by Marie Force
Swallowing the impulsive urge and hoping my cock gets the message to stand the fuck down, I ask if she’s ready to go.
“Let me grab my purse.” She turns to retrieve a bag that has red cherries on it, and I get the back view of the dress that barely covers the lower curve of her ass cheeks, which I know are bare under there.
My cock thoroughly approves of the view and pulses against the fly of the dark jeans I changed into after work. This plan of mine is going to be torture, I realize, as she returns with the purse and I notice her face is flushed the way it gets when she’s turned on. I recall that detail from the night of the disaster. It’s one of several facts about Lauren that I’ve filed away for future use. When the time is right. And the time is definitely not right tonight, or so I continue to tell myself as I help her into the Mercedes and get an eyeful of long, sexy leg and tempting inner thigh as she settles herself in the seat.
“Get your shit together,” I mutter as I round the back of the car and get into the driver’s seat.
“Where’re we going?”
“My place, if that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
Does she sound disappointed? What if she wanted to go out somewhere rather than have an intimate night at home alone? Hopefully, once she sees what’s on the menu, she’ll be happy with the plans I made for us.
This, right here, is why I don’t bother with the rituals involved with dating. In all ways but one, women are a mystery to me. I never have been very good at being able to tell what they’re thinking or what they want or how they really feel. So I’ve focused on the one area in which there are very few mysteries. I know how to fuck, and I’m never afraid to take a woman to bed, because I have little doubt she’ll leave happy.
That’s why I’m so determined to right this terrible wrong with Lauren. How is it possible that the only woman I’ve ever truly cared about was disappointed after going to bed with me? That simply won’t do. No matter what happens between us in the long term, before we’re finished, she’ll know the truth about what I’m truly capable of when I get naked with a woman. My type-A personality refuses to settle for anything less than complete success.
We arrive at my house a short time later, and I park the Benz next to my truck on the far left side of the three-car garage, shutting the door behind us so my nosy neighbors won’t see Lauren dressed to the nines getting out of my car in her come-fuck-me heels. I help her out of the car and keep a hold on her hands longer than necessary to ensure she’s steady on those insane shoes. I love the feel of her soft skin and the way she holds on to me as if she knows I’ll never let her fall.
I escort her inside, where I’ve already set the scene with music from Pandora and candles throughout the house. When I left to pick her up, I did so hoping the house wouldn’t burn down in the ten minutes I was gone.
“This is nice,” she says.
“I’m glad you think so. You’re not disappointed that we didn’t go out somewhere, are you?”
“Of course not. I’m so stinking nervous that it’s probably better if we don’t go out in public.”
I hate to hear her say she’s so nervous. “Why the nerves? It’s just me and you.”
“And a mountain of expectations standing between us.”
“How about we ignore that mountain and focus on having a nice time tonight with zero expectations. Can we do that?”
“We can try.”
I put my arms around her and bring her in close to me, while reminding my cock that he’s off duty tonight. Bastard has a mind of his own, though, and the minute her sweet body presses against mine, he springs to life. “The last thing I want is for things to be weird between us.”
She lays her hands on my chest and gazes up at me. “I don’t want that either.”
I’d have to be a stronger man than I am to resist the burning need to kiss her sweet lips. And the instant my lips connect with hers, the hum of desire that has simmered between us for as long as I can remember roars to life. That’s the reason we’re together tonight, why I wanted to try again with her. I’ve never felt for another woman what I do for Lauren. When I kiss her and hold her, that feeling multiplies exponentially.
Mindful of my agenda for this evening, I force myself to pull back from her right when the kiss is getting interesting, leaving her surprised by my sudden withdrawal. I kiss her once more. It takes every bit of willpower I can muster to keep the kiss light and undemanding. “What can I get you to drink?”
She looks up at me with those big brown eyes that are even more expressive than usual after a passionate kiss. Her swollen lips are still damp, and I work very hard to stay focused on the plan rather than the desire that claws at me.
Smiling at her befuddlement, I tap her bottom lip. “Drink?”
“Um, wine would be good. Thanks.”
“Coming right up.” I take her by the hand and tow her along with me to the kitchen, where I settle her on a barstool. Knowing she prefers chardonnay when she drinks wine, I bought that and the Budweiser we both like, just in case. I also have champagne for later.
As I open the bottle of wine, I can feel her watching me, and I wonder if she feels as undone by that kiss as I do. This evening is off to a promising start if the sexual tension in this room is any indication. That’s exactly what I wanted—the two of us so on edge that by the time we finally get around to sealing the deal, the heat will consume us.
Thinking about spontaneously combusting inside of Lauren makes me tremble ever so slightly as I pour her glass of wine. Fortunately, she doesn’t notice. I deliver the glass to her without incident and pour one for myself. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving. Something smells really good.”
It had better smell good. Getting fresh lobster sent overnight from Maine to middle-of-nowhere West Texas had cost more than a thousand dollars but would be worth every penny if it makes her happy.
With a flourish, I say, “Right this way, madam.”
She looks somewhat perplexed as she gets up to follow my direction into the dining room, which is set for us. I hold her chair and wait for her to get settled before returning to the kitchen to get the salads I made earlier.
After I put hers in front of her, she looks up at me. “Did you make dinner?”
“Yep.”
“I thought you couldn’t cook.”
“I can’t. Not really, but I had a little help. You’ll see.”
“Very interesting.” She eyes me with all-new interest as she eats the salad I made myself. “I had no idea you were so domesticated.”
I snort with laughter. “Don’t get too excited, darlin’. Chopping lettuce is about the extent of my so-called domestication.”
She continues to look at me curiously, making me wonder what she’s thinking. After a long moment of silence, she says, “You went to a lot of trouble for tonight.”
“Some.”
“Why?”
I stare across the table at her. Is it possible that she doesn’t know how much I care about her? How there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make her happy? In the span of a few seconds, every minute I’ve spent with her in the last year flashes through my mind—our beer-and-wings nights, outings with mutual friends, helping her paint the outside of her shop a shade of yellow so bright, it hurts my eyes to look at it, and the ill-fated night when we tried to take our friendship to the next level. Does she still really wonder how I feel about her? “I… I’ll tell you why after dinner.”
Rattled by the emotions her question has aroused in me, I stand to clear the salad plates and return with our entrées, which I’ve taken right from the oven. I debated whether to get the lobsters in the shell or just the meat. In the end, I went with the meat, figuring it would be too messy and complicated to crack the shells. I followed a recipe I found online to make angel hair with a lobster cream sauce. I just hope she likes it.
“Is that lobster?” she asks after I put the plate in front of her.
“Sure is. Right from
Maine.”
“You had lobster sent here from Maine.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Garrett…”
“Don’t let it get cold.”
“But—”
“We’ll talk about anything you want later. Eat your dinner.”
The flash of fire in her eyes indicates she’d like to argue, but she holds her commentary and takes a bite of her meal. Then she moans.
Motherfucker. Her moan travels directly to my cock, which stands up for a better look at what’s going on. The highs and lows of this evening are confusing the poor guy. First he’s needed, then he’s not, and now he’s back but uncertain of his role in this performance.
Supporting player, I tell him. Great, now she’s got me sending silent messages to my cock, messages he is clearly not receiving. Watching her enjoy the meal I prepared for her doesn’t help the situation in my lap. Is penile whiplash a thing? If not, it should be, because I’ve got a bad case of it going on.
“This is so good. I can’t believe you got lobster from Maine.”
“Nothing but the best for you.”
A rosy glow infuses her cheeks, and I go stupid in the head—the one on my shoulders. I’d give anything to know what she’s thinking. Soon enough… Stand down. Stick to the plan. I want to tell the plan to go fuck itself and take her by the hand, drag her into my bedroom and fuck her until we’re both exhausted and sated.
I down half a glass of wine in one long sip and try to eat my own dinner while it’s still hot.
The landline rings, and I bite back a string of swears because the only person who ever calls that number is my mom. I want to ignore it, but I never would. “Excuse me.” I get up and go into the kitchen to answer it.
“Garrett! The upstairs toilet is overflowing. I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you shut off the water to the toilet?”
“How do I do that again?”
Summoning the reserve of patience I save just for her and situations like this, I say, “Under the tank, there’s a valve. Turn it until the water stops flowing.”
“Left or right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, I think I got it. Can you come look at it?”
“I can come in the morning.”
“The water flooded the floor.”
I close my eyes and silently count to five so I won’t say something that can’t be unsaid. “Get some towels and clean it up, Mom.”
“Why can’t you come?” she asks in the petulant tone I’ve become accustomed to when I’m unable to drop everything when she calls me.
“I’m in the middle of something.” I pinch the top of my nose where a poorly timed headache is forming. “Where’s Colby?” I ask of my twenty-two-year-old brother who moved home after finishing college in May while he looks for a job. Six months later, he’s still looking, and I’m running out of patience with him, too.
“He’s out with Tonya.”
My brother and I are going to be having a conversation very soon about him getting a job—any job—while he figures out his career situation.
“I really think we need a plumber, Garrett. This is the third time this has happened.”
“I’ll send someone over to look at it.”
“You’re going to pay someone when you could do it yourself?”
“Yes, Mom, I’m going to pay someone.”
“Must be nice to have all that money to burn.”
The comment infuriates me. “I have to go. I’ll get someone there.”
“Thank you.”
“Night.”
As I disconnect the call, I hear her say, “Garrett—”
I have no idea what that was going to be, and I don’t want to know. Withdrawing my cell from my pocket, I place a call to Blake.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I need a favor.”
“Sure, whatever you need.”
“Do you have a plumber you could send to my mom’s? I’m tied up at the moment and can’t get over there.”
“I can do it myself. Honey and I are in town. I’ll stop by.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind.”
I lean against the island in the kitchen, feeling exhausted and overwhelmed all of a sudden. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”
“Right,” Blake says, laughing. “Consider it a down payment on the ten thousand favors I owe you.”
“You pay me to do favors for you.”
“Relax, G. I got this. Talk to you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Blake.”
“Any time.”
The call from my mother stresses me out the way it always does when she comes running to me for any little thing that she can’t handle, which is most things. Closing my eyes, I take a minute to get myself together and recapture the mood I was building with Lauren before the interruption.
“Garrett?”
I open my eyes to find her standing in front of me, looking at me with concern.
“Is everything all right?”
Chapter Four
I force a smile for her, not wanting to put a damper on our evening. “Yeah, it’s all good.”
She steps closer to me, placing her hands on my biceps. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t lie to me. I can see right through it.”
The downside to attempting to romance a woman you’ve known for most of your life is the inability to get away with the usual bullshit games that men and women play with each other. It’s both a comfort and an added challenge to be known the way she knows me.
“I get frustrated with her, and then I feel like an asshole. She didn’t ask to be widowed at forty-five.”
“You do so much for her and your siblings. I don’t know how she could be anything other than grateful to you.”
“She’s grateful.”
Lauren raises a brow. “But?”
“I wish she didn’t rely on me for every single freaking thing.” In all the years since my father died, I’ve never said that out loud to anyone. “See? Told you I’m an asshole.” I try to lighten the impact of my revealing statement with humor.
“You’re the farthest thing from an asshole. You’re a devoted son and brother, and your father would be incredibly proud of how well you’ve taken care of everyone since he died, not to mention the success you’ve made of his business.”
Her praise warms the places inside me that have gone cold with resentment after my mother’s call. “Sorry to derail our evening with this crap.”
“You didn’t.” As she slides her hands up and down my arms, she steps closer to me, tugging lightly on my forearms until they drop to my sides. “That’s better.” She curls her hand around my neck and brings me down for a sweet kiss. “Now where were we before the phone rang?”
“I believe we were eating.”
“I finished mine while you were on the phone. It was the best dinner I’ve had since the last time I had lobster.” She kisses me again. “Thank you for arranging such an awesome treat.”
“No problem.”
“Yes, it was.”
“It was worth it if it made you happy.” I wonder, as I look down at her, if she feels even a fraction of what I do when we’re close to each other this way. I wonder if she ever questions how it has taken us so long to get where we are right now, our bodies humming with desire and anticipation.
“Do you want to finish your dinner?”
Her question takes me out of the daze I’ve slipped into as I drink in the delicate features of her face. “I’m done. How about dessert?”
“As you well know, I never say no to dessert.”
Grinning at her predictable remark, I kiss her again and reluctantly release her to get the chocolate cake I bought at the bakery.
“Are those from my shop?” she asks, pointing to the yellow lilies on the countertop that she has just now noticed.
“Maybe.”
“How’d you pull that off
without me knowing?”
“I went in after you left for the day.”
“Very sneaky.”
“I prefer stealthy to sneaky.”
“You got my favorite color.”
“Did I?” I ask with a small smile.
“You know you did. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I place the cake and the chilled champagne on the counter and get out some plates. “You want to do the honors?”
“Sure.”
As she cuts the cake, I open the champagne while keeping one eye on the hem of her tight red dress as it rides up to the line between leg and cheek. I’m so focused on the view that I nearly forget to stand clear of the champagne bottle. The cork releases suddenly, launching for the ceiling as I hold the bottle over the sink.
Lauren giggles helplessly, and her laughter sparks mine.
“Smooth, huh?”
“Very.”
I pour two glasses and hand one to her. “Here’s to second chances.”
She touches her glass to mine. “To second chances.”
“Let’s take dessert in the living room.”
“We need to clear the dining room table.”
“I’ll do it later.”
“Umm… Can we do it now?”
Amused by her need for order, I acquiesce. “If we must.”
“We absolutely must.”
Working together, we clear the table, store the leftover food and load the dishwasher. “All better?” I ask when we’re done.
“All better.”
I give her an indulgent smile and follow her to the sofa where we enjoy the cake and champagne.
“You went to a lot of trouble for me.”
“I had fun doing it.” I twirl a strand of her hair around my finger. “I like to see you smile.” For so long after her marriage ended, I feared we might never see her smile again.
“Do you ever think…”