WakingMaggie

by Cindy Jacks

  Waking Maggie

  Cindy Jacks

  Maggie’s just decided she’s been stood up when she bumps into hard-bodied guitarist Calvin—literally. Once the shock of their abrupt meeting wears off, Calvin asks Maggie out for a drink and she figures, why not? She’s all dressed up for a date…just not this one.

  She enjoys his company, even if he’s only twenty-seven and she’s forty…something. And while witty conversation’s all good, they’re just as compatible in bed. One drink turns into multiple romps between the sheets. He’s old enough to know how to make love to a woman and young enough to look damn fine doing it…and doing it. He even manages to convince Maggie she’s still pretty hot herself.

  Now if he would just stop serenading her with that infernal Rod Stewart song.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Waking Maggie

  ISBN 9781419933202

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Waking Maggie Copyright © 2011 Cindy Jacks

  Edited by Jillian Bell

  Cover art by Syneca

  Electronic book publication March 2011

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Waking Maggie

  Cindy Jacks

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Boy Scouts: Boy Scouts of America Corporation

  Facebook: Facebook, Inc.

  Metro: Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority

  Chapter One

  The sound of a gently strummed guitar roused Maggie from sleep. Eyelids flickering open, she saw Calvin sitting in the tufted chair next to the bed, his acoustic guitar on his lap. A lazy smile tugged at her lips.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Good morning, babe.” He shifted his grip on the fretboard to strike a chord and then slid his fingers back to another. “I’m serenading you…obviously.”

  “Is it after ten?” Maggie sat up, stretched.

  “Of course. And there’s coffee on your nightstand.”

  With delight, she picked up the steaming mug and inhaled—Viennese roast, her favorite. The first sip slid down her throat, smooth as velvet.

  He turned his attention to the guitar again and started singing under his breath.

  She rolled her eyes. “You know I hate that song.”

  Calvin chuckled, a boyish gleam in his hazel eyes. “But I’m sure Rod Stewart wrote it for you.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, I am not that old.”

  Continuing to strum the melody, he shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  As Maggie’s gaze roamed over the young man’s taut, muscular body, she noticed he was sitting there stark naked, the guitar covering some of his most admirable attributes.

  Her eye grew wide. “What have I done to deserve a morning serenade with you au naturel?”

  “You don’t remember?” he asked, plucking individual notes.

  A gust of wind outside the bedroom window drew her attention. The great oak out back danced, shaking loose a few vermillion leaves.

  “Of course I remember,” she murmured, setting down her cup and rising from the bed. Smoothing her silk nightie over her ample curves, she padded across the shag carpet and kissed his soft cheek. “Happy anniversary, baby.”

  He stopped playing and set aside the guitar, revealing a red ribbon around his cock. “Are you ready for your present?”

  Clapping a hand over her mouth, Maggie let out a yelp of amusement. “You’re certifiable, you know that?”

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror. Messy blonde curls cascaded down to her shoulders and her eyes looked a little puffy from sleep. Skin not quite as fresh and tight as his—maybe the morning sun really did show her age, as the song stated. Still, not bad for a women of forty-something.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her onto his lap. She twined her fingers through his longish bronze hair. A hungry smirk on his face, he brushed his lips over hers. She felt his cock twitch against her thigh.

  “We should unwrap you before you cut off your circulation,” she said, pulling one end of the ribbon.

  He sank to the floor, holding her body against his and tucking her beneath him.

  Pressing her lips to his, she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. The scent of his woodsy cologne filled her nostrils. He tasted like peppermint mouthwash.

  Holding his full weight off her with one arm, he slid his other hand slowly up her thigh, pushed up her nightgown and worked her panties down her legs. She wiggled them the rest of the way off and kicked them aside. He trailed tiny kisses from her mouth down to her abdomen, nuzzling and kissing each of her stretch marks.

  “Stop.” She chuckled and ruffled his hair. “It makes me self-conscious when you do that.”

  “Shh.” Another flurry of kisses along her hips and thighs and then he kissed her sole ticklish spot—the crease between her thigh and pubic area. Giggling, Maggie tried to squirm away from him but he held her fast.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” He licked at her clit and she held her breath, lest he touch anything other than the tight nub. Slowly she relaxed, enjoying the heat building with each swipe of his tongue. A little at a time, he pressed his mouth to her pussy, but as expected, fits of laughter overwhelmed her and she begged him to stop.

  Wiping her eyes, she said, “I told you you’ll never be able to give me head. I’m too ticklish.”

  He nuzzled up to her neck, planted kisses there, then glanced at his watch. “Hey, seven minutes this time—we’re getting better. We’ll get there.”

  Undeterred, he slipped a hand between her legs and ran a finger from her clit down the length of her moist lips.

  “No giggles now, huh?” A satisfied grin lit up his face.

  “Mmm…no.” Maggie sighed, melting into the rug.

  He continued the slow stimulation, punctuating each upstroke by brushing his thumb over her clit. Goose bumps dotted her arms and thighs and her nipples drew into tight buds. With careful pressure, he eased two fingers into her and covered her mouth with his as if to drink in her sighs. He plunged his fingers deeper, flicking and twisting, toying with the different ways he could make her gasp and moan. The more he played the more impatient she became.

  “Cal…” she moaned, but he didn’t change his tactics. It was his little game that he played—she belonged to him and he knew it. Panting and moaning, she writhed against the floor. His gaze roamed over her and he bit his lip. Just like when he played guitar.

  Her
eyes watering, her pussy throbbing, she slid a hand over his rippled abdomen and gripped his hard cock but he caught her wrist and pinned her arm to the floor.

  “Tsk, tsk. Always in a hurry,” he teased.

  Hooking a leg around his hips, she flipped him onto his back and straddled him. The strap from her nightgown slid down her shoulder, baring most of one breast. Without hesitation, he sat up and engulfed it with his mouth. Maggie lowered herself onto his shaft. A nipple still between his teeth, he sucked air in sharply.

  “No fair,” he mumbled.

  Riding him slowly, she let her head loll back and moved her hands down the landscape of his back. Long ago she’d memorized each peak and valley, but she never tired of exploring his body. She pulled her breast free and, tilting forward, ran her mouth from his ear over his sculpted neck, coming to rest at the base of his throat. He moaned, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand before skimming the side of her breasts, running his palms along her rib cage. Arching back, she pressed her torso flush against him.

  He held on to her waist and thrust upward. A burst of pleasure spread through her.

  “Ohhh, like that.” She spread her legs wider.

  Her praise seemed to spur him on and he picked up speed and force. Delicious tension drew her abdomen taut and she clung to him, taking all of him inside her.

  The tip of his nose grazed past her ear, his lips hovering there. “You’re beautiful.”

  The emotion in his voice tugged at her heart. Flames licked at her pussy, fire coursed through her veins. She was already awash with arousal when a fresh wave of ecstasy broke over her. Trembling atop him, her thighs burned and she struggled to keep up with the pace he’d set. Calvin rolled them over, cradling her as he laid her back onto the floor. She wrapped both legs around him and threaded her fingers in his hair. His breath shallow and rapid, he moved in for a kiss, searching out her tongue with his.

  His scent and his taste enveloped her. Unable to tell any longer where she ended and he began, she yielded control of her body to him. He was her Apollo and she his lyre.

  Every thrust took her higher; guttural moans passed between them. She could hardly catch her breath, but each inhalation pushed her closer to coming. His rhythm faltered.

  “Don’t stop,” she murmured.

  “I’m close.”

  She moved her hands to his hips and set the pace again, moving upward to meet his downward thrusts. Her orgasm began as little tremors that shook her legs and then tore through her, shaking her whole body. He too, quaked, his cock twitching, hot spurts mixing with her own juices. She clung to him until her trembling slowed and eventually subsided. Still buried inside her, he came to rest on top of her. He brushed the locks of her hair from her eyes.

  “Hey, you.” He dotted her nose and forehead with gentle kisses.

  “Hey,” she said, her tongue thick.

  After withdrawing, he slumped to one side and rolled onto his back, his chest pulsing up and down as he tried to catch his breath.

  “God, I love you.” She let out a long exhalation.

  He cast a smile up toward the ceiling. “You hated me when we first met.”

  “I didn’t hate you. I was upset.”

  “I know.” He gave her a playful pinch.

  She settled her head on his chest and listened to the pounding of his heart. “Can you believe it’s been a year?”

  “Yes and no. It’s like time flies when I’m with you, but I feel like I’ve known you forever too.”

  “Do you think we have another year in us?” She traced his nipples and moved her fingertips down his torso to the soft patch of hair below his bellybutton.

  “Don’t overthink this, Maggie. We’re doing fine. More than fine.” He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. “Come on. I’ll make you some eggs.”

  He shifted his weight to get up but she caught his hand. “I do love you, Cal.”

  “I love you too.” Rubbing her jawline with one thumb, he tilted her chin and pressed his mouth to hers. The kiss ended with a sigh. “Breakfast?”

  She nuzzled his cheek. “Breakfast.”

  Chapter Two

  One year earlier…

  With parquet wood floors, rich leather seating and a young man playing flamenco guitar, the cozy little restaurant suited Maggie just fine. She slid onto a barstool and ordered a top-shelf martini—up with a twist, no olives, please. The handsome bartender quickly obliged. Handing him a twenty, she told him to keep the change. He flashed a well-practiced smile and thanked her.

  A scan of the room revealed her date hadn’t yet arrived. At least no one appeared to be wearing a red carnation. She patted the flower pinned in her hair and tamped down the feeling that she’d lost her mind. Nervousness twisting her stomach into knots, she fiddled with the hem of her champagne-colored dress. In two minutes’ time, she’d downed her first drink with too much gusto.

  “Another of these, please,” she told the bartender and fished another twenty out of her purse. Who was she kidding? Instead she handed the bartender her credit card. “I’ll start a tab, please.”

  Checking her cell phone, she noted it was eight o’clock on the dot. He’d arrive any minute. When the bartender returned with her drink, Maggie took a sip and turned around to watch the guitarist.

  The young man plucked the strings with obvious skill. Clear, sharp notes rang out in quick succession. Despite the intensity with which he played, there was something fresh and boyish about his looks. He probably wasn’t much older than a boy, so of course he looked fresh. Still, there was something unmistakably masculine about the way he handled that guitar. She watched his fingers glide over the fretboard. Such dexterity. Something about the way they moved excited her and she wondered what it would be like to be touched by those fingers. Blushing at the inappropriate thought, she turned away and focused on her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

  Her phone rang and she answered.

  “Is Mr. Wonderful there yet?” her oldest friend, Barb, asked.

  “No.” Maggie blew out a breath of disappointment. She’d thought it might be Frank, calling to say he’d be late.

  “D—Wa—Mm—Oo?”

  “Barb, you’re breaking up. Hold on.”

  Sliding off her stool, she took her drink and purse with her as she walked around the restaurant to find better reception. She followed a sign that led to the patio. As soon as she went out the door, a gust of wind rustled the skirt of her dress. She pulled her coat around her.

  “What were you saying, Barb?” she asked.

  “I asked if you wanted me to come wait with you.”

  “No, no. It’s fine. I’m sure he’ll get here soon. Speaking of which, I better go inside so I don’t miss him.”

  “Okay. Call me when he gets there.”

  “How about I call you when our date’s over?”

  “Fine.” Barb sighed.

  Maggie ended the call and made her way inside. Someone had taken her seat at the bar. Fabulous. Undeterred, she approached the hostess.

  “I’m waiting for a friend. Could you set me up at a table facing the door?” asked Maggie.

  “Yes ma’am. Please, follow me.” The young woman grabbed two menus and led her to a booth. “May I get you started with a drink?”

  “Oh. I have a tab at the bar.”

  “I’ll close that out for you and bring your card. Your name?”

  “Margaret Randolph-Mae. And I’ll take a glass of cabernet sauvignon.”

  “Very good.” The hostess flitted away.

  Several minutes passed before a waiter appeared with the requested drink. “Would you like an appetizer?”

  “Not just yet. When my friend arrives.”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ll check back with you later.”

  He spun on his heel and disappeared. Maggie scanned the patrons again to see if she’d missed Frank. No one resembled his picture and no one wore a red carnation. With a sigh, she picked up her wineglass. He’d be here soon.
>
  At eight-fifteen, she decided to scan the menu. The omelet with caviar and artichoke sounded delicious. Hopefully Frank liked caviar. Somehow during their online chats, she’d failed to ask him the all-important do-you-like-fish-eggs question. Ooh, the restaurant served roasted quail too. Maggie knew what she was going to order.

  Eight twenty-five. She opened her phone and snapped it shut. Then, as if she’d developed a nervous tic, she repeated the action several times until the waiter appeared again.

  “Pan con tomate… On the house, while you wait, ma’am.” Though his smile seemed perfectly neutral, Maggie sensed an undercurrent of pity.

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

  When he left, she pushed the sympathy appetizer across the table, distancing herself from it.

  Eight thirty-five. Should she call him? Would that seem too pushy? People ran late and she didn’t want to make him feel bad about it. Of course it would be nice of him to call her and tell her he was going to be late.

  Eight-forty. The pan con tomate was staring at her. The gin and wine swirling around her stomach had whetted her appetite. It would be rude to start eating without her companion, but…one teensy slice? If she stuffed it in her face fast enough, Frank would never know it’d been there. She pounced on a piece of bread and devoured it, washing it down with a gulp of wine. There. Now she could wait for Frank without gnawing on her own fist.

  Eight forty-five. The guitarist announced he was going to take a break. How much longer was Frank going to make her wait? Especially without calling. Then again, maybe he had called. She had lousy reception in here. Scooping up her glass of wine and her purse, Maggie dashed out to the patio again.

  She checked her voicemail—no messages. Pushy or not, she found his name in her contacts and hit send. Two rings and her call rolled over to voice mail. In a last, desperate attempt to contact him, she logged on to Facebook. There was a green dot next to his name. She instant messaged him—Frank, where are you? I’m at the restaurant. The dot next to his name promptly turned gray.