Burn for Me

by Lauren Blakely

  He wanted to thank his lucky stars that she was so willing to dirty talk back in her own way. He’d never expected her to, but she sure as hell seemed to be loving it, judging from how she felt against his fingers.

  Drawing a slow, lingering line against her delicious wetness first, he then teased at her clit. She arched her hips against his hand, and her breathing grew erratic. Her blouse had fallen open along her shoulder and he planted another bruising kiss there, more teeth nipping into her skin. She bowed her back in response, and his mouth cruised over her throat to her full breasts, all while using his fingers to explore the hot flesh that called out for him. He stroked her swollen clit until she moaned so loudly, he reflexively glanced at the door. But he didn’t really care whether anyone heard because she’d opened her legs wider, asking for more. He worked his fingers faster, then slid a finger inside her.

  “Oh God,” she gasped and her voice rose an octave.

  Another finger, and her breath caught.

  “You like that, don’t you?”

  “I do,” she panted.

  He pressed the pad of his thumb harder against her, rubbing circles that drove her into a whole new level of frenzy.

  “I want to know what you look like when you lose control, Jamie. I want you to give it all to me. Fuck my hand,” he said, and she responded, panting and moaning as she rocked her hips. “You smell so unbelievably sexy when you’re this turned on,” he said, starting to lose his mind with desire for her.

  “It’s all because of you,” she said as she dropped her hand from his hips to his cock and stroked him through his jeans, driving him wild.

  “You like that? You like how hard you make me?” he said, practically groaning into her ear because he was so damn ready for her. “If you touch me, you’re going to need to finish me off, you know that, right?”

  “I’m dying to feel you,” she said, gasping out the words in an unsteady voice.

  A low rumble worked its way up his chest as he crooked his fingers into her, loving how she gripped him with her creamy flesh. “You can only touch me after you come.”

  Her mouth fell open, and she bucked against his hand as he took her to the edge.

  She screamed out a yes, grappling at his hips, his waist, to hold on tight as her orgasm crashed through her beautiful body. He rained kisses on her neck as she came down from her climax, savoring the taste of her sweet skin and the way she’d let go completely with him.

  A minute later, she unzipped his jeans and reached inside, taking him in her hands.

  He closed his eyes, hitched in a breath at the feel of her soft hand stroking his shaft. He’d pictured this many times, imagined Jamie touching him. But more than that, he’d pictured making her come on his cock.

  He curled his palm around her hand, then took her hand off of him.

  “I want you against the wall. And I want to know what you sound like when I make you come twice in one night,” he said, scooping her up from the shelf and setting her on the floor.

  She obliged, that wild look in her eyes telling him all he needed to know. She pressed her hands against the wall, and he was rewarded with the gorgeous sight of her skirt hiked up to her waist and her ass wiggling.

  “Jamie.” She looked at him over her shoulder and he smacked her ass lightly. Her eyes widened. “I want to look at you while I fuck you senseless,” he said, turning her around. He took out a condom, rolled it on, and lifted her up against the wall, pressing her spine into the wood.

  “You ready for me?”

  “So ready,” she said.

  Then he sunk into her.

  …

  Jamie’s head was fuzzy, and her body felt like it was vibrating. Somewhere, in the recesses of her mind, she knew this was a recipe for disaster. But she’d never had sex like this before. Hard, rough, all heat and need. She never knew she’d like it so much. That she’d love it so much. She wasn’t a Goody Two-shoes, but her repertoire had been missionary and girl-on-top mostly, and never had she gotten it on in a storage room. Yet here she was with her legs spread in her place of work. The knowledge that she was mere feet away from the party she’d planned sent a charge through her, the riskiness leading her on.

  She gripped his shoulders tight, holding on as he stroked inside her. He moved hard, just like he kissed. Possessively, hungrily, like he wanted to own her body. She could barely even move, but she didn’t need to because he held her ass in his strong hands, all while filling her. Then he slowed his rhythm, making sure she felt every single exhilarating thrust, as his fingers dug into her flesh.

  “I want you to feel all of me,” he said, groaning into her ear. “I want you to feel everything as I fuck you deep, Jamie.”

  The world was fading out with his words. Wild tension gripped every corner of her body, like she was held taut with lust. She closed her eyes, let her head fall back with each agonizing stroke, climbing closer to another release. “I do, I do feel everything,” she whispered in broken breaths.

  “Look at me,” he said harshly. “I want to watch you come. I want you to look at me when I come inside you.”

  She opened her eyes, his face a few inches above hers. His dark blue eyes holding her gaze. She couldn’t move, he was in 100 percent control of her—her pleasure and her body—and he was taking them to another level, insisting on closeness. It was so intimate now as they locked their gazes, the connection so intense they didn’t need to talk anymore. No more directions, no more dirty words. She watched as his eyebrows raised, the strain and the tension written on his face, as he thrust in her, slow, hard, deep. She was coiled and tight inside, from the torturous pace, from the exquisite agony of another build, her body reaching for more, craving another climax.

  “I have wanted you for so long, Jamie,” he said, thrusting into her, his admission making her grab harder on his shoulders and pull him closer. “I’m so into you. Have been for so long.”

  “I’ve wanted you too,” she whispered against his neck, all her truths so easy to say with her body awash in magnificent sensations.

  “So.” Another thrust. “Fucking.” A hard drive that sent her spinning. “Long.”

  And then, like a switch flipped in her cells, she started to tremble as she felt all the tension release and there was nothing else in the world right now but this wild abandonment as her orgasm took over. She could no longer focus, no longer keep her eyes open. She held his shoulders, digging her nails in, and felt him pump his hips into her. Then his stilted breaths, his moans, his mouth on her neck, his strong hands on her ass, as he came inside her.

  Soon, when the orgasm started to fade away, she opened her eyes, and scanned the cramped room with its paper towels, and stepladder, and boxes full of supplies for The Panting Dog.

  The sight of them was a gut check, and reality slammed into her. She’d gone and had sex in the storage closet of the bar she managed. During her party.

  Her head felt cloudy, her body dizzy. But not from the pleasure. From the stark realization of what she’d done. She’d had sex with Smith to get him out of her system, and in doing so she’d broken a cardinal rule. She didn’t sleep with her friends, and she sure as hell didn’t get physical with men she could never be serious with.

  Smith zipped his jeans, looking sexy and dreamy and precisely like the kind of man she’d hate herself for falling for.

  “Come back to my house,” he said in that voice that threatened to lure her yet again. From his delicious accent to his filthy words, he was some kind of drug. If she took another hit, she’d be addicted. He absolutely, positively had to be a one-time-only occasion.

  She grabbed her panties from the floor, balled them up in her hand, and scrambled for an excuse, neurons now tripping over themselves as she plotted the fastest course out of her embarrassment. Her mind raced through plausible reasons to get the hell out of there. Headache? No, too typical. Forgot a morning appointment? No, that required too much explanation. She wanted to curse herself for not having a dog. Dogs w
ere a perfect excuse because they needed to be walked.

  Wait. She did know someone who had a dog.

  “I can’t. I’m dog sitting for Diane. I need to go walk Henrietta. Thanks for a fun night,” she said.

  She gave him a peck on the cheek, because that would make her seem cool and unflustered, surely. She didn’t look back when she opened the door to the storage room, grabbed her purse from the shelf where she’d left it earlier, stuffed her underwear inside, and hightailed it out the back door.

  Once outside, she pressed her palm against the brick wall, needing to root herself to the real world again, not a fantasy one fueled by foolish lust. The warm night air rushed over her and the stars twinkled overhead, as she breathed in and out, each breath recalibrating and reminding her that she wasn’t that kind of woman. She didn’t do that kind of thing.

  At least, she didn’t plan to again.

  She raced home, the whole time running through her to-do list for tomorrow, the next day, the rest of the week, the rest of her life. Anything to get tonight out of her mind.

  Chapter Four

  Jamie dropped her ereader in her purse, then added her migraine pills. She stopped at a framed photo she kept on her bureau. It was a picture of the dog and cat she’d had when she was younger. A handsome German shepherd her parents had named Tennyson, alongside their Siamese cat, Lord. Tennyson had been the best dog ever, loyal and devoted, and a complete sweetheart, especially considering how well he’d played with Lord.

  If only she could find another German shepherd. But the breed was hard to come by at animal shelters. She’d tracked down a young puppy in a San Jose shelter last week, but was on a waiting list for him. She hadn’t heard back, so she figured the puppy had gone to another home. She’d just keep checking with more local rescues until another puppy arrived.

  A dog would surely take her mind off a certain someone.

  She repositioned the photo. Then moved it to the other end of the bureau. Or maybe it would look better in the middle. She’d already dusted, swept her floors, and scrubbed clean her kitchen counters. Her whole house was spotless, but her brain kept returning to last night.

  “Crud,” she muttered. She was stalling, and she knew it. She had to go to work in thirty minutes, and Smith would likely be there, working on the construction of the same back room where they’d danced. She’d avoided him today, his calls and his texts wanting to know if she was okay. But she’d have to man up in a few minutes, and what was she supposed to say?

  Hey, you’re a swell pal, and you screw like a rock star, but let’s just pretend last night never happened, shall we?

  Ugh.

  The person she really wanted to avoid, though, was herself.

  She couldn’t believe she’d had sex with Smith, let alone liked that filthy mouth of his. She was a romantic. She had a soft spot for poems and wine and the finer things in life, so how the hell did she get off on a man who liked it down and dirty? He’d sent her into such a heated state, she was barely herself last night. She’d been pulsing, alive and trembling with want. She was supposed to fall for someone classy, who courted her with odes and stanzas, not hot, bossy words as he pinned her to the wall.

  She dropped her head into her hand. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t into that kind of rough play, she didn’t need to be bitten, or manhandled, or talked to like that. But then, maybe she did, because those orgasms he delivered were the stuff you didn’t just write a poem about; those were the kind of Os that made you write an anthemic album that sold millions of copies as everyone screwed and made babies to it.

  She waved her hands in front of her face, as if she could wave off the memories of the Best. Sex. Of. Her. Life.

  She marched into her living room, grabbed a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets and sent a quick prayer to the Bard that he would reset her as the romantic she knew she was. God knew, the novel she’d tried reading this morning hadn’t helped—she’d downloaded a racy romance about two coworkers who agree to a no-strings-attached relationship for one week, hoping that will cure them of the simmering lust they have for each other. Whether their tactic worked was up for debate—she’d had to set the story down when the hero pushed all the papers off the desk and lifted the heroine onto it. She’d been getting too hot and bothered for her own good.

  Settling into Sonnet 116, she reacquainted herself with a reminder of the importance of having something in common with a partner. “Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,” she read out loud, nodding vigorously. Shakespeare was right. She and Smith were too far off the mark; they’d simply never work. Now take her parents—they were two like-minded people. They ran a winery together, they both loved wine and poetry, they liked the same books and movies, they were neat and orderly and they’d lasted through the years. On the other hand, there was Diane and the Douche. Her sweet sister went for the guy she was friends with, the life of the party type, and wound up being saddled with a divorce after only three years.

  The proof was in front of her in her very own family. Smith would never be the kind of guy who could take care of a woman outside the bedroom. Though as soon as that thought touched down in her head, she flashed back to the Spring Festival last year. They’d played a few rounds of Skee-Ball, both their competitive spirits running strong. She’d won twice, he’d won twice, and they’d shared beers afterwards. But then a cruel migraine had set in quickly. He walked her home, fixed her a quick cup of the green tea that sometimes took the edge off her headaches, then tucked her in bed and turned out the lights so she could sleep her headache away. She’d hate to lose that sort of closeness if anything else continued with them.

  She slammed the book of poems shut. They weren’t helping her forget him. She grabbed her phone and called her good friend Megan, who’d been living in LA for the last year. They’d gone to high school together, and Megan always gave solid advice. Her friend answered on the second ring, but didn’t speak right away. Jamie was greeted instead by loud clang, then a frenzied “Hello?”

  “Hey Megster, how’s it going? You rearranging the furniture or something?”

  “A pot just fell off the stove.”

  “I hope it wasn’t boiling,” Jamie said with a laugh.

  “It wasn’t. And it didn’t actually fall. I bumped into it,” Megan admitted sheepishly.

  “You’ve always been prone to bumping into things.”

  “So true. What’s going on up there? I miss you,” she said with a wistful tone in her voice.

  Jamie started to tell her about last night, but something stopped her. She didn’t know what to say, or frankly, why she needed to talk about it. She’d already decided Smith was a one-time-only thing, so there was no need to rehash him. Chin up, move on, keep on keeping on.

  “You should come back to Hidden Oaks then,” she said, shifting gears away from last night.

  “I’ve been thinking about it. Things with Jason suck.”

  “Oh no. I’m so sorry. Is it more of the same?” She asked carefully because last she heard, Megan’s boyfriend had been hitting the bottle a few too many times.

  “Yeah. I never see him anymore. All he cares about is partying. I swear, I don’t know what I ever saw in him or why I moved here. We have nothing in common,” Megan said, frustration etched in her words. Jamie wanted to reach out and hug her, and tell her that somehow it was all going to work out. Not with Jason, but in general. They chatted some more, and Jamie checked her watch, realizing she needed to head to work.

  “Okay sweets. Call me if you need to talk more,” she said, and even though they hadn’t chatted about Smith, somehow she felt better for that. Maybe this was the clear evidence that she wasn’t thinking about him—she didn’t need to discuss him.

  She slipped her bag over her shoulder, locked the door, and walked to work, several blocks from her small bungalow. She wore a jean skirt, a short sleeve top, and ankle boots on her bare legs, the perfect ensemble for the warm spring day.

  She wal
ked past the local hair salon and the coffee shop, spotting a familiar face up ahead. Cara was walking her adorable black and white border collie mix in a perfect heel by her side. She was the best dog trainer in town, with a client list who adored her. Including Jamie’s sister.

  She was about to say hello, when she remembered that Smith had once dated Cara. But who cared? She wasn’t dating Smith, and she certainly wasn’t so petty that she wouldn’t say hello for that reason. Besides, she was a dog person through and through, and she wanted to say hello to the pooch too.

  “Hey Cara,” she called out with a wave. “How’s Violet?”

  “She is excellent. A good girl as always,” Cara said and Violet sat by her owner’s side as soon as Cara stopped walking.

  Jamie bent down to pet the collie mix. The dog lifted her snout, giving her more room to scratch between her ears. “She’s so cute,” she said.

  “How’s Henrietta? Is she keeping Diane good company?”

  A flush crept across her cheeks again as she remembered her excuse last night. But she sucked down her embarrassment. “She’s the best dog.”

  “Diane said you were thinking about getting a puppy. A German shepherd?”

  Jamie nodded. “If I can find one. I’ve been looking for one in a rescue. I’m on a waiting list.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open for you. They’re good dogs.”

  “Thanks for doing that. I better get going into work. Don’t want to be late,” she said.

  “See you around.”

  “You too,” Jamie said with a cheerful wave. As she walked off, she was ready to pat herself on the back. She truly must have gotten Smith out of her system if it didn’t bother her to run into an ex. Her plan had worked and had cured her of all her feelings for him.

  Jamie held her head up high as she walked into the bar, ready to focus on work and prep for the wine tasting she was hosting in an hour.

  “Hey, Jamie.”

  She was greeted by Becker—tall, broad, brooding, and the owner of the bar. He was with the fire department too, running the volunteer force. She was grateful to have a boss like Becker. He was a cool guy, only a few years older than her twenty-six years. Even though the bar was a microbrewery, he let her bring in some of her favorite wines for the grape lovers who flocked to town, and she’d also urged him to throw the kickoff party for the festival. He was eager to make his mark in town, and since she knew this town inside and out, he’d often turned to her for input on how to grow and expand the bar’s presence. “So what’s the verdict? How was the party you convinced me to have?”