Jack’s erection presses into me, and he wrenches away with a smile. “I believe I made you a promise in the cab.”
Warmth spreads through my body, starting at my stomach and radiating everywhere as I remember his words with stark, happy clarity. “You did.”
His hands stroke down my thighs before scooping me up and setting me on the kitchen island. “Lie back.”
I start to obey but prop myself up on my elbows to watch when he grips my panties in his teeth and pulls them down my legs and over my high heels. The granite is cool beneath me, but his eyes burn a hole in mine as he kisses his way back up my calves and thighs, not once looking away. His hair is silky between my fingers, and I sit up fully and am fisting it when his hot mouth makes contact with my clit.
Watching him go down on me is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and I can’t look away. He pushes two fingers inside me, and my back arches. I fall back, unable to stay upright beneath the fury of pleasure, though I’d give anything to keep looking at him. I’ve never understood the appeal of a mirrored ceiling until this moment. I’m dying to watch him, unable to move.
He presses his teeth into the sensitive skin around my clit and gently sucks at me. A jolt of pleasure slides the room sideways, my heart beating at the lightning bolt of fear of sharp teeth near my sensitive places, but “God, that feels good.”
I know he knows. He somehow knows my body better than I do, and a moment later, I’m writhing around, soaking his hand and crying his name. A few gentle licks to let me recover, and he pulls me from the island to my feet and turns me around…and bends me over.
“I’ve only delivered on half of my promise.”
My knees buckle, but the biggest smile claims my lips. Normally, I’d be too short, but the added height from my heels matches us perfectly. The air is cold on my ass and thighs, even cooler when he backs away to undo his jeans and push them down just enough to put on a condom. He hitches up my dress and slaps my ass. I squeak and start to straighten up, but he spreads me wide and thrusts inside with one steady movement, and my body screams God yes as my arms shoot out to grab the opposite edge of the island.
The cold, beveled edge of the island rubs my clit as his hard cock plunges in and out of me. His body is muscular and hot and slammed up against my back. The coolness and heat and friction are too much, and then he reaches around and squeezes my breast, stimulating my already-hard nipple. His free hand lavishes attention on the other, and all I can do is grip the edge of the island and brace myself as he grinds me six ways to Sunday.
He leans over and kisses the back of my neck, and my pussy begins to flutter, the muscles deep inside seizing and clamping down on his cock as an orgasm starts.
“Come with me.” He continues pumping for a moment. Then his hips press tightly to me, and the tip of him hits a place that makes me go rigid and shake, then go absolutely limp with pleasure.
No movement but the racing of our hearts, the heavy breathing, and Jack’s hands gently stroking my shoulders and running through my hair.
“Mmm. You’re trying to kill me with this dress. Admit it.”
I smile. “I had no idea you were into girlie girls.”
“I’m into things that show off your incredible legs.”
“You’re a leg man?”
He nuzzles the back of my neck, making my eyes roll back. My pussy tightens around him again; he’s found one of my hot spots. “I’m a Sarah man.” He pulls out of me, which stimulates places that are wet and already throbbing, and I moan and clench my thighs when I feel his half-hard dick start to go rigid again.
“God, Sarah. You’re going to kill me.”
He might kill me too. I could live with him inside me and forget about the world outside, forget to eat or sleep or breathe. “Take me to your bedroom. You fucked me on something hard. I want to return the favor on something soft.”
He presses his erection against me. “It won’t be soft.”
“God, I hope not.”
Chapter 22
“We’ve got something for you that we think will solve your”—Fern looks me up and down—“dilemma.”
Dilemma? I follow her to the back room where there’s a pile of fabric on the counter in blinding shades of red, orange, and yellow. The colors are so saturated and bright that I have to blink and look away. Fern’s expectant smile confuses me.
I’m clearly missing something. “What?”
She tsks. “They’re smocks! Now you won’t have to worry about what to wear every day. Isn’t that fabulous?”
No. Oh God, no. She holds one up and spreads it out, and I see it is indeed a smock.
“Put it on,” she encourages with a smile.
I balk, but there’s a stack of them, so at least I won’t be alone in this travesty of fashion and individuality. With a smile, I take it, head to the bathroom, and put it on as I try to compose myself in private. Looking in the mirror, I can see it’s even worse than I thought. The color scheme is like a reverse partial rainbow. The neck, shoulders, and sleeves are bright yellow—a color that’s always made me look sallow and ill. The strip of orange cuts my boobs in half and continues down to my belly button. The bottom of the smock is bright red.
The lights reflect the colors into the room around me, and they shine up into my face. As if the horizontal striping wasn’t unflattering enough, I look radioactive. The material is stiff, and the boxy pattern completely hides my shape, but I discover a tie at the back and pull the drawstring a little tighter. It brings in the waist but makes the shoulders and sleeves flare out more dramatically.
Now I look like a fluorescent linebacker.
I loosen the drawstring, returning to being a rectangle. And I’m going to have to wear one of these every day? What’s brought this new uniformity on? Why would Ziggy and Fern, champions of freedom of expression, suddenly decide uniforms are the way to go? They’re not corporate enough to resolve any conflict between Phyllis and me, or learn labor laws, but they decide that uniforms aren’t impinging on individuality?
With a sigh, I head back out to the kitchen.
“It looks wonderful! So bright and cheerful.” Fern’s eyes light up when she sees me.
“They certainly are bright. But…” I gnaw my lip, deciding how best to proceed.
Her smile dims. “What?”
“Is this going to be an everyday thing?”
“Yes.”
“And we all have to wear these?”
Fern crosses her arms. “The material is a little stiff for the massage therapists to work in and move freely.”
Tell me about it. “I need to move too, doing the laundry and making the beds,” I point out.
“We didn’t feel that it was fair to expect the massage therapists to wear them because they are technically independent contractors, and this new policy wasn’t in place when they started.”
“It wasn’t in place when I started either.”
She purses her lips. “No, but you’re a different type of worker.”
“So…”
“It’s for the employees. To look more professional.”
Is she saying I don’t look professional because I haven’t been parading around in a kaftan or wearing jewelry made from shells and crystals? “But I’m the only technical employee.”
“Yes.”
“So I’m the only one who has to wear a smock?”
“Not necessarily. We’re leaving it up to everyone else’s discretion. They can choose to wear one if they like. We bought enough that everyone can if they so choose.” She stands up straight and her nostrils flare. “I’m sensing a lot of negative energy from you.”
Goddamn right you are. I take a deep breath and struggle to keep calm. “It’s just that—”
“We spent a lot of money on these uniforms, Sarah, in an effort to make you feel more comfortable here.”
“I get that, but—”
“Not that we can’t afford it. We could keep this place running for another two years,
even if no new clients walked in the door. We’re doing just fine financially, so don’t even worry about that.”
Tell that to the laundry soap. “I never said you weren’t. But—”
“And if you’re going to continue to be defensive, there isn’t a place here for you.”
What? “Fern, no, it’s not that at all!”
“Then what is it?” Her voice is as dead as her eyes.
Damn it. I’ve got nothing. “Is it all right if I wear jeans with these? Or is that too casual? My black skirts definitely don’t suit these new bright colors.”
She nods. “Of course you can wear jeans. We want you to be comfortable here. You know that.” She chucks my cheek like I’m a child getting over a tantrum. “Feel free to take another home as a spare, maybe in a smaller size?”
“Sure, thank you.” I’m so tense I expect my face to shatter when I force it into a smile.
Phyllis’s grin is brighter than my smock the first time she sees me when she comes in just after lunch. I’d tell her to shut her mouth, but she doesn’t say anything, just stares at me as long as possible on her way past.
I mutter a quiet insult at her back, wishing I could scream it in her face. Everything she does annoys me, especially since I’m pretty sure she’s trying to make me lose my shit and get fired.
The phone’s been quiet, so I wander to the back to fold some towels. Fern and Phyllis are in the kitchen, sharing a plate of fruit.
Phyllis licks her finger. “I mean, I use the cup. Tampons are terrible. Inserting things into your body? No way, such a violation of your root chakra. And pads are just awful—all that waste going to landfills, I can’t stand the thought of it! If only they could recycle all that waste.” She actually shudders, and I suppress a grin, thinking she might have killer cramps right at this moment.
I hope her boobs hurt too.
Fern takes a bite of star fruit. “Very true. What do you use, Sarah?”
Jesus Christ, have these people not heard of boundaries? I blink and turn to Fern, not wanting to say anything, but unable to run from the room screaming. “I, uh… I’m on the shot, so I only get my period once every three months, but I use tampons. But they’re the applicator-less kind, so that cuts down on waste in landfills.”
“You’re on birth control? Oh no, that’s just so awful. You should quit that as soon as possible. Like, today.” Phyllis takes another bite of dragon fruit.
“Since it’s a shot I get four times a year, I can’t exactly do anything about it right now. It’s not like a pill.” And even if it were, it’s none of her business.
“You could not get the next poisonous shot instead of continuing.”
Fern nods. “They change who you are on a cellular level, Sarah. It’s like saying you don’t want to be a woman anymore. Do you want that?”
“I’m pretty happy as I am.”
“Complacency,” Phyllis mutters.
I can’t let her win. “What’s the cup?” I know what it is, but there’s no way I’m appearing inflexible in front of Fern—especially after the birth control comment.
Phyllis patronizingly explains the cup. While I can see how it would be good cost-wise and in reducing a bit of pollution, the thought of shoving a plastic cup into myself and then emptying it out, cleaning it, and reinserting it a couple of times a day grosses me out and doesn’t sound worth the effort. I’m all for good ol’ clean, disposable cotton.
Fern nods. “It’s wonderful. You girls are so spoiled nowadays with all your options. It’s no wonder you end up choosing the wrong ones.” She eyes me.
Maybe I can turn the tables. “What do you use, Fern?”
“I have welcomed the crone phase of life, having ceased menstruation three years ago. But back when I was your age, we had belts that we fastened cloths to. And when they were soiled, we’d rinse them out in a bowl of water, let them dry, and use them again.”
If I could hug the twenty-first century I would. “Ah, that makes sense.” Still sounds gross, but they didn’t have anything better.
“And that water, filled with the menstrual blood, is full of amazing earth-mother energy,” she continues.
Oh God, where is this going?
“So we’d take that bowl and we’d water our plants and things with it.”
My cheeks twitch in an effort to arrange my features into a mask of polite interest instead of the disgust rampaging through me.
Phyllis nods. “So amazing. There are so many applications for menstrual blood. I read online that to fully bond with a partner, you can brew up a tea, sort of an elixir, and add your menstrual blood to it. You get him to drink it near the full moon but don’t tell him what it is—you know how men are about menstruation…especially ones who are against women being fully in their power. When he drinks it, it adds some of your own feminine energy to his system.”
My mind boggles while Fern nods. They think slipping their lover some period-blood tea is going to bond them? “Isn’t that a health and safety issue? I’m pretty sure feeding someone your bodily fluids can’t be good. Especially when any kind of blood is involved.”
Phyllis laughs. “Oh, Sarah. Traditional medicines have used methods like these forever. They’re perfectly safe. The only thing they can hurt is a closed mind.”
Okay. How about another tactic? “I think I’d rather talk to my partner.”
“Sometimes talking is just that—talking. You’ve never bonded, synergized with someone on a cellular, energetic level, merged with them energetically.”
“You’ve got me there.” I have no idea what the fuck those words mean. I know what they mean individually, but when paired together, they become nonsense.
Phyllis continues. “We can give parts of ourselves to others, or even imbibe them ourselves for amazing health benefits. Haven’t you ever heard of placenta soup?”
“What?”
Fern takes up Phyllis’s point. “When a woman gives birth, they can either make the placenta into a soup for her, or dry it and grind it into pills. They’re fabulous for helping her rebuild blood lost giving birth.”
What. The. Fuck. “Blood transfusions and iron pills do that. We have iron pills for replacing iron.”
Fern frowns. “This is something holistic. Natural.”
“Iron pills are natural. Saving a placenta for stem-cell research that could treat a child would be a way better use.” The words spew from my mouth, judgmental and loud.
Phyllis sets down her plate. “It’s done in nature all the time. Animals eat their placenta to build up their nutrients and become strong after giving birth in the wild. They even lick their juices from the babies. Everybody knows that, Sarah.”
“Um, no.” I clear my throat. “They eat the placenta so any nearby predators won’t know that there’s a baby and come to eat it. They eat it to hide the smell of the blood. They clean the young off for the same reason, not because they need vitamins.”
Phyllis sighs. “You really can’t admit when you’re wrong, can you? You’re not an expert at everything in the world, you know. How many years have you studied these things?”
“I’m pretty sure if eating the placenta was still the best thing new mothers had going, doctors would continue to prescribe it as the optimal treatment—real doctors backed up with peer-reviewed studies.”
Phyllis shakes her head, and Fern frowns. “Judge if you want, Sarah, but it’s holistic, natural, and women have been doing it since the dawn of time. Who are you to scoff at thousands of years of something that’s helped women through the ages?”
Same way I scoff at anything that is pseudoscientific snake oil and can cause more harm than good. Still, my cheeks burn and I feel bad.
Fern sets the plate down. “I didn’t know you were so judgmental, Sarah.”
Phyllis’s smile is triumphant as she walks out of the kitchen, leaving me with Fern’s disapproving stare. She even looks a little hurt. Too late, I realize she and Ziggy have a twelve-year-old, and she probably ate the
placenta. She was feeling judged personally.
“Fern.”
She shakes her head and walks out, leaving me drowning in a room rapidly filling with my shame and uncertainty.
Chapter 23
After that, I’m not hungry, but I stop at the store for some chocolate and wine. Supper of champions. The first thing I do when I get home is pour a giant glass and log on to talk to Blake.
Me: Am I a bad person?
Luckily he’s online, and his reply comes right away. Am I made of bananas and optimism?
Me: I’m being serious.
Him: Ah. I thought we were asking ridiculous questions. Now, what are you talking about?
I sigh and debate logging off. Blake knows me better than anyone, but he still doesn’t really know me. I barely know me. What’s the point of talking about it? Bad day at work.
Him: Hear me on this. You are absolutely NOT a bad person. Tell me what happened.
Where should I start? The smocks? But were the smocks what brought this on? Were they really all that bad? Because now that I think about it, not having to worry about my clothes making me stand out is a good thing. One less thing for them to criticize me about. And they seem to criticize me to make me a better person in the long term. They aren’t really picking on me. I should focus less on the external and more on what I’m doing for the world.
Me: I guess I feel like maybe I’ve been too hard on them. Like maybe I’m the crazy one and they’re basically kind people trying to make the world a better place.
Him: Okay, I’m going to need you to back up. Start at the beginning of the day. Leave out no details.
Me: Are you sure? Because there are some details of today that can’t be unknown. You’ll want to scream at the floor and then wash your brain with acid. Ugh! See?! I’m doing it again! I’m judging them and being a snarky bitch.
Missed Connections Page 16
