently. More...um...businesslike. More transactional.”
Now I’m really confused. Transactional? Like we would just eat food, have sex and then leave like strangers? I’ve had plenty of transactional hookups in my time—I mean, I’ve basically taken out stock in Durex at this point—but I didn’t think that was what Livia wanted from our date. I assumed she’d want fun—easy and intimate, yes, but fun all the same.
Thankfully the waiter shows up then, and I can gather my thoughts. After we order—steak and beer for me, steak and wine for her—I give her my full attention.
“I don’t mind being a transaction, Livia, as long as we’re both having fun at the same time. But I’m curious...does this have anything to do with you swearing off men?”
Livia sighs. “So Megan told you that, huh?”
“She did. And I know it’s not my business, but if there’s a story there, I want to make sure I don’t do anything to repeat parts of that story. I don’t want to scare you or hurt you or trigger you.”
To my surprise, that seems to utterly disarm her, even though all I did was pledge not to be a dick. “That’s really thoughtful of you,” she says softly. Then after a minute, she adds, “There’s not a story like the way you’re thinking. I just have had my heart broken enough to know that I can’t count on a man to be trustworthy and faithful. So I stopped trying.”
That pulls on something in my chest,
something I didn’t even know was there until just now. It makes me want to protect her, makes me want to find any man who broke her heart and drive my fist into his nose.
I shake off the feeling. It’s not mine to have in the first place, and in the second place, it should be no concern of mine that she’s stopped trying to have relationships. I’m Officer Good Times! I don’t do relationships either.
But still. There’s something so forlorn about the way she looks right now, and I want to help. Somehow.
My mind flashes to Sergeant Gutierrez and her wife. “Is it just men you don’t trust? Have you ever tried dating women?”
A smile tugs on the corners of her mouth, pulls on that weird, new spot in my chest. “You mean, have I explored being bisexual?”
“Yeah.”
She lifts a slender shoulder, still smiling. “Yes, I explored that. A few times.”
“Ah. Say no more.” But then the meaning of her words becomes clear in my mind, and I lean forward and put my chin in my hand, giving her my biggest grin. “Actually, say more.”
She giggles, a real little laugh with a real little smile and real little twinkles in her dark brown eyes. The waiter comes by with our drinks and a basket of rolls, which I immediately start destroying. It’s while I’m buttering a roll that Livia switches gears from giggles to Serious Business.
“Chase, I wanted to talk to you tonight, and I know we got a little off topic earlier…”
I take a bite of roll, raising my eyebrows. “Is ‘off topic’ what we’re calling it when I stroke your pussy in public?”
She ignores me, forging ahead with what she wants to say, that nervous but determined look back. It makes me nervous enough myself that I stop eating my roll.
“I’m done with relationships,” she says, meeting my gaze with an expression that brooks no argument. Not that I would argue, even though every time she says she doesn’t want a relationship, it twists somewhere in my chest.
I shake off the twisting feeling. “You’re preaching to the choir, sweetheart.”
“I know,” she says with a nod. “That’s why we’re here tonight. See, wouldn’t you agree that just because you don’t imagine yourself being married, that it doesn’t mean you don’t have plans for your life? We’re still allowed to want things, right?”
I’m starting to feel like I have no idea where this is going. “Yes?” I agree tentatively.
She nods again. “I don’t need a man or a relationship, but I still need a future. I still want a future. And I know exactly what it is I want for that future.”
I take a swig of my beer and settle back into my chair. “Okay, I’ll bite. What is it that you want for your future, Livia?”
“I want a baby,” she answers calmly. “And I want you to be the one to give a baby to me.”
Five
Livia
Chase nearly chokes on his beer.
“Excuse me, a what?”
I see sweat gathering on his forehead. It’s the first time I’ve seen him be anything but calm, cool, and collected, which probably says a lot about how he’s taking my announcement.
To be fair, I did spring this on him suddenly, though I didn’t come up with the idea on a whim. I’ve been looking into artificial insemination and even adoption for several months now. Actually, for more like a year—since my last birthday when I turned twenty-eight and realized how close that was to twenty-nine which is practically thirty and how the hell could I be not even thirty and have my life be complete? Because it didn’t feel complete.
It doesn’t feel complete.
But what else was there that I wanted to accomplish? I had the degree I wanted. I loved my job. I owned my condo. I didn’t want to get married. As Megan put it, what was there left to want?
A child. That’s what.
I’ve always wanted a child. It was the one thing I always imagined for my future. Even after I decided I was done with men, I still wanted a kid. I want one more now, actually. Maybe it’s because I’m lonely and think a child will fill some emotional hole. Maybe it’s because I have a lot of ideas and thoughts I’d like to pass on. Maybe it’s because I want someone to love, someone that I know is going to love me back. Someone I know isn’t going to run away when things get hard.
Maybe that makes me selfish.
But are those really such bad reasons to want to procreate?
I’ll be a good mother.
I’ll be attentive.
I’ll be adoring and protective but not too protective.
I’ll be there. Isn’t that what matters most?
I know I can parent alone, that doesn’t worry me, but I’ve seen the way Josiah keeps Megan running around. I want to be young enough to keep up with a toddler. Young enough to still remember puberty when my child hits that phase. And can women even have babies after thirty? I mean, I know they can. But surely the sooner the better, right?
So it seemed if I was going to have a baby, I should have one before the angel of death arrived in the form of my thirtieth birthday. I did my research. I’d been considering my options. It just hadn’t occurred to me to go about it the old-fashioned way. There haven’t been any men in my life to choose from, really. No one I wanted to procreate with and definitely no one I wanted to sleep with.
Then Chase came along.
This man…
Not only do I want to rub every part of my body against his exquisite genetic makeup, but also it would be a crime if he didn’t pass that shit on. I can already picture his eyes on a miniature face with my features and his perfect smile.
Unf.
Thinking about it makes my womb ache.
So I’m absolutely serious when I repeat my request. “Your baby. I want your baby.”
He swallows. “That’s.” He nods. “No.” He shakes his head. “I.” He fidgets in his chair, looking around the restaurant. “Waiter!” he calls to the server walking by who is most definitely not our waiter.
“Can I get you something, sir?”
“I’m going to need another drink.” Chase holds up his beer. “Another two drinks.”
“I’ll tell your server,” the waiter says and slips away.
I open my mouth but Chase says, “I’m going to need a minute.” I start to speak anyway, and he puts a finger up to silence me.
I sigh. I knew I was going about this wrong. I should have blown him first. Or I shouldn’t have approached this from the sex angle at all. Should never have let him think it was a date. Should definitely not have let him touch me like I did.
God, though. I can still feel his fingers. Feel how they brushed across my pussy. Feel how they stroked inside me.
I shiver at the memory.
He was right—I didn’t just come here tonight without panties because I didn’t want panty lines. The truth is I’d been prepared to use any means necessary to get what I wanted, including the old razzle dazzle. Problem was he razzled me first.
I should have been straightforward from the beginning. Hopefully this isn’t too botched to salvage.
I glance at Chase who is studying me, eyes squinted. He hasn’t indicated that he’s ready for me to speak, but fuck that. I have things to say.
Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on the table. “Look. I’m not a crazy cop stalker, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or someone who’s trying to trap you into a marriage or a relationship or even child support.”
His expression doesn’t change. “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”
“Then what are you thinking?”
The twinkle is back in his eyes, which is a relief. “That you’re a crazy cop stalker who’s trying to trap me into a marriage or a relationship or child support.”
I stifle a laugh. “I’m not. I promise. I don’t want anything from you. Other than the baby, I mean.” And really hot sex. Repeated hot sex.
“You don’t want anything from me,” he repeats, somewhat skeptical.
I clarify. “I want a baby. But no marriage. No
relationship. No child support. No parental claim at all.”
He finishes the last of his beer and leans back in his chair. “I still don’t understand.”
He’s a smart guy. So either he’s playing dumb on purpose or he’s caught up on some part of the details.
I decide to make it as simple as possible. Speak the language he speaks best. “It’s easy, Chase. You want to have sex with me.” I feel sensual and strong with my bold statement.
But suddenly I’m afraid I’ve jumped to conclusions and my confidence falters. “You do want to have sex with me, don’t you?”
It’s his turn to look at me as though I’m playing crazy. “Yes, Livia,” he says with wide emphatic eyes. “Yes.” He pauses only a second before adding, “Do I need to make myself clearer? Because I can, but it wouldn’t be appropriate in a public venue.”
I bite my lip, pressing my thighs closer together to ease the newest wave of agony. “I think we’ve already pushed the limits of public decency. But you’re the cop. You’d know better than I would.”
His lip curls up on one side, and I know he’s considering. Damn, what I’d give to have a peek at the naughty imaginings going on inside his mind, because I know they’re naughty from the gleam in his eye. Very naughty.
“Chase…” I warn.
“You’re right, you’re right. Already pushed the limits. Go on.” But the gleam in his eye remains, and I’m giddy knowing that I’m prey, and he’s a predator just biding his time.
“Okay,” I say, my voice barely steady. “So, when you have sex, there are these microscopic things called sperm that come out of a man’s body when he ejaculates.”
“Liv, I know about sperm. But go on ahead and tell me about ejaculation. I’d like to hear what you have to say about that.”
His gaze never leaves mine and I flush picturing his cum in unproductive places—places that won’t make a baby—on my belly, on my breasts, spilling down my throat.
No, inside me. That’s where I want it most.
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