She doesn’t need a big dick—though I come equipped, thank you very much.
She doesn’t need machismo either.
What she needs, I suspect, is something else entirely.
I spend the afternoon in the modern-day equivalent of the research stacks—my iPad. I rappel into the woman’s cave for the day. Don’t try to find me. I’m in Cosmo. I’m deep diving to Refinery29. I’m hanging out in Bustle.
Hell, I even search for something I never thought I’d search for before: feminist porn. And there is some seriously hot fucking going on thanks to that search term. The best part? Everything is all about her.
Her needs. Her pleasure. Her path to O.
I watch. I take notes.
I study the hell out of what a woman who’s never visited the land of Oh God, There, Right There needs to reach that destination.
When I close the tablet and head to jujitsu that night, I somehow focus all my mental energy on how to make Sloane Elizabeth feel like a queen in bed, barely saying a word to Jason or Truly till we’re done.
When class is over, Jason claps me on the back. “Want to grab a bite?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I have work to do.”
“Sunday night veterinarian work?”
“Work of another kind,” I answer. “Go hang out with Truly if you want company.”
My sister stares daggers at me. “Thanks for making me a consolation prize.”
Jason winks at her. “Don’t be sad, Truly. You’re a lovely consolation.”
“Gee, thanks.”
I’m off, leaving Truly and Jason staring after me as I speed-walk out of there like I’ve just received marching orders.
Which sounds about right.
The next day at the clinic, I am all business. I treat my patients like the pro that I am. I address staff issues like a boss. I consult with Doug like it’s my job, because it is.
I am firing on eighty-eight cylinders today. The prospect of seeing Sloane tonight is an injection of pure adrenaline, pushing me through the hours.
Seeing her throughout the day also contributes to the get-shit-done-like-a-badass attitude, since my motivation is right in front of me.
Around midday, a client brings in the friendliest cat I’ve ever treated, who’s ornery as a bull today. He has a hell of a reason for being pissed. He can’t piss. I set to work on the black cat named Quinn right away, getting a catheter going for the blockage. A little later, I find Sloane visiting the feline, cooing at him through the metal bars of his kennel. “You’re going to feel better real soon. I promise. Dr. Goodman is the pussycat whisperer,” she says softly.
“Why, thank you.”
She startles then smiles, perhaps a little embarrassed. “I didn’t think anyone was back here.”
“I figured as much. Also, that was adorable.”
“And true, I suspect. On all counts.”
“Thanks for visiting Quinn. He likes company.”
She reaches in and scratches his chin, and he rubs against her. “I’m always happy to make the rounds.” She tilts her head. “By the way, I wanted to ask you about a dog.”
She tells me about a min-pin with a skin condition that she wants to bring into her rescue, showing me a picture of the pup as we leave the kennel section. “That was taken by the shelter I want to spring him from. But I want to make sure I'm not biting off more than I can chew. Can you help him without it becoming too onerous?”
I study the picture, nodding. “This looks highly treatable. We should have him feeling better in a few days.”
She shoots me a most professional smile, and I want to kiss it right off her. Because I know what it means. It’s a we have a secret smile. It’s the I’m working hard not to let on look.
And it gets me going.
Knowing what we have cooking tonight is a big turn-on.
Then again, everything about her is a recipe for instant arousal, including the vanilla scent of her hair. I get a heady whiff as I stand close, so damn close to her.
“See! I knew you two would get on like a couple of old pals.”
At the sound of Doug’s voice, I blink and tear myself away from Sloane, even though we weren’t touching. My skin prickles with an unpleasant sensation that feels distinctly like guilt and leaves an aftertaste like betrayal.
“Yes, we get along fine,” Sloane says, cool and professional.
“I had a feeling.” He sounds so damn proud. Doug motions for us to join him in his office. “Come. I have something for you two.”
With my stomach churning and my feet leaden, I follow him. Once inside his office, he gestures to a white box on the desk, a slim blue ribbon tied around it. “For you two. And you can share them with Jonathan and Sam too.”
I gesture to the box, barely able to meet Sloane’s eyes. If I do, all I will see is how much I want her, and I can’t deal with that right now. “You do the honors.”
She clears her throat, reaches for the box, and tugs at the string. “Thanks, Dad.” But her fingers are unsteady, and they slip.
I grab the box and untie it, flipping open the white cardboard flap. Inside are several dog bones with iced frosting on them.
“They’re cookies. Shaped like dog bones,” Doug blurts out, as if he’s been bursting to reveal his surprise. “Helena made them. Try one. It’s chocolate chip.”
I reach for a cookie and bite. It’s remarkably tasty. “It’s good, Doug.”
“Try one, Sloane.”
She takes a cookie and chews. “Yum.”
We glance at each other, and the secret between us is so thick you could turn it into a stew.
“It’s just a small little gift. To say thank you,” Doug adds.
My brow creases. “For what?”
Doug strides over, clapping one hand on my shoulder, one on his daughter’s. “For making change look easy. Admittedly, I was nervous. How this arrangement might go. But it’s been great.” He looks from his daughter to me, and my guilt doubles, then doubles again, multiplying into a towering pile of coins of guilt.
I’m sleeping with his daughter.
I’m screwing her behind his back.
And I’m going to do it tonight.
And I’m going to fucking love it.
“It’s been great. Working together has been great,” I say roughly.
Sloane steps forward and kisses his cheek. “It’s been fantastic,” she adds. “And tell Helena she’s one heck of a baker.”
“She’s a baker, she’s a painter, she’s a listener. I love her madly. Hey. I wanted to take her someplace for a vacation soon. Do you have any thoughts on where we should go?” His earnestness with her reminds me that she’s family. She knows his wife well enough to answer the question.
And I’m a third wheel.
I turn around. “Thanks for the dog bone cookies,” I say, and I don’t look back. I head straight to my office, shut the door, and slump into my chair. I drop my head to my desk, groaning in frustration.
My next appointment is in ten minutes, and I need to shake off this feeling. Sitting up, I shovel my hands through my hair like I can erase the whole encounter, everything from Doug’s congratulations on our bonding to his need to impress his wife.
I swivel around, grab a picture frame from next to my computer, and study the photo from years ago. Mom, Dad, Truly, and me at our high school graduation, a month before Dad died.
“What would you do?” I ask the man I respect, the man I admire.
But as soon as the question finds air and breath, I take it back, shaking my head, waving it away like smoke.
“Pretend I didn’t say that,” I mutter.
I don’t want his advice.
I don’t want anyone’s.
I want what I want.
I don my Super Vet jacket, head to the exam room, and do my job the rest of the day.
Tonight, I have another job, and it’s one I can’t wait to fulfill.
I want it so much I shove everything else aside.<
br />
Out of sight, out of mind.
27
I send her a text early in the evening.
Malone: Is Vietnamese still your favorite cuisine? Or would you prefer Thai or Italian?
Sloane: I love Italian. I’m a complete sucker for pasta. I’ll pretty much do anything for noodles.
Malone: Just as a reminder—you don’t need to do anything. I’ll be doing all the work. And the ordering. And the everything.
Sloane: I thought you were going to cook.
Malone: Considering I’m all about playing to one’s
strengths, I’m going to show off some of my other skills.
Sloane: And those are?
Malone: My ability to order from the finest restaurants in this city. Arrive hungry.
Sloane: Obviously. I thought we made that crystal clear. I’m incredibly hungry. Starving, you might say. For something in particular.
Sloane: By the way, what can I bring? Wine? Dessert? Batteries? The silver dolphin? A feather tickler? Rope? Crisco?
Malone: Crisco. Lots of Crisco.
Sloane: Stopping by Costco now.
Malone: And to answer your question, you can bring anything you want that makes you feel good. That’s the thing, Sloane—this isn’t about me telling you what to do or showing you how your body works. This is about you feeling incredible, and whatever you need to feel that way is what you should get.
Sloane: You say things like that and . . .
Malone: And what?
Sloane: And it makes me swoon.
Malone: Then I’m doing it right. But maybe save the swooning for when you get here, because then I can catch you.
28
Sloane Elizabeth’s Post-It Note for VITAL Tasks
1. Call Basil for help. If anyone can find it, it’ll be him. Check.
2. Don’t stare at the phone all day waiting for him to call back. Have some patience. Check.
3. Do a victory dance when he tells you he found it! Check.
4. Meet Basil before going to Malone’s. Check.
5. Grab a pretty red bow, because red bows make everything better. Check.
29
I am in music heaven.
Frank Sinatra warbles from the laptop, his fantastic voice filling the apartment. I tap a beat on the counter as we listen to his concert at the Avalon.
You couldn’t wipe the grin off my face if you tried. I shake my head in admiration once more. “I can’t believe you found this. In a day. I’ve been looking for years.”
Sloane shakes her hips. “When you got it, you got it.”
“You’re clearly the most amazing person who ever lived. And I owe Basil a huge thank you. Now that he found Sinatra, he’s no longer Plant.”
“I told you you’d like him. He’s a total music hound. I called him this morning and asked him to track it down for you. He found it in five hours, and it didn’t cost an arm and a leg.”
“A finger though?”
“I sacrificed a pinky for it. Worth it, though, for your reaction.”
I loop an arm around her waist and drop a kiss onto her lips as the Chairman of the Board sings “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” “Fitting tune. Also, you didn’t have to.”
She smiles, and it’s radiant. She’s so damn pleased with herself for making me happy. And hell, she should be. I’ve been hunting for the CD for ages. “No, I didn’t have to. I wanted to,” she says.
Then she kisses me, and I close my eyes, letting the world fade away as the music and the woman become all there is.
When the song ends, my mission begins.
The sound she makes as she takes the first bite of pasta primavera is carnal.
She rolls her eyes and moans around the fork.
Lucky fork.
“This is incredible,” she declares when she finishes the bite of olive oil–drizzled artichoke. “You do know how to order.”
“World class skills at restaurant picking. I got ’em,” I say then take a bite of my chicken dish. We’re at the marble counter in my kitchen, parked on leather stools.
She dives in for another bite, humming as she chews. Her dark-red top slopes down her shoulder. My attention snaps to a lacy pink strap. I file it away, though, knowing I’ll be spending time removing her clothes soon enough.
After another bite, she sets down the fork and stares at me expectantly. “So what’s the story with the pasta?”
“It has special silver dust in it that’s known to induce spontaneous orgasms.”
“In that case, I’ll have multiples.” She laughs as she takes another forkful. “Seriously though. This pasta is to die for.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
She smirks. “And will I be burning it off?”
I reach for a glass of wine, meeting her gaze. “I guess we’ll have to find out.”
She takes a sip of the Pinot Grigio, then licks her lips. “Tastes like peaches.”
I kiss the corner of her lips, murmuring, “Good thing I like the taste of peaches."
She downs her drink, her eyes twinkling as she whispers, “Me too.”
We finish, and she stares at me quizzically, gesturing to the meal. “The dinner. Is it really aphrodisiac food? I guess I think of oysters and chocolate-covered strawberries when it comes to aphrodisiacs.”
I take the plates and carry them to the sink, then grab our glasses and head to the couch, motioning for her to join me on a slate-gray cushion.
She moves in next to me, and I hand her the wine. “Want to know?”
“I do. I really do.”
“It’s not supposed to be an aphrodisiac meal. I’m not trying to make you come with pasta.”
She snaps her fingers, aw-shucks style. “But that would be quite a feat.”
“If pasta is the key to coming, you can find me at Olive Garden for the rest of my days.” I take a drink of the wine. “You want to know why I picked this food?”
“Because it’s my favorite?”
I nod. “Brains and beauty. Yes, it’s really that simple.”
“But you know I’m a sure thing tonight. You don’t need to buy me a fancy meal to get in my pants,” she whispers conspiratorially.
“I don’t?” I feign surprise.
Laughing, she indulges in a sip then sets down the wine. “Seriously though. The meal was amazing. Thank you.”
“Good. The last thing I want on your mind in the heat of the moment is how long till you can grab a slice of pizza or a ham sandwich.” I shudder. “I mean, I’m good. But I don’t want to have to compete with a ham sandwich.”
“Or with New York’s best cheese pie, for that matter. Let’s be honest—if I have to choose between Famous Ray’s and sex, that’s a tough call.”
I scoff. “Please. Choose the pizza. Every time.” I set down my wineglass and take a moment to enjoy the view. Blonde hair, swept up. Skinny jeans. A top that keeps giving me the most tantalizing peek at her lingerie.
And those lips.
Dear God, those bee-stung lips.
She licks them, looking a little nervous. “Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi.”
“Thanks for inviting me over tonight.”
“Thanks for coming.”
She smiles. “I thought about it most of the day. Even when . . . maybe even especially when . . .”
She doesn’t need to fill in the blanks. I know exactly what she means. “Was that weird for you? When your dad called us in?”
“A little. I felt a tiny bit . . . naughty.”
“Same here.”
She inches closer. “But I’m still here. It didn’t deter me.”
“Didn’t deter me either.” I swallow roughly. “With you, I’m not sure anything can.”
She nibbles on her lips. “It’s the same for me.”
It’s as if someone turned the thermostat to high. I’m burning up already, on fire for this woman. She scoots closer, threads a hand through my hair, scraping her nails across my scalp, de
livering a jolt of lust straight to my groin. “Love that,” I tell her.
Her eyes light up, blazing with desire as if I’ve said exactly the right thing. “Yeah?”
“You did it the other night, and it gets me going.”
She hums, then does it again, dragging her nails through my hair. “I like turning you on.”
“Then this ought to work out quite well for both of us.”
She drops her mouth to my jaw, kissing me, making me groan. Climbing onto my lap, she straddles me. “So I’m dying to know,” she murmurs, “what’s the next course?”
I kiss the corner of her lips and tell her a little of what I have planned.
Her eyes sparkle with excitement. “I’m ready.”
I run a finger under her bra strap. “Then I’m going to need to see the pink lingerie you’re wearing. That strap has been driving me crazy all night. Why don’t you get up and strip for me?”
She slides off me, ready and eager. And I’m pleased as hell that she’s taking the lead right now.
30
Pink is definitely her color.
Then again, she looks good in anything. She looks great in nothing. She looks amazing taking everything off.
Standing in front of me in my living room, she slowly steps out of her heels. Unzips her jeans so deliberately it’s torture. Shimmies them down her legs, making my mouth water.
Then she strips off her top, revealing herself in all her pink-lace beauty as I gaze at her from the couch where I’m enjoying the show.
“It’s new,” she says.
Satisfaction Guaranteed: A Standalone Romance (Always Satisfied Book 1) Page 11
