Wargasm

by Sosie Frost

  My vision darkened, blinded to all but him. His muscles. The scruff on his jaw. The sharpness of his voice. The kindness in his eyes. I held him close, but I’d never be close enough to this man. My body shivered and shook, destroying itself only to mend the shattered core over his cock. I arched as the shock tore through my defenses and reduced me to bewildered, amazed, and grateful tears.

  A single heartbeat, and I was his.

  His cock hardened inside me. Grew. Heated.

  With a guttural profanity, he jetted wave after wave of seed inside my slickness. Sticky, delicious cum coated me, him, and every messy thrust. I clutched him, savoring the burst of indecent and intoxicating heat. The exhaustion overwhelmed me, and I sunk back against the bed, surrendering to his touch.

  Julian didn’t pull out. He stayed deep inside me, savoring the tightness, the closeness. He murmured soothing words as I gasped for air and panted his name.

  His hands brushed against my cheek. His lips grazed mine. And my hips moved again, taking him deeper, earning another satisfied sigh.

  “That what you wanted?” he whispered.

  I nodded. “No. It was what I needed.”

  “There’s more where that came from.”

  My arms felt like concrete, but I wrapped them around his neck anyway. “Don’t tease.”

  “Don’t doubt me.”

  “Put up or shut up, cowboy.”

  He grinned. “Not satisfied?”

  “Very satisfied, but I’ll take whatever you want to give.”

  His words quieted. “Not everything.”

  No.

  Not everything.

  But enough of it to get into trouble.

  Enough of him to lose myself for a lifetime.

  “It’s just sex, Jules.” I made the promise to myself. “Isn’t that what you want too?”

  “Is that all you want?”

  No.

  Yes.

  What I needed was to turn back time. To undo the frantic night in my office when I’d given him everything and he’d taken so much more. I needed to unknot my stomach and unbind my heart and clear my head of my ridiculous obsession with this man.

  I knew Julian Payne would eventually become a complication to an already complicated life.

  Or maybe…

  Maybe he’d be the solution?

  Or maybe falling for him would be my ultimate destruction.

  12

  Micah

  The porta-potties were delivered without the blue juice.

  Who delivered porta-potties to a county fair without the blue juice? And what was I supposed to do with thirty oversized plastic buckets for a week?

  This was a problem, but I could handle it. Like every other crisis that had befallen the fair in the day leading to the grand opening, I’d strap on my cape and become the superhero to fix it.

  If the concession stand was without hotdogs, and Sawyer County had no wieners anywhere save for the old fogies napping during my committee meetings, we’d serve cabbage and noodles instead.

  If the bank had a shortage of small bills for the ticket booth cash drawer, I’d raid every panty in every strip club in the tri-county area for a chance to make change.

  If the Itsy Bitsy Glitzy Charms and Accessories vendors tussled in the parking lot, I’d let them fist-fight under the watchful eye of the sheriff.

  I could handle everything.

  Except…I couldn’t step foot onto the fairgrounds.

  Wasn’t sure if it was the mustard or the manure, but one of the peculiar and charmingly rural smells twisted my gut. Gagging did not inspire morale.

  So, after a morning of frantic, desperate sex in the shower, I’d sent Julian to oversee the fair set-up in my place.

  Crisis averted.

  Well, most of the crises.

  Mayor Desmond’s visit to the office was unprecedented, especially as it wasn’t a Friday and we had no donuts in the kitchen. He rapped on my door, giving me a grin so slimy he’d need to wipe his lips after that unnecessary wink.

  “Hey, there Misha.”

  I’d worked for the township for almost six months. “Micah.”

  “Right, right.” He motioned for me to follow with a crooked finger. “Got a minute? Was hoping I could…pick your brain.”

  Oh, this wouldn’t be good. Last time he’d wandered into my office, Mayor Desmond had hoped to draft an ordinance restricting outdoor flood lights as he was convinced his neighbor angled his garage light up, to shine in Desmond’s window and disturb his evening entertainment of Wheel of Fortune and The Voice.

  This, of course, spawned a raging neighborhood feud and murmurs of mayoral impeachment.

  “Actually…” I pointed to the piles of orders, receipts, schedules, and pamphlets burying me alive. “The fair starts tomorrow. I have a million things to do…”

  “This will only take a minute.”

  “And I have to call Tushy Kings and get a refund on these porta-potties—”

  “You can spare some time.”

  “There’s no blue juice in the porta-potties, and it’s an ozone action day. Gonna be stifling—”

  “Can’t control the weather now can you, Misha?” Desmond winked. “Come on. This is important.”

  More important than rebuilding the temporary fencing meant to separate the show goats? We’d already had one nanny escape, and she did not lead the other goats on a Mary Poppins adventure. Not so many spoonfuls of sugar, but more eating the frame off the only golf cart reserved for security.

  I scribbled a note to switch the goat and the sheep pens and followed the mayor down the hall, pausing by the receptionist’s desk to catch Sharon’s gaze. She placed a hand over her cell phone and rolled her eyes.

  “Mayor McCheese has some great idea.” She pointed me to the conference room. “But watch out. Think that’s your dad in there.”

  “My dad?”

  “Big guy. Good shoulders. Nice looking?”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Good luck.”

  This wouldn’t be fun, especially as I realized all-too-late that I’d forgotten a cardigan and my blouse was losing the competition against my pregnancy-swollen, blue-ribbon breasts. Immodesty didn’t ease the nausea, but the best-in-show chest bunnies might distract Mayor Desmond long enough to kick my father out of the offices.

  “Micah, sweetheart.” Dad approached me, but we’d so seldom hugged that my extended hand bumped his arms and trapped me in that awkward, under-the-armpit pat to his back. “Heard you were busy.”

  “Extremely,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  Mayor Desmond pulled out a chair for me to sit. Should have offered a garbage can and a bottle of Ginger Ale too. This meeting did nothing to settle my stomach.

  “This is just a hypothetical discussion,” Desmond said.

  Great. My favorite. Hypothetical discussions that expected actual results. I tensed. “And what, hypothetically, would the zoning officer discuss with a major land developer?”

  Dad folded his hands. “We’re talking about the only thing that matters—Butterpond’s bright future.”

  Oh, good. So it had to do with money. The town’s future was nothing compared to Dad’s empty wallet.

  “Now, Peter and I have a shared dream,” Desmond said. “About Butterpond’s potential legacy.”

  Butterpond’s grocery store had just installed a Red Box machine, and the pothole on Bakers Run Road had been filled with sand. At this point, the town was lucky to have a sewage system, let alone a legacy.

  Dad took the initiative. “Butterpond deserves to be a thriving community. Full of new business and new homes and new families. Imagine this, Micah. Parks and ballfields. Community events and restaurants. Basically…” He extended his hands. “Opportunities.”

  I nodded. “Okay…”

  “In ten years, we could shift the face of this podunk town from overgrown corn fields to a young, working-family, vibrant community. New developments. Small business. A real benefit t
o the people.”

  I wasn’t an idiot. New development was code for expensive, luxury apartments that no one in the town could afford. Small business meant chains of big-box branded restaurants and stores. Benefits meant artificial town squares with a fountain and a frozen yogurt shop.

  I’d seen it before, time and time again. That didn’t make it bad, but it didn’t mean anything good for Butterpond either.

  “Okay,” I said. “What does this have to do with me? Find your land, create a proposal, and submit your application. You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

  Dad shook his head. “This is simply hypothetical, sweetheart. In all honesty, we don’t have a property secured for development…yet.”

  My stomach clenched. It wasn’t the morning sickness. “But…you have a property in mind?”

  Mayor Desmond wasn’t a subtle man. He scratched his chin with a hum. “You’ve been working with Julian Payne, right?”

  Working with him. Sleeping with him. Warring with him.

  Falling for him.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And how is Triumph Farm faring?” Desmond leaned closer. “No crops have been planted for five years or more now. Most of the land is overgrown. And I heard those boys don’t want to take care of the property anymore.”

  “Julian Payne is serious about rebuilding the farm.”

  “But…how serious can one man be?” Desmond asked. “There’s a tremendous amount of work to be done—plus the money issues, the loans, the inexperience…”

  “He’s committed,” I said. Damn it. Was my voice too sharp? Did they think I was being defensive?

  I smoothed my blouse if only to ensure my tummy was still flat under the material.

  “In fact…” I continued. “His variance application is on my desk right now, just waiting for next month’s Zoning Hearing Board meeting. With farm animals in need of shelter, his request should be approved.”

  “Oh.” Mayor Desmond shared a skin-crawling glance with Dad. “Good news for Julian Payne, I suppose…but is that good news for the town?”

  “Well…” I picked my words like I styled my hair—meticulously and with a hint of frustration. Too bad I didn’t have any detangler for this mess. “Triumph Farm is a Butterpond institution. I’m told it’s existed for generations.”

  Dad sighed. “And Barlow’s grocery store has been in business a long time—but that doesn’t mean a Whole Foods wouldn’t better service the community.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Mayor Desmond handed me a file and waited while I surveyed the plans tucked inside. Houses. Lots of them. Three hundred or more built out in five phases.

  All subdivided through the Payne family farm.

  Desmond choked on hushed excitement. “Imagine five, ten years from now. Three hundred new families move into the community. Three hundred working families, all contributing to a newly passed earned-income tax. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Imagine what an influx of money like that could do for a community. The equipment it could buy. The roads it can repair. The people it could hire.” Desmond held my gaze. “And it begins with the Payne farm.”

  Something told me this wasn’t such a hypothetical plan anymore. “This would fundamentally change the composition of this town. I don’t even think there’s an allowance for it in the Comprehensive Plan. Butterpond was always meant to be rural and agricultural.”

  “Times change.” Dad dismissed an entire two hundred years of Butterpond history with a shrug. “We’re not talking reinvention but revitalization. More money. More people. Bringing life to this tiny town.”

  “There’s plenty of life here,” I said. “Take a ride out to the fairgrounds. See it for yourself.”

  Desmond sighed. “I’ve lived here my entire life, Micah. Believe me when I say no one loves Butterpond more than me. But times are tough. You’ve seen the budgets. It’s getting harder and harder to deliver modern services to our people. We must learn to adapt.”

  Adapt. Sure. I glanced at Dad. “And buying the Payne’s farm is your grand scheme?”

  He lied through his teeth. “No scheme. Just a fair price for good land that will open many doors for the community.”

  And line his pockets with fat stacks of cash. “Julian Payne will never sell. He’s obsessed with the farm. And once he gets his barn—”

  “If…” Mayor Desmond silenced me with a single, heart-breaking word. “If he gets his barn.”

  I’d come to work that morning believing the most dangerous part of my day would be stomaching a walking taco from the fair. This was far more troubling.

  “His application fulfills all the criteria for approval,” I said. “It’s out of my hands.”

  My father offered Desmond a placating smile.

  The mayor agreed, his voice lowering. “Micah, maybe you could check over that application again. I bet there’s something you’ve missed—something that would make approval impossible. Why don’t you head back to your office and give it another look? Make sure the barn is the best choice for that property.”

  Dad agreed. “Sweetheart, the mayor is right. You’re thorough, but there might be something you’ve missed. Something that might yet allow Butterpond to have a good, prosperous future.”

  The pregnancy stole most of my patience and left none of my tact or common sense. “Let me get this straight…you want me to deny Julian Payne’s application so he’s forced to sell his land?”

  “Oh, no one is forcing him to do anything,” Desmond said.

  Dad agreed. “We’re just making plans for all scenarios.”

  But, without his barn, Julian had only one option—sell the land. Between the renovation, the looming property taxes, and the pressure from his siblings, he wouldn’t have a choice.

  I played with fire, dangerously close to torching my own career. “What happens if I approve his application?”

  Mayor Desmond frowned. “Micah, I’m not the only one excited by these new prospects. I represent everyone. The council. The manager. We’re all hoping you’ll be on board for this exciting new change. And, given your experience in more of the commercially-oriented communities, you would be a perfect fit to help led Butterpond into this new era. But, if you don’t share the vision…”

  They’d find someone who did.

  Dad patted my hand. “Think on it, Micah. No rash decisions.”

  Only decisions that would cost me my job.

  Only decisions that would ruin everything I’d created with Julian.

  Desmond stood, shaking hands with my father.

  “I know she’ll put Butterpond first,” Dad said. “Onwards and upwards. Can’t be stuck in the past forever.”

  The past wasn’t the problem. It was the future.

  I needed this job.

  I wasn’t fool enough to believe any fling would last with Julian, and I was too much of a realist to even consider a relationship with the father of my baby. I’d witnessed firsthand the resentment and ugliness that spawned from a marriage based only on a pregnancy. My child would never be caught in the middle of bad decisions and artificial happiness.

  Except I’d already promised Julian the barn. Legally, he’d fulfilled every requirement. But approving the application would jeopardize my child’s future.

  Falling for Julian would cost me my job.

  But what would happen if I kept denying my feelings?

  13

  Julian

  When Micah asked me to make a pie, I figured she meant cream. I was good at those.

  The frantic request was not a booty call, and it had been placed at an ungodly hour of five AM. Good for farming. Shitty for baking.

  By ten AM, I was elbow deep in a puddle of frozen blueberries, YouTubing my way to becoming Martha Stewart.

  And it wasn’t going well.

  Cassi wandered into the kitchen, staring in horror at the mess of butter, flour, rolling pins, and stains of frozen fruit. Good thing I had dough in the food processor or she might�
��ve stuffed me between the damn blades.

  My sister wiped a line of flour off the cabinets before smacking her hand on her hip. She wagged her dark finger, now dusted in white.

  “What in the hell are you doing, Julian Payne?”

  Fuck if I knew. I ignored her as best I could. “Baking.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s too early to grill.”

  Cassi threatened me with the coffee pot, but she scrunched her nose at the grounds tucked inside.

  “Are these from this morning?” she asked.

  I had half an hour to make and bake a pie. I didn’t give a damn about the coffee pot. “I don’t know.”

  She poked the grounds. “They’re wet.”

  “I made coffee.”

  “With old grounds?”

  I only had frozen butter for the dough. The pin wouldn’t roll over the chunks, but I could whack it hard and mallet the iced-butter flat.

  “It was early, Cas,” I said. “I managed a pot of coffee. Who cares if it was old.”

  She gagged. “We need to get you a woman.”

  Had one. She was more trouble than she was worth.

  Cassi scooped the grounds into an overflowing garbage can, sticky with canned fruit. After a step into a pile of what was once blackberries, she groaned.

  “You’re destroying the kitchen!”

  No shit. “I have four pies to make in two hours. It’s gonna get messy.”

  This only baited more questions. “But…why…Jesus, Jules. I take care of Rem’s nieces all day. Tell me why a three-year-old makes less of a mess than you?”

  “I’ll clean up.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Cassi frowned and tossed a wayward pie plate into the sink. “Don’t even try to pretend, Jules. I am the only reason we have clean dishes in the kitchen, no garbage in the halls, and all the dirty laundry in the basement. Now you’ve got butter on the ceiling.”

  “I’m in a rush.”

  “And I nanny two children all day, not to mention the biggest baby of them all crashed out in the living room.”

  Marius shouted from the couch. “I don’t need your help.”