by Mindy Klasky
He stretched his legs past her head, kicking one of her pillows to the floor. Her hair brushed against his dick as he drew a line down her trembling body. He outlined hidden words with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He wrote on the inside of her thighs, private words to keep from thinking of his aching dick, of all the secrets he’d shared with her a lifetime before.
He breathed in the smell of her—excited girl and steamy leather and the clear amber soap she’d always used. The combination hit him like incense, pushing him into some other world, a place where every one of his senses was doubled, tripled. He rubbed his beard against her thighs, felt the stirring of mindless need deep inside himself.
She twisted beneath him, thrashing to her side. She was giving him access, opening herself to him, letting him trace the rigid muscles of her thighs. He tasted her salt as he tongued the delicate line where her thighs met her body. She writhed at his touch, making his cock impossibly harder.
He flicked his tongue against her clit. She cried out at the contact, a greedy yelp. He lapped at her again, slipping his hands beneath her hips, positioning her to give him a better angle. She breathed his name on a pair of descending notes.
He owned her. She was his. He buried his face in the heaven between her thighs, feasting on his woman.
And she answered him, in the only way possible. She answered him, with the passion they’d shared for years. She answered him with the familiarity of a true partner, a real mate.
Her lips closed over his cock.
He ate her, teased her, brought her to the very edge. At the same time, she worked his dick, completing the job she’d started on the couch. The heat of her mouth made him dizzy, or maybe that was the taste of her on his tongue. The pressure of her lips made every one of his muscles tremble, or maybe that was the feel of her soft folds beneath his mouth. The track of her tongue made him see stars, or maybe that was the scent of her sweet flesh.
He heard her, felt her whimper deep in her throat. He stroked her long and slow, savoring every drop of her passion. She returned the favor, tracking her tight, tight lips from his balls to the tip of his cock. One more stroke, another, a third, and he felt her break beneath him. Her pulsing shudder pulled her thighs as tight as his own, releasing her as completely as his own hot rush set him free.
They pumped together, thrashed together, gave themselves over completely. He needed to break away, couldn’t dream of breaking away, needed to feel her against him, couldn’t stop feeling her pulsing, hot and heavy.
At last, he could breathe again. At last, he could open his eyes. At last, he could pull himself up her body, stretch out beside her, cradle her damp head on his still-twitching forearm.
“Well,” she said, and her voice was as raw as a wind-stripped beach. “That didn’t work at all.”
“No,” he agreed. “It was pretty much an absolute failure.”
She chuckled, low and sultry, a sound that would have woken up his cock under any other circumstances. As it was, he threw his free arm around her belly, pulling her close against him. Their breathing was perfectly matched—at least for the thirty-seven seconds before they both fell sound asleep.
~~~
Jamie woke up to Nick nuzzling her neck. “Mmmm,” she said. “Are you going to make us Eggs Benedict?”
He laughed. “I’ll take you out for brunch.”
“Still haven’t learned how to cook?”
His fingers started doing distracting things against her thighs. “I thought it made more sense to invest in perfecting my existing skills.”
Her stomach rumbled. With any other man, she would have been mortified. With Nick, she pushed his hand away and said, “Brunch. Now.”
He propped himself up on one elbow and said with mock obedience, “Yes, ma’am. Do I have time for a shower first?”
She twisted her lips in mock disapproval. “I guess so. A quick one.”
He kissed her long enough and hard enough that she almost forgot she was starving. But then her stomach gurgled again. He laughed as she pushed him out of bed.
God, she thought, falling back against the mattress. She’d forgotten how amazing sex was with Nick.
Maybe it was because they’d been each other’s firsts. Maybe it was because they’d devoted so much time to studying each other, putting as much energy into their relationship as they had into all their classes combined. Maybe it was because four years, four over-eager college years, added up to a lot of sex, a lot of time to experiment, to figure out what was mind-blowing, what was just amazingly, overwhelmingly good.
Because sex with Nick had never been bad.
She stretched in bed, reaching her arms all the way over her head and pointing her toes toward the far wall. She could already feel a slow ache blooming in her thighs. She smiled at the memory of how tight he’d wound her. She felt like purring.
Instead, she pushed back the covers and stumbled over to her closet. Her familiar terry bathrobe felt rough against her tender breasts, and she was aware of the looped cloth with every step she took. She shook her head and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
She measured out coffee, automatically adding two extra scoops, the way Nick liked it. She put on water for her tea, and she took out the carton of Olivia’s organic whole milk, the closest she had to the cream Nick preferred. No need for sugar, for either of them.
As the coffee dripped, she thought about how the night before could have turned into a disaster. She’d felt so stupid when RoadWarrior had failed to show up, like she was some hopeless teenager, mooning over a boy who didn’t know she was alive.
Well, RoadWarrior had missed his chance. She’d send him a message on TrueLove right now, cut short any half-assed explanation he might try to give.
Jamie walked into the living room, looking around for a moment before she found her clutch on the floor, next to Nick’s pants. She shook her head. They’d been like animals the night before. And it had felt incredible.
She tapped the TrueLove icon on her phone. Nothing in her mailbox. Of course not. Because RoadWarrior was a coward and a jerk. “Hey, Loser,” she started to type.
But maybe he wasn’t a loser. Maybe he’d meant to meet up with her, but something terrible had happened. She backspaced over her message and started again. “Hey, what happened?” she typed.
But what did she say after that? After last night, she wasn’t going to continue her online flirtation. Even if RoadWarrior had a perfectly good explanation for where he’d been, Nick was back in her life.
The shower switched off. He’d be downstairs any minute. She stared at her three-word question, shrugged, and tapped Send.
And almost immediately, she heard a familiar triple buzz. By reflex, she glanced at her own phone. But no, that wasn’t her TrueLove account responding.
She typed another message. “Let me know.” Innocuous enough. She hit Send.
Buzz, buzz, buzz.
This time she was ready for it. This time she placed the direction of the sound—Nick’s khakis, piled by her feet. She fumbled in his pockets and pulled out his phone.
“?” she typed, hitting Send before her mind caught up with her. Nick’s phone buzzed three times.
She looked up to see Nick standing on the steps, one of her navy towels tucked tight around his waist. He grinned as he said, “You’re stuck with me wearing the same—”
He stopped when he saw her. When he saw the red heart on his phone. In the morning sunlight, his face went blotchy beneath his beard. He swallowed hard and licked his lips, still staring at the phone, at the front door, at the couch, looking at anything but her.
“What the f—” she started to say, but he cut her off.
“I can explain.”
“I doubt it.” She heard the acid in her voice, wondered who had injected it there.
“I didn’t know what to say when I realized you were Shygirl6!”
“How about, ‘what a funny coincidence?’ How about, ‘Hey, I’m RoadWarrior.’”
Her belly turned over. She’d seen this picture before. Back in her dorm room. The night before graduation. When he was searching for the harshest words she’d ever heard in her life.
He finally figured out what he wanted to say. “I swear, I didn’t know the truth until I saw you sitting at the bar. I fucked up, Jamie. Big time. I should have said something the second I walked into the restaurant.”
“But you didn’t. You thought it would be too much fun to play games.” Her words were bitter as lemon peel.
“I wasn’t playing! I stood out there on that goddamn porch, and I realized last night might be the time you walked away. It might be the time I lost you forever.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
The shame on his face was enough of an answer. Shame that she recognized—because that was how she’d felt the night before. Shame that had nearly drowned her as she sat at the bar, feeling like an absolute reject, feeling like she was the one who’d misread weeks of online conversations, like she was the one who had thrown herself at some guy who’d come to his senses just in time to save himself.
“Get out of here,” she said.
“Come on, Twelve.”
“Don’t call me that!” she shouted. “Don’t ever call me that again!”
“Jamie—” he said, but that wasn’t any better. She’d told him secrets, told RoadWarrior. She’d confided fears about her career, about her life. Nick had known, the entire time they talked at Artie’s, while they ate and drank together like friends. He’d known when he’d driven her home. He’d known when he’d accepted her invitation to come inside, when he’d…
“Get out of here,” she repeated.
Before he could protest again, before he could come up with some other lie, some other betrayal, she heard a key in the lock. There was laughter—a woman’s voice—and more, from a child. Ashley. And Olivia.
Jamie just had time to pull her robe closer around her waist before the door burst open and her daughter came galloping into the room. “Guess what, Mommy?” Olivia sang. “Somebody left a book on the swing outside!” She stopped dead, looking from her mother to the man at the foot of the steps. “Hi, Red! Why are you here? Want to hear me sing my acorn song? I practiced it with Ashley all last night!”
Olivia wasn’t a stupid child. She realized something was wrong when not one of the adults around her said a word. Her face was clouded as she turned to Jamie. “Mommy?” she asked. “What’s wrong? Mommy, why are you crying?”
CHAPTER 8
A week later, Jamie tried to keep her voice light as she repeated herself for the third time, speaking a little louder than normal in case the connection was the problem. “No, Dad. I totally understand. Mom needs you to be there. Olivia will be fine. It’s just the Fall Chorale. It’s not like she’s winning a Grammy award. She’ll be fine, Dad.” She babbled for a few more minutes, repeating that last sentence at least half a dozen times. But she was no closer to believing herself by the time she hung up the call.
Robert looked up from the equipment that he was striking with his usual efficiency. “Problems in paradise?”
Jamie shook her head, not knowing where to start. “My father was going to fly down next week for Olivia’s fall choir concert, but he can’t make it now.”
Robert looked skeptical. “He really wanted to hear a bunch of six-year-olds sing?”
Jamie shrugged. “He wants to check up on us. Guarantee I haven’t collapsed into the pit of despair. Make sure the house isn’t falling down around our ears.”
She started to shut down programs on her computer. She’d told her father not to come to Raleigh. She was a big girl now. She was a lot more mature than the college senior who’d fallen apart the first time Nick disappointed her. She wasn’t going to stop eating, wasn’t going to stay in bed for weeks at a time.
She couldn’t. She was responsible for Olivia now.
But it had sure made things easier when her father volunteered to come to the concert. Olivia had gotten it jammed in her head that “Red” would come hear her, no matter how many times Jamie said that wasn’t possible.
Jamie had obviously done too good a job last Saturday, convincing her daughter that “Red” was visiting because he was Mommy’s good friend. That “Red” had taken a shower upstairs because his own wasn’t working. That “Red” was just going to get dressed and leave and he’d find time to talk to Olivia later…
Olivia had no idea that Jamie’s heart was broken. She just knew that she wanted an audience for her solo performance in the “The Last Little Acorn.” Grandpa had been enough of a draw to distract Olivia for almost a week.
But Jamie’s mother had broken her ankle, slipping on the ice during Connecticut’s first big winter storm. Of course, she insisted that Jamie’s father still head south, but Jamie wouldn’t hear of it. Olivia will be fine, she reminded herself. She’ll love the concert, no matter who’s sitting in the audience.
Robert cleared his throat. “I’m free next Friday.”
Jamie shook her head. “I couldn’t impose on you that way. You don’t have enough time with Steven as it is.”
“Steven’s a big boy. He can spare me for a couple of hours.”
Jamie’s eyes filled. They’d been doing that a lot lately. Her emotions felt raw, scraped to the bone. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d choked up over three different commercials on TV—and one of them was for beer.
Taking a steadying breath, she shut her laptop with authority. “You know Olivia adores you,” she said. “If you can really do it…”
Robert made a funny little bow. “I’m honored to attend. Should I bring flowers for the star?”
“Hardly,” Jamie said. She looked around the luxury suite. “Looks like we’ve got everything here.”
“So, what’s the plan for next week?” Robert managed to make the question sound offhand, but she knew he was anxious. His livelihood depended on hers. And she was wrapping up the Rockets project today, without anything else in the pipeline. All of her emails, her professional networking, her cold calls—nothing had come through.
Robert deserved the truth. “I don’t know,” she said. “I hope to get some good news on Monday. Tuesday at the latest. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” She vowed to send out another dozen emails, the second she got home.
~~~
Nick didn’t answer his phone when it rang. After all, there was only one person in the world he wanted to talk to, and she wasn’t taking his calls. Or his emails. Or his texts. He’d stop by her house, but he was afraid she’d have him arrested for trespassing.
Instead he was left stalking her online. She’d updated her website just the night before, added in a bunch of shots from the Rockets calendar. There were three of him, front and center. He’d felt sick to his stomach when he saw them there.
Whoever was calling, they weren’t taking “no” for an answer. The phone began to ring again. He glanced at the screen and realized he had a career to continue, even if he’d fucked up his personal life beyond redemption. “Hey,” he said, finally answering.
“I’m asking you!” Jeremy Epson bellowed like they were already in the middle of a conversation. “Who’s the best agent in New York City?”
Nick sighed. “What’s up?”
“Jordan Thomson’s cock.”
Nick was long used to Epson’s foul mouth, but the guy usually at least made sense. Jordan Thomson was the owner of Raleigh Luxury Motors, the dealership Nick had hoped to get the endorsement with. Christ, that seemed like a lifetime ago. “What are you talking about?”
“Jordan Thomson has a hard-on for you, my man.”
“Ep—”
“Raleigh Luxury Motors wants you to be their spokesman,” Ep crowed. “A three-year deal, with escalating payment if they mee
t certain sales targets. I’ve got to hand it to you, Big Guy. I thought your whole ‘Professor’ shtick was short-sighted. Not exactly the stuff that nails the big contracts. But Luxury is all hot and bothered about you. They say you’re the four-quadrant man they’ve been waiting for.”
“Four quadrant?”
“Old men, young men, old women, young women. You’ve got ’em all eating out of the palm of your hand.” Epson went on, crowing about the terms of the deal, but Nick barely processed what he was saying. There was something about print rights and TV, about launching a new showroom. Ep wrapped up the whole recitation with, “Say ‘thank you, Uncle Ep.’”
“Thank you,” Nick said mechanically. “So what do I have to do?”
“I’m sending you the contract. I’ve already gone through it, but let me know if you have any questions. Otherwise, sign it and get it back to me by tomorrow morning.”
“Will do.”
“And they want to take some publicity stills, something they can use to announce the contract on Tuesday. They’ll send over a photographer as soon as you sign.”
Nick shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to stand in front of some goddamn stranger’s camera. “The team just took a bunch of headshots. Tell Luxury to contact the front office.”
“Jesus! Sound a little more depressed, why don’t you? Who pissed in your Wheaties?”
“Sorry, Ep. I’m happy about the deal. I’ve just got a lot on my plate right now.”
“What’s wrong, Nicky boy? You know I’ve got your back.”
“Not on this,” Nick said. “It’s personal.”
His agent laughed. “You don’t have a personal life. Not that you keep from me. You tell me everything, and if there’s a problem, I make it right.”
Nick had spent the past week trying to figure a way out of this mess. Maybe there was something he wasn’t seeing. What could it hurt to get another man’s perspective? Taking a deep breath, Nick gave his agent the short version: Jamie back in Raleigh, Olivia, TrueLove. He skipped over the night of mind-blowing sex, just leaving it at, “I don’t know what else I can do, Ep. I don’t know how to make it right.”