by Jaci Burton
Until he half stood and moved toward her. She reached for him, pulling his hips toward her face. He leaned against the side of the seat, his cock near her lips. She scooted over to the edge and inhaled the musky scent of his sex, licking her lips and tilting her head to watch his face.
"Suck me," he whispered, palming her belly, pushing her fingers out of the way to slide his hand inside her panties, replacing her frantic movements with deft, slow caresses of his own. When he cupped her sex, she gasped, and his cock slid between her parted lips. She accepted him greedily, her tongue wrapping around the soft mushroomed head, allowing Mitch to push inside her mouth and feed her his shaft while at the same time he tucked two fingers inside her pussy and began to pump, circling his thumb over her swollen, aching clit.
The pleasure was sweet, unbearable, a vortex of sensation. Tasting him, feeling his fingers inside her, watching the way his eyes, half-lidded in his own pleasure, focused on her as she bobbed over his swollen, hot cock, was overwhelming to her senses, to her body. She felt her orgasm build, more than she could hold back.
Mitch must have felt it too, because he began to pump harder, using the flat of his hand to glide along her wet sex, giving her just the right movement to sail her right over the edge. She arched against his hand and he withdrew his cock, taking her mouth in a deep kiss as she climaxed in hard spasms against his fingers. He held her, kissing her deeply, until the tremors subsided, then moved over her, pulled her panties off, applied a condom and dragged her to the edge of the seat.
He slid inside her with one easy thrust, holding on to her hips, his gaze glued to her face. She was still pulsing inside, her body gripping him in a tight fist of contractions, as if it knew him well, welcomed him and didn't want to let go.
She knew exactly how it felt. She held on-to his forearms as he began to thrust harder, wrapped her legs around his back, meeting his force with her own, wanting him deeper, for some reason needing to feel him as far inside her as he could go.
"Damn," he said, sweat pouring off him as their slickened bodies slid together.
Greta shifted, pushing Mitch away, but only so she could change positions. She turned to face the bench seat, giving Mitch her backside. He smoothed his hands reverently over her ass, then used his knees to widen her legs and entered her from behind, pressing her thighs against the seat as the tempo increased.
"Yes!" she cried. This was deeper, this was harder, this was what she needed. She felt every inch of him inside her, his balls bumping her clit as he rammed her with what seemed like the same desperate need she felt--the need for more.
And when he reached around and cupped his hand over her sex, massaging her clit, she felt the squeezing pleasure of coming on his cock, wishing there could be no barrier between them, that her juices could flow on him without the condom, that his come could fill her, could shoot inside her as he rocked and groaned and came in gulping waves.
He fell against her back, kissing her damp nape, whispering romantic words to her. They finally pulled apart, cleaning up to the best of their abilities. Mitch pulled her to one of the long couches and they stretched out to have a cold glass of mineral water.
"Are you just going to let that poor man drive up and down the coast all night long?" she asked.
Mitch traced the valley between her breasts with his fingertip. "He's paid extremely well for the time he works. Believe me, he's not complaining."
She shook her head, but smiled, feeling utterly decadent. What an amazing lifestyle this man led. So unlike hers. She wondered if he--
Well, she wasn't going to wonder what he'd done in a limo and with whom. That wasn't her business. She only knew she'd had a great time with him tonight. And that she was content.
She'd have to be content. This was fun, and she had to keep it just fun. Not monumental, not life changing. Not forever. Just fun.
Just for now.
Chapter Ten
Mitch had directed the limo to one of his hotels in Daytona Beach, gotten them a room, and they'd climbed into bed, shared an amazing room-service meal, made love again, and promptly passed out. He'd made sure they got up early the next morning to make the drive back to the motel. She'd truly felt like Cinderella.
Unfortunately, every time Greta tried to play Cinderella, the damn castle reared its ugly head and slapped her into reality.
Said reality intruded the next day when Greta arrived back at the motel to face an overflowing toilet in Room Four.
Fortunately, her mother had been there to deal with the immediate crisis.
"I shut the water off in there," her mother said. "I didn't call a plumber, figuring you'd want to tackle it yourself first like you always do."
"You figured right." Plumbers cost an arm and a leg, and she always liked to try and fix things herself first before incurring the cost.
So much for being a fairy princess. It was time for Cinderella to change back into her scullery clothes and dive elbows deep in plumbing and water.
She turned to Mitch, who despite being up nearly all night with her still looked gorgeous in his slightly wrinkled suit and shirt and a day's growth of beard stubble across his strong jaw.
"I'm sorry. I need to see to this."
"No problem." He cupped her chin and leaned in to kiss her. "I'll see you in a bit."
He walked away before she could utter a word, but the cough behind her told her that her mother had seen that. "I'm going to change clothes," she said without looking at her mother.
"Obviously you had a really nice time last night," her mother said as Greta hurried down the hall to her front door.
She'd had an amazing time last night, none of which she was going to tell her mother about. But that was last night, and today she was back to being Greta Mason, motel owner. She'd had a fantasy last night. Today was reality, and reality meant bills to pay, a motel to run, and problems to deal with.
She went into the house, dashed into the bedroom and took off her dress and jewelry, once again putting Cinderella's silver shoes into the back of the closet. She smiled at the realization that she'd gotten to wear them twice in one week. Maybe she'd wear them again for Christmas. Then, probably never again.
She grabbed a pair of old shorts and a stained T-shirt, knowing the toilet problem was going to be messy work, put her hair into a ponytail, then slid on her flip flops and headed back into the office to pull a bucket, mop and her tools from the supply room before heading out front toward the room with the plumbing problem.
"Uh, Greta--"
"Not now, Mom. Let me handle Room Four first. Then we'll deal with whatever other catastrophe has popped up." She hoped it wasn't a huge one.
"You don't understand..."
"Seriously, Mom. I can only tackle one problem at a time."
She slipped out the door, master key in her pocket, and pushed through the double entry doors, wishing her idyllic fantasy night could have lingered. No such luck, though.
Head down, she'd made it past Room Two before she saw the plumbing truck and the door to Room Four open.
What the hell?
"I was trying to tell you," her mother said from over her shoulder.
Greta whipped around. "Mom, you know the deal. I try to fix things first around here. Then if all else fails, we call in help."
Her mother smiled. "I didn't call in a plumber, Greta."
"Then who did?"
Her mother arched a brow, grinned, and directed her gaze over Greta's left shoulder. She turned, and there was Mitch. It didn't take much of a stretch to make the connection between him and Ace Plumbing Company's truck.
"You must have some serious connections. I was only inside my house for fifteen minutes."
He shrugged. "I figured you had enough to deal with. I didn't want to see you with your head in the toilet this morning."
Despite his charming grin, she was irritated. "I can handle the crises of my motel by myself, without your interference."
"I'm paying for it."
&n
bsp; "I don't need or want your money."
"Greta. That's not gracious."
"Butt out, Mother," she said without turning around.
"My daughter was taught basic social skills, Mitch. She's obviously tired and cranky--"
"And not twelve years old so you don't need to speak on my behalf, Mom." What was this, a conspiracy? She was getting tired of being ganged up on. "I mean it, Mitch. I don't appreciate this. I'm perfectly capable of unplugging a stopped up toilet by myself."
Instead of being angry, Mitch's lips twitched. He leaned against a pole and crossed his arms. "Oh, I'm sure you're a master at it. And you're welcome." Ignoring her, his gaze switched to her mother. "Are the kids here, Margaret?"
"In the back of the office, waiting anxiously for you."
"What?" Greta whirled to face her mother. "Waiting for what?"
"To go surfing again," Mitch said, causing Greta to do a one eighty yet again.
She was getting dizzy whirling around to glare at both her mother and at Mitch, so she backed up against the wall of the building to face them both.
"I see. How nice that you both planned my kids' day without consulting me."
Her mother crossed her arms. "Did you have something else organized for your children today?"
"Well, no. But that's not really the point, is it? They are my children."
"Yes, they are. And Mitch has offered to take them surfing again. Are you saying no?"
Dammit. She hated being cornered. If she kept the kids away from Mitch, she'd look petulant and childish. She had no good reason to deny Jeff and Zoey a fun day, and she knew they'd love to surf with him. She let out a resigned sigh. "They can go."
"Great," Mitch said, passing by Greta to throw his arm around her mother's shoulders. "Let's go get the kids."
Greta checked on the plumber, who unstopped her toilet in record time, replaced a worn out valve, then refused her offer of payment, saying Mitch had already taken care of the bill, much to her chagrin.
By the time she finished with the plumber and spent time in the office going over paperwork and paying bills, it was noon. She went in search of her mother, found her in the house packing a picnic basket.
"You going somewhere with that?" she asked.
"I'm not. You are."
Greta arched a brow. "Yeah? Where do you think I'm going?"
"You're going to put on your swimsuit, take this lunch out to share with Mitch and the kids, then spend the afternoon surfing."
"I am not."
Her mother put her hands on her hips, a signal she was digging in for battle. "Greta. You spend every damn day, twelve to fifteen hours of it, working. Do you think that's what your father had in mind for you when he left you this motel?"
How many times had they had this argument? "Dad knew I loved this place. I don't mind the work, Mom."
"Your life didn't end when Cody left, honey."
"I know that. My life doesn't feel over. I love what I'm doing."
"But you don't have fun anymore."
She resisted rolling her eyes. "I don't need to have fun. I need to be serious about making a living and raising my kids."
"That's a load of crap and you know it. Everyone is entitled to recreate. Your dad and I did plenty of it. He might have died too young, but we lived every moment of the lives we had together, with no regrets. Can you say the same about yourself?"
She hated seeing the tears in her mother's eyes, hated that she felt she brought them on. "My life is different than yours and Dad's."
"It doesn't have to be. I want to see you happy."
"I am happy."
Her mother inhaled, then sighed and spoke in a soft voice. "No, Greta. You're not, and haven't been for a very long time. But I think you can be." Her gaze drifted out to the surf, and Greta shook her head.
"With Mitch?" She shook her head. "Oh, Mom. You've got the wrong idea. We're just....having fun together."
"Are you? And that's all it is?"
"Yes."
"That was a quick answer."
"There's nothing between us."
Her mother came closer, grabbed her hands and held them. "I know you better than you know yourself sometimes, Greta Lynn. There's something between the two of you."
She laughed. "Yeah. He wants to buy the Crystal Sands and I don't want to sell it to him. That's what's between us."
Her mother cast a knowing smile her way. "If you say so."
"I say so. Trust me, we're just friends."
"Fine. But I'm here today and things are slow. Go surf and be a nice hostess to a man who's been showing you and your kids a good time."
Dammit. She hated when she lost a battle. "Fine."
Her mother handed her the picnic basket. "Good girl."
Twenty minutes later she was in her swimsuit, a coverup thrown over it, basket in hand and padding down the beach in search of Mitch and her kids. She paused as she found them tearing up the waves about a half mile down shore, marveling at her son's natural ability at surfing. He rode alone, high on top of a pretty good-sized wave, grin a mile wide as he cruised into the flat water, whooping for joy and grabbing his board to walk out of the surf. He waved as he spotted her.
Mitch was out in the water working with Zoey, paddling his board alongside hers, using infinite patience with her little girl who wasn't quite as sure-footed on a surfboard as her older brother.
Greta held her breath as Zoey caught the top of a smaller wave. Zoey balanced precariously, Mitch hollering instructions to her as he rode the same wave effortlessly, his gorgeous body at home on the crest as if he could ride it even without the board under his feet. Zoey bit her lip in concentration, and Greta knew how determined her daughter could be when she wanted to learn a new skill.
Greta didn't exhale until Zoey made the wave all the way into shore, and couldn't resist a tiny whoop of exclamation that she'd made it.
What would it be like to have more time to spend with her children, to watch them surf like this, to while away the hours recreating and just...enjoying life with them?
Maybe what Mitch offered wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe she was holding on to foolish dreams and it was time to think realistically. The things she could offer her children...
She couldn't imagine. She'd probably be bored. And the kids would become the idle rich. Bratty, spoiled, unappreciative of what they had. No, they were better off seeing what it was like to work hard for what they had in life. It had worked out okay for her.
"Did you see me, Mom?" Zoey asked as she ran up to her mother and threw her soaked body against Greta's waist.
"I did. You looked beautiful out there."
"Mitch has been teaching me balance."
Mitch came up just then, smiling, his wet hair slicked back, his tanned face absolutely gorgeous in the afternoon sun. He literally took her breath away, this forty-something surfer dude who could still grin like a teenager catching his first wave. "Mitch is very good at surfing."
"Aww, gee, thanks, Greta," he said with a wink.
She held up the basket. "My mother packed a picnic lunch."
"Awesome!" Jeff said. "I'm starving."
She rolled her eyes as Jeff grabbed the basket and he and Zoey went running toward one of the covered tables down the beach. "He's always starving. I fear another growth spurt coming on."
"He burns a lot of calories riding the board. He's a natural," Mitch said as they walked side by side down the beach.
"Like you always were when you were younger."
Mitch shrugged. "I had the drive in me. You could never drag me out of the water. But he wants something different."
Greta stopped. "He does?"
"So he says. He wants to be a marine biologist."
"He told you that?"
"Yeah. He's very concerned about environmental impact on sea life."
Holy shit. How could she not know this about her son? "I didn't know. He never said anything to me about this."
"It's all he t
alks about. He's incredibly knowledgeable about the topic for a kid his age."
An ache formed in the pit of her stomach, for many reasons. "I see."
She didn't say anything more because they'd reached the table. Instead, she focused on actually having some time to spend with her kids that didn't involve directing them in chores for either the motel or the house. Though they weren't really interested in talking to her, instead focused on Mitch, on talking about surfing and rehashing what they'd managed to accomplish in a few days, which apparently had been a lot.
"They're both naturals in the water," Mitch told her, singing their praises. "They learn quick, they adapt and they listen to direction well."
Greta could see the kids beam under his praise. Coming from a world class surfer like Mitch, it meant something. "I appreciate you taking time to work with them. I know you're busy."
He shrugged. "I'm not busy at all. It's the holidays. And the kids are great."
Zoey grinned. "Mitch said I have great swimming ability, Mom. Maybe I can start up lessons again."
Mitch ruffled Zoey's hair. "It's good to have goals. And hey, if you start young like you are now, you might just yet meet your goal of making the Olympic swim team."
Her daughter wanted to be an Olympic swimmer? "Olympics?"
"Sure. I'm great at freestyle and backstroke. My instructor said so until we couldn't afford lessons anymore."
Guilt poured down on her like a brick building had fallen. "Yes. You've always been a great swimmer." She plastered on a smile until the kids were done with lunch, and had run off to do something nearby. Only then did she allow her facade to crumble.
"I had no idea," she said, staring into the bottled water. "Jeff wants to be a marine biologist and Zoey wants to be an Olympic swimmer. How could I not know these things about my own children?"
Mitch slid his hand under the table and squeezed hers. "Kids are always more open about their dreams to strangers than to their own parents."
She turned her gaze to his. "My children and I talk about everything. There are no secrets between us."
"They know how burdened you are with everyday life, Greta. They probably didn't want to add to it."