Once the overalls are hanging on my hips, Mac stops. “Don’t move,” he says, his hands squeezing my hips as I sit on the counter. He moves to the sink, washes his hands, then comes back with a damp rag, which he uses to clean my hands in slow, methodical sweeps. “All that effort to keep your clothes clean,” he explains. “Wouldn’t want to ruin them now.”
“You’re perfect,” I blurt, and I’m not even sure I’m joking anymore.
Mac chuckles, fitting himself between my legs again, and with a quick kiss, moves those clean hands to my top. His deft fingers make quick work of the buttons on my sheer black blouse. When it’s fully open, he surprises me by tugging at my camisole with a rough, hard movement, exposing my chest. I gasp. My breasts are pushed up by the bunched fabric, peaked nipples sensitive in the cool air. When his rough thumb brushes over my breast, an echo of the movement I made over his chest, a shiver courses through me. I arch my back into his touch, leaning my palms on the workbench as my thighs tighten around his hips.
I’m sure Mac can feel the heat between my legs, even through the multitude of layers that separate us. And when he lowers his lips to my breast, I close my eyes and tangle my fingers in his hair, wild with need for him. I’m rocking my hips against him, arching my back to crush my breast into his mouth, clawing at him. I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so damn turned on.
And when he growls low at the back of his throat, palming my neglected breast as his teeth run over my other nipple, I let out an answering moan.
That’s when Mac moves.
He pulls me off the workbench with a hard tug, catching me against his body. His chest hair is deliciously abrasive against my sensitized skin, but I don’t have time to enjoy it before he’s spinning me around so my back is to his front.
“Hands on the counter.” His voice is harsh, commanding, and it sends fire rushing through my core.
I do as he says, pushing my ass into him as my fingers dig into the raw wood of the workbench.
And that’s when I learn what Mac’s hands can really do.
He unhooks the button of my jeans with a flick of his fingers, sliding his hand inside a moment later. With his fingers over my panties, he finds my bud and starts circling it with steady, confident movements.
A moan slips through my lips as the pleasure ratchets higher inside me. The lacy material of my panties—yes, I changed into my good undies for this—feels beautifully rough against that little bundle of nerves.
“Don’t move, Trina,” Mac says in my ear, banding his other arm across my chest so he can tease my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “Keep your hands where they are.”
“I will,” I pant, my eyes glued to the space where his hand disappears beneath my clothing. As if he can sense my frenzy, his movements become firmer, faster. He slides his fingers down the gusset of my panties and grunts when he feels the dampness that has already soaked through. The heel of his palm grinds against me, and I can’t resist the movement of my hips as I ache for more.
So, he gives it to me.
Tugging my panties aside, Mac slides those sinful fingers through the wetness between my legs. “You’re so sweet and wet for me,” he growls in my ear, nipping at my earlobe as his fingers slide along the slickness of my seam.
I don’t even have the capacity to answer beyond a breathy moan. My hips are grinding into him, his hardness an ache against my ass. It somehow feels dirtier to be half-clothed, leaning against his workbench like this. I’m so turned on I can hardly think, let alone move. All I can do is keep my hands where he wants them and my legs spread as he works magic between my legs.
“Mac,” I pant. Or maybe I’m begging.
In response, he takes one finger and slides it inside. I watch the back of his hand moving and his forearm flexing as he works another finger inside me until I finally have to close my eyes.
Here’s a thing about me: I’ve never come from vaginal penetration alone. I sometimes didn’t even enjoy it, really, unless I was incredibly turned on. In the past, I always needed direct clitoral stimulation, or I just resigned myself to not orgasming.
But I’m enjoying this. Maybe it’s Mac’s palm against my clit, sometimes grinding it hard while his fingers plunge inside me, sometimes barely brushing it, or his whole body curved around mine as his fingers thrust inside me. Maybe it’s the soft grunts he makes near my ear, or the feel of his teeth brushing against my shoulder.
Whatever it is, an orgasm starts budding inside me. I drop my chin to my chest, eyes squeezed shut, as pleasure knots deep in my core, slowly building with every movement of Mac’s hand between my legs. I’m trembling, bucking, jerking against him as his name slips from my lips in keening, breathy pants.
“More.” I close my eyes. “Please, Mac. I want more.”
His arm tightens across my chest as his fingers slip out of me, then right back in with an added third. I gasp, widening my stance as my hips grind against his hand. I’m going to come. I’m going to come. I’m going to come I’m going to come I’m going to come—
Then he stops.
I whimper as Mac pulls his hand from my pants, opening my eyes and turning to see him slip his fingers into his mouth. He sucks them clean, letting out a low groan as they slide free.
“Fuck,” he says, one hand still wrapped around my chest. “You taste good, Trina.”
I don’t know what to say. There’s something so intensely erotic about the orgasm he just denied combined with the look of pure lust on his face as he tastes my arousal. I can’t think of anything except the emptiness between my legs.
“I want you.” The words slip through my lips without thought as I spin in his arms, and I watch Mac’s gaze darken. A sinful smile tugs at his lips right before he crushes them to mine in a hard kiss.
“Good,” he says when we break apart for a breath. His hands feel rough when they grip my waist, and he spins me around to face the workbench again. “Hands on the counter.”
This time, when his fingers slip down my pants, he doesn’t hesitate to slide them under my panties. He reaches down to where I’m wettest, then brings his fingers back up to my bud. My fingers dig into the bench as I moan, the pleasure of his touch almost too much to bear.
When his other hand finds my breast again, pinching and tugging and teasing my nipple, I pray he doesn’t stop this time. Pleasure builds and builds inside me, a knot of hot pressure in the pit of my stomach. His hand works magic over my clit until I don’t even know what he’s doing, I just know it feels incredible. Then his other hand yanks my pants down lower, halfway off my hips before moving between my legs. With one hand on my clit, he uses the other to thrust inside me, his whole body curved over mine.
And I explode.
I come with a moan, body arching into his as he groans in contentment, his hands delivering pleasure to my body like I’ve never felt before. It’s like he knows exactly where to touch me. He knows how hard I like it. He knows not to stop as I writhe in his arms, his rough voice telling me to keep my hands where they are even as they drift closer to the edge of the counter.
He whispers dirty words in my ear, calls me a good girl, tells me to keep grinding on his hands. He tells me to use his fingers as much as I need to, tells me how good and perfect and sweet I feel. His words send another wave of heat through my thighs and stomach, and I do just as he says. I grind against his palm, ride his fingers, use his hands to take what I need until I’m mad with the feel of it.
And when I feel my orgasm fading, Mac growls in satisfaction. It feels so good I can hardly breathe.
“That’s my girl,” he rasps, his chin over my shoulder as he, too, watches his hand moving inside my pants.
It’s only when I soften and squeeze my thighs that he pulls his fingers out of me, and the resulting emptiness makes me ache for something bigger.
Yes, I want him. I don’t know if I’ll ever get enough of him.
And maybe it’s that feeling of being drunk on pleasure that makes me spin in his
arms, that makes me kiss him once, then reach for his belt. Maybe it’s my newfound freedom, this recklessness pulsing through my veins.
Mac wraps me in his arms and kisses me deep, sweeping his tongue into my mouth as a shudder wracks his body. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Trina. I could watch you come a hundred times and never get sick of it.”
I’ve never had a man be so selfless with pleasure. Mac hasn’t even touched himself. He hasn’t asked me to touch him. He’s been hard since we sat down at the pottery wheel, but all he’s wanted to do is touch me.
It makes me want to return the favor. I want him to feel as good as I do. I want to see his face when he comes. I want him to be wild with pleasure, to feel reckless and out of control with lust.
And when I lower myself to my knees, Mac’s breaths grow shorter. “Trina, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” And it’s the truth. I open his belt and unbutton his fly, tugging the zipper down with trembling hands.
He helps me push his pants and underwear down to mid-thigh, then grips his shaft in a hand as it bounces free.
Turns out yes, it’s beautiful. And yes, it’s big.
It’s a funny twist of fate that my ex-husband does, in fact, pop into my head for a brief moment as I reach to finally wrap my fingers around Mac’s hardness. I realize that I never once wanted to take Kevin in my mouth. I did it, but I didn’t particularly enjoy it. He made me feel like I owed it to him. Like it was his right.
This is different. Mac brushes his hand over my cheek as he releases a breath. I glance up at him, and the look in his eyes makes me feel like the sexiest woman in the world. His eyes are at half-mast, dark with pleasure as he watches me bring my mouth to his cock.
“Hands on the counter,” I tell him with a grin, my lips brushing against his tip.
“Trina.” He lets out a little huff, but does as I say. Both hands rest on the workbench on either side of my head, then I wrap my lips around his cock and suck.
By the time I’ve run my hands over his shaft a few times and taken him as deep into my mouth as I can manage, I realize I’m wet again. I glance up at him and see him watching me, the look on his face telling me he’s nearly undone. The muscles of his arms are hard and bulging as he grips the edge of the counter, his hips moving with slow, steady thrusts as I take him in my mouth.
I’ve never felt so in control. So sexy. I’ve never been so turned on by doing something like this, but I can’t help the way my hips rock in time to his.
“Touch yourself,” Mac growls, as if he can tell how wild this is making me. As if he doesn’t want me to spend one minute without feeling good.
I only hesitate for a second. With one hand wrapped around his shaft as my tongue laps up the salty taste beading at his tip, I slide my other hand between my legs. And that’s when the control Mac had been keeping on himself snaps. He thrusts his hips as he moves a hand to the back of my head, hard enough to make my eyes water but not hard enough to hurt. His hand tightens in my hair as I touch myself, drunk on the taste of him, the knowledge that he’s watching me pleasure myself while I pleasure him.
When he tells me he’s about to come, he tries to pull away but I just suck him deeper. He pants my name in a way that makes me moan around the shaft in my mouth. His hands tighten at the back of my head, then his hips still as he throbs against my tongue.
I come as he does, my hand moving almost frantically between my legs as he spurts onto my tongue, down my throat, the salty, musky taste of him driving me wild.
Never in my life have I enjoyed doing this. Never have I ever been turned on by swallowing a man’s pleasure. Never in my life have I brought myself to orgasm while I was on my knees like this.
But it feels right with Mac. Right and so, so dirty. I cry out, the sound muffled by him, my body bucking until finally I pull away, releasing him from my mouth with a soft pop.
Mac picks me up with one swift movement, wrapping me up in his arms and burying his face in the crook of my neck. I cling onto his hard biceps, breathing hard, the remnants of my orgasm still sending spears of heat through my thighs and stomach.
He says my name again, his arms trembling as he wraps them around my limp body. Mac kisses me then, and it feels nothing like our other kisses. It’s not feral and needy. It’s tender, but still hard and hot and wet. It’s like he’s trying to tell me how much he loved what we just did. Like he can’t get enough of the taste of me.
When we finally fall apart, I lean against that famous workbench and stuff my breasts back into my bra. The coveralls are still hanging off my hips and my pants are undone. My sheer blouse is half-off, revealing one shoulder. Mac has clay all over his shoulders and hair. I’m sure I do too.
I watch him lift his boxer-briefs back up, followed by his pants. He leaves them undone as he lets out a long breath and lifts his eyes to meet mine. “Well,” Mac says with a twitch of his lips.
“Well,” I reply.
“That was fun.”
I laugh. “Yeah. That’s one word for it.” I button my jeans and straighten my blouse as my eyes drift to the pottery wheel. The sad, half-finished cup sits as a misshapen lump of clay in the center of the wheel. It’s already started drying out. I bite my lip. “We might have ruined that cup.”
Mac follows my gaze. His smile lights up his eyes as he shrugs his bare shoulder, reaching toward me to grab my hand and tug me close. His arms circle around my waist, hands cupping my ass as he nuzzles my nose with his. “I have to be honest with you, Trina, I don’t give a shit about the cup right now.”
“You should.”
He pulls away, arching a brow as his lips twitch. “That so?”
“Mm-hm,” I answer, my fingers running over his jaw. “How else are you going to bribe me to come back here?”
Mac laughs and tugs me even closer, his lips brushing mine so softly they barely touch. “I can think of a few ideas.”
Heat knots deep in my stomach, and I smile against his lips before wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him once more.
The truth is, it won’t take much to convince me to come back here. Won’t take much at all.
18
Trina
After Mac and I wandered over to his house—very neat, if sparsely decorated—and had a late-evening snack of crackers, cheese, and cold cuts, Mac drove me back home. Our goodbye kiss was lingering and sweet, and I’m still thinking about it now as I lean against my front door.
I can’t believe I just did that.
After a week of moving, keeping the kids busy, getting therapy organized, and overall just running around cleaning and unpacking, I wasn’t expecting to have a Saturday night like tonight. My lips curl almost unfamiliarly as I stand in my darkened house, and I realize I’m content. Happy, even.
That happy feeling continues into Sunday, when the kids, my mother, and I make our way to the Four Cups Café for a midmorning coffee and treat. As soon as we enter, the kids make a beeline for the counter, and my eyes dart to a huddle around a box at one of the tables.
“Ooh, what have we got here?” Mom sweeps past me to investigate.
Dorothy looks over her shoulder and waves her forward. “Look at this!” She brandishes a beautiful, handmade espresso cup, holding it by its teeny-tiny, delicate handle. My mother peers over her shoulder and grabs a saucer. It’s a soft peach color, with seams of foiled gold running across it like the veins of a marble slab.
I know that saucer.
My heart thumps. Damn it! My heart goes wild over the sight of Mac’s pottery. What the hell is wrong with me?
Simone and Candice are leaning over the box, chattering excitedly. “Gorgeous,” I hear Simone say as she unwraps one of the new mugs.
I follow the kids and get them set up at a table in the corner with a muffin and small hot chocolates. Katie brought her coloring book, and Toby is reading a book. They’ll keep themselves busy for a few minutes, at least. I walk back to the table to admire Mac’s artful pottery.
Dorothy rolls her eyes. “Go back to your cesspit, Agnes.”
“That cesspit keeps you well stocked with romance novels,” Agnes returns. “I take order after order from you week after week, but do I judge the smut you read?”
It’s supposed to be a rhetorical question, but Dorothy snorts. “Sure sounds like it.”
Agnes runs the bookstore, and judging by the thousands of books housed in the library upstairs, I can imagine she’s built her business on the women of this town. Agnes toddles past me and takes one of the larger cups in her hands. She inspects it with a raised brow, turning it over a few times before glancing my way. “Your man sure does make a nice cup.”
I almost choke. “My man?”
Agnes rolls her eyes. “Will someone put Trina out of her misery? It’s fine. You can sleep with Mac. No one will judge you. In fact, we’ll all be happy that you’re not both moping around town like lovesick teens.”
“You know, Agnes, that’s the first reasonable thing I’ve heard you say in thirty-five years.” Dorothy plucks another cup out of the box to admire it, totally ignoring the death glare Agnes cuts her way.
Candice looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Simone isn’t even trying—she just cackles into the box. I’m mostly trying not to have my whole head burst into flames from blushing so hard.
“Have you been moping?” a deep voice says near my shoulder.
I scream.
Mac chuckles, his eyes sparkling when I turn to see him standing there. Stillness settles over the ladies at the table, the sound of crinkling paper and clinking pottery going suddenly quiet. My skin feels too tight. I have visions of Mac’s hands doing delicious things to me, and now is not the right time to be having those kinds of visions.
Dirty Little Midlife Disaster: A Motorcycle Hottie Romantic Comedy (Heart’s Cove Hotties Book 4) Page 13