Luke

by Sabrina Paige

  things he’d say to me, as he fucks me harder and harder, and I clutch wildly at his shoulders, his back, leaving my mark on him.

  When I come, it’s so intense that I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. It’s a minute before I catch my breath, my heart pounding so loudly in my chest I swear I can hear it over the white noise of the shower.

  The orgasm should be a relief. It should quench my thirst. It should dampen my desire for him. But as I finish showering and pull on clothes, the throbbing between my legs still begs for attention, insistent despite my attempts to ignore it.

  I tell myself to think like a mature adult and not a woman infatuated with a younger man. I go through the rest of my afternoon, ignoring thoughts of Luke. They don’t intrude as I spend the rest of the day hanging out with Olivia, cooking her dinner, doing her bedtime routine. The next day, I somehow manage to avoid Luke all day long. I tell myself that I need to focus on my daughter, focus on my business, focus on my friends. I don’t need my attention to be shifted to Luke Saint.

  I tell myself I don’t need to have a fling. I tell myself that what happened between us won’t happen again.

  I tell myself all of that, all of the reasons I shouldn’t want him the way that I do. But then every bit of reason, every ounce of sense I thought I possessed, goes out the window as soon as I hear the knock on the door.

  Luke stands in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, his t-shirt rumpled, holding two brown paper shopping bags. “Hush,” he says, interrupting me before I even begin to speak. “Don’t even pretend like you were about to cook anything decent for dinner, because we both know you weren’t.”

  “You can’t just keep coming over here and taking over my kitchen,” I protest. But only mildly, because I remember the last meal Luke cooked and my stomach rumbles.

  Luke brushes past me, bags in hand, and leans close to my ear to whisper softly. “Well, I do prefer your pussy being on the menu.”

  Heat rushes to my face, but Luke is already passing me, ambling casually down the hall as if he didn’t just remind me that his mouth was between my legs only yesterday.

  “Hey Olivia-girl,” he says, and she toddles after him, rounding the corner into the kitchen. He asks her if she likes salmon, talking to her like an adult, and she grins at him and nods, even though she has no clue what he’s talking about. Then he reaches into the bag, and takes out a toy car, squatting down to hand it to her. “Does she like cars? I don’t know what kids like.”

  Olivia giggles and grabs it from his hand. “Car,” she says. “Car.”

  “Olivia, what do you say to Mr. Saint?” I ask.

  “Car! Car!” she yells, pushing it across the kitchen floor.

  “Or, thank you,” I tell her, but she ignores me. “That’s nice of you, Luke.”

  He shrugs. “Actually, it’s Mr. Saint to you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Luke

  “Mr. Saint,” she says, laughing as she shakes her head. Her red hair spills past her shoulders in a mess of waves, and for a split second, I think about running my hands through that hair and kissing her right there.

  Then I remember that Olivia is pushing a car around the kitchen floor, and I mentally scold myself for thinking about putting my lips on her right in front of her kid. Do parents kiss in front of kids? I don’t even know. Mine certainly didn’t. Of course, my childhood wasn’t exactly filled with warm memories.

  Autumn’s laughter pierces through my thoughts, through the darkness that starts to envelop me whenever I think about my family. “Earth to Mr. Saint,” she says.

  “What?” I realize I’m standing there with a box in my hand.

  “Are you holding knives?” she asks.

  I hand her the box. “Your knives are shit, Red,” I say. Then I glance over at Olivia. “Sh – crap. They’re crap. Sorry.”

  “When she starts dropping f-bombs regularly, I’m going to know who to blame,” Autumn says. But Olivia is making her way across the kitchen, chasing the car that careens across the tile until it crashes into the wall opposite us.

  “I’ve never had to worry about anyone mimicking me,” I note.

  “Don’t you have younger brothers?” Autumn asks, and then her face colors. “I mean, I heard that – someone told me.”

  If she were babbling nervously about any other subject, I’d almost find it endearing. But the fact that she knows about my family puts me on edge, and I turn around, unloading groceries from the bag to distract myself. “I have younger brothers,” I say, my voice harder than I intend it to be. “But I’m sure you looked into my family already.”

  “I didn’t,” she says. “I mean. I did. A little bit.”

  My stomach flips. A girl like Autumn isn’t the kind of girl who hooks up with a guy like me. Especially after she figures out what kind of white trash family I come from. “So,” I say, my voice deliberately even. “Did you find out all my dirt?”

  “I wasn’t trying to find out dirt.”

  “Right.” The word comes out more sarcastic than I intend, and I finish pulling things out of the grocery bag, wondering why the hell I’m even here. I’m standing here unloading groceries, as if I’m the kind of guy that cooks dinner for a chick when, in fact, I’ve never fucking done that, not even once.

  In fact, I’m the guy who makes sure to never get the name of the chicks I bang, just because.

  I should warn her that I’m an asshole. That would be the non-asshole thing to do.

  “Luke Saint,” Autumn says, furrowing her brow and glaring at me with a mixture of anger and disapproval. “I didn’t go digging around your personal life, although I probably should have, since you’re standing in my house and you very well could be a serial killer.”

  “Trust me,” I say. “With the way you get under my skin, if I were a serial killer, you’d have been a goner already.”

  “That’s probably true,” she says, laughing. “Although, who brings someone knives as a gift? That’s like, super creepy serial killer stuff right there.”

  “Someone who can’t work in this lame kitchen of yours,” I say.

  “Really?” she asks. “The guy who’s living in a camper down by the river calls my kitchen lame?”

  “Woman, you haven’t seen my kitchen.”

  “Woman?” she asks, laughing under her breath. “Has anyone ever told you that you really have some retro macho attitude going on?”

  Olivia comes careening across the kitchen floor, the toy car in one hand as she runs on unsteady legs straight into Autumn’s leg, and Autumn lets out an “oof” as Olivia hugs her. In a flash, the toddler is on the move again, not even pausing to stop as she slides the car across the floor in the opposite direction.

  “Woman,” I say again, with heavier emphasis. “Who’s cooking for your little behind right now?”

  She laughs. “My behind, as you put it, hasn’t been called little in a long time.”

  I make a show of walking around behind her and taking a long look at her ass in the jeans she’s wearing. Shit, hers has to be the nicest ass I’ve ever seen. I want to slide my hands over it. Hell, if her kid weren’t here, I’d be bending Autumn over the kitchen counter right now. Instead, I make an appreciative noise under my breath. “Your behind is perfect,” I say, walking back to the counter.

  Autumn’s cheeks flush pink, which only makes me think about what she’d look like, flushed with arousal, underneath me in bed. Or on top of me. Or pinned against the wall. Or sitting on the kitchen counter.

  Damn it. This girl is going to be the death of me.

  She’s going to destroy me, ruin me in every way it’s possible to ruin someone.

  In all of the best possible ways.

  “In fact,” I say. “I’ll let you know what I think about it later.”

  “Oh, really?” she says. “You think so? Is that what you came over here for -- to finish the job?”

  “I didn’t come here to finish anything, Red,” I say. “I’m just get
ting started with you. I have no intention of finishing the job anytime soon.”

  She smiles, looking at me for a long moment before she says exactly the last thing I expect to hear from her. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

  The words catch me so off guard, that I laugh uncomfortably. “Excuse me? Did I ask you to be my girlfriend?”

  “Nope,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, which has the unintended effect of giving me a view of her chest down the front of her shirt. I have to glance away, think about something decidedly un-sexy, because if I keep looking there, I’m going to be rock hard in all of about twenty seconds. “I’m just saying.”

  “Well, in case you haven’t noticed,” I point out helpfully, “I’m not boyfriend material.”

  Autumn laughs. “I’m rather clear on that point,” she says. “So we’re just friends.”

  “Friends,” I say. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been down on the floor between a friend’s –“

  “Luke!” Autumn protests loudly, as Olivia comes toddling back toward her.

  “Mama,” Olivia howls, veering right toward the refrigerator.

  “Are you hungry, Liv-bug?” she asks. “Do you want a snack?”

  I turn back toward the counter, focusing my attention on prepping dinner. Friends, I tell myself. That’s a novel concept. I’ve never been friends with a woman I’ve screwed before. Shit, I try my damndest not to have conversations with a girl beyond exactly what I’d like to do to her.

  Friends -- with a woman with a kid.

  Maybe I’m growing. Becoming a better person.

  After Autumn settles Olivia into her high chair, she comes back to the counter to fill up a cup with water for her. She brushes against me, accidentally I think at first, but when I look up at her, I realize it’s totally intentional. “I think it’s called friends with benefits,” she says, her voice low, as she passes by.

  Shit. And just like that, I can’t stop thinking about Autumn naked. I’m not getting even slightly more mature.

  Friends with benefits.

  I should be pleased with this development. I should congratulate myself on my luck with escaping a potentially clingy girlfriend.

  Except there’s just a small part of me that finds it annoying that she just suggested we only hook up.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Autumn

  “Is it always this way?” Luke asks. I’m holding Olivia in my arms, after reading three stories to her in the rocking chair – one extra, because she was too excited about Luke being here, mostly because he raced cars around the living room floor with her for an hour. Now he’s standing in the doorway of her room, whispering.

  “Like this?” I ask softly, looking down at Olivia, who’s looks positively angelic in her sleep. “Are you kidding? Hell, no.” Standing up, I cross the room to lay her in her crib, kissing her on the forehead as I tuck her in, and then shut her door behind me.

  Luke steps back, but not much, and I’m suddenly very close to him. The faintest hint of cologne, or maybe aftershave, lingers on his skin. “Hell, no?” he asks.

  “She looks adorable when she’s asleep,” I say. “Not so much when she’s screaming at three in the morning.” I feel the need to warn him that kids don’t sleep through the night. I’m nervous and self-conscious, and standing so close to him makes me feel panicked. So I ease away from him, walking down the stairs as I clear my throat. “I’ll clean up the kitchen. I may not be able to cook, but at least I can – oh. You already cleaned up. Of course you did.”

  I’m looking at my kitchen, spotless, the dishes put away and the counters gleaming.

  “While you were taking care of Olivia,” he says, his voice low in my ear. He’s standing right behind me, not touching me. And all I want him to do is touch me.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask, and he laughs.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he says.

  “You cook, you clean,” I say, distracted as he trails his finger along the side of my neck, sending a river of goose bumps down my arm. “There has to be something wrong with you, some dirty secret you’re hiding.”

  “The dirtiest,” he whispers, hooking a finger under the strap of my tank top, and sliding it down over my shoulder. He kisses me softly on my skin, where the strap was, and it makes me gasp.

  “I can imagine,” I say, my heart beating wildly in my chest. I’ve done quite a bit of imagining when it comes to Luke.

  “Oh?” he asks, pulling me back toward him, hard against his erection. “What exactly have you imagined, Red?”

  “Th – that. You.”

  “You’re tense,” he says, sliding his hands along my arms.

  Hell, I’m stiff as a damn board. It’s been over two years since I slept with anyone, since I got pregnant with Olivia, and the thought of fucking Luke fills me with a confusing mixture of lust and fear and apprehension I can’t possibly put into words. “It’s…been a while,” I say, my voice catching in my throat. “For me.”

  Luke pauses, his hands still, and for a second, I think he’s going to change his mind and walk away. But instead, he just utters the word “fuck” under his breath. Then he speaks, low in his throat, his mouth near my ear. “I don’t know what the hell happened, Red, who the hell let you go, but he was a fucking moron. Because I can’t get you out of my mind. I can’t get the taste of you off my lips, and I don’t want to.”

  Before I can say anything, he’s kissing me again, behind my ear, his lips on that place that has always been so sensitive. He sweeps my hair from my neck, pulling it to kiss the nape and arousal courses through my body.

  There are a million reasons I should say no to this. There are a million reasons I should not sleep with him, a million reasons I should find someone my own age, someone responsible, someone appropriate, someone settled.

  Someone who’s not Luke.

  But Luke’s touch, his fingers running down my arms, his lips on my skin, his hands reaching around, palming my breasts…his touch makes me weak-kneed. It makes my head cloudy, my brain shut down, and my thoughts consumed with lust.

  “I…want…you,” I choke out, my words stupid. As if it weren’t already apparent that I wanted him -- by the way my breath catches in my throat, by the way that I practically pant with the anticipation of his hands on me, by the way I moan as he slips my shirt over my head.

  He cups my breasts in his hands, kissing me, his lips on my neck, my shoulders, and I’m practically drenched. I want him now – fast and hard, fucking me with abandon. I don’t want foreplay. I don’t want anything but him inside me.

  “Fuck, Red,” he says, pushing his erection against my ass. “Do you feel that? Do you know how hard you make me? Shit, I’ve been thinking about my cock inside you since the day I looked at you.”

  A moan, louder than it should be, escapes my lips, and Luke growls again. He pulls my hair to the side, sending a shock of pain through me, intermingled with lust and desire. “Fuck me,” I beg, surprising myself with my own words. I’ve never said anything like that before to man, never been so consumed with need and want.

  Luke yanks my jeans over my hips, and I kick them across the floor, irritated by the fact that I’m still clothed. Standing behind me, he reaches between my legs with his fingers, inside me in one movement, filling me but not the way I want to be filled.

  “You’re soaking wet,” he says, his voice gravely.

  “I want you now, Luke.”

  “Shit,” he says. “Do you know how hot it is, hearing you say that?”

  I can’t think, not with what he’s doing with those fingers of his, stroking me inside, pressing against the textured wall inside me, sending waves of pleasure coursing through my body that threaten to completely undo me.

  And I don’t want to be undone right now. I don’t want to come on his fingers, or on his tongue, like before.

  I want him to fuck me. I want to come on his cock.

  “Stop,” I say, the word barely audible, more
of a moan than an actual word. “Stop.”

  He pauses, slips his fingers from me, and I can feel his body stiffen behind me. Spinning me around, he looks at me, his brow furrowed. “This whole thing,” he says. “We can stop if you want to, Red.”

  I laugh, unbuckling his belt and pulling his jeans open forcefully. I want to tear them open, rip the fabric like he ripped my panties from my hips earlier. When he pulls his shirt over his