Maybe this time she’d find the strength to resist the temptation altogether. Maybe this time she’d truly believe that Larry running off with a college girl wasn’t an indictment of her beauty—it was an indictment of him.
She took another sip of the red wine and sighed. Just for tonight, she decided, she’d open her arms to the unlimited possibilities of her life right now, as it was. Where was the harm in that? It was permissible to let her imagination run free every once in a while, wasn’t it? It was all right to let it out to play.
Even if it wanted to play with Lucio Montevez.
Ginger stretched out her legs and wiggled her toes in the moonlight. She fiddled with the hem of her skirt, feeling her fingers skitter across her thigh. It was still smooth and firm flesh, aching for a loving touch. Lucio had reminded her of that today. Melting under his caress, drowning in his kiss—it had flipped a switch inside her. She couldn’t deny it another second. Her body was on fire for a man’s attention. That man’s attention.
It had been a long time since Larry had touched her with love. She couldn’t even remember what it felt like. The last few years of her marriage had been confusing, hurtful, and lonely. Near the end, there wasn’t a shred of devotion left in Larry’s touch—just a cold, slimy guilt that he tried to cover up with words he knew Ginger longed to hear.
She held on to those words and pretended all was well for as long as possible. But she knew better, and it was a struggle to keep the truth pushed down inside her. She’d convinced herself that infidelity was something that happened to other couples, not them—not Larry and Ginger Garrison, college sweethearts, good and decent people who worked hard to build a life together and raise their sons.
She’d held on to the ruse right up until the night she caught Larry with the boys’ math tutor in the cargo area of the minivan. In her own driveway, for God’s sake! Larry’s bare ass was a ghostly white in the glow of the streetlights as it moved up and down. Up and down.
Right there and then, as Ginger watched her husband of eighteen years porking a college coed, her delusions were history. So was her marriage.
Ginger took in a shaky breath, counting backward, adding up all the months of disconnection and, then, separation. Could it be that she’d gone without a man’s loving touch for years? She laughed bitterly. She’d been deprived. She’d become empty. And now she was starving.
Her fingers pushed up the hem of her skirt. With her eyes closed, she reveled in the feel of the night air on the exposed skin of her inner thigh. How would it feel? What would the sensation be like if, just now, Lucio Montevez were to come to her, kneel in the grass at her feet like the sexual panther he was, stretch her thighs wide and hook them over the armrests of this old Adirondack chair and touch her, wet and silky and so very, very needy.
Ginger sought out the satiny crotch of her panties and pushed it aside. Her fingers were immediately drenched in juices. Her own wetness startled her. Her legs trembled. She took one last fortifying sip of wine, and, with eyes still closed, she set the goblet on the grass. Her mind reeled. Her body was greedy.
It was well past midnight. The ranch was silent. Only Mrs. Needleman and the women in the bridal party had stayed overnight. She was hidden under the shadows of the old live oak. No one would see.
So Ginger did it. She reached under her bottom and yanked off her panties, tossing them to the ground. She took a deep breath and imagined him right there, on his knees before her. He would spread his big hands over the tender flesh inside her thighs and pull her open. He would lower his mouth to her.
“Lucio!” she called out in a ragged whisper.
Ginger squirmed. God, the man knew his way around a woman! He was teasing her, nipping and licking and biting everywhere but where she needed it most. He was really, really good at this. So good it was pure torture.
Ginger heard herself groan in frustration. She imagined his dark head hovering between her thighs. She imagined the heat of his breath so close, but not close enough.
Finally! He flicked his tongue around and across her enflamed clitoris. Then he drank from her. He used his tongue and teeth and lips to pull the juices from her body, pull her soul to the brink of orgasm. Oh! He was using those strong hands to adjust her, like she was a plaything, a doll—grabbing her by the ass and pulling her toward his mouth like he was a starving man at that sexual buffet Bea had described.
Ginger’s head swam with the images—her body was the overflowing smorgasbord of lust and Lucio had already paid at the door. She wanted to feed him. He was a hungry man. Everyone wins!
Oh God, it felt so good, so real. Her hands fell away from her body, yet, somehow, the sensations continued to build. She imagined in detail how it would feel—she would reach for his long, thick hair, grabbing silky fistfuls as she pulled him tighter to her pussy.
That’s right. Pussy. She never used that word. It was sordid, somehow. Daring. But wasn’t that the whole point of a daringly sordid fantasy? So she let the word pulse through her. She was nothing but a lonely, dripping, needy pussy. And it was only for him. She was his pussy. Somewhere deep inside her she knew that she’d always belonged to him and only him, the sexual panther of the shadows.
“This is your pussy, Lucio,” she whispered. “It belongs to you.”
Suddenly, she threw her legs around his neck and convulsed wildly, the orgasm so deep and strong that it shot her into a swirling, black nothingness, then launched her back to consciousness with a flare of bright white light. Her body twitched and burned in exquisite pleasure. Her eyes flew open, and her vision was filled with the night sky and what was either the aurora borealis or one hell of a long, drawn-out orgasm.
Inexplicably, she felt as if she were rising from the chair, her limp body being taken up to heaven in the arms of God himself. She must have orgasmed so hard that she’d had a stroke, which would explain the aurora borealis.
God, no! I can’t die! Who will take care of the boys?
It was a particular taste that brought her to her senses. The taste of herself. Soft, wet lips covered hers, sharing the tangy, salty taste of her own body. The mouth was covered in her juices and it pressed harder and harder against hers.
“My God, you are delicious,” the lips said, an accent falling thick and hot in her ear, on her face. She was being carried up the lawn toward the guesthouse’but how?
“I will need more, pelirroja, ” said the unmistakable voice. “I will be taking more of the redheaded pussy you say is mine.”
Ginger stiffened, a lightning bolt of awareness hitting her smack between the eyes. “Ohmigod, put me down!” She tried to pry herself from Lucio’s arms, but his muscles only contracted further. She was trapped against his chest as he climbed the walkway to the guesthouse. “I said put me down! Now! Are you deaf?”
Lucio ignored her. He plowed ahead, now almost at the guesthouse door. Ginger’s pulse hammered wildly. She could hardly breathe. How in God’s name had she ended up being carried to her door twice in one day by the same man? Had she fainted again? No, wait—he’d really had his mouth on her! It had all been real! This was awful—too awful to face.
“Put me down.” This time her warning was delivered in a menacing whisper. “Put me down right this fucking second or I’ll scream so loud you really will be deaf when I’m done.”
Lucio’s response was to reach around her face and cover her mouth with his big hand until they reached the guesthouse porch. Once there, he eased her down to her feet but kept her mouth tightly covered. He turned the doorknob with his free hand.
He pressed Ginger’s back against the front of his body. Ginger wasn’t stupid. Something big and hard was poking into the base of her spine, and she knew exactly what it was. She tried to squirm away.
Lucio whispered into her ear, his breath still infused with the scent of her body. “I will wait until I hear your door close and the lock slide into place. Then I will leave.” He let his hand drop from her mouth and turned her toward him.
He flashed a smile. “Good night, my wild woman of the vineyards.”
Ginger’s spine stiffened. He smelled of her—her pussy! She’d told him’out loud—that it belonged to him! Her head pounded with confusion. Her limbs tingled with the remnants of the pleasure. What the hell had just happened? Had she fantasized so intensely that she’d conjured Lucio from the night shadows? Or had he been waiting for her, watching her—again? Either way, it had ended with her feeding her most intimate body part to a man she barely knew! And now he was seeing her to her room, as if the whole thing had been a non-event. Maybe in the world of Lucio Montevez it was, but not in her world.
“Do not look so perplexed, guapa.” Lucio brushed the underside of her chin with his fingertip. “Back there, you called out to me. I answered. But it is late and you are not in your right mind at the moment, so we must stop.”
Ginger’s mouth hung open. “Whaa?”
“I do not wish to take advantage of you.”
“Huh?”
Lucio’s smile widened, and his teeth were blinding white in the porch light. “Loneliness and wine can make us do crazy things. So I will say good night.” He reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles. He kissed the fragile bones and tendons of her hand. Then he turned her wrist over and kissed the skin stretched over her wild pulse. It was all intensely sensual. Mind-numbingly sexual. Ginger tried to think clearly but failed. She was swooning! Swooning! Up until now she hadn’t even understood what that word meant!
“What is happening?” She raised her gaze to his, whispering her question. Lucio’s eyes met hers, endlessly deep and dark and probing. He really did possess the eyes of a sexual panther, but at some point he’d also acquired the manners of an Eagle Scout. Honestly, she’d never been more disappointed in her life.
“But you said you wanted more of me,” Ginger said, the words so heavy with frustration it embarrassed her.
Lucio chuckled softly. “I must take a rain check.” He pulled a pair of panties from his pocket and shoved them in her hand, adding, “You shouldn’t leave these lying around just anywhere.”
Then he turned her by the shoulders, gave her bottom a gentle pat, and sent her through the guesthouse door.
CHAPTER 3
Ginger stared at the stark white piece of San Francisco Herald stationery in her unsteady hands, perplexed. Why did they call it a pink slip if it wasn’t pink? Not a shade of salmon, or rose, or even a soft coral. Her termination notice was in stark black and white, seventeen years of her life wiped off the map in two paragraphs.
“This truly sucks,” Bea said, falling into Ginger’s chair with a thud. “I have no other skills except sports editing. And only newspaper editing. I wouldn’t even know where to start in broadcast or Internet journalism, or even Titterlating or whatever it’s called.”
“Bea!” Ginger snapped in annoyance as she folded the termination letter and shoved it in her bag. “This is my pink slip. Not yours. I just lost my job. Not you!”
Bea popped up from the chair, hugged Ginger quickly, then patted her back a little too hard. “Right. Sorry. Shit, Ginger. What are you going to do? Do you have any other skills?”
Ginger laughed. Of course she had skills—she was a divorced mother. She could do pretty much anything.
She could make a mean pot roast. She could iron a man’s dress shirt—including the heavy starch—in five minutes. She could paint a ceiling, transport a soccer team, change the oil in a lawn mower, and manage an investment portfolio. She could apply eyeliner at a stoplight. She knew instinctively which handbag went with which outfit.
Bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan was nothing—try bringing home an Associated Press First Place Award for special section editing and springing your kid from the juvenile detention center. Now that would put hair on your chest!
Ginger gasped, suddenly certain all the stress of the last few years had caused her to sprout chin hairs like the ones her grandmother Ola had. She reached a hand up to her jaw, finding nothing but smooth skin, and said a silent prayer of thanks. She might be an unemployed, love-starved woman, but at least she wasn’t an unemployed, love-starved woman with chin hair.
“You look pretty freaked out by this,” Bea said, concern in her voice. “What are you thinking?”
“Just that I could handle any job I’m offered,” Ginger lied.
“That’s the attitude,” Bea said, giving her another slap on the shoulder. “Have you updated your résumé?”
Ginger bit her lip, knowing her résumé didn’t reflect a wide range of abilities. In fact, it was downright one-dimensional, because she’d spent her entire working life at the Herald.
Ginger had started right out of school as a city desk general assignment reporter, working day and night to prove her mettle. After her maternity leave, she became a feature writer. And, for the last eight years, she’d been editor of the Herald’ s house and garden section.
It was ironic. For nearly a decade now, Ginger hadn’t even needed to work. Once Larry had made it out of med school and his residency, he made good money as a private-practice urologist and medical school professor. They could have afforded to have Ginger stay home. But she chose to stay at the Herald. She never wanted to have to choose between her work and her kids. She wanted to build a career while she built a family, and saw no reason why she couldn’t do both.
So when Larry had dumped her for a girl half her age, Ginger thanked the gods she’d remained in the workforce. At that moment her job became the longest-lasting relationship of her adulthood. But as of ten minutes ago, she had nothing to show for her wise decision except that familiar lump of rejection in her gut and a two-paragraph souvenir.
Ginger put her hands on her hips, scanning the chaos in the features department. She was one of six employees let go that morning, and there was a lot of crying and swearing going on, despite the fact that they’d all known it was coming, sooner or later.
“Let’s go down to circulation and see if they have any boxes,” Bea said helpfully. “I’ll help you clean out your desk.”
Ginger shook her head. “Don’t bother. Misty told me there’s been a run on cardboard boxes and they’re out.”
Both Bea and Ginger turned to watch Misty McGinty throwing the contents of her desk drawers into industrial-sized plastic garbage bags. The petite fashion and beauty reporter was working up a sweat in her designer ensemble, cursing loudly and with creative abandon. And she was naming names. Names that belonged to the managing editor. The publisher. Her immediate boss. Who cared? What was the worst that could happen to her—she’d get fired?
“Poor kid,” Bea said.
“Poor everybody.” Ginger sat on the edge of her desk, crossing her arms over her chest. “This is a damned shame.”
Bea ran a hand through her short spiky hair in exasperation. “I’m worried about Josie. What if she gets back from her honeymoon and finds out she’s been canned?”
Ginger looked at Bea like she was nuts. “Josie can do anything she wants with her life now, including nothing at all. She just married the gazillionaire CEO of a pet store chain!”
“This is true,” Bea said, nodding. “I just wish they’d ax all of us at once instead of dragging it out like this, week after week. It’s like eliminations on a bad reality show.” Bea snatched a pen from Ginger’s desk and pretended it was a microphone. “Stay tuned to see which sorry-assed loser will be going home this week!”
Ginger winced.
“Not you. I didn’t mean you.”
“Well, I’m taking my sorry ass home, and right now.” Ginger rose from the desk and grabbed her bag. “It’s like a funeral in here. I’ll come back tomorrow with boxes from home.”
Bea followed her out the double glass doors that divided the features department from the rest of the open newsroom. “But really,” she said, nearly jogging to keep up with Ginger, “what are you going to do for a job?”
Ginger shrugged. “My job will be fin
ding a job, like half the journalists in this country.”
They headed up the center aisle of the newsroom. Ginger stopped to hug a few people and wave at a few others, but she was determined to get to the elevators before she shed a single tear.
When she reached Denise, a sweet girl raising three little kids on a receptionist’s salary, Ginger almost lost it. Because Denise was waving a white envelope. “I got mine, too,” she said in a soft voice. “Hold the elevator and we’ll all go down together.”
HeatherLynn’s shrill little bark meant the boys were home from school. Ginger decided to greet them in the foyer to lessen the shock. She was never home this early. She didn’t want the boys thinking burglars had broken in during the day—and stopped to prepare homemade lasagna.
“Hey, guys!”
Jason and Joshua froze in the doorway, their eyes as big as blue plums, bookbags dropping to the floor.
“You got fired,” Josh said, immediately assessing the situation. “Oh, Mom, I’m really sorry.”
Jason pointed his nose to the ceiling and inhaled deeply. “How long till the lasagna’s done?”
A third male figure popped up in the doorway, and Ginger groaned loudly, if only in her head. The boys’ father laid a hand on each of his son’s shoulders and peeked his head inside. “You made lasagna? Damn, I wish I could stay but I have a department meeting tonight.”
“Bummer,” Ginger said, waving the dishtowel to usher all of them inside. “How was your day, boys? Please shut the door. How’s it going, Larry?”
Joshua, the youngest by two minutes, stopped to pick up HeatherLynn on his way through the foyer. He held her close and high on his chest, so the dog could tuck her head under his chin. “You doing okay, Mumu?” he asked, using his childhood nickname for her as he hugged her quickly. “You knew this might be coming, right?”
The Night She Got Lucky Page 4