by Gina Conkle
He fed me the sauce-laden spring roll, the flavors exploding in my mouth. Crunchy vegetables. A mild oil, viscous on my tongue. And the plum sauce. The food was better than any restaurant spring roll, and he’d made it for me. Swallowing my bite, I undid the last button.
I licked flaky crumbs off my lips. “And the plum sauce?”
Mark gave me his panty-melting smile. “Orgasms.”
I squirmed on my seat. Blissful heaviness flooded skin between my legs. I was painfully aware of my jeans’ seam putting pressure on the same flesh he’d told me to touch in the red lit room. Last night was straightforward because he’d paid for sex. Were we dancing around it now because it was free? Because no way would I accept his check. Not now.
“The theory of life, food, and sex according to Mark Green.” I gathered up my dishes, needing to move. “Next you’ll explain how a woman orgasms without intercourse.”
“It’s possible.”
“No it’s not,” I said, setting dishes in the sink and blasting the faucet. “It’s a Black Swan Event.”
A Black Swan. Unpredictable. Rare but a highly impactful event. Like being tied up last night and being intimate with Mark, because it was intimacy. Not just sex. Or being here with him. I’d changed in twenty-four hours even though I couldn’t put my finger on exactly how. Was Daisy right about women owning their sexuality? Today would be painfully different if another man had showed up last night.
This difference was Mark. I had to own that truth.
Water cascaded down my plate. I put the stopper in the sink and squeezed lemony dish soap into the water. This was mundane. So normal. Mark was talking about Black Swan Theory while clearing food off the table and bringing it into the kitchen and loading it into the fridge. Maybe we both needed a break from the sensual haze. The heavenly moments of him opening up to me and the long soft kiss had passed, yet doing kitchen chores with him was happiness…the togetherness of it.
He stacked dirty platters on the counter next to the sink. I’d guessed from last night he wasn’t big on talking, but when he chose to, he conversed with ease, and he preferred to discuss bigger things. No small talk. Mark pulled me in, flowing, giving, and taking. I wracked my brain for everything I remembered about Black Swan Theory as I hand washed the dishes.
“You don’t have to do my dishes,” he said beside me.
I set a bowl on the drying rack. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, you fed me twice today.”
And now I want to taste you.
His bare arm brushed mine as he reached into the soapy water and pulled the drain. “It’s late. You need to get home.”
The finality in his voice made my stomach drop. Mark was soft and gruff at the same time, his voice laced with regret. The clock over his bulletin board read ten twenty.
“Sending me away before midnight?”
Mark handed over a dish towel, his smile a half-hearted effort. “Yeah, I need my beauty sleep, and you put in a long day. You need your sleep too.”
“But...” I held the towel close. Mark didn’t need it. He’d already wiped his hands down the front of his pants.
If I was completely honest, I wanted Mark and the check. Was it too grasping to ask for total freedom and the guy? I stood on solid ground but I was sinking, and my life preserver stood within reach shirtless in water-splotched jeans.
I get the feminist Save yourself. Don’t expect a man save you crap. Hadn’t I been fighting an uphill battle to save not one but three women? I was tired of the struggle. I wanted a man, a partner, to fight my battles with me. Not for me. I wanted that man to be Mark. Was this thing between us too new for me to say that aloud?
Mark jammed both hands in his pockets. “Keep the check. I already put it in your purse.”
“What?” I glanced at my floppy leather purse.
He really was sending me away.
Cold reality was the polite, distant blue eyes staring back at me.
“You asked earlier why I came here tonight. The check was one reason. I’m not proud of it, but it’s the truth.” I set a steadying hand on the counter. “My bigger reason was you, Mark. You.”
I don’t know who moved, but I smelled the beach on his skin, the imperfect joining of land and water where the ocean salted the earth with more take than give, the undercurrent stealing grains of sand bit by bit. He was giving me the money, not himself, and it felt like getting the short end of the stick. Mark’s pupils darkened. When I ran my fingers from mid-chest to his waist band, muscles knotted up like tight blocks under his skin.
“You sought me out today,” I murmured. “I’m not forcing myself into your life. I want a night with you. Sex or no sex. It doesn’t matter. And I’m pretty sure you want me too.”
“Abbie.”
His mouth flat-lined again. I was losing him and couldn’t figure out why.
“You’re still the best man I’ve ever met.” I loosened the top button on his jeans. “What’s the big deal about one night?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Because I’m leaving tomorrow. For Australia.”
Teeth grinding, I braced myself for the worst. There was no best way to tell a woman you’re leaving. Wanting a woman was the last thing I expected to happen. But, this wasn’t any woman. This was Abbie.
Mascara-smudged eyes rounded. “For how long?”
“A year. I have a subclass six hundred Visa.” A bout of silence passed before I explained, “I’d planned a long time ago to meet up with friends, but after what happened I applied for a longer stay.”
“To do what? Surf?”
I sucked in a deep breath. “And talk to some people about a job.”
Abbie put some space between us. She stared at the island counter top like she was about to crumble. The hurt on her face gutted me. I’d planned to tell her about Australia when we had lunch. I was convinced that I’d chased her down to talk her out of going back to Mrs. Smith’s. All my good intentions drained away the moment I saw her outside the shop window. She walked proudly in her discount store clothes with that damn plastic nametag hanging from her neck. Her long blonde hair shined, but there was no sun with all the clouds. It was Abbie. She glowed, and I wanted to bask in her light.
“I can’t take your check,” she said weakly, bringing me back to the present.
Eyes downcast, she reached for her purse. I grabbed her wrists, wrapped both arms around my waist, and pinned her fisted hands to the small of my back. There was no struggle. Abbie slumped against me, her damp hair and cheek a comfort on my skin.
“Keep the check. It’s your freedom. Let me give it to you.”
“Why can’t I have you and freedom?”
I kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry Abbie.”
She sighed. “For what? Bad timing?”
Her small, sad voice crushed me.
“For…everything.”
Soft boobs mashed my chest. The weave of Abbie’s shirt brushed me each time she breathed. Her rain-wet head smelled of a lemony shampoo. I breathed her in, not wanting to let go. What was it about Abbie? I didn’t fall for her type. She wasn’t a crazy sexy vamp or a focused career woman, yet she had more going for her than all the put together women who usually caught my eye.
“What time do you leave?” Her words were soft on my skin.
“Late tomorrow night. My flight departs LAX at nine fifty-five tomorrow night.”
Abbie pulled away, taking her warmth. “I ought to go. You probably have a lot to do.”
I did, but neither of us budged. Thunder cracked above my house. The storm. I’d forgotten about it. Rain drops smeared my living room window, the watery trails blurring outside lights.
“I should’ve told you before.”
Before? Before what? Before I caressed her naked body shoulder to ass? Before I made out with Abbie like a teenager with t
he worst hard on? That was a fraction of what I shouldn’t have done. I hadn’t started on today’s recriminations. Blue-green eyes stared at me. No accusation. No anger. Heartbreak pooled in their depths poignant enough to swallow me.
Abbie’s half-smile was a gift. “Is that your idea of an apology? Admitting you should’ve told me sooner?”
How was it women saw more than men? We’d come far in our short time together, and she’d willingly held nothing back, giving herself. It’s what she did. For her mom and grandma. For me.
“No…it’s…” I sucked in a quick breath. “Stay with me. One last night.”
Well, fuck. I wanted another piece of Abbie.
Eyes wide and rain-snarled blonde hair spilling to her waist, Abbie was beautiful with her open honest face, her nose a little flat at the tip. Those eyes of hers saw too much, read too much. She was a soft place to land, the best surprise in my dismal year, a gift delivered right before leaving.
“What if you want more than one night?”
“Abbie...” I chided.
“I know you want me,” she said softly. “As much as I want you.”
“No. I want you more.” My voice was rough and my throat dry. Suddenly I wanted a beer.
“Then it wouldn’t be so awful to postpone your trip,” she said as I walked to the fridge.
Cold air blasted me when I opened the stainless steel door. I was wrung out. Emotions are one thing I don’t do well. I could argue she was getting a big chunk of my savings, but the check was nothing. Abbie wanted bigger currency from me.
Reaching back on the top shelf, I grabbed a high-end domestic beer my dad brought when he’d stopped by two days ago. He’d ribbed me about my upscale tastes in beer and women and my decision to look for work in Australia. My gut told me my electrician dad would like Abbie.
I held up a bottle over my shoulder. “You want one?”
“Sure.”
I removed both caps and slid her bottle across the island’s smooth surface. Taking a swig of my beer, I looked over and choked. Abbie was shirtless.
“What are you doing?” Coughing, I swiped my hand over my mouth.
Her bottom lip touched the bottle’s opening. “Showing you what you’d miss if you left.”
There were boobs galore in Australia, but not Abbie’s.
She took a dainty sip, fighting back a smirk. Goosebumps peppered her skin, pinching her nipples to thick eraser nubs. A rose ring circled her aureoles, the skin lighter in the center. I’d missed these details last night under the red bulb.
I gulped beer, my knees hitting the island cabinet. A woman stripping was nothing new. Abbie half-naked in my kitchen was…a shock.
Her thumbnail scratched the beer label. “I want to know one thing.”
“Shoot.”
“Your black bag. How’d you get started?”
I downed the last of my beer, my heart thumping double time. It wasn’t how I got started that scared me. It was how it ended.
“That’s not a short conversation.”
Abbie set both forearms on the island counter top, giving me full view of her boobs hanging free. She was the brave little fish swimming into deeper, sexual waters. I set the bottle down with care, unable to take my eyes off her. The right nipple responded faster than the left one. The pink tip angled a tiny bit to the right. It wasn’t a flaw. It’s what made her unique, and she let me see herself in full light. Lots of women wanted lights dimmed, even brazen, kinky women.
She smiled. “We have a full night ahead, don’t we?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mark’s stomach muscles knotted, the ridges tightening as he braced himself against the kitchen island. I wanted to kiss the line that divided him down the middle, kiss it all the way into his jeans where his skin didn’t see the sun, and keep going until my mouth was on his dick.
He planted both hands on the counter. “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”
“Nope.”
“We’re in big trouble.” He chuckled that rusty laugh of his and reached into his back pocket. “This is the only condom I’ve got.”
A red foil square spun across the white speckled counter. “Only one?”
“I’m leaving remember?”
“We’ll have to get creative.”
He braced both hands on the counter. “You’re playing with fire.”
“You can burn me, baby.” I laughed confident we’d get to his black bag eventually —talking about it and using it. A shiver of anticipation twirled over my butt and legs. When it came to sex, I was ready to let him take control.
Mark froze, his mouth pinching tight. Brown lashes hooded his eyes as he stared, lost on the counter’s random pattern. For all his hard edges and experience, my Surfer Man was one complex ball of emotions.
“Mark?”
“Yeah.” His blue gaze met mine, distant and cagey.
“You just went somewhere.”
A beat of silence passed, taking my ignorance with it. I glanced at the laptop. There was my answer. Another woman was in the kitchen with me. A seething, roiling taste clouded my tongue. My mouth screwed up as if I ate a bad lemon.
“Let me guess. This has to do with a certain woman whose name doesn’t deserve mention.”
Mark rubbed a hand across his mouth, his palm rasping day old scruff. “Yeah.”
I grabbed my beer and downed it. I hated how that woman kept stealing him from me. The irony was Mark wasn’t mine. I set the bottle down with a hard thunk loud enough to snap him out of the fog. Nothing was going as expected. I wanted to scream, to stomp the floor, and say look at who’s in front of you now.
Worst of all part of me wanted to grab my purse and run away.
I’d thought the same thing last night. My flight syndrome. It pummeled me like bricks caving down on my head. I’d thought the same thing when I was stuck in St. Louis, helping my grandma and mom. I couldn’t wait to be somewhere else. I’d thought the same thing at the end of high school. Maybe Mark going off to Australia was his version of running away. Before I left St. Louis a second time, Grandma hugged me tight and said, “The path to happiness is never straight and never easy.”
Did she think I was running away from St. Louis? Or worse, did she think I ran away from her and Mom? I hugged myself. If my mom was good at getting stuck in a cycle of bad men, mine was turning into running off, believing somewhere else was better.
Last night I’d let Mark hand cuff me to a hook so I couldn’t run.
I coached myself to breath calmly. One breath. Then another. “I’m only going to ask you this one time and then I never want to talk about her again.”
Mark stared mutely at me, the skin around his eyes tight. No hard shell fuck you eyes. He was raw. He knew what was coming.
“What happened with Lacey?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The red foil square shined on the counter in front of Abbie. Sex didn’t matter. Abbie did. The irony was sex got me in this bind in the first place. It fucked with my head, but freeing myself of the past was crushing her. Only the proud set of her chin kept her standing. She was a fighter, but I didn’t want to be her target. I wanted to be her ally.
“Come on.” I flicked off lights and grabbed Abbie’s hand, leaving the condom behind.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To my room.”
“Why? Can’t you tell me in the kitchen?”
She was testy, talking to my back as we mounted stairs in the dark. I understood. She was mad at a woman she’d never met, mad at me, mad at circumstances beyond her control.
“I could, but you’re cold.”
“I’ll put my shirt on.”
We stopped outside my bedroom, her pale skin a contrast in the unlit hall. An outside house light sliced through open blinds on my windows. Abbie peeked p
ast the doorway at my unmade bed, two large Ansel Adams photos leaning against a wall, and four stacked boxes. My black bag was in one of those boxes. Maybe I’d open it. Maybe not. I didn’t need it.
What was it Abbie said? Sex is two people being honest skin to skin.
Thunder cracked the night skies, the sound ripping our stillness. Abbie pressed her spine on the doorjamb, a study in black and white, seductive and aloof. The lines of her cheekbones hinted at maturity I’d not seen before.
“I want to warm you. Can you trust me to do that?”
Abbie’s scrutiny weighed my request for her trust against hurt at my leaving tomorrow. I kept asking things of her and didn’t give much in return. The check was nothing. She wanted me and she was angry about my past…of a woman who didn’t deserve mention. Jealousy came from a place of wanting it all. No sharing. Not even mental space. I’d given too much power to a woman who shouldn’t have had it. Being in the dark with Abbie clarified what was hard to see in the light of day.
If I were a true gentleman, I would’ve handed over a check right after lunch. I didn’t. I wanted her to taste her again. I’d devoured Abbie last night and left Mrs. Smith’s thinking how quickly could I have her again.
I was making progress with this honesty thing.
“You’ll tell me everything,” she said firmly.
“I said I’d explain what happened with Lacey.”
“I deserve more than that.” Her peevish tone came with the hush of her jeans rubbing the door jamb. She stood taller, flicking her hair back.
One lock of hair didn’t make it past her shoulder, the strands pale and silvery in the shadows. I tucked the hair over her shoulder and cupped her shoulder, the smoothness a caress on my palm. Three fingers traced the slant of her collarbone. Her small gasp stroked me chest to balls. My hand stopped to draw circles in the well at base of her neck. Anger and arousal sparked off her skin. It was in the subtle rise and fall of her boobs as she breathed and the rose ring around her aureole. Which emotion would win?