A low moan rises in my throat at the delicious torture.
“That’s better,” Clay whispers, then flicks his tongue against my clit. “Tell me how much you like my mouth on you, Nat.”
I’m beyond coherent thought at this point. All I know is that every time I cry out his name, his tongue moves. Every time I moan, his fingers pump into me. I know he’s silently encouraging me to be noisy, but I don’t even care. I’m a begging mess as he ruthlessly tongues me, thrusting with his hand. The pleasure escalates, and so does my volume. By the time my orgasm hits, I’m pretty sure people from three counties around have heard me screaming Clay’s name.
But man, it was worth it. As I fall back on the blankets, panting, I stare up at the ceiling, dazed as the pleasure washes over me. Just when I thought it couldn’t get better than last time, Clay proves me wrong.
He presses a kiss to my thigh and then moves onto the bed next to me. With his head propped up by one hand, he gazes down at me as I pant and try to catch my breath. I feel boneless and weak with relief, but I also feel so, so sexy right now. When he reaches out and brushes a sweaty lock of hair off my forehead, the feel of his cool hand against my skin reminds me that parts of me are bright red. “This is probably not my most seductive moment,” I tell him, smiling.
“You’d be wrong,” he tells me, and leans down to give me a light kiss on the mouth. I notice that there’s a slight musky taste to his mouth, and blush to realize that it’s me that I’m tasting. As his body presses against mine, I can feel his cock against my hip. He’s still hard, the tip of his cock wet with pre-cum.
Of course he’s hard. He hasn’t come. It was just me that got pleasured.
That seems somehow wrong. I lean into the kiss when he lowers his mouth again, and slide my hand to his cock, curling my fingers around his length.
His mouth breaks from mine in a gasp. His eyes close and he presses his forehead to mine. I don’t even mind the twinge it sends through my sunburn—I’m just fascinated by his response. “Nat,” he breathes. “You don’t have to—”
“Shut up,” I whisper. “I know I don’t have to.” Like this big idiot thinks I could possibly not want to touch him? He’s gorgeous. And ever since I saw him naked, I’ve wanted to touch him. I want to give him pleasure like he gives me pleasure.
I want him to need me as much as I need him.
I let my fingers play up and down his length, exploring him. I trace my fingers over every vein, every crease, fascinated by how very soft and warm his skin is here, and how hard he is underneath it. The soft hairs surrounding his cock are springy and dark, and I brush over them before cupping his sac. “What feels best?” I ask, curious.
“All of it,” he tells me. “All of it feels good. Don’t care what you do as long as you put your hand on me.”
Well, that I can definitely do. I stroke my fingertips over the head of his cock, playing with the fluid beaded there and slicking it over his skin. I want to give him a hand job, I think, but I’m not sure how to grip him properly. I lean in, pressing my mouth toward his, and when he kisses me, it’s with all the intense urgency I’ve come to think of as Clay, and it makes me feel all stirred up all over again. My grip on his cock tightens, and I give him an experimental little pump of my hand. When he says nothing, I do it again.
His kiss becomes more urgent, tongue slicking against mine.
“Am I doing it wrong?” I ask. “How can I make it better?”
Clay’s hand grips mine, and he tightens my fingers around his cock, until it feels like I’m making a fist. “Be rougher,” he tells me, words fluttering against my lips. His tongue slicks against my mouth, and he licks me even as he uses my hand to stroke himself. He groans low, then bites gently at my lower lip.
Oh wow. It’s turning me on, too. I kiss him again, more urgent, and pump his cock once more.
Clay keeps his hand over mine, using me to stroke, slow and hard. Then, he pulls my hand up his shaft until I’m gripping him right at the base of the head. “Small, tight squeezes here,” he tells me between fluttering kisses. His eyes are hooded with need, and his other hand brushes against my breasts, as if he’s desperate to intensify things.
I know what that’s like. I do as he asks, using small, tight little jerks that brush against the crown of his cock head, and as I do I arch my back, thrusting my breasts against him so my nipples drag against his skin.
His breath explodes, and he grips one of my breasts tightly, teasing my nipple between two fingers. His other hand closes over mine on his cock, and then he’s guiding me—forcing me—to jerk him harder and faster.
I’ve never been so turned on. I gasp when he gives my nipple a pinch, and his mouth claims mine again, then falls open, as if he can’t concentrate on kissing me. Not when there’s so much else going on. Excited, I pant, rubbing up against him and trying to help out as he uses me to rub his shaft.
His breath explodes, and something hot and sticky covers my hand. To my surprise, he keeps going, continuing to drag his hand—and mine—up and down his cock for several long moments, milking the orgasm. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and he presses his forehead to mine again.
I wait, breathing hard, for him to come back to himself. That wasn’t even my orgasm, and it was one of the best ones I’ve ever had.
Clay releases a deep breath. “We should clean up.”
“Back into the shower?” I volunteer. “We can probably squeeze both of us in there.” It was small but I figure we can manage with a bit of rubbing against each other.
He grins at me and presses another fierce, quick kiss to my mouth. “Great minds and all that.”
I smile at him. It’s weird, but I feel . . . happy. I don’t even care that I’m fried like a lobster, or that this all might come crashing down on my head in the next day. I don’t care that we lost seven years together or that Clay lives in a trailer and my dad hates him.
I’m happy. I doubt it’ll last—it never lasts—but for now, I’m going to bask in the happiness and enjoy myself. If nothing else, it’ll give me a good memory to tuck away when life turns to crap again.
Chapter Thirteen
One Week Later
Natalie
LEXI: So I went past the house and the renovations look like they’re almost done.
LEXI: And there’s a big billboard announcing a grand opening. It’s right off the highway. Premium real estate!
LEXI: How many blow jobs did it cost you? Asking for a friend.
NATALIE: Good morning, Lexi. :)
LEXI: Ooh, a smiley face. Someone’s happy.
NATALIE: Someone is!
LEXI: Spare me the revolting details of your sordid relationship.
NATALIE: You just asked me about blow jobs.
LEXI: I was trying to make polite conversation.
NATALIE: With blow jobs?!
LEXI: Well, I thought it might be too much to bring up a rusty trombone before breakfast.
NATALIE: I’m . . . not even going to ask.
NATALIE: How’s the business?
LEXI: I’m not saying it’s bad . . .
LEXI: But I am saying if you know of someone that would like yoga lessons, I have a pretty open schedule.
NATALIE: Maybe you should try being a little more friendly? I’m pretty sure you’ve scared away most of the locals.
LEXI: You flatterer!
LEXI: For real, though, I do have a potential client-slash-investor coming over later today to get a tour of the studio.
NATALIE: Yay!!!
LEXI: So catch me up. How are things with Clay?
NATALIE: Dreamy. :) Is it possible to have a perfect week? I feel like I’ve had one.
LEXI: Ew gross. So many emotions.
NATALIE: I can’t help it. We’re disgustingly sappy together.
LEXI: So what did you do during this sappy week?
NATALIE: Well, we’ve been staying in the hotel. One day we did some touristy stuff downtown and we did some shopping. And jus
t regular dating stuff. It’s been nice.
LEXI: Have you seen any ghosts?
NATALIE: No?
LEXI: You should tell him you want to ghost hunt.
NATALIE: Except I don’t? I’d rather go to dinner and a movie with him.
LEXI: You’re such a pleb. I’m surprised you’re not with him right now.
LEXI: Or . . . are you?
NATALIE: No, he’s got a day full of meetings today. Some of them are PBO and some are IC.
LEXI: PBO? IC?
NATALIE: PBO = Price Brothers Oil. Board meetings.
NATALIE: IC = IntelligentCamo. The start-up he’s trying to get going. He wants it to be affordable for military types and hunters. He’s got a whole plan mapped out. It’s really interesting!
LEXI: Yaaaawn.
NATALIE: Okay okay. I know I’m gushing.
LEXI: Has he apologized for abandoning you those three days?
NATALIE: I . . . told you yesterday? He apologized already.
LEXI: Yes but I think he should apologize daily. Grovel daily, even!
LEXI: This might be why I’m single, though.
NATALIE: Speaking of, any word from Knox?
LEXI: Who?
NATALIE: Uh, Knox? One of Clay’s brothers? You two seemed like you hit it off last week at the tubing party.
LEXI: Eh.
NATALIE: Oh. Guess not. He not your type?
LEXI: You could say that.
NATALIE: What . . . is your type?
LEXI: Byronically ironic?
LEXI: Ironically byronic?
NATALIE: I wish you’d be serious for once!
LEXI: Never!
NATALIE: Well, I wish you’d hit it off with Knox. It’d be fun to double-date or something. Clay and I had dinner with Ivy and Boone the other night. I really like them both! Ivy’s so sweet. She wants Clay to look for a house and she wants my input on it. And Boone’s really nice too—very protective of his wife.
LEXI: Did you not meet Boone before? Back when you and Clay were dating?
NATALIE: No, he was working at the rig with his dad at that point.
LEXI: Mmhmm. So tell me more about the house shopping.
LEXI: Ooh ooh! Wait! Tell them Clay wants to live in a yurt.
NATALIE: A what??
LEXI: A yurt! Google it. I’ll wait.
NATALIE: I don’t think
NATALIE: I’m getting another text from my dad’s nurse. TTYL
LEXI: L8R
* * *
ALICE: Ms. Weston, I wanted to let you know that your father’s had several very lucid days in a row, and he’s been asking about you. It seems he misses you quite a bit. Do you think you will have time to stop by and visit him in the next few days? I know Mr. Price is keeping you busy, but I assured your father I would ask.
NATALIE: Mr. Price will be out of town tomorrow. I’ll come by for lunch. Should I call right now and talk to Dad?
ALICE: He says it’s not necessary. He’s about to lie down for a nap. He says he’s looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.
* * *
I’m feeling a little out of sorts as the sedan pulls into the new parking lot at the Chap Weston Museum.
In a way, I don’t want to come back. That’s terrible to think, but I can’t help it. I’ve been so happy with Clay this last week, I don’t want it to end. I don’t want anything to interfere with my bubble of contentment. I realize as the car pulls in that while I’ve been going about the day-to-day of life, I haven’t exactly been happy here with Dad.
And then I feel guilty for thinking such things. It’s been less than two weeks since Clay came back into my life. Surely it’ll take longer for us to fall back in love again, won’t it?
Except I’m pretty sure I’m already there all over again. Maybe I never stopped.
Of course, I’m not going to tell Clay that. He’ll think I’m crazy. I’m going to sit on it for a while longer, until I’m absolutely sure about how I feel—and that he feels the same way, too.
I just don’t know how my dad is going to fit into this picture. Right now everything works out, of course, but I can’t expect Clay to continue to shuck out money for three nurses permanently, nor can I expect my dad to be happy if I’m gone with Clay almost all of the time. We’re in a weird holding pattern, all three of us. I’m terrified that the future’s going to change things.
Focus on the present, I remind myself. Enjoy what you have now. Don’t worry about what tomorrow’s going to bring.
So I close my eyes and think about Clay, holding my phone tight in my hands. He’s out visiting one of the potential dig sites with his brothers. It seems Boone is a dowser—whatever that is—and so they like to go in person for a lot of the site visits. Clay wanted me to go with him because he won’t be getting home until late, and he didn’t want to abandon me. I declined, even though I secretly wanted to go with him. Dad’s asking for me, and I feel obligated to go and spend time with him.
And here I am.
I open my eyes again and gaze out at the newly renovated parking lot. I have to admit that I didn’t realize how shabby the house and the grounds were until now. The parking lot I knew was lumpy and bumpy and full of potholes, and now it’s smooth pavement, with neatly delineated parking spaces for customers. The hedges surrounding the parking lot have been neatly trimmed, and the garden area near the fountain has been given a facelift. Instead of a few scraggly cactuses and native Texas plants, there’s blooming flowers, a pergola, and riots of color from brand new bushes. The lawns are trimmed and greener than I’ve ever seen them, and there’s even a gardener planting more flowers along the walkway to the inside of the museum.
The driver parks the car and comes around to my side, opening the door. “I’ll wait out here for you, Ms. Weston. Take as much time as you need.”
I nod. “Thank you.” I slide my phone into my pocket and gaze at the house, my stomach in knots. There’s a few workers scattered outside the house, two of them on ladders and replacing a window on the second floor. There’s a new sign for the museum with a charming logo and a picture of my dad back in his younger, more famous days. Even though I approved all of the changes, I’m still surprised to see the new opening for the gift shop, along with the fresh paint and the brand new roof. Everything looks brand new. Amazing what can be done in just two short weeks. It’s almost like I’m not needed here.
Wishful thinking, I’m sure.
I open the front door and things look less finished inside. The museum pieces are all covered with dust cloths, stacked along the walls, and the carpets have been pulled up. Men are working feverishly—and surprisingly quietly—on the flooring. There’s very little hammering, and everyone talks in hushed voices. I’m sure it’s all for my father’s sake, and I wonder if he appreciates the lengths the contractors are going to in order to accommodate him.
Probably not. My dad rarely thinks of anyone but himself.
I squelch the selfish thought.
Mr. Slocum waves at me as I make my way further inside, but I point at the stairs. “I’m just visiting my father,” I assure him. “Carry on.” I hurry up—even the stairs don’t creak anymore!—and turn down the hall toward my father’s room. Before I get there, I can hear music from Little Tiki Princess playing in the background.
I knock on the door, biting my lip. I wonder what Dad I’m going to get today—the one that doesn’t know where he is, the one that’s living in the past, or the one that’s coherent and has all his thoughts?
“Who is it?” My dad’s voice sounds strong, with just a hint of wobble due to age.
“It’s me, Natalie.”
“Come in.”
I open the door, a beaming smile on my face. “Hi, Dad!”
The look I get in return is less than enthusiastic. “So you finally remembered that I exist, eh?”
Seems like the dad I’m going to get today is dramatic but coherent. All right, then. I shut the door behind me, keeping the smile pinned on my face. “Of
course I remembered you.”
“Hmph.”
I ignore my dad’s grouchiness and sit down in the empty chair across from his bed. He’s sitting up, and I’m happy to see his sheets look fresh and crisp. The curtains have been drawn back on the big bay windows in his room, letting in the sunlight, and across from his bed on the wall, Little Tiki Princess plays on the big-screen TV. That’s not surprising, given that my dad loves to watch himself in his old movies. I do like how tidy his shelves are, and how everything’s been kept neat. It seems as if his nurses have been tidying his things, which is good. Dad gets in moods where he pulls everything out, looking for one particular item, and makes a huge mess. He’s like a little kid in that you have to watch him constantly. “It’s been a busy week and I haven’t been able to steal away much,” I tell him as I reach over and hit “Pause” on the remote. “I told you about my new job, didn’t I? It’s the one that lets me afford to get you all these great nurses.”
Dirty Scoundrel Page 17