Love and Lingerie

by Lacey Black

  Finally, I take a step back. “Yes. How do you take your steak?”

  He seems surprised by the question. “Medium-rare.”

  “Thank God you didn’t say well-done. I just might have to drop your meat on the ground before throwing it on the grill,” I tease, though not really. I’ve never understood someone who wants their meat cooked until it’s practically jerky.

  Latham chuckles. “I like my meat juicy, tender, and the perfect shade of pink,” he replies, making my pulse quicken. His eyes blaze with dark fury, and something tells me he’s not at all referring to the slab of meat I’m about to throw on the grill.

  Needing to step away and cool off (yes, I’m considering throwing my head in a bucket of cold water), I move and start to head to my back porch. I whistle for Snuggles, but when I glance over my shoulder, she’s attached to Latham’s leg, completely ignoring my call. When I reach my sliding glass door, the cool air pelts me in the face, helping calm down my overheated skin.

  I pull the two steaks from the fridge, thankful I grabbed them from the butcher. My original thought was Jensen and Max would stop by to help, later, after their ball game, but I haven’t seen my little brother. I guess when I told him I had this project in the bag, I wasn’t expecting him to actually listen. Placing the steaks on the counter, I grab my mallet and give them a few good whacks. Just as I’m swinging, I hear the door slide open.

  “Huh, can’t say I was expecting someone to beat my meat for me today.”

  “It helps that I’m picturing it as your face,” I reply without looking up from the thick ribeye.

  “Good to know you think of me when you have your hands on meat,” he says, coming over and turning on my faucet to wash his hands. “I left the house under the tree.”

  “Thank you. I’m going to paint it tomorrow,” I tell him, dropping the mallet in the sink and grabbing the seasoning.

  “Can I help?” he asks, coming to stand beside me, resting his hip against the counter. I can feel his eyes following my every move.

  “Just grab us each a cold drink,” I tell him, heading to the door with the steaks, tongs, and seasoning.

  By the time Latham joins me on the porch, I have dinner on the grill and am taking a seat at the patio table. “You have a nice area back here,” he says, setting down two cold beers and taking the seat directly across from me.

  “Thanks, it’s really what sold me on the house.”

  “You bought it?”

  “Last year,” I tell him, taking a big pull from the bottle. “I had rented before, but never had any room. Plus, most rentals don’t allow pets, and I knew I wanted to adopt a dog.”

  We both glance over to the doghouse, where Snuggles is sleeping, big paw hanging out of the opening. “I’d say you did well.”

  “That must have been hard for you to say.”

  “Why?” he asks, catching me off guard.

  “I didn’t expect so many compliments today.”

  “I’ve always paid you compliments, Sweetheart.”

  I roll my eyes. “Is telling me my hair is short like a boy’s and then snapping my bra a compliment?”

  He grins. “The highest of compliments.”

  “Right. So when you told me my ass looked fat in my cheerleading uniform, that was a good thing?”

  “I don’t remember. Do you still have that old uniform? Maybe you could put it on and refresh my memory,” he replies with a wicked grin and an evil glint in his eyes. “Besides, I do recall you telling everyone in high school you caught me learning how to kiss by making out with the oak tree in my backyard.”

  I snort, and not even very ladylike. “They called you Woody for days.”

  “The guys were scared to get undressed in front of me in the locker room,” he growls, making me laugh even harder.

  “Bet that was awkward,” I giggle.

  “Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he says as I stand up and flip the steaks to sear the other side.

  We’re both quiet as I get the meal ready. I bring out plates, silverware, napkins, and the sides I had picked up from the deli. “I hope you like spaghetti salad. Max loves it, and I was prepared to have them over tonight,” I say as Latham sets the table.

  “Max is your nephew, right?”

  “Yes,” I reply with a smile. “Jensen was married to Ashley Taylor for a few years and had Max.”

  He takes another drink from his beer, leaning his hip against the railing. “Ashley Taylor? Few years younger than us?”

  “That’s her. She wasn’t very pleasant in school, and she definitely didn’t grow out of it. She and Jensen go round and round regularly. I think her goal in life is to make his hell,” I reply as I turn the heat down low and prepare to finish cooking the steaks on a low heat.

  “It couldn’t have all been bad though.”

  “No, it wasn’t. At least not in the beginning. I thought they were done years ago, but then she got pregnant with Max. I think he stuck it out as long as he could, but then it just didn’t work anymore.”

  “Too bad,” he says, throwing his empty bottle in the trashcan and grabbing another. “It’s always hard when kids are involved. Lark has a two-year-old.”

  “She does? How is she?” I ask, flipping the steaks one last time.

  “She’s good. We’re heading over there tomorrow to see her and Vivian.”

  Smiling, I take the meat off the grill and shut off the propane. “Vivian. I love that name.”

  “She’s the spitting image of my sister,” he adds fondly.

  “And her father?” I ask, as I bring the meat to the table. As soon as I set the plate down, Snuggles wakes up from her nap and comes running. I give her a pointed look. “No begging.”

  Latham grabs the tongs and sets the first one on my plate before setting the larger one on his. “He isn’t in the picture. In fact, I don’t know who he is. She won’t tell me. Just says it was a thing that happened.” He doesn’t make eye contact and the tips of his ears turn a bit red. I can tell he doesn’t like the fact he doesn’t know, or maybe it’s that this is something he can’t fix. Latham has always been very paternal when it comes to Larkin.

  “Well, good for her for making it work.”

  “She had a lot of help from my mom and dad, but she’s a strong woman with a good head on her shoulders,” he says cutting into his dinner. I watch as he brings his fork up to his mouth and takes his first bite.

  He chews slowly, savoring the taste and cut of good meat. I can’t help but watch the way his strong jaw moves, the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “Damn, that’s good.”

  Pleased, I cut into my own steak and take a bite. His eyes are on me as I chew and swallow, much like mine were on him a few moments ago. “What?” I ask, glancing up and finding him still watching me. “Do I have food on my face?” Yes, I just asked that with a mouthful, but I can’t help it.

  “Do you always talk with food in your mouth?”

  “Yes,” I reply, shoveling potato salad into my face. “Always,” I confirm while chewing and smiling at the same time.

  Latham laughs and shakes his head. “How in the hell did you make it as a model in the city with manners like that?”

  He’s teasing. I know he is.

  But I feel the words clear down to my gut.

  I glance down, scooping up a smaller bite. “Easy, you don’t eat when you’re a model,” I reason.

  He watches me, clearly wanting to ask more questions, but I don’t let him. I change the subject (something I’ve gotten good at) and steer the conversation to safer topics. Before I know it, the food is almost gone and our bellies are full. Latham stretches back in his seat, patting his belly happily. I don’t miss how he takes a small piece of fat and holds it beneath the table to the little begger at his feet. “Seriously, Harper, that was delicious. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for your help today, even though I didn’t really need it,
” I reply with a smile.

  He laughs. “Of course you didn’t need it. You’re a badass with power tools.”

  “I am,” I reply, offering my own smile.

  When I get up and start gathering the empty plates and bowls, Latham jumps to his feet and swats my hands away. “Let me. You cooked and I can clean.”

  I stand up and make a face. “Clean? You’ll help clean?”

  “Yes,” he replies, taking the stack from my hands and heading toward the back door. “Hasn’t anyone ever offered to clean up the mess?”

  “No,” I answer, realizing that’s very much true, with the exception of Marissa. None of the guys I’ve ever cooked for have ever offered to help clean up the mess. Usually, by the time their bellies are full, they’re ready for the next phase of the night (the naked part).

  He enters my house like he owns it and heads for the sink. When he sets the pile on the counter, he turns to face me. “Sounds like you’ve been dating the wrong men. A real man always helps out in the kitchen, especially after a fucking phenomenal meal like that.”

  Warmth spreads through me at his compliment. Shrugging my shoulders, I flip the water on hot. “It’s fine. None of them were sticking around long enough anyway.”

  He turns and faces me, maneuvering until he’s practically pressed against my chest. “A real man helps in the kitchen, Sweetheart. A good man cleans up after. The better man worships his woman right there on the counter and makes her come three ways to Sunday.”

  All of the oxygen in the room just…evaporates. I can’t seem to suck in a breath, especially with his mouth so very close to mine. Very full, very sexy lips. My eyes move from his lips to his eyes, finding them wide and dark and trained directly on me. I have no idea which one of us moves first, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the way his arms wrap around me, caging me and pulling me close at the same time. Our lips meet in the middle, a frenzy of hunger and need.

  My hands dive into his hair, gently tugging and pulling as I thread my fingers through his dark locks. He keeps it short, yet with just enough length I can get my hands on it. Each time I tug, his hands tighten on my ass, bringing me closer to his hard body (and boy, do I mean hard) until there’s no way air could even slip between our bodies. Our tongues dance, our teeth nip, and our lips devour in a slow dance that’s days in the making.

  Weeks.

  Months.

  Hell, years.

  He lifts me easily in the air, my legs wrapping around his waist. Latham sets me on the counter, positioning himself right where I need him most. The friction is marvelous, yet frustrating at the same time because it’s not enough. It may never be enough. I moan in pleasure as he grinds himself against my center, teasing me until I’m practically crawling out of my skin.

  More. I definitely need more.

  I grip the back of his T-shirt and give it a tug, pulling it free from his waistband. As if sensing my direction, Latham removes his lips from mine just long enough to pull his shirt over his head and discard it on the floor. His chest is something they write songs about. It’s hard, muscular, and has a tattoo; enough to ensure women everywhere have wet dreams for days to come.

  My hands glide down his pecs, loving the way the light matting of chest hair tickles my palm. His nipples are small and hard and my tongue waters to taste his skin. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours,” he whispers in a gravelly voice, cupping my breasts through my tank top.

  “Is that how this works?” I tease, reaching down and cupping his balls.

  “Only if you want it to,” he replies, his brown eyes locking firmly on mine.

  My only answer is to reach down and pull my top up and over my head. I’m wearing one of my older satin sets, mostly because I didn’t want to get my good stuff all sweaty and gross while outside working, but I can’t seem to find an ounce of concern that Latham is seeing an older pair. In fact, if the way his eyes are devouring my breasts is any indication, I’d say he doesn’t mind at all that the dark blue material is slightly worn and has a little pilling. “Jeezus, Harper, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he whispers, staring down at the mounds that spill over the top of the bra.

  “You’re not so bad yourself,” I reply, unable to stop myself from continuing to touch his chest.

  I feel him reach around my back to the clasp. “May I?” he asks politely, his eyes on me the entire time.

  “I had hoped you would. I mean, it’s only fair.”

  He smirks. “It is.” Then, he releases the clasp and frees my breasts.

  That’s when I hear him gasp. “When the fuck did you get that?” he asks, his voice deep and hoarse.

  Glancing down at the small silver ring through my left nipple, I shrug. “A few years back.”

  “Holy fucking shitballs, I think I just came in my pants.” He has yet to remove his eyes from my left breast.

  Rolling mine, I reach down and cup his balls. “You’ve never seen a nipple ring?”

  “Never in real life,” he says, his eyes finally returning to mine. “May I?”

  I can’t help but smile. “So polite. I’m not used to this side of Latham Douglas.”

  “I have manners for days, but you’re about to see the end of them. My rope is quickly starting to fray.”

  “Then you must hurry. Before the rope…frays.”

  You’d think I granted him access to heaven. His eyes seem to sparkle with excitement as his head dips forward and his tongue comes in contact with my nipple. Okay, so maybe he isn’t the only one in danger of coming too quickly. A gasp spills from my lips as he sucks the ring into his mouth, flicking and toying with both the ring and the skin it’s attached to.

  “Fucking hell, Harper,” he groans, lapping at my skin with his magnificent tongue. After I got my piercing, I was told my nipples would be more sensitive with arousal, but holy shit, I’ve never experienced anything like this before. My entire body is on fire, hungry and driven with desire. Now, I know exactly what he meant when he talked about his rope starting to fray.

  I realize all too quickly he could easily make me come, just by sucking on my nipple and playing with the piercing. My pussy is throbbing, completely soaked through my panties, and begging for more. I reach down and try to grab his cock, but the angle is awkward and I can’t get a grip.

  “Patience, Sweetheart,” he whispers against my skin, and I have nothing left to do but relax and enjoy the ride.

  The ride, in all actuality, is rather short because before I know it, I feel an orgasm barreling down on me. Latham continues to suck and lick at the pierced nipple, and reaches over to the other with his large hand. He takes the right nipple between his fingers and pinches. Not too hard, but just enough to send a lightning bolt of lust straight to my pussy. I call out as wave after wave of pleasure courses through my body, as I fly high in the sky and slowly free fall back to earth.

  As my surroundings start to return to me, I open my eyes, only to come face-to-face with Latham’s dark, hungry ones. The look he gives me sends shivers through my body and desire starts to return. Reaching forward, I go for his belt, only to have my hand stopped before it can reach its destination. My eyebrows arch upward and I give him a challenging look. His eyes narrow on me, but he doesn’t say a word. Since he’s holding my right hand, I reach down with my left and palm his erection through his pants. Latham’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move a muscle.

  When I try to pull on his zipper, he stops my hand again. “Why not?” I whisper.

  “It’s not required because of what I just did,” he says.

  “Latham, I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. You know that,” I add, running my finger down the length of the zipper.

  His jaw ticks with tension. “My pants stay on.”

  “Well, that won’t make it very easy, but I’m up for the challenge,” I say, spinning him around so his back is to my front.

  I press my chest to his warm back, lovi
ng the way his skin feels against me, and run my hands down his chest. I have to move my arms under his, but it gives me better access to what he’s hiding in his pants. I undo his belt (because he never said I couldn’t) and pop open the button. I can tell he’s just about to say something, but I silence him by sliding my hand along his lower abdomen and into his underwear. Latham tenses again, his body going completely rigid as my hand comes in contact with hard, warm flesh. Latham hisses as I wrap my hand around his length, palming his thick erection and wishing I could get my mouth on it.

  But we’ll save that for another day.

  Because something tells me Latham Douglas is an addiction I can’t afford to have, yet I don’t want to walk away.

  Not yet.

  Not now.

  Maybe not ever.

  Chapter Twelve

  Latham

  The moment her hand wraps around my cock, I see stars. Bright, white light that robs me of my ability to think and breathe. All I can think about is the softness of her skin, the firmness of her fingers, the hardness of the nipple ring pressing into my back. Talk about the surprise of a lifetime there. I wasn’t kidding when I confessed I almost came in my pants. The sight of Harper’s sweet nipples on display, and with a piercing to boot, well, let’s just say she was a fantasy come to life.

  My fantasy.

  She slowly starts to move her hand, up and down the entire length of my cock. I’m so worked up she could probably make me come in under ten seconds, but I don’t want to detonate yet. I want to memorize the feel of her body and taste of her skin. I want to draw out this moment for as long as I can. Who the fuck knows when I’ll be able to wrap my lips around those perfect nipples or feel her hands around my aching dick again. But I’m fighting a losing battle. There’s no way I’ll be able to hang on with her stroking me off.

  So instead of fighting it, I just let go and feel.