by Frankie Love
I try to focus on my book for a while, but can’t get into it. I’m antsy. Maybe doing something more physical would be better.
I remember with a start that Matt has a small garden in the backyard. I immediately rush into the bedroom and change into an oversized t-shirt and shorts. I’ve never owned plants myself--I’m away too often to care for them--but Grandma Carrie had a garden that I helped tend as a kid. I never learned the intricacies of gardening but I know the basics.
I head outside into a gorgeous day. The sun blazes in a sapphire-blue sky, and the mountains stand watch in the distance. I lose myself for a moment just staring at the beauty around me. I certainly never lose myself in the beauty of New York City, that’s for sure. Maybe wide-open spaces are more my speed.
Don’t make any decisions yet, I reprimand myself silently. Then, I survey Matt’s garden with a critical eye. Everything is lush and growing well, consisting of some flowers I recognize and some that must be native to the state. Some blossoms, however, could use some pruning. I brandish a set of shears lying conveniently on a table and set to work.
Eventually, I’m proud of my work, and decide to continue my new status of Domestic Goddess by making dinner. It’s a risky choice--sometimes my meals turn out well, but sometimes they’re nothing short of disasters. I probably can’t mess up a simple pasta dish and a salad too badly, and Matt already has the ingredients. I wash dirt and sweat from my face and hands, then make a quick cocktail in the kitchen. I’m going to need some liquid courage for this.
After a few minutes, I’m boiling water, chopping veggies, and slurping down my cocktail like there’s no tomorrow. This is almost fun, I think, but realize that this could be because of the alcohol. Still, I manage not to mess up anything (besides the pasta boiling a minute or two past al dente). I quickly set the table, make a second gin and tonic, and even light a candle I found in one of the cupboards. Damn. I’m good.
“Honey! I’m home!” Matt’s voice sounds from the entryway as soon as I place the bowl of salad on the table. I roll my eyes at the greeting, but giggle a little as well. I could get used to that kind of affection from him.
I stroll to the door to meet him, a cocktail in each hand. When I offer him his, I watch his gaze trail unabashedly down my form, lingering on my short shorts. “I made dinner, too,” I inform him saucily, and his eyes meet mine. The sapphire blue is flaring hotly, like the middle part of a flame. I try not to blush and return his gaze as best I can.
Matt smiles, and the moment ends, but I still feel as if he just looked into my very soul. I take a big gulp of my cocktail, my heart suddenly pounding. I definitely wasn’t prepared for that.
“What did you make us?” he asks, hanging up his jacket and strolling to the table. I sit opposite him and we dig into the pasta and salad (a pint of ice cream I found in the freezer will serve as dessert). “This is good,” he says after a moment.
I raise a brow. “You sound surprised.”
He laughs. “I just didn’t know you were a chef as well as a rock star.”
My lips curl into a mischievous smirk. “I have many hidden talents.”
“Like what?” he asks immediately.
I pause for dramatic effect and grin into my gin and tonic. When I meet his gaze, his eyes are dark again, and his expression can only be described as hunger. Needing. Like he’s ready to leap across the table and devour me. I nearly spill my drink, and when I raise the glass to my mouth, my hand is trembling slightly. Something in our dynamic has definitely changed. Something very sexual has definitely appeared.
Well, I think. Game on.
“A lady can’t divulge all her secrets at once,” I say, taking a long sip of my drink.
“Tell me some of them, at least,” he replies with half a grin.
I notice him scratching at his collar and realize a talent I can share. “Come here,” I say, beckoning with my index finger.
He gets up without asking why and stands in front of me as I swivel my chair away from the table. For a moment, looking up into those unbelievably blue eyes, it’s difficult to remember why I asked him over in the first place. I realize, too, with a hot flush across my chest, that my face is currently dangerously close to his crotch. I stand up hurriedly. Is that a smirk I detect flickering across his lips?
Slowly, I lean in close to him, before my fingers gently rest on his collar. I can feel his heart beating steadily below my hands. “Is this bothering you?” I ask.
“You being so close? Not at all,” he breathes.
I giggle, shaking my head. “Not me,” I say. “The collar. You were tugging at it.”
“It’s not the most comfortable,” he confesses.
“Let me take a look at it.”
He raises an eyebrow, but before I can offer further explanation, he’s unbuttoning his shirt. When he takes it off, it takes all my willpower not to stagger back. He’s even more muscular than I realized, all bronze skin and gloriously defined abs. I’ve never been this close to a halfway-naked man who takes such good care of his body, and I feel my heart lurch its way into my throat. My fingers are desperate to trace his muscles, and to feel his skin against my own.
Instead, I swallow, hard, and take the proffered shirt.
“This is good quality,” I say, rubbing the fabric between my fingertips, “but obviously not the right fit for you.”
“Are you a tailor, too?” he asks.
I grin. “I make all my costumes that I wear onstage. I’ve been sewing since I was little because my Grandma Carrie taught me.” I survey his frame like a professional tailor. “Let me make your next suit for you. This probably was too tight across the shoulders, right? And this could be adjusted down the back. Speaking of which …”
Before I can chicken out, I kneel in front of him. He looks down at me, and I watch the muscles in his jaw work. I brush my fingers close to his inner thigh. “You’re not hanging right in your pants,” I say, my voice sounding oddly strained. It’s hard to hear myself; all I can focus on is the thunder of my heart in my ears growing faster and faster.
“Is that so?” he growls, his voice far lower than usual.
Holding my breath, I move my hand until, hardly believing my own boldness, I’m delicately tracing the growing bulge in his pants.
I look up at him, and any restraint is gone.
Matt hauls me to my feet in one fluid motion and crushes his mouth to mine. His lips are full, perfect for kissing, and immediately make me dizzy with need. I wrap my arms around him and gasp when he does the same--his arms are so muscular, so strong. I relax into his embrace even as our kisses grow more frantic. He wraps my curls around his hand, gently holding my head steady, and I nearly whimper into his mouth. I’m a dominant woman in the streets, but who can resist an alpha male in the sheets?
He trails kisses down my neck, nipping gently at my collarbone. “Take off your shirt,” he murmurs against my skin, and I’m all too happy to oblige. I remember with a jolt that I’m just wearing an old sports bra--not exactly my first choice of sexy lingerie. “Take that off, too,” he says, and I realize that it doesn’t matter what I’m wearing because it will all be on the floor soon.
As soon as my ample breasts are exposed, he cups them in his hands and moans. “Goddamn,” he breathes, rubbing his thumbs gently over my sensitive nipples. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Jenna.” He skims his hands down the hourglass of my figure and then hooks his fingers in my shorts. With a raised brow, he asks permission. I give it with a desperate moan.
Matt pulls my shorts off in one fluid motion, tossing them to the floor. He grabs my ass in his hands, grinning at me like a kid in a candy store. Then, as he captures my mouth with his again, he smacks my ass, hard enough for me to yelp. Immediately, his hands are back, smoothing over the reddening skin, then moving up and down my back, exploring the rest of me. His touch is tender yet firm, and that of a man who knows exactly how to please a woman.
And, boy, am I eager to be pleased by this gorge
ous, godlike alpha male.
When he slips off my panties, I begin unbuttoning his pants, eager to get a better look at the bulge I brushed earlier. He kicks off his pants and keeps kissing me, his tongue pushing past my lips. God, this man is a good kisser. Occasionally, when I least expect it, he sucks or nibbles on my bottom lip, sending vibrations through my innermost core. I do my best to keep up; the low moans he makes tell me that I’m doing a good job.
I gasp as Matt brushes his hand against my mound. “Sit back on the table,” he murmurs as he breaks our kiss, his eyes flashing.
I look hesitantly behind me. Our plates only take up half the table; I could hypothetically sit, or lay, on the other half. But what if I’m too heavy? “Um,” I begin, but he silences me with a look.
“Sit on the table,” he repeats in a commanding voice. “I won’t say it again.”
My lips quiver, and I follow his instruction, balancing tentatively on the edge of the table. He slowly strides over to me, bronzed and resplendent just in his tight black boxer briefs. I can see the outline of his cock standing at attention, just for me, and the sight makes my mouth water. When did you get this horny, Jenna? I ask myself incredulously as he kneels in front of me. The answer, I suppose, is when I met Matt Mistletoe.
His hand brushes over my mound again, his eyes locked on mine. Then, he starts rubbing slow circles on my sensitive nub, making my toes curl in pleasure. When he replaces his hand with his warm, velvety mouth, I nearly leap out of my skin. I can’t remember the last time someone went down on me, especially someone this gorgeous.
“Oh god,” I pant deliriously, tilting my head back as he goes to town. “Yes!”
I enjoy his ministrations for what feels like hours, losing myself in the warmth of his tongue, the rhythmic sound of his breath, and the gentle pressure of his hands on my thighs. He seems to be able to read my mind, and he licks when I want him to lick, sucks when I want him to suck, and strokes exactly where it feels best. When he inserts a finger into my dripping sex, I let out a cry and sit up in ecstatic bliss. My center, my skin, and my entire body seem to be vibrating and pulsing with pleasure.
“Are you going to come for me?” Matt whispers, and I nod helplessly. A frantic whine escapes my lips when, suddenly, he stops.
“Not yet,” he growls. Then, he peels off his briefs, revealing the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen. It’s as thick as a soda can at the base, an impressive length, and moderately curved: in short, it’s everything a girl could dream of.
“Oh, my God,” I murmur, despite myself. “Please put that inside of me right now.”
“Yeah?” Matt smirks at me, slowly pumping his hand along his length, both of us watching as a bead forms at the tip. My mouth goes dry and I long to lick up the fluid, but I’m mesmerized by his rhythmic stroking. Instead, I reach out my hand and take his shaft, guiding him impatiently to my entrance. Gingerly, I lean back onto my elbows, and when the sturdy table holds my weight, I flash a grin at him. “Yes, right now,” I breathe.
He doesn’t waste any time. His member slides easily into my wet entrance, filling me so completely, so perfectly, that my eyes roll back into my head. “You’re so tight,” he rasps, and I purr in response, unable to even form words. When he begins pumping in and out of me, slowly and tenderly, I cling to his strong arms, staring into his narrowed eyes. The feeling of him moving inside of me is heavenly.
When his hand moves to my breast, stimulating the nipple until I moan, he picks up his pace, thrusting quickly in and out. My breath comes out in short little gasps as he relentlessly pounds into me. The familiar pressure of an impending orgasm is building, one that I have a feeling will blow any others I’ve ever had out of the water. Matt radiates sensuality, from the grunts he makes to the way he strokes and fondles my curves as he thrusts. Everything about him makes me want to go careening over the edge.
When he picks up my legs and puts my ankles over his shoulders, his thrusts hit that perfect spot, that little bundle of warmth and nerve endings that no one ever seems to find. I begin to shudder and he pounds into me harder, faster. “Oh, my God,” I cry, “I’m going to come.”
“Yes, baby,” Matt growls, rubbing his thumb on my clit. “Come for me now.”
As if on cue, an orgasm crashes into me like a tidal wave and I’m swept away. My entire body seems to radiate light and heat, yet I shiver uncontrollably, unable to control my movements. I cling even more tightly to his arms, my knuckles going white. Matt continues plunging into me, out of me, into me again, and I can only squeeze my eyes shut and ride the rest of the wave.
I feel his body tighten, and, with a strangled moan, he releases inside of me. He bends to kiss me, then, and when our lips touch, I can’t hold back a moan of pure bliss. This was beyond what I could have imagined our lovemaking to be.
“Thank you, Jenna,” he whispers, brushing a pink shock of hair away from my face.
“For what?” I ask.
He just smiles and kisses my forehead. “For coming to Snow Valley.”
The pleasure, I must admit, is all mine.
Chapter Seven
Matt
The workday has never passed so slowly.
I should preface this by saying that I love my job. I’ve owned Mistletoe LLP for five years now and we’ve grown to host three other attorneys. It’s a small practice, but Snow Valley is a small town, and we serve our home with pride and precision. Every day, I come to work looking forward to serving my community.
It’s just that today, I’m also looking forward to going home.
I take a long sip from my coffee, looking at the mountains beyond my office window. I still can’t fathom how much my life has changed in the past two weeks. Before Jenna Cook came to town, each day was predictable. I enjoy the comfort of consistency, so I never complained. Now though, every day I wonder what Jenna will say or do to make my life a little bit more interesting. She has that effect.
I should have known when I saw the pink hair and leopard print that she was going to shake things up in Snow Valley. I just didn’t realize that the most shaken of all would be me.
There’s a lull in my work, so I check my phone. A smile tugs at my lips when I see that Jenna texted me.
You excited for tonight? she wrote.
I text back, You have no idea. You dancing with me in a seedy bar? Heaven.
I picture her grinning at my message. She replies in record time: Who said anything about dancing?
That’s what this bar is known for, I type back. Line dancing.
Well, then, she responds, giddy on up!
I shake my head and chuckle. Jenna’s spirit is constantly ebullient. I could suggest any kind of crazy activity and she would be eager to participate. I’m no stick in the mud myself, but I’ve felt even more inspired lately to get out of the house and show Jenna around town.
Although we certainly have plenty of fun in the house, too.
I impatiently check my watch. Twenty minutes to go. I sit down heavily at my desk, feeling an uncomfortable pull across my shoulders as I do. Thankfully Jenna is working on a new suit for me as we speak. I can’t help but wonder what other hidden talents she has. I especially am looking forward to hearing her sing. She hums sometimes, even in her sleep (she switched from the guest room to my room after three nights), but her full voice has yet to come out around me. I’ll have to see if I can coax it out of her.
I look at the organized chaos of my desk, then at my empty coffee cup, and decide that I’m done for the day a little early. I stand up and put my jacket on, then wave at my paralegal as I stroll out the door. Screw it. I’ve got a lady to dance with tonight.
“Honey, I’m home!” I call as I enter the house. It was a silly thing to say the first day she was here, but now I’ve fallen into the routine. Jenna always giggles when she hears it, often offering a playful “Hiya, honey!” back. But today, I hear nothing.
“Jenna?” I hang up my jacket and put my keys in the bowl near the door. Still n
o response. Quirking a brow, I head upstairs to the bedroom but before I can step inside, the door swings shut in my face.
“I’m not ready yet!” Jenna squeals from the other side of the door. “You’re home too early!”
I laugh and shake my head. “What, you doing some extra primping and preening tonight?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” she replies. “Go make us a drink and I’ll be done soon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I respond. I dutifully head back downstairs and wonder what my brothers would say about me being “whipped.” Their own mail order brides haven’t arrived yet, although Nate’s will be here this week. I’m eager to hear what they have to say about the new women in their lives.
For my part, I’ve kept as mum as possible. My mom called the night after Jenna arrived and begged me for details. “What does she look like? Is she nice? Does she come from a good family?” I answered as vaguely as I could. I do, however, want Jenna to meet my family sometime soon, a realization that shocked me when it first dawned. We’ve only known each other for two weeks, and I’m always reluctant to introduce women to my family. Still, something about Jenna is different. Something about her feels… right.
I shake my head at my overly dramatic inner monologue and finish making our cocktails.
When I go back upstairs, a drink in either hand, I say, “Alright, Miss Thing. Ready to make your debut?”
The door swings slowly open and I nearly drop the drinks. Jenna is always gorgeous, but tonight, she’s gone to new lengths. I imagine that this is the persona Jenna adopts when she’s onstage, and it’s intoxicating. Her platinum and pink hair is curled, and her makeup features a bold red lip and dark eyes. Standing with her hands on her hips, she wears a leather vest with just a red bra underneath, impossibly tiny denim shorts, and red cowboy boots. She is the quintessential rock star and I’m in awe.
