by Maggie Wells
Confused, but amused by her impression nonetheless, he said, “I seem to remember you getting served first.”
Georgie pressed the heels of her hands to his shoulders and shoved until he acquiesced. She rolled on top of him, crawled up until she straddled his hips. She tossed her hair as she pushed up, and the view was fucking spectacular. He was still admiring it when she poked him in the chest with one finger. Hard.
“Ow!”
“Oh, did I hurt you? Poor tender fella,” she mocked.
She poked again and his body convulsed, instinctively attempting to curl in and protect vital organs.
“Ouch. Stop.”
She went for another jab and he grabbed her hand.
“Stop.”
“What about me? Huh?”
He blinked. “What?”
“What if I get attached?” She jerked her hand from his, crossed her arms under her breasts—plumping them up nicely—and sneered at him from atop her high horse. “What if I fall in love with your kids and you dump me? Or, worse, I fall for you, and your kids decide I’m some kind of Cruella de Vil and they don’t want me as their wicked stepmother?”
“I think you’re mixing your villains. Villainesses,” he corrected, unsure of the proper terminology.
“You’re lucky I’m not making you take a bite out of a poisoned apple,” she shot back.
“Totally different story,” he replied mildly, enjoying her pique.
“What if I fall for you?” she asked. “What if I already have?”
The challenges she spoke caught him up short. He sucked in a sharp breath as he searched her face, not quite sure if he was hoping to find confirmation or denial there. Running his tongue over his suddenly parched lips, he attempted an encouraging smile, but fell short. Terror and elation warred inside him. “Have you?”
She gave him a supercilious glare. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes, I would.”
Georgie released a breath gusty enough to ruffle her tousled hair, then collapsed onto the bed beside him without answering.
“Georgie?”
“Hm?”
She hummed the innocent syllable as if she hadn’t told him she may or may not have feelings for him extending beyond the bedroom. The same type of feelings he’d been trying so hard to deny in himself. The mutual kind.
“Have you?” he persisted.
Pursing her lips, she seemed to give the question serious thought. “Maybe.”
He should have known better than to expect a straight answer out of her, much less a declaration. He glared at her. “You’re exhausting.”
She grinned. “So I’m told.” Flipping onto her side, she beamed at him. “I think we should start with dinner. One with the kids, someplace relaxed, another just us, at a dimly lit and outrageously expensive restaurant. I’ll let you choose which order.”
He raised an eyebrow at her casually magnanimous tone. “Dimly lit and outrageously expensive, huh?”
“Huge plates, tiny portions,” she confirmed with a nod.
“Okay.”
“I can recommend some of those.” When she upped the eyebrow ante, she shrugged. “Friends from school. I’ll have to leave the kid-friendly ones to you. You know these foodies, they turn their noses up at dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.”
“Snobs.”
She shook her head in mock pity. “Don’t know what they’re missing.”
Without further discussion, she flipped over, and wiggled her way into a comfortable spooning position. Her hair tickled his nose, but he didn’t brush the lock away. His hand found its way to the underside of her breast again. Her bottom pressed into his crotch, a warm, cushioned temptation he wasn’t nearly man enough to resist. His dick grew hard, stretching and pressing into her soft curves. He slid his hand down her belly, over her hip, and gripped her thigh. She lifted her leg and bent her knee over his, opening herself up to him again.
Mike groaned, first with pleasurable anticipation, then in frustration when he realized he’d have to move away to grab a rubber from the nightstand. He kissed her neck softly and moved against her bottom, hoping to entice her into a different kind of walk on the wild side. “We’re exclusive, right? Monogamous?”
She laughed softly, not at all fooled by the ploy. “Yes, but no, you’re not playing without suiting up, slick.”
Heaving a sigh, he groped wildly for the handle on the nightstand drawer. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he muttered as he fumbled for the condoms.
“No. You get an A for effort, sport.”
He yanked one of the packages free from the box and tore the foil. “Slick, sport…keep it up and I’ll think you can’t remember my name.”
“Mark, right?”
“Ha. Funny,” he grumbled as he rolled the latex over the head of his dick.
“Oh, Colm, hurry. I’m so horny,” she urged in what he imagined to be the excessively husky tone of a seasoned phone sex operator.
“Not funny,” he growled as he reclaimed his position. He caught the lobe of her ear and menaced the tender flesh with the very edges of his teeth. He covered her pussy with one hand. “What’s my name?”
She giggled, but it morphed into a gasp when he dragged his finger through her slick folds. Georgie pressed her heels into the mattress and scooted higher, bringing their bodies into better alignment. “I remember…something that rhymes with Spike? Am I close?”
He thrust his finger into her, grinding against her ass as her hot, slippery flesh clenched and released. He stroked her a few more times, teasing her clit with his thumb and peppering the side of her neck with the soft, sucking kisses he knew drove her wild. Then he stopped. Everything. Georgie let loose with a mewl of protest, but he smiled. “Wanna try the name thing again?”
“Mike.”
Her tone was more demand than supply, but worked for him. He slid down a few more inches, then pushed up, guiding his cock into her wet warmth with a prolonged groan of his own. She was swollen and tight from their earlier bouts of lovemaking, but didn’t shy away as he began to push deeper.
Once he was fully seated in her heat, Georgie exhaled long and satisfied. They lay there for a moment, his heart hammering against her spine, hers thundering beneath the breast he cupped. Every cell in his body ached with a reckless, dangerous kind of tenderness. But he was beyond caring. He kissed her neck again, this time sweetly.
“Hey, Mike?”
“Yeah?”
“Normal is a fantasy,” she said, craning her neck to peer over her shoulder at him. “Reality is messy, but so much better.”
* * * *
Georgie didn’t usually bake almond croissants on Saturday mornings, but she didn’t usually have a naked man in her bed either. Humming softly, she moved about her kitchen wearing nothing but an old Backstreet Boys concert T-shirt and a pair of Crocs. She’d already frosted six dozen penises, dropped her last batch of doughnuts into the fryer, and decorated a Big Kahuna for a bachelorette party. The scent of fried dough hung heavy in the air. Sugar crystals shimmered in the overhead lights. A streak of peachy-pink royal frosting dried and flaked on her forearm.
Hot grease spattered and sputtered. Pale gold puffs of yeast doughnuts floated to the top. Standing well away from the bubbling oil, she fished them out one by one and placed them on a rack to cool and dry. Switching to a wispy whistle, she peeked into the oven. The croissants were golden brown perfection. She slid the tray from the rack and transferred the buttery morsels to another rack, using the sheet of baking parchment as a magic carpet for the ride.
Scuffing her clogs along the flour-slicked floor, she carried a couple trays to the rack she used to stock the retail cases. Saturdays were busy but short days. People came in early for their treats, so she usually closed the storefront by noon. If she had no pick-ups scheduled, her time was her
own. Nibbling her bottom lip, she wondered about insinuating herself into the Simmons’ family plan for the evening. Probably too soon.
Mike still had reservations, and while she totally understood his reasoning, her natural impulse was to plow right over whatever roadblocks he saw fit to erect. Georgie snickered as she bent to pull tubs of decorating supplies from the bins below the work-surface. If the man could erect anything after the rounds they’d gone, he could officially claim superhero status.
“It’s 5:23.”
She jerked up, squeezing the container of candy pearls too hard. The tube shot out of her hand, hit the side of the fridge, and the lid popped off. In perfect Hollywood slow motion, the plastic receptacle fell to the floor and tiny opalescent balls shot up like steam from a geyser. The spell was broken as the candies showered down. Blinking twice to chase away the fog, she watched as they rattled and rolled across the floor, seeking every nook and cranny a broom couldn’t reach. Pressing the flat of her palm to her thundering heart, she stared wide-eyed at her intruder.
God, she loved seeing him like this. Sleep-rumpled and sex-worn, and wearing the same perplexed frown she’d fallen for the first time he walked through her door. But she needed to keep her feelings to herself. The man was skittish, and the last thing she wanted to do was scare him off.
“Lord, you scared me,” she said, still breathless.
“Sorry.” He plowed a hand through his hair. “It’s 5:23,” he repeated. “In the morning. Why are you up?”
His truly bewildered tone made her laugh. Glancing at the clock above the stove, she smirked. “Five twenty-six now, and I get up at four every morning.”
At last his sleepy eyes widened. “God, why?”
She laughed and gestured to the doughnuts cooling on the counter top. “To run my business.”
“Every morning?”
Cute as he was, having him there in her space felt weird. Particularly since she wasn’t wearing any pants. One thing to strut around naked and play the seductress when they were alone in her strategically lit apartment. The kitchen was all harsh fluorescents and reflective surfaces. All in all, too much opportunity for him to mistake her thighs for the bread dough she set to rise on a sideboard.
“Sometimes I try to take a Sunday off, but people knock on the door.”
“And you answer.”
“I’m pretty much awake anyhow.” Suddenly nervous, she picked up the pastry bag she’d loaded with rich, thick cream filling, and touched a finger to one of the doughnuts to check its temperature. “Can’t break the habit.”
“We were up until two,” he grumbled.
Wafting a sweet smile in his direction, she nodded and set the bag aside. The pastry was still too warm to fill. “Best two hours of sleep I’ve had all week.”
Mike craned his neck, taking in the goods she’d already churned out for the day. Georgie stifled a smile when she saw him grimace at the tray of cookie dicks. “I guess there will be a shortage of Pussy Puffs today.”
He rubbed sleep from his eye. “Huh?”
She gestured to the pearls scattered at their feet. “No magic pearl buttons. A pussy without a clitoris is basically a blow-up doll.” She cast a glance at the tray of vulva-shaped pastries. “I guess I could sell them to men. I mean, what do you guys care, right?”
“I think I proved I care about your clitoris. Over and over again.”
“You did. I was speaking in generalities,” she said as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“And hyperbole.”
“Oooh, he uses big words pre-coffee,” she cooed. “You’re getting me hot again.”
He scrubbed his face with his palm. “You’re a maniac.”
“The best kind of maniac.”
“Sex maniac.”
“Exactly.” Grabbing a shaker from a shelf, she dusted the croissants with powdered sugar, squeezed a squiggle of thin glaze over the top of each one, then sprinkled them with sliced almonds. “I made almond croissants for breakfast.” She stilled mid-sprinkle, once again, all too aware she knew so little about him. Glancing at him over her shoulder, she asked, “Do you like almond croissants? No problem if you don’t,” she continued, shifting from stammer to babble. “I have doughnuts and cream puffs, too—without the magic pearl, of course.” She cast about for something else to offer him. Anything to keep him near. Thrusting an almond-studded finger into the air, she pivoted toward the fridge. “Eggs! I have eggs. I can make you some eggs.”
“Georgie—”
Afraid he was about to set the stage to exit, she ignored his entreaty and yanked on the door handle. “You probably need protein, right? Lots of exertion. I should know, I was there.”
Mike pried her hand off the refrigerator door and pulled her palm to his lips. She gasped when he bent his head and drew her index finger into his mouth, sucking and swirling the sticky glaze and bits of almond from her skin. Her lips parted when he released the digit with a soft pop.
“I love almonds,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“How do you know I washed my hands?” she whispered hoarsely.
“Professional chef. I took a chance.” He kept hold of her wrist. “Can you bring those croissants upstairs?”
She gnawed her lip, regret as bitter as unsweetened chocolate making her throat tight. “There’s nothing I want more, but—” She gestured to the works in progress. “I’m open every day.”
He nodded, then let her go. She watched warily as he scanned the mess around them. Georgie looked around, too, trying to take in the scene through his eyes but failed. She knew everything, with the exception of the candy pearls strewn across the floor, was in its place.
“Can I sweep up?”
She blinked in surprise. “You don’t have to.”
One brow rose, as did the corner of his mouth. “I know I don’t, but I will.”
She nodded to the small closet off the hall. “Broom’s in there.”
The minutes passed in companionable silence. They danced around one another as he methodically swept the entire length of the galley kitchen. Georgie made a mental note to vacuum under the workstations and fridge later. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she finished filling the now-cooled doughnuts and placed them on a parchment-lined tray. This was the first time she’d seen him like this—all mussed up and unshaven. He was also barely dressed. She loved the soft line of hair arrowing straight for his crotch. Though winter had moved in, his skin held the faint golden glow of summer days spent in the sun. He had a faint farmer’s tan, and, to her surprise, Georgie found she liked the lines of demarcation. The man didn’t own an ounce of vanity. His flaws were damn appealing to her, having grown up surrounded by the polished perfection of professional politicians.
She smiled shyly as she moved past him to the racks where a batch of penis cookies awaited her attention, and picked up a bag filled with pale pink frosting. “There’s a long-handled dustpan in the closet, too. Thanks for cleaning up.”
“The least I can do, seeing as I’m the guy who caused the genital mutilation of a whole generation of pussy puffs.”
She stifled a laugh with her knuckles. “Horrible joke. Not a funny topic.”
He grimaced as he pulled out the dust pan. “I know. Retracted.”
Watching him move around her kitchen made her realize she didn’t even know simple facts about him. Middle name, favorite color, whether or not he drank coffee. Settling on the last one as the safest place to start, she shot him a glance over her shoulder. “There’s coffee out front. Also cocoa in the machine and hot water for tea, if you prefer, but all I have is breakfast blend.”
“A glass of water is good for me,” he said as he dumped his sweepings into the garbage.
She looked directly at him, her jaw dropping slightly. “You don’t do caffeine?”
Mike walked over to the tray of croiss
ants and selected one. “I do, but I have a feeling I’ll get jittery if I start this early.”
He tore off a corner and popped the flaky dough into his mouth. His lashes fluttered, and she was gratified by his low groan of appreciation. She watched his mouth as he chewed, conjuring flashes of the previous night in vivid detail. Lord, the man had the most sensual mouth.
“Do you drink coffee?”
The casual question caught her off-guard. He knew as little about her and her habits as she did his. A stunning revelation for two people who shared an intense level of intimacy. “One cup, but a really big one.” She nodded to the insulated travel mug she filled while the ovens warmed each morning.
Mike’s eyes widened. “Wow. Sure is.”
“Thirty-two ounces. What is that? About four cups?”
“Something along those lines.” He tore off another hunk of pastry, seemingly oblivious to the thick, rich almond butter oozing over his thumb. “This is the best croissant I’ve ever had.”
He pushed away from the counter and moved to stand right next to her, crowding her enough to make her hand tremble. Georgie set the bag of frosting aside and looked up at him from under her lashes. “Thank you, kind sir.”
He pressed the morsel to her lips. “Here. Taste.”
She opened her mouth, instinctively obeying the command. Their gazes met and held as she chewed. Something passed between them. Something deeper than want, but short of full understanding. There was a connection beyond mere physical attraction between them. Surely if this was only lust, the bloom would be off the rose, right? But here he was, staring down at her with such intensity she didn’t dare look away. Some damn powerful chemistry. Compelling. A dynamic force too powerful to be ignored.
Good thing she wasn’t inclined to ignore her feelings for him. She wanted him. Some essential, elemental part of her demanded to know everything about him. The insane and the inane. Like how he functioned without caffeine. Did he know they sold suits at places other than Brooks Brothers? Was he the kind of dad who read to his kids at night?
She let her eyelids drop to half-mast as she pressed a tender, lingering kiss to the tip of the thumb she’d molested. She didn’t need to ask to know the answer to the last one. She only knew for the first time in her professional life, she was ready and willing to break every health code in the books.