by Tessa Layne
My heart pounds with the admission. I’ve never said those words. They’re not in my vocabulary, and certainly not how I roll where women are concerned. But I think I have to admit I’m an addict. The first step to recovery is admission, right?
She sips in a deep breath and pushes away from the counter, turning her back to me. Her answer comes out strangled. “You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It should be obvious by now.”
It is, and the obstacles are real. “But I know you feel what’s between us. Why deny it?” I press. “Why deny yourself?”
She turns back with a glare. “It doesn’t matter what I feel, or what I want. What matters is that I have responsibilities, other people to think about.” She shakes her head. “It’s too risky.”
And in that moment, another piece of the Macey puzzle drops into place. I stalk around the countertop, stopping only when we’re toe to toe. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve always denied yourself, haven’t you?”
She drops her gaze.
A tongue of protective anger spools through my belly. I wonder what kind of man she married that demanded that kind of sacrifice from her. If she was mine, I’d spoil her rotten from sunup to sundown. But I push those dangerous thoughts aside. “When have you ever put yourself first?” I already know the answer. She’s not prone to abandon, and yet it suits her magnificently.
I crook a finger under her chin, giving a gentle tug, and pull her gaze up.
Her eyes search mine, but she doesn’t answer.
I press on because I can’t stop. Not while there’s a chance for something more. Not until we’ve reached some kind of closure. “It scares you, doesn’t it? The power you feel when you let go?”
She worries her bottom lip.
I pick her up and seat her on the bar, stepping between her thighs. “Macey,” I say, voice dropping an octave. “Don’t run away from this. There’s so much pleasure to be had. You deserve it,” I croon. “All of it.” She sways forward, eyes half-lidded. I want to kiss her, devour her. Take her on the bar, but I hold back. “You call all the shots. No emotions, just sex.”
“Just sex,” she murmurs back.
“I promise, we’ll be discreet.”
“No one can find out,” she murmurs, hand coming to my bicep.
“It will be our secret.” I bring a hand to the base of her head, caressing the knot of muscles at her neck. “We just need to fuck until we’ve fucked each other right out of our systems.”
A shudder wracks her. “Yeah,” she breathes out with a nod. “That.” Her voice comes out squeezed.
“I’m going to kiss you now, Macey. And then I’m going to lock the tasting room doors and fuck you on the counter. You okay with that?”
“Yes.” She nods, eyes dark with hunger. She squeezes her legs to my hips and pulls me in for a kiss. Our mouths meet in a collision of tongues and lips, and my cock strains against my zipper.
We stay locked together until the sound of our heavy breathing bounces off the limestone walls of the tasting room. She breaks the kiss and waves a hand behind her. “Door,” she says in a breathless rush. “Now.”
Chapter Fourteen
I jog across the room, pulling at my shirttails. I’ve waited too damned long for this moment. Behind me, I register the soft clinking of wine bottles being shoved aside, the scrape of glass on concrete acts like a fingernail trailing down my spine. My body tenses at the unspoken promise crackling in the air. It’s only been a few weeks, it feels like a lifetime.
The deadbolt settles into place with a loud snick, and I turn, making my way back to where she’s laid herself out on the countertop like a pinup girl. “Don’t move a muscle,” I order gruffly, crossing the space in three long strides. She’s kicked off her shoes, and I start by taking her ankle and pulling her dainty foot to my mouth. I press a kiss on the arch, a movement as intimate as it is erotic, because I’ve already memorized every nook and cranny of her body. She sucks in a breath and stares down at me through half-wild eyes filled with expectation. I repeat the motion a little higher, pushing the wide pant leg past her knee. We have more than twenty minutes this time, and I mean to take full advantage. We have the place to ourselves - Jason’s across town, helping on the ranch where his veteran buddies live, and his wife and her father have gone to Manhattan.
“Is your pussy already wet for me?”
Her thighs tighten and she bites down on her lower lip. “So wet,” she answers brokenly on an inbreath.
“Show me.”
Her hands fly to the buttons at her waist. Hips rise and shimmy. In seconds, she’s bare to me, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen since I arrived at this godforsaken place. Her light fuzz of copper glows in the light streaming through the window like some kind of a pussy halo. She never ceases to surprise. She’s like Christmas morning and birthdays wrapped into one. And whether it’s bushy or bare, it’s all delicious holiday candy to me.
Beneath, I can see her pussy wet and slick with the evidence of her arousal, the lips swollen and dark pink, curling out like a beautiful, edible flower. I’m struck with the memory of a Georgia O’Keefe painting I saw at a museum gala once, and how her pussy blossoms under my stare. My mouth waters to taste her. But not yet - not until she’s laid out before me like a feast. Still, I can’t resist a little touch. I draw a finger up the inside of her thigh, marveling at the goosebumps that arise in its wake. Her curls are soft against my knuckle
“You’re stunning,” I say, not recognizing my own voice.
Her hands fidget, first spreading then fisting on the countertop, then trailing over her hips. I still them with my own, bringing her fingers to my lips, tasting each delicate tip in turn. By the time I’m finished, she’s panting and pulling at the buttons on the plaid shirt that hides her curves. Again, I pause. I love the unwrapping, the slow reveal that drives my imagination wild, the hint of skin exposed when the fabric, released from its bondage, falls away in a deep vee. I catch a glimpse of pink lace, creamy skin, and golden freckles. It doesn’t matter that I’ve memorized the taste and feel of her, I still get a thrill when her shirt slides off and miles of creamy skin is brought to light, because there is nothing more sublime than the female body in repose, soft curves pink with eager expectation, waiting to be worshipped. And worship her, I will.
The fabric drops from her shoulders with a sigh, pooling behind her on the counter. Sheer pink lace is the only remaining barrier, covering the lush, pale swell of perfectly shaped breasts, punctuated with a rosy orb in the center, pushing mightily against the material. My breath stills in my throat as I take in the sight before me. From here until forever, I will never see anything but her when I’m in this room, the way the sunlight bounces off her hair, the golden light playing across her belly, the pearlescent quality of her skin, luminous against the gray concrete countertop.
I loom over her, shadowing her body with my own, and drop my head. The citrusy scent of her rises from the valley between her breasts, filling my head with rainbow colored sparks, as light and effervescent as champagne bubbles. I cover her nipple with my mouth, the fabric rough against my tongue. With a needy moan, she arches into me, an unspoken plea for more. I snap the front clasp and push away the straps. Her breasts rise and fall with her shallow breaths, and I swipe my knuckles along the underswell, hungry for the sensation of her satin skin against mine.
My cock is like iron, aching and weeping against my belly, the engorged head painfully restrained by my waistband. Lust thrums in my veins, heating my blood to boiling. I drop my shirt to the floor and our gazes lock. Hers, dark and hungry, I’m sure, mirroring my own. With a purr, she raises her arms above her head, colliding with a bottle and sending it flying. I don’t know how I manage to catch it before it lands, but I do, splashing the contents across her belly in the process. The bright red wine paints her skin like a Jackson Pollack painting, glinting like rubies. A stray droplet catches my eye as it wanders down her hipbone, pulled by g
ravity to the juncture of hip and thigh, until it disappears in the crevice next to her pussy. I draw open her legs and chase the red path left by the bead of wine with my tongue. It’s exquisite, the taste of her mingled with the fruity tang of sangiovese. I lap up every drop until her belly is washed clean. I growl low in my throat, a signal of my appreciation, before I settle myself between her legs and finish with a long, slow swipe of her pussy, a heady compliment to the flavors swirling in my mouth, and one I must taste again and again.
She lets out a long low moan as I feast on her. The sound is music to my ears. “Ohh yes,” she whispers raggedly, more to herself than me, but I know she’s close when her fingers fist in my hair. The pain spikes across my scalp and runs straight to my cock. I seal my mouth around her clit, and glance up. Her head is arched back, mouth open wide, body undulating as she rockets toward a shuddering climax. This is better than any five-star dessert or thousand dollar whiskey. I growl in appreciation as she bucks and shakes, a sheen of sweat popping across her chest, and I let her rock against my mouth until her body goes limp.
I push up from the counter. “Hang on, Gorgeous. That was just the first course.”
She gives me a wicked smile, eyes bright and radiating satisfaction.
“I have condoms,” I offer, reaching into my pocket, but she shakes her head.
“Not unless you prefer.” Her voice trails off at the end.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Your pussy is heaven without a condom.” I toe off my shoes and drop my pants. “Heaven.” My belt clatters on the floor, the perfect punctuation to my comment.
She rolls to her side, propping her head in her hand, and peruses my body, eyes landing on my cock. It thickens under her heated gaze, bobbing and jerking, begging to be petted. Her mouth tips up and she purrs as she reaches out, tracing my engorged head with the pad of a finger. Her touch is electric, sending a white hot shock down my shaft.
“Fuck, Macey,” I grunt.
“Yes, please,” she answers, fingers flicking down my shaft to play with my balls. “I want it hard, big guy, will you fuck me hard?”
JesusfuckmytittiesifIhadthemChrist. With a growl that sounds more animal than human, I climb onto the counter and push her onto her back. I pull her thigh up, and she hooks a calf around my ass as I slide balls deep with a single powerful thrust. She responds with a gasp then a sigh. Her nails dig into my shoulders but I feel no pain. How could I when my cock is ensconced in tight, wet, heat? I thrust hard again, just so I can hear the noise that comes from her throat, and once again, dangerous thoughts enter my head. Forever thoughts. The kind of thoughts that have no place in a ‘no strings attached let’s fuck each other out of our systems’ agreement. She meets my thrusts with squeezes of her own, and the heat between us melts my skin. We’re molten elements, flesh and bone fusing in a timeless chemical interaction that drives us higher and higher. I. Can’t. Get. Enough.
With each thrust we climb higher and higher. The energy coils at the base of my spine, poised to rocket us both into the stratosphere. When she comes, it’s with a loud series of cries, each one pitched higher than the other, and she convulses around me, squeezing my cock with a rippling motion that blinds me with the pleasure of it. I groan too, when my orgasm hits with the force of a wildebeest stampeding down a ravine. I thrust once, twice, three times, emptying myself into her with animal like ferocity. I dimly register the sound of breaking glass, but that could be my head exploding for all I know, because we’ve fucked ourselves onto another plane of existence.
Our breath comes in deep shuddering sighs as reality slowly creeps back into our awareness. I press a kiss to her temple, not quite ready to relinquish the moment. “I think we broke the bottles,” she says, voice wry with amusement.
“I’ll pay for new ones.”
“Money can’t fix everything.”
“I gaurandamntee you it can replace every single bottle we broke. Just text me the list, I’ll have Miles get on it right away.”
Her gaze flicks back to mine. “Miles?” Her voice is weighted with surprise, but also amusement. I feel like I’m missing something, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. At least not in my present state.
“Sure. Why not? That’s what he’s there for.”
“I’m sure he has nothing more important to do.” I don’t miss the sarcasm in her voice.
“It’s his job, Gorgeous. It’s what he gets paid to do.” I can feel the tension building between us again, and I push off the counter. I don’t care to argue buck naked in a tasting room. She follows suit, and for the next few minutes, the only sound in the room is the brush of clothing against skin, zippers being pulled, shoes slipped on. I’m pissed now, more at the loss of my post-orgasmic buzz than at our next round of sparring. Still, it jangles.
“Shoot, I have to run,” she says apologetically, phone in hand. “I have to pick Sophie up at day camp. Can you take care of the bottles?” She waves a hand at the floor.
I blink.
She’s dismissed me. I can’t believe she’s just dismissed me. Patted me on the ass and sent me on my way. I fucking hate it. But I agreed to let her call the shots I remind myself. What kind of magic did she weave that for three seconds I was mister nice guy? Fuck me. “When will I see you again?”
She gives me the Mona Lisa smile. I’m coming to hate that smile, what it means - because it means her mask is firmly in place, and more and more I want the real Macey. “I’ll text you.” She pulls a hair band out of her pants pocket and in a fluid motion, pulls her hair up into a messy bun, the kind of bun I’d love to run my fingers through. But before I can stop her, or kiss her, or even ask how in the hell she already has my number, she’s crossed the room, unlocked the door, and slipped out without a backward glance.
Chapter Fifteen
The text comes four hours, twenty-six minutes, and fourteen seconds later. Not that I was counting.
M: 835 W. 11th
My jaw swings open as I stare at the address. I’ve never been on the receiving end of a booty call, but clearly, that’s what it is. I have half a mind to ignore it, but my cock has other ideas. I wait five minutes before typing a reply.
A: I assume this is where you live?
M: :)
Unfuckingbelievable. I briefly consider walking across the hall and showing this to Declan, but I’m fairly sure he’s sexting with the blonde from the wedding. We’re staying across the hall from each other, yet we’ve been like ships passing in the night. I’m sure Jason orchestrated it that way, but I also know for a fact that Declan has spent a total of two nights here since we arrived. And calling them nights is a stretch.
Instead, I take a quick shower. Two can play the waiting game, and just to be sure, I want her to know unequivocally that I don’t come at the snap of a finger. I step out quietly into the twilight, the night air warm and humid against my skin. Fireflies wink across the yard as I slip into my Pagani. I pause, fingers hovering at the ignition. She’s not subtle, my girl. As soon as I fire her up, everyone within a quarter mile will know I’m headed out. Just so long as that intel doesn’t make its way back to Jason. But pussy is calling, and who am I to turn down that invitation? Especially when it’s been extended by a woman whose pussy tastes as exquisite as hers?
The car roars to life beneath me, and I feel the vibrations deep in my sac. By the time I arrive at the bungalow on West Eleventh, I’m ready for a full night of lovin’. Only Macey has other ideas.
“What are you doing here?” she hisses, looking over her shoulder when she answers the door.
“What do you mean? You told me to come.”
She makes a face. “Not in that.” She points to my baby.
“Uhh…. that’s my car. Should I have Ubered?” Can you even call an Uber in a town this small?
“Oh god no. Everyone in town would know what was up inside of an hour.”
“So,” I spread my hands. “I should have walked?”
“You should have come in something mor
e discreet.”
“More discreet.” I know I sound like an idiot, repeating her words, but to be honest, I’m dumbfounded. “You should have given me clearer instructions.”
Her eyes go wide. “I did.”
I scoff. “The last time I checked, smiley face emojis were not explicit instructions.”
“Let me see your phone.” She sticks out her hand.
“For real?”
She nods. “Hurry up. Mrs. Townsend is staring out the window.”
“Who?”
She looks over her shoulder again, clearly ill at ease. “Mrs. Townsend, across the street. She doesn’t miss a thing. And if your car is here more than five more minutes, it’s still going to be all over town first thing in the morning. Everyone knows your car.”
“How do you figure?”
She rolls her eyes. “How many people have one of those… ” She flicks her fingers in the direction of my car.
“Pagani?” I supply.
“I’ve never even heard of that.”
“It’s Italian.”
“My point is, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Everyone in town knows you’re the man with the weird car.”
“That car,” I protest, pointing back at my baby, “is a work of art. Not. Weird.”
“Okay, whatever.” She gestures toward me again. “Show me your phone.”
I hand it over, and she gasps, shaking her head. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
“No it’s not.” I state flatly.
“Look.” She offers her phone.
Sure enough, there was a follow-up message she sent, telling me to park in the alley behind her house. But the text still hasn’t shown up on my phone. Fucking dead-zones. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
She waves, presumably at Mrs. Townsend. I turn and wave too, only to see the curtains fluttering. “You have to go.”
“Should I park around back?”
She lets out a sigh. “I think it’s a bad idea. It’s like she has bionic hearing and x-ray vision.”