Dirty Little Midlife Disaster: A Motorcycle Hottie Romantic Comedy (Heart’s Cove Hotties Book 4)

by Lilian Monroe

  I need to say something. Mac is right here, and he just asked me a question. Stop looking at his lips. Oh, God, he just licked them. Did I just have a mini orgasm? Stop looking at his mouth. “No! I haven’t been moping. I’ve been busy.” I’ve been real busy in the twelve hours since he had his hands down my pants. Since I had my mouth—

  “Oh, please.” Agnes snorts.

  Dorothy, in an act that defies the blood feud the two women have maintained for many decades, lets out a loud belly laugh. “She’s got you there, honey,” she tells me.

  My cheeks are burning. I close my eyes for a beat, try to regain control over my rioting body, and finally meet Mac’s gaze again. “You…made…pottery?” I thrust my thumb toward the box.

  Smooth.

  Fiona walks over from behind the counter. “Remember, I mentioned it after our pottery masterclass? I ordered all new crockery for the café from Mac.” She shakes Mac’s hand, and even though I know she’s about to be married a couple of months from now, a spear of jealousy still pierces my gut.

  There’s something wrong with me. This is out of control.

  Mac isn’t in his pottery-making garb. He’s all motorcycle badass now, in black jeans and boots with a worn tee hugging every strong plane of his chest.

  When did my mouth get so dry?

  I clear my throat. “Oh, you ordered all new mugs for the café. Of course.” I nod at Fiona. “I remember now. It’s great that you guys promote local artisans so much.” Is this how small talk works? Am I doing it right? Does my smile look weird? What do I do with my hands? When did it get so hot in here?

  “I was actually hoping I could grab someone to help me with the rest of the first order. If you’re happy with the samples, that is.” Mac glances at Fiona, who nods.

  “Couldn’t be happier. It’s got the stamp of approval from the ladies who matter most, doesn’t it?” Fiona looks at the table behind her.

  Dorothy beams. “Fantastic work, Mr. Blair. And oh, I wish I could help you with bringing the pottery over to the café, but look at the time!” She glances at her bare wrist. “I need to go see Margaret. We’re meeting Hamish at the Grove. Agnes?”

  “Well, what do you know? I’m parched. I need a drink. I’ll come with you.”

  “I’ve got work to do,” Simone says with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m late for a deadline.”

  “Allie’s waiting for me at home,” Candice throws in.

  “I’ve got to watch the chicklets,” my mother calls out, nodding to Katie and Toby.

  Glancing at Fiona, I realize what’s happening. They’re setting me up.

  “I have to stay here, I’m afraid,” Fiona says with a mournful look. “Someone needs to work the till.” She starts walking away and says over her shoulder, “Trina, would you mind helping Mac out?”

  Yes, I would mind. I stare at the ladies, feeling utterly betrayed.

  Do they not realize how much this man ties my stomach in knots by his mere presence?

  Evidently not, because with barely a word of goodbye, Dorothy and Agnes are out the door and heading toward the hotel. Fiona is walking back to the counter, and Simone and Candice are avoiding my death stares by carrying the box of pottery back toward the kitchen. My mother winks at me, then walks over to the kids’ table and gives Katie a kiss on the top of her head. She says something to the kids, who call out goodbyes without looking up.

  Looks like they’ll survive without me.

  Heart thumping, I turn to Mac. “I guess that leaves you and me.”

  “Lucky me.”

  I blush, but secretly, I’m delighted. I gesture to the door. “Lead the way.”

  I could have said no. I should have said no.

  Right?

  That fact becomes apparent to me the minute Mac rolls the big, corrugated iron door leading to his studio. My eyes land on the workbench, that spot where I leaned my body and let Mac give me one of the best orgasms of my life.

  Mac must see where I’m looking, because he clears his throat. “Are you okay being here?”

  Okay? Am I okay? I’m basically having an orgasm by proxy just by being here, but yeah, I’m okay.

  I try for a casual smile and hope it doesn’t look like a grimace. “I’m good, Mac.”

  A bit of tension seeps out of his body at my words, and he rewards me with the sexiest grin I’ve ever laid eyes on. “All right, then.” His eyes linger on my lips, then he clears his throat. “Better get to it.”

  We walk over to a shelf full of mugs, espresso cups, saucers, plates, and all types of pottery in the same peach-and-gold style. There’s a handwritten list pinned to the wall, with half the items ticked off. Mac moves to stand beside me, the heat of his body an inferno at my side. “I’ve been rushing to get the first half of their order done before the start of the school year,” he tells me, and I frown at his words. Why does he care about the start of the school year? It’s the second or third time he’s mentioned it. “It’s one of the biggest orders I’ve ever gotten, and I know I won’t have much time to work in the next few months. Glad the ladies liked the samples.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I answer. Before I can ask about the school year comment, Mac grabs a box from the corner of the room and brings it over, showing me how to wrap up the pottery in paper to keep it safe for the trip over.

  “If we do the flat stuff first, we’ll be able to pack the box a bit more tightly,” he says, grabbing a stack of paper and placing it on one of the shelves. I watch him wrap a plate up with sharp, efficient movements, and start doing the same.

  We work in silence for a few minutes, stacking plates in the box and packing everything tight. When the box is nearly full, Mac hauls it up and moves it closer to the door before grabbing another box from the corner. In the meantime, I pick up a large vase from another shelf, turning it over in my hands. It has a huge, round belly and a delicate opening. It’s glazed in rich, royal blue with flecks of white across it, like a starry night sky.

  It’s gorgeous.

  I’m not sure how it happens, but I’m so busy admiring Mac’s work that I don’t hear him come up behind me with a new box. I don’t see him set the box down next to me. All I know is I’m holding a piece of art, and it’s so completely incredible that Mac made this with his bare hands.

  I can see a groove where Mac’s fingers—or maybe some sort of tool—was held against the clay as it spun. I can feel the imprint of his hands on the piece, and there’s some kind of magic in that.

  Kevin was talented. I appreciated his paintings, and I know he deserved the praise he got. But there’s something about holding this vase in my hands, touching the clay that Mac coaxed into this impossible, exaggerated shape, that makes my heart squeeze so tight. Maybe it’s just how easy Mac’s smiles are, and how much he seems to enjoy the fact that I’ve tried to do pottery with him. He wants me to enjoy it too. He’s not gatekeeping his art from me.

  The difference between the two of them is stark. Being in Kevin’s studio always made me feel like I didn’t belong. Like I wasn’t welcome. Being here feels like there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

  Then I feel a warm hand on the small of my back, and I’m jolted back to reality. I jump, and that beautiful, fat-bellied vase with the night sky painted on it slips from my grasp. I don’t even have time to yell as it falls to the ground and smashes on the concrete floor. Shards and splinters and broken pieces of vase scatter halfway across the studio.

  Gasping, I drop to my knees and scramble to pick it up, as if I’ll be able to put it back together. As if I didn’t just destroy something of Mac’s that was beautiful and perfect. As if my clumsiness didn’t just shatter something bigger than the vase, some intangible feeling I wasn’t able to figure out.

  Tears fill my eyes when I grab a large shard of pottery, my breath staying stuck in my throat at the mess I just made. “I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying. “I’m so sorry, Mac. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to. It slipped, I—”

  A sha
ky breath slips through my lips as I try my best to hold back the tears. Maybe this is why Kevin didn’t want me anywhere near his precious canvases.

  “Hey.” A soft, deep word. “Come on.” Mac takes the shard from my hand and drops it to the floor with a careless flick of his wrist before taking my hand in his. He pulls me up and wraps me in his arms.

  I melt into the strength and warmth and safety of him, trembling as I apologize to his shirt. “It was so beautiful, and I destroyed it,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mac lets out a slow, deep chuckle. “It’s fine, Trina. Really. If you had any idea how many things I’ve broken, you wouldn’t be apologizing. It’s one of the realities of being a potter. Lots of things break. Lots of things come off the wheel or out of the kiln less than perfect. It’s just the way it is.”

  I lean my head back to look at his face, because I want to know if he’s telling the truth. All I see in his eyes is warmth. No anger. No sadness. Nothing that would indicate he’s upset with me in any way.

  When I let out a breath, Mac’s arms tighten around me. Then, he takes one of those beautiful, talented hands and wipes the tears from my face with his thumb. “Don’t cry.”

  My fingers are curled into his shirt as if I’m clinging to him for dear life. His hand is warm, comforting, and I let out a shallow sigh. “I’m sorry, Mac. That was so clumsy of me.”

  “Stop apologizing. I don’t care about the vase. It was lopsided and the neck was too thin for the vase to be useful for anything but collecting dust.” His eyes shift back to me and he gives me a casual shrug. “It was a practice piece for an exhibit Dorothy and Margaret coerced me into doing in January, so no one was going to see that vase anyway.” He smiles. “And even if it had been a paid piece, I still wouldn’t give a shit.”

  He’s not looking at me like I’m silly, or frivolous, or some air-headed woman. He’s not judging my every move like my ex-husband used to do.

  Mac is looking at me like no one else exists. His gaze darkens as it drops to my lips.

  God, I love that look. I’m back here after less than twenty-four hours, leaving my kids with my mother so I can have some time alone with this insanely sexy man. That’s…wrong, right? I should be more responsible.

  But trying to keep hold of those thoughts is like grasping at tendrils of fog. I can’t quite remember why I shouldn’t fall head over heels for this man. I can’t quite remember what it is about dating him that’s a bad idea. Who cares if I just got divorced? Who cares if Kevin had a fit when he saw us together? Who cares if he’s nothing like the soft, responsible, and supposedly loving man I married? Why can’t I enjoy my life too?

  I hold his gaze for a beat, two, and neither of us makes a move. That’s when I realize I’m still wrapped up in his arms—and I never want to leave.

  As if he realized it at the same moment, the arm that’s banded across my back grows tighter. Mac’s eyes lower, and the hand on my cheek moves to my jaw, sliding back to tangle into my hair.

  I let out a little whimper, knowing I shouldn’t want this as badly as I do but desperate for it anyway. I’m starved for his particular brand of affection. Hungry for it. For him.

  Mac lowers his head and slants his mouth against mine. His lips brush my own in a tender movement. It’s barely a kiss. More like a question.

  And when my lips part and my hands move to his shoulders, he knows the answer.

  The kiss that follows is like an unleashing. A dam breaking. It’s feral, the way he grips me, holds me tight, parts my lips and explores my mouth with his tongue. It’s like he’s been dreaming of doing this, just as I have.

  We’ve been apart just over twelve hours, and it feels like I haven’t tasted his lips in an age.

  Why should I hold back? Why should I take things slow? I can’t remember why I haven’t jumped into his arms daily from the moment I saw him change my tire. How can I ignore the way he sets my body alight? How can I resist when being in his arms feels like an ending and a beginning all wrapped up in one?

  “Trina,” he says, nipping at my bottom lip. “I want you.”

  “I know.” My hands curl into his hair, tugging lightly. “I do too.”

  He groans. “I’ve thought about you every day since you came to the Grove all those weeks ago. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “God, me too,” I sigh, finding his lips again.

  He tears himself away, eyes wild as he holds me. “Come to bed with me.”

  It’s an invitation, a question, and a command. I know that if I said no, if I pulled away and told him to stop now, he’d listen. I could be the responsible mother. The chaste divorcée. I could focus on me—or whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing with the broken shards of my life.

  But I don’t want that.

  Haven’t I spent long enough denying myself? Haven’t I spent thirteen years with a man who never cared about my pleasure? Haven’t I tried my best to be the perfect wife, the perfect mother, and all I’ve gotten in return is crushing loneliness and a quick divorce?

  Don’t I deserve this? Something impulsive, and hot, and just for me?

  Yes, I decide. I deserve it.

  And so, I nod. “I want you, Mac. Right now.”

  He lets out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he holds me, then he takes my hand and leads me out of the studio, leaving the shattered vase crunching under our footsteps.

  19

  Trina

  There’s a distant undercurrent of doing something we shouldn’t when Mac wraps his large hand around mine and leads me to his house. I mean, we just left Four Cups to come pick up a few boxes of pottery. Everyone will notice if we don’t get back. My kids are waiting with my mother. It’s not even noon—not that it matters, but the sunlight makes this all feel more scandalous.

  We cross the foyer and the living room, walking with purposeful steps toward a hallway to the left of the kitchen. Mac’s bedroom is dominated by a huge king-sized bed. The pillows are stacked high, the bed neatly made. Closing the door with his foot, Mac tugs me close and kisses me once more.

  Outside this room, the world falls away. My entire attention is caught by the way Mac’s hand sweeps down to grip my bottom, the way he groans when he feels me melt into him. There’s no one in the world but the two of us.

  Heart’s Cove doesn’t exist. My ex-husband and the mess of our separation definitely don’t exist.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” Mac says, voice full of gravel. “Every fucking day.”

  The way the words are torn from his throat makes my body go pliant. He slides my cardigan off my shoulders and tosses it aside—and it’s a testament to how far gone I am that I don’t protest his mistreatment of my favorite cashmere sweater.

  From there, our clothes are ripped off and discarded. I sweep my hands over his chest, over the rasp of the hair sprinkled over his pecs, and I can’t resist running my lips over his skin. His palm moves up my spine to cup the back of my neck, and I curl my fingers over his shoulders at the feel of it.

  Pop goes the button of my jeans, and Mac’s hand is down my pants again.

  Oh, I definitely missed that. My lids close as my legs go wobbly; the only thing holding me up is the man in front of me.

  Why have we held back from each other? I’ve never met a man who can make me melt like this. I’ve never felt as completely cherished in someone’s arms as I do now. I should have begged him to take me here after ice cream. I should have known from the moment I dragged a finger across the handlebars of his motorcycle that I wanted him to fuck me.

  But maybe it’s the anticipation over all these weeks that gives his touch an edge. It makes his greedy fingers find every place that makes me shiver. I claw at his pants, pushing them down to his feet while he does the same.

  When we’re naked together, still standing next to the bed, Mac pulls me close and ducks his head to the crook of my neck, placing soft, hungry kisses down along the line of my pulse. Then with a swift movement, h
e picks me up and lays me down sideways across the bed, propping his body down on top of mine.

  I love the weight of him. The feel of his skin against mine, his leg notched between my own. I love the way his hand slides from my neck, down my chest and over my breast, all the way down to the curve of my hip.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, and I feel it. I feel beautiful, perfect, worshipped for the first time in far too long.

  And when Mac slides down the length of my body and hooks my legs over his shoulders, there’s no hesitation or shyness in me left. His lips touch my center, his tongue starts a slow, languorous exploration, and I know there’s no turning back.

  It’s only when my back is arched and my hand is tugging at his hair that consciousness returns to my mind, a brief, fleeting thought that reminds me I’ve never come this way, with a man’s tongue between my legs. I’ve enjoyed it, sure, but it’s never gotten me all the way—

  An orgasm washes over me, bright and intense. I gasp Mac’s name and he groans in response, but he doesn’t lift his head until my grip on his hair weakens. Then, lids heavy, he looks at my boneless body and moves to his bedside cabinet.

  Teeth rip the condom wrapper. Strong hands slide it over his hard cock. Then he’s back on top of me, kissing his way over my chest and up to my lips.

  “You taste good,” he growls near my ear while his thighs spread mine wider. “Better than I imagined, and I imagined you’d taste like heaven.”

  He wondered what I’d taste like. Need splinters through me. I sweep my hands over his shoulders and roll my hips, wanting more. “So do you.”

  A groan rumbles through his chest, as if he’s remembering what we did in his studio in the dark of night. As if that, too—me on my knees in front of him, him thrusting into my mouth—is another thing he spent a long time dreaming about. Then he’s nudging at my entrance, lifting his head to look in my eyes, and giving me a slow, steady thrust home.