by Olivia Dade
“Oh, God,” she breathed against his lips. She lifted her hips for more, and he gave her what she wanted. His fingers traced circles around her swollen clitoris and played among her folds until she groaned in need. Slipping a finger inside her, he began to stroke her clitoris with his thumb. She could feel herself grow wetter, hear the sound of his hand moving in her slickness. He added a second finger inside her, rubbing against the front wall of her vagina.
She arched, every muscle tightening in anticipation of imminent orgasm.
Then he withdrew his hand, a moment before she would have come all over it. She stared at him in disbelief.
“Together,” he said. “At least this first time.” He tore open the foil package and rolled a condom down his erection.
“If you leave me hanging, I swear to God I’m going to kick your ass.”
“I won’t.” He settled himself on the tablecloth, and then lifted her above him. “Up you go.”
“You owe me an orgasm,” she said, straddling his hips.
He rolled his eyes. “All right, all right. I get it. And you’ll get it too, if you’d stop complaining for a moment and climb on my goddamn cock.”
“If you stop like that ever again, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Jesus Christ, woman. If you want an orgasm, take it. Ride me.”
With one last narrow-eyed glare, she followed his advice. But not without torturing him a bit first. Lowering herself down, she let the tip of his erection slide through her wetness and nudge her clitoris. She moaned at the sensation. Wanting more, she took his cock in her hand and rubbed it back and forth over her clitoris until she was on the edge of orgasm again.
“Okay,” he gasped. “I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again, I promise. Next time, I’ll just make sure you come a second time with my cock inside you.”
His words sent a flash of heat through her, almost tipping her over the edge. Unable to wait any longer, she centered herself on his erection, taking him completely inside with one strong surge. They both moaned as he filled her. She shifted, whimpering as the angle of his penetration changed, nudging someplace sensitive deep within her.
Looking down at his face, she began to rock her hips. Jack’s teeth were gritted, his jaw tight. One hand was clamped to her hip, helping set the rhythm of her movements. He looked desperate. Despite that, the other hand he raised to cup her cheek was incredibly gentle.
“You feel amazing,” he said. “You look amazing. God, sweetheart, you need to come quickly.”
“If you’d let me come before,” she said, “this wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Time to prove I’m a man of my word.” He moved his hand from her face, sliding it down between her legs. “Lean back a little, baby. Give me some room to work.”
As soon as she obeyed, his thumb came back to her clitoris. He rubbed gently, and she moaned again. His hips began to rise to meet hers, his cock pressing inside her more forcefully. She braced her hands against his shoulders. Then it was just one stroke of his thumb and thrust of his hips too many. She tightened around him, and then came in a series of spasms that squeezed his cock tight inside her.
She cried out, clutching at his arms. As soon as he felt the start of her orgasm, he flipped them over and settled between her legs, fucking her fast and hard. His ferocity prolonged her climax, intensified it, and she cried out again.
Finally, with a shout, he buried himself deep inside her and shook through his own orgasm. Collapsing on top of her, he buried his face in her neck. “You smell good,” he rasped, his voice muffled by her skin.
“I’m glad,” she said, laboring to draw a full breath. “But you’re crushing me.”
“Oh. Sorry.” He moved to her side, and then dragged her up against him once again. Their sweat-slick skin stuck together a bit, but she didn’t care. As their breathing slowed, he began to stroke his hand up and down her back with light pressure. He pressed a gentle kiss against her temple.
“Was I too rough?” he asked, concern in his voice. “You’re so small, and I forgot to be careful at the end.”
“I’m glad you forgot. I don’t want you to hold back with me,” she said.
“Good.”
They lay in comfortable silence together for a moment.
“Penelope, you’re an incredible woman. I swear to God, the orgasm you gave me almost killed me. I saw angels playing harps. But I refused to go into the light, because that would mean no more sex with you. So it wouldn’t really be heaven.”
“The theological implications of that statement are staggering,” she said with a giggle.
He smiled back at her, his green eyes bright. “Plus, you’re really mouthy in bed. I mean, surprisingly mouthy.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Nah. I like a woman who knows what she wants. I thought it was funny. And hot.”
With one last soft kiss on her mouth, he got up and wandered off naked to the public bathroom. Since she didn’t see red and blue lights flashing through the library windows immediately afterward, she assumed no one had seen him.
He has the best ass I’ve ever seen in my life, she thought. I don’t’t know what I did to deserve an ass that fine, but I promise to keep doing it for the immediate future. In fact, I’ll go further than that. Whatever I did that earned me a smart, funny, honest, gentle man who looks at me like I’m precious . . . I’ll do it forever. For the rest of my life.
She blinked away happy tears. Jack is the man I’ve always wanted. The man I’ve been looking for. I chose well this time. I finally got it right.
When Jack strode back into the children’s area, she beamed up at him.
Angie was right. It was a stupid New Year’s resolution.
10
Penelope looked despondently at the dried apricot in her hand. “I’ll have you know that I left a perfectly good burger and almost half an order of fries at home to come here tonight.” Popping the fruit in her mouth, she chewed with a look of pained resignation.
“Poor baby,” Jack said, smiling at her.
“I don’t want more fruit. I don’t want more cheese. I want some damn beef.”
She sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing only his sweater and her panties. Her brown hair was ruffled, standing up in tufts around her head. Tired lines had appeared around her eyes in the last hour or so, but she refused to go to sleep. He hadn’t argued with her. This whole evening felt like a moment out of time for him, an idyll that could shatter at any moment. He didn’t want to waste a minute.
Even rumpled and exhausted, she enticed him. She made him want to plan a future with her. Which was crazy, given that he’d met her only hours before. Given that she had no idea what he actually did for a living. Given that when she found out, she might very well leave him without a backward glance. But he knew. Somehow, he knew. She was his. He’d staked his claim tonight, and he didn’t intend to relinquish it easily. Or at all.
He’d handle the inevitable confrontation when it came. For now, though, he simply wanted to enjoy being with his little librarian. Looking at her, touching her, talking with her—it was all so much better and more fulfilling than he’d ever imagined possible.
He hadn’t intended to make love to her tonight. Their first time together shouldn’t have happened under false pretenses, and he knew it. But no sane, straight man could have resisted Penelope offering herself to him. He couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
“Wasn’t the sex worth giving up a burger?” he asked.
She swallowed her apricot. “I suppose. But the burger looked really good, Jack. It seems like I should be able to have both sex and a chunk of ground cow.”
“Reach for the stars, baby. Reach for the stars.”
She laughed and took his hand in hers. “Want to look at the photos? I’m curious how they turned out.”
He grabbed the camera and sat on the floor beside her. She scooted until her hip pressed against his, and he put an arm around her shoulders.
“Yo
landa and Tasha look adorable,” she said, clicking through a few pictures of the women embracing. “Angie did a great job setting them up.”
“What the hell is Red Tie doing in this one?” he asked. “Did he just photobomb them? And is that some sort of gang sign?”
She peered closer. “I think he’s indicating he wants the women to phone him.”
“I hope he’s not holding his breath waiting for their call.”
She chuckled, but only for a moment. Her face grew serious, and she looked him in the eyes. “When he refused to pair up with me earlier. . . it was kind of humiliating. Thanks for trying to help.”
“It wasn’t altruism. I wanted to be your partner for that scene-reading game. I was curious to see what passage you’d choose and find out why you’d chosen it.”
Jack heard his own words and closed his eyes in disbelief. Shit. If he didn’t intend to reveal his real occupation now, he shouldn’t have brought up his goddamn book in their conversation. And he didn’t intend to come out of the authorial closet immediately after having sex on various floppy creatures in the children’s area of the library. Especially since she’d only known him for about—he glanced at the dinosaur-shaped clock on the wall—eight hours. She’d think he’d used her for New Year’s sex and nothing else.
They just needed time. Over a few weeks of dating, he could prove himself to her. Show her how committed he was to a future together. A month or so together, and then he’d tell her. Not now. Which meant he needed to change the subject, stat.
“I can go get the book I—” she started to say.
“Let’s see the photo Red Tie took of the two of us,” he interrupted. “If it looks anywhere near as hot as it felt, I’m making it a life-size cardboard cutout and installing it in my bedroom. I may bring it with me to the grocery store, too, just to show off.”
She skipped forward to the last picture on the memory card. “Here we are.”
Miraculously, the image was in perfect focus. Penelope stood facing the camera with her head tilted back, her eyes half-closed. He knelt in front of her. His bound wrists lay behind him, brushing the top of his jeans. His head pressed between her spread legs, guided there by her hands.
She was fully dressed. He was almost fully dressed. But it was still the sexiest photo he’d ever seen in his life, almost solely because of the expression on her face. Soft. Unguarded. Desirous. Her lips were parted, and her lashes shadowed her eyes. A flush rose on her cheeks. She looked like a woman ready to be fucked. By him.
With a flick of his finger, he turned off the camera.
“Not as good as you remembered?” she asked, looking amused.
“Better,” he said, rising to his knees. “But still not as good as the sight of you right now.”
Her eyes widened as he eased her down onto the makeshift bed. “Really? Because I’m pretty sure I looked better a few hours ago.”
“You’re here. I can touch you. You’re naked.”
She shook her head. “I’m not naked.”
“You will be.” He pulled the sweater over her head and her panties down to her ankles. “See?”
She kicked off the panties. She was already breathing faster. Heavier.
Spreading her thighs, he slid down until his head lay between her legs. “Let’s recreate that picture, only lying down and without any clothes.”
At the first slide of his tongue against her clitoris, she arched up against him with a moan. He set to work, attempting to demonstrate with his body what he already knew in his mind.
He wanted her. Admired her. Worshipped her. God help him, he could even love her.
Falling in love with her would be so easy. He could only hope proving his love would be the same.
Penny looked over at the man snoring softly beside her. Poor lamb, he was exhausted, and for good reason. He’d kept his word, making sure she came once against his mouth and another time around his cock.
“Don’t want to hear any more bitching,” he’d gasped as he’d pushed inside, right before propelling her to her second orgasm.
Suffice it to say, she wasn’t complaining.
However, she also wasn’t sleepy. Or at least not sleepy enough to miss a second of their night together. Easing herself out from under his arm, she got up to look for something quiet she could do until he woke up again.
You’re in a library, moron, she thought. Go get a book.
But what to read? She was too tired to start something new, but too awake to want pure fluff. So she reached for the perfect book, which was already sitting on the cart in the workroom. John Williamson’s debut novel, Racing Heart. When Jack woke up, she could show him the section she’d intended to read and explain what it meant to her.
She settled back beside him and opened the book. As always, she quickly lost herself in the love story between Charlie, a man with a heart defect, and Dominique, a lonely widow. After finishing the first chapter, she flipped to the dedication page. She’d read it many times before, curious about the people who’d shaped the life and thoughts of her favorite modern author. Given his reclusiveness, it told her more than almost anything else she’d read about him.
It suddenly occurred to her that he and Jack shared the same last name. A sign from the heavens, she thought. Clearly, Jack was meant to be my man. She skimmed the dedications for the thousandth time. His editor. His agent. His wife. All the usual stuff.
To my loving mother, Brenda. I only survived losing Dad because your love was strong enough for two. Weird. John Williamson’s mother had the same name as Jack’s. And she was a widow too.
To my unborn daughter, Casey. May you grow up knowing how fully and joyfully you are loved.
She flipped back to the publication information, her chest growing tight. The first print edition of Racing Heart had come out five years ago. Just about the time Jack’s wife would have been pregnant with their daughter Casey.
There was no author photo on the book jacket or inside the back cover, which was unusual. But there were other ways to see what John Williamson looked like.
She abruptly stood up, no longer concerned about whether she woke Jack from his sound sleep. With hurried steps, she moved to the workroom computer.
A quick image search later, she saw him. The picture had been taken from a distance, in profile. He was laughing, his face lit by the sun. His boots and jeans appeared well worn, and his athletic body looked ready to move. Ready to run. He had short brown hair and handsome features.
John Williamson was a good-looking man. Talented. Respected. Intelligent.
He was also the spitting image of Jack, the man lying on a bed of stuffed animals twenty feet away from her. The man who’d so easily identified every single book cover she’d shown him. The man who’d resisted talking about his accounting work. The man who’d said there was nothing wrong with her judgment. The man who’d promised he’d take care of her open, trusting heart. The man who’d had every opportunity to tell her about a hidden second life before screwing her.
Which meant John Williamson was also something else. Something less exalted.
John—Jack—Williamson was a liar. A goddamned, fucking liar. And somehow, over the course of nine hours on New Year’s Eve, she’d allowed herself to begin falling in love with him.
She didn’t know how to stem the pain streaking through her chest, or how to still the pounding in her brain. She didn’t know how to hold back the tears stinging her eyes and burning down her cheeks.
Right now, her every heartbeat seemed to echo the same word: Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She didn’t know how to stop that, either.
There was one thing she did know how to do, though. She knew how to send a lying man packing. She was good at it. She’d certainly had enough experience with the process to understand how it was done.
In five minutes, Jack—John?—would be on his way, out of this room. Out of the library. Out of her life. And then there would be time enough to cry, to rage, and to remind herself why
she’d made that New Year’s resolution.
Because there’s something fundamentally wrong with me. Because I choose men who lie to me. Who use me. Who don’t love me, no matter what they say.
She went to the filing cabinet. His keys sat right where she’d left them. She closed her fist around them, feeling the metal edges bite into her palm.
She stalked to his side and stood over his sleeping form.
“John Williamson.”
He stirred at the sound of her voice. At the sound of his name.
“John Williamson,” she repeated.
He sat up, looking confused.
“John Williamson.” Her voice was stony. Emotionless.
She saw his face change then, as he realized what she’d said. As he heard how she was saying it. His features crumpled in a way she hadn’t anticipated, as if his world was falling apart. But it was too late. She didn’t care anymore. She dropped the keys in his lap.
“John Williamson. Get out.”
11
On New Year’s morning, Jack woke up to the sight of Penelope standing above him, her hands on her hips. Her face icy, despite the tear tracks on both cheeks. Her voice full of barely controlled rage as she repeated his name. His real name.
No, no, no, he thought. Not yet. Not until she knows she can trust me. Not until she loves me enough to forgive me.
“John Williamson. Get out.”
His brain still fuzzy from sleep, he struggled to find the right words to explain himself. He searched for arguments, entreaties, declarations—anything that would wipe that blank look from her eyes. Anything. “I was going to tell you. I swear, I was going to tell you.”
“Get out,” she repeated.
“Let me explain,” he begged, rising to his feet. “When I divorced Casey’s mother, the media hounded us. I was worried about how growing up under that kind of scrutiny would affect Casey. So I tell people I’m an account—”