Living at 40 (Lakeside Cottage Book 1)

by L. B. Dunbar

  “And how is your body responding to mine right now?” I whisper just below her ear.

  “I’m wet, and I want you. I ache for you, actually.”

  Jesus. “We cannot have that. My body is your plaything. Take what you want from me.”

  She shifts a little to glance at me over her shoulder. “I don’t want to disappoint you, Logan.”

  “Nothing about you could ever disappoint me,” I admit, laying her on her back and climbing over her. “We need to make up for this morning.”

  “What was wrong with this morning?” We both recall how I rushed her in the shower.

  “Standing up sex is not an option if we want to get pregnant.” We? “I mean, you. Everything dribbled out of you, and we need to keep the goods inside until the seed is planted.”

  “Are you likening me to a garden?”

  “I want to see you bloom.” I lower my hand for her belly, shifting to my side as we both gaze down at my palm covering the full, flat expanse of her stomach. For a moment, I imagine it. I see her swelling and us together sharing the experience, but that is not her plan. That’s not the direction she wants things to go.

  The path we need to take is sex—again. However, somehow things feel different as we slowly remove each other’s clothing, taking our time to kiss and nip at one another until we’re both naked and on fire with need. She’s dripping, as she said, and I touch her until she gives me her first orgasm.

  Pushing me to my back, she rolls over me and moves between my thighs, holding my shaft upward at the base and devouring me with torturous, teasing laps before sucking until I’m on the verge of erupting.

  “You need to hop on pop before I burst,” I tease, although my voice is soft, strained even, and she chuckles. Climbing back up my body, she straddles me, sliding over my length with the heat of her pussy. She takes her time to lower over me, drawing me into her depths, making me feel like I belong there. I was made for her.

  “Jesus,” I hiss, clutching at her hips. I’m going to blow, and we need to shift, but she doesn’t let me move. She works up and down my dick, taking her time to fill herself before dragging to the tip once again.

  “Autumn,” I warn her. It’s too much. The slower tempo. Her teasing hum. Her hands coast over my chest while her hips rock, moving in small, sharp circles at first before slipping up my rock-hard dick and slamming back down again. She presses herself upright, completely swallowing me into her, and she scratches her short nails down my chest. Straddling me, she gazes down at me buried deep within her. With moonlight streaming over her lush body, she looks like a goddess again, and I want to know what deity I need to pray to to deserve her.

  “You’re so beautiful.” I reach up for the tips of her hair, which fall over her shoulders as she undulates back and forth. Her clit rubs my pubic bone, and I know it feels good for her, but I can’t hold off.

  I jackknife upright and flip her to her back. She lets out a squeal, but I smother the sound with a hard kiss to her mouth. My hips begin to hammer at her while her legs wrap around my lower back.

  “Can’t. Go. Slow.” I can’t make love to her when this needs to be about sex. When this needs to be about her and what she wants as an end goal. I move faster, drive harder, delve deeper, until I can’t take another second. I still, and a fountain of release explodes within her. I don’t move other than the racing of my heart and the jolting of my dick, both pulsing in a rapid rhythm. One part of me wants to give her so much more. It’s a part that can’t be seen or even felt directly. It’s wrapped in faith, trust, and a belief that love exists. That I can love her if she’d let me.

  17

  [Autumn]

  Logan and I fall into a crazy routine of sneaking into my room after each day’s activities. Boating and jet ski rentals. Fishing and tubing. More golf for the guys. Lunches, dinners, and drinks. The days are packed to keep people busy but relaxed, and all the while, I check off the minutes until Logan and I can be alone having the best sex of my life.

  Something shifted the other night. It was more than the depth of him inside me, but deep in my soul, I felt something different. Then he flipped me as if trying to get back to who we were instead of stepping forward into who we could be. Admittedly, I could love Logan Anders. I always have in some way. There was no going back to being just friends. He was no longer my brother’s best friend, nor was I just Ben’s younger sister. Every moment alone was a new adventure between us and burrowing the idea of us deeper and deeper into my heart, allowing him where I shouldn’t want him.

  He had Lorna. He lived in Indiana. He had a life outside of Lakeside. He was only doing what I asked, and I was certain I was pregnant, but it didn’t stop me from enjoying him, taking from him, using him to satisfy some fantasy in my head that we could be a family. That we were moving toward something together.

  As time sped up, we neared the end of our two-week holiday, which no one wanted to discuss.

  “Let me take you out on a date at least once,” Logan teases on Thursday morning. The guys are scheduled to leave on Sunday. Logan will head south to Indianapolis while Mason returns north to Traverse City. Zack will return east to the Detroit area, but Ben will stay here, and we will navigate being a brother-sister family living in the same city once again.

  “How will we explain a date?” I chuckle in the early hours of the morning. Logan stays longer and longer through the nights, setting his alarm for dawn to sneak back to his room.

  “As Mason and Ben know what we are doing, I don’t think it will be much of a surprise. I feel like I owe dinner to the woman giving me a million star-seeing orgasms.”

  I laugh into the pillow. “Star-seeing, huh?”

  “An entire galaxy,” he says, shifting to face me as we’ve just completed another universe-rattling moment of morning sex. He’s so hard when he wakes, and I don’t want to waste the eagerness with which he wants to release. Sometimes I need to allow him to go first inside me before he gives me attention, but I’m okay with that arrangement. Everything Logan does, he’s doing for me, and he never leaves me unsatisfied.

  “Anna also knows,” I say quietly.

  “If I could let you scream, the entire town might know we’re together.” With Lorna only doors down the hall, screaming with the orgasms he gives me is not an option, but I’m stuck on the words he’s spoken.

  We’re together. How I wish it were true. Only a few days remain, and that leaves us with three nights.

  “Okay,” I say, staring at him as he strokes back my hair. “Dinner tonight then.”

  + + +

  Driftwood is a popular restaurant and bar closest to the public beach. It’s a beautiful August evening, and a rooftop setting allows patrons to see the lake in the distance. A slight breeze cools off the hot day, and Logan secured us a corner table for privacy.

  “I don’t remember the last time I was on an official date,” I state, grateful for this evening. With Rick, we always ate meals I cooked at home after preparing food for others at the café all day. In addition, Rick hardly ever had money, so treated meals were a rarity. Surprisingly, he had plenty of money for drugs, alcohol, and another woman.

  “I wish it could be fancier.” Logan glances around the packed rooftop, full of patrons loudly laughing and imbibing. A bottle of wine has been placed on the table, and Logan pours us each a glass. “This area needs a good steakhouse.”

  One can order steak here, but Driftwood’s fame is its burgers and sandwiches.

  “I’m not worried about the menu. Just here for the company,” I flirt, reaching for my glass of wine.

  “I don’t want the company to disappoint you either.” He lifts his wineglass and tips it at me before adding, “I’ve been on too many dull dates, and not many led to seconds.”

  As Logan drinks, his comment reminds me of my conversation with Anna about Logan being a second choice to Mason. I’ve never felt that way myself, but I can understand how Mason might appear better than Logan, with an emphasis on appeara
nce. As I’ve aged, though, I’ve learned repeatedly it’s the inside of a man who counts, and a sense of humor is more stunning than a pretty face.

  Wishful thinking brings hope Logan doesn’t have second dates because he doesn’t find the women he dates appealing and not the other way around. Unfortunately, Logan will leave here and go back to random dating, eventually meeting the right woman and settling into a routine with her. They’ll date on the regular and have wild sex when they can. Maybe he’ll fall in love again. Maybe he’ll marry her.

  I don’t like the thought of any of it.

  “Do you date often?” I hate that I’m asking. We promised only sex, but I’m still curious. Who will he see when he returns to his home?

  He shrugs, reaching for his glass of wine. “Not like I used to.” He avoids looking at me, but I wait out more explanation. “When I first divorced, a few guys at the office encouraged me to date right away. Get laid, they said. You’ll feel better. Only I didn’t.” His finger circles the rim of his glass. “I didn’t like feeling like I was stepping backward in time. Starting over to discover someone. Learn their likes and dislikes. I understand that’s dating, but I just didn’t want to do it. I guess I was too comfortable being married.”

  “There’s some crazy statistic I once read that said men are something like eighty percent more likely to remarry than a woman. It’s the comfort factor you just mentioned.” I’m not judging him, but it makes sense to me. All the men I’d dated liked the fact I took care of them. It made them too comfortable in their situation but not comfortable enough to be with only me.

  “Why aren’t you married?” he asks, as long as heavy conversation seems to be on the table.

  “I could say I never found the right guy. But I think it’s more the right man never found me.” I glance away from him as it’s more than I wanted to share, but the truth pours out. I blame it on the wine and the company. “I’d find a man, fall hard fast, and think he must be the one. But I like to think the one would have found me just as well, and it hasn’t happened.” I shrug, lifting my glass for my lips. “Maybe it never will.”

  “You don’t believe in destiny, fate, love?” he questions, arching a brow. “I thought that’s what all women dream of.”

  “Logan, I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” Both eyebrows hitch as I crook my finger, beckoning him to come closer to me. “I do believe in destiny, but I think mine missed me.”

  His mouth falls open, but I lift a hand to stop him.

  “While all girls want Prince Charming, they don’t want to feel like they have to do all the seeking. A woman wants to be sought. She wants to feel like she’s more than a fleeting moment to a man but the woman he absolutely cannot live without for a lifetime. She’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but she doesn’t want to feel like she has to do it all alone. She wants to feel needed but not have him be needy. She wants to be taken care of but not be smothered. Hold her hand. Hold her up. It’s a lot of pressure, but the right man . . . he knows how to do it.”

  “I’ll never measure up. It’s a constant line of contradictions.” Crestfallen, his expression suggests he really believes this about himself, and I feel guilty I’ve imparted wisdom that comes across as an impossibility. Maybe my sights have been set too high, but that can’t be the case, considering the lowlifes I’ve had in past relationships.

  “We aren’t called the contradictory sex for nothin’,” I tease. He reaches for his glass and finishes the remainder of it.

  “I thought you were supposed to be the gentler sex,” he says, not fully teasing me.

  “I am gentle, but that doesn’t seem to get me anywhere. Honestly, I’m not married because no one ever asked me.”

  This lifts his dropped lids, and he stares at me. “Were they insane?” His sharp reproach of my exes makes me laugh.

  “Actually, I think I was a little bit crazy. It’s my nature to nurture, and men who need that kind of tuck-them-in-bed and spoon-feed-their-ego is who I seem to attract.”

  “Jesus, you must think we’re all dicks,” he mutters.

  “Not at all. And I like a dick.” I wink, hoping to draw us away from this depressing conversation. He chuckles softly, but his laughter isn’t coming from his belly. “What about you? Why aren’t you remarried?”

  “I haven’t found the right woman who can take on me and Lorna.”

  I nod as if I fully understand, and in many ways, I do. It takes a special woman to accept a man who had children with another woman. “Did you love Chloe?”

  As he pours himself more wine, he explains. “I thought I did. When I look back on our beginning, I really think it seemed like love. With hindsight, I’m not convinced it was the type of love I wanted it to be. I mean, we seemed to be the sort of people who understood one another. The weight. The eating. The humor. Chloe changed. Or maybe I did, and it just wasn’t that long-lasting love I’d always hoped I’d find.” He crooks his finger at me. “I have a secret to tell you.”

  I giggle as I lean closer to him. “Men believe in love, too. It’s why when we think we’ve found it, we’re so comfortable with it. We want to be taken care of but don’t want to be mothered. We want to appear strong but realize we can be weakened by the right woman. There’s a desire to be wanted as if a woman feels she can’t live without us. We dream of being the center of her world, but deep down, we know it’s the other way around. We can’t live without her.”

  Slowly, I smile at his teasing voice. I’ve done my part to center someone else inside my world, but then again, I’ve been headstrong enough to know a man isn’t ever going to take care of me like I need, so I do things for myself. Like the café. Like wanting a baby.

  “Well,” Logan states, double-tapping his fingers on the table. “Now that we’ve imparted all the wisdom we have as experts in relationships, it appears the magnitude of impossible between men and women leaves us with the only thing men and women find of value in one another, and that’s sex.”

  I snort. “And even that can be questionable. Present company excluded, of course.” I wink at him.

  Logan laughs as well, and just like that, our serious conversation ends. We talk about safer topics instead. Logan tells me how he likes his job, but he’s been longing for a change. I tell him about the café and how I’m living my dream. He tells me more about Lorna, and it’s clear how much he loves his daughter. For a moment, I’m saddened that my child won’t have the fatherly figure every kid needs. My father is deceased. Ben has his own children to parent, and whoever does get me pregnant won’t be present to be a dad. I’ve told myself I’m strong enough to be both mother and father but listening to Logan discuss his child, it hits me that a valuable piece of my child’s upbringing will be missing if I don’t have a man in my life. It’s the contradictory line between mother and father.

  We finish our meal with a second bottle of wine, and to say we are tipsy might be an understatement. We sway as we walk, bumping into one another as we exit the restaurant. Logan loops his arm lazily over my shoulder, tugging me into his side, and instead of leading me to his car, he steers us toward the beach.

  “I want to make out with you,” he blurts, and I giggle like a teen. “No sex. Just kissing.”

  “You already made up for the lost kiss,” I remind him, recalling his mouth on mine on the landing less than two weeks ago. How did we get to only a few days from the end so quickly?

  “This is . . . different,” he says without more explanation. We step off the boardwalk leading to the public beach and cross the cool sand. It’s late and dark, and technically, the beach is closed. Before us, a lifeguard hut stands on pillars a few yards from the shoreline and faces the black lake.

  “Let’s go up,” Logan whispers.

  “I don’t think that’s legal,” I warn him, noting the sign listing all the things not allowed at the beach, which probably includes climbing up the short ladder and standing on the landing around the square structure. I don’t know for cer
tain as the letters blur together a bit. Logan doesn’t reply to my concern, but he places his hands on my hips, guiding me to the ladder and hoisting me upward. I squeal.

  “Shh,” he warns with a chuckle. “We don’t want to get caught.”

  This makes me giggle more as though I’m a rule-breaking teenager once more. The thrill of getting caught ripples through me as I climb the short distance, and Logan follows. We aren’t exactly hidden, but it isn’t obvious we’re up here when Logan sits with his back to the building and drags my legs over his lap so my shoulder rests near his. We only sit like this for a minute before he’s scooting me over one leg, and my backside falls between his spread thighs, draping both my legs over his left thigh. His hand coasts up my spine, and I shiver in the cool evening breeze coming off the lake.

  “Make out with me.” It’s such a strange request yet another shiver slips over my skin, making the fine hairs stand erect. Logan’s palm cups the back of my neck as his mouth crushes mine. We both taste like wine and the sweetness of comfort and familiarity. He doesn’t need to discover me because he’s known me most of his life. He’s circled around me enough to know the basics of who I am and what I do, and in some cases, why I do those things. On a deeper level now, he knows me intimately, also understanding how I like things, what my body can do to his, and why I want what I want.

  Our kissing grows deeper, but his hand doesn’t leave my neck. His other arm wraps around my waist, but he isn’t turning me, isn’t shifting us, isn’t making me straddle him. I remain between his thighs while his mouth savors mine as if getting drunk on the wine flavor coating my tongue.

  Eventually, the hand at my waist coasts slowly up my side, like a hesitant adolescent, eager to fondle me yet nervous at the same time. Slowly, slowly, slowly, his fingers seek until he cups the underside of my breast, gently nudging the swell upward.

  “I thought you said only making out,” I mutter to his mouth, teasing him.