I watch as Susan uses the tip of a finger to collect a smudge of chocolate from the corner of her mouth, and have to look away to resist the urge to launch myself over the small bistro table to consume her. “Tell me about this concept you have for a garden,” she says, surprising me. “You don’t strike me as a guy who has a green thumb.”
“I don’t,” I admit, cutting a tiny piece of French toast, melted chocolate oozing from the middle, and reluctantly putting it in my mouth. “At least, I don’t think I do. I’ve never tried. But Camden’s just...” I try to think of how to phrase this without sounding too melodramatic or doomsday. “It’s dying. There’s a lot of crime, no life, no opportunities. There’s literally no green space—the whole thing is dirt and concrete.” I realize I’m studying my knuckles, and risk a look up to find her watching me, expression serious. She lifts a brow, an unspoken order to continue.
I blow out a breath. I’ve never confessed this to anyone, yet here I am, having seen Susan a total of three times, telling her my silly dream. “I thought maybe I could buy one of the empty buildings and put a garden on the rooftop like Rian did at Mache. It’s hard to find fresh produce in Camden, and healthy eating, healthy minds...that whole idea. I’d like to try it.”
“What’s wrong with growing the garden on the ground?”
“The soil, mostly. The building I’m thinking of used to be a tannery, so I imagine there’re a lot of chemicals leached into the earth. Also, vandals. I figure if it’s on the roof we can eliminate people and animals coming in and damaging things. Plus, maybe if we re-sod it, we could use that space for a playground or something.”
“Are you going to have chickens and bees?”
I laugh. I haven’t gotten that far. “I imagine we’ll start with tomatoes and beans. See if we can get anything to grow in the first place.”
She polishes off her French toast; I still have half of mine to get through. “I don’t see why you couldn’t do it,” she says matter-of-factly. “Are there financial concerns?”
I hesitate. It doesn’t take a genius to see that Susan’s very well off. Every item in her apartment is top of the line, and she’s a surgeon to boot. “Ah...” I begin, reluctant to talk about money. I don’t want to tell her I’ve got more than I’ll ever need, but I also don’t want her to think I’m broke. “It’s more of a practical concern,” I hedge. “Can it be done? Can I do this? Will it succeed?”
She drinks the last dregs of her chocolate milk. Seriously. How does the woman have any teeth left? “You won’t know if you don’t try,” she says, standing and collecting both plates, even though my second piece of French toast is untouched.
“I’m not—”
“You don’t have to force yourself to eat this, Oscar. It’s obviously killing you.”
“It would kill an ox, Susan.”
“Did you just call me a cow?”
I freeze. “No...?”
Her laughter carries over her shoulder as she brings the plates to the kitchen. I watch her ass shift beneath the tiny shorts and wonder what the hell I’m doing. And why I’m not doing more. She returns a moment later with an empty glass and the water pitcher, topping up my drink and filling her own, then sits down opposite me, legs crossed at the ankle, expression indecipherable.
“Thanks for brunch?” I try.
Her mouth quirks. “You’re welcome. Thanks for trying to choke it down.”
“I like to eat healthy.”
Her gaze combs over me. “I can tell.”
Normally I feel too big, shoulders too broad to fit in a suit jacket that isn’t custom made, arms and elbows bumping things, always looking down on people, not by choice. But the heat in Susan’s dark eyes vanquishes those insecurities, and when my cock comes to life I don’t try to hide the bulge at my crotch. Not even when Susan’s eyes land there—and stay there.
“What do you like, Oscar?” Her voice is soft but serious. It’s a flirtation but it’s also an inquiry.
I say something I haven’t admitted in years. “I like to fight, Susan.”
Her eyes flicker up to mine. “What?”
I sip my water and look over the city. It’s not a secret, but it’s not something I say terribly often, either. Fighting has gotten me into more trouble than it’s ever gotten me out of, and that’s why I tried to stay away from it so long. But like an alcoholic who hits up a bar just for the “ambiance,” it wasn’t long before I took a sip. And just like that, I was hooked. So far I’ve kept it simple—sparring, nothing more. Testing my limits. Trying to see if I know when to stop now. How to stop.
I’m not about to unload that shit on Susan, so I shoot her a haphazard smile and tell her a different truth instead. “I went to school in Boston on a wrestling scholarship, but I don’t do that anymore. I prefer boxing, kickboxing, that type of thing. I work out at a boxing gym in Camden, though there aren’t many guys in my weight class who hang out there, so I don’t get to fight as much as I’d like.”
“You’re a fighter?”
“Nothing serious. It’s just a way to blow off steam. Release tension.”
“Did you really get hurt by a watermelon?”
“I told you, it was an entire crate of melons. And yes.”
She takes a drink. “Do you fight with women? Does that get you off?” She narrows her eyes. “Jello? Mud?”
I laugh. “If you have a pool filled with either one, lead the way.”
She smiles. “I don’t.”
“That’s fine. I don’t mean fight sex. I don’t get off on pain or any of that shit. But I like a challenge. Someone who gives as good as she gets. Someone whose next move I can’t predict. Not just with sex, either. In all things. Like you showing up at the race.”
The smile fades. “I’ve been called challenging before.”
I’ll bet. “By who?”
“My ex-husband. Well, my husband, I suppose. It’s not official yet. Have you ever been married?”
“No. I came close once, but that was a long time ago.” I’d had a fancy New York apartment, a high-paying job and a gorgeous girlfriend who wasn’t about to give up her own hard-earned spot on Wall Street to move to Illinois.
“Kids?”
“No.”
“Do you want any?”
I hold her stare. This is a subject people talk about much further down the line, not on the third date. Well, third encounter, since we’ve never actually been on a date. Still I say, “Yeah. I do.”
Her expression doesn’t change, she just nods once, accepting the words. The eye contact is broken when her phone vibrates, the screen lighting up to reveal a screensaver picture of a grinning gap-toothed little girl.
“Dorrie,” Susan says, picking up the phone, skimming the waiting messages, and putting it back down. “When she was six.”
“She’s cute.”
The phone buzzes again and Susan rolls her lips as she considers picking up. “I guess you never made that bet again,” I remark when she taps the screen and reads the newest message.
“What bet?”
“That you couldn’t ignore your phone for thirty minutes.”
A faint flush rises up her chest, and I’m surprised to see the chagrined look that crosses her face. “It used to be worse,” she says. “I’m much better now.”
“You could try harder.”
An eye roll. “Trust me. I am trying.”
“Turn off the phone, Susan.”
Her eyes return to mine. “Why?”
“Because if you check it while we’re messing around, I’m done.”
Her mouth forms a silent O of surprise, then slips into a small smile. “Do you have an itch, Oscar?”
“I think we both do.”
She reaches over and turns off the phone, letting me watch as it pow
ers down. The moment’s semi-broken when she adds, “I can’t keep it off for long. I’m not on call today, but you never know.”
“How long do you think this will take?”
“Five minutes?” she tries hopefully.
I shake my head and laugh. “Susan.”
“Fine,” she says. “Seven, tops.”
“Stop talking and get over here.”
For the first time ever, she looks slightly hesitant, though she doesn’t pause when she stands and wipes her palms on the sides of her shorts before approaching. I nod at my lap and she slowly straddles my thighs, lowering herself to a sitting position. I spread my legs a little, parting hers, and her breath hitches, eyes locked on mine. I didn’t take enough time to look at her up close on Wednesday, hadn’t savored this moment. The moment before we begin.
I hadn’t touched her enough, then, either. And now I hold her gaze as I lower my hands to her knees and slide them upward, slow enough that I think we’re both wishing I’d move faster. But I can’t. I won’t. Her skin is hot and smooth beneath my callused palms, and I hold the eye contact when I reach the top of her legs and my fingertips slip beneath the edge of her shorts, thumbs skating along the junction of her thigh and torso, feeling the seam of her panties, the heat radiating from her pussy.
Susan pulls off her shirt to reveal a white lace bra, the shadow of her nipples clearly visible. I groan and dip my head, lifting one breast to my mouth, tongue swirling over the lace before my lips close around the tight peak, sucking hard. She makes a strangled, pleased sound and my cock jumps, the head bumping right between her legs, torturing us both with the proximity and the fabric barriers.
“Oz...” she whispers, finally using the right name. “More. Please.” Her hands are on the back of my head, my neck, exerting no small amount of pressure as she asks for what she wants. I feel the tips of her short nails scoring my flesh and suck harder, using my free hand to mimic the pull on her other breast.
“Yes, yes,” she mumbles, her fingers releasing me long enough to reach behind and unclasp her bra, the flimsy device tumbling into her lap. I curse and pull away so I can look at her, one tit wet with my saliva, the nipple reddened and asking for more. I squeeze her in my hands, wondering how the fuck I got here. How this woman is in my lap, wanting what I want.
I drop my hands to her waist so I can roll her hips over my erection, making us both groan, then Susan presses her tits together and lifts them to my mouth. I suckle one then the other, hearing her moans as she rocks her pelvis against mine, seeking release. She mutters incoherently and stops for a second, rearranging her lower body so she’s riding just one thigh, grinding her pussy against my leg. I can feel the intense heat through the thin layers of material that separate us, hear the strained, gasping breaths as she fights for her climax.
I’m not far behind, and she hasn’t even touched me. Hearing her, smelling her, feeling her, tasting her. It’s embarrassing, but it’s almost enough. Except it’s not. Because when I lift my head to find her mouth again, I see her eyes half open, locked on the table beside me, and I know she’s thinking that if she just gets off, she can get back to her regularly scheduled programming.
I know that look because I’ve seen it on my own face too many times. Messed around with enough women, the sole intention being to just get off then move on. And I don’t want that anymore, and now that I see something I want, I’m not willing to make it that easy for her to forget me.
“Enough,” I say, pushing her off my leg as carefully as I can. She blinks, confused, a blush riding high on her cheeks, eyes glazed.
“What the—I’m not—I didn’t—” She studies my crotch, looking for proof I’d come and that’s why I’m changing things up. But I haven’t. I will, but not yet.
“Get me off,” I tell her.
More blinking, her eyes clearing as the dogged pursuit of orgasm fades, replaced by new understanding. “I beg your pardon?”
“Get me off,” I tell her. “Make me come. However you want. Then I’ll do you. Whatever you need.”
She covers her breasts and looks away, vaguely angry. Then she turns back. “What the fuck, Oscar?”
“You want to rush through this and get back to work?” I counter, standing. She takes a step back, the railing bumping against her back, preventing a retreat. If she looked alarmed or afraid I’d back off, but she doesn’t. She looks annoyed and turned on and a little bit...thrilled.
“I’m not—”
I dip my head and speak into her ear. “You can use your hands or your mouth,” I tell her softly. “But you’d better get started, because you’re not getting off until I do.”
Her lips part and I hear her tremulous inhale. Susan’s not shy. I don’t think what I’m asking offends her. I think not getting what she wants the way she wants it is a new experience for her, and if she’s not up for it, I’ll leave. Because this is what I want.
She studies my face, gauging the intent there, then says, “Kiss me first.”
I bracket her with my arms, hands gripping the wrought iron rail on either side of her waist, and lower my head to kiss her. I don’t mind kissing Susan. It’s like eating chocolate with none of the calories. Her mouth is soft and warm, her tongue following mine when it retreats, showing me she wants this. Wants more.
After a minute I pull away, dragging in breaths through my nose, staring at her. I don’t think she was trying to manipulate or distract me, but in case she was, the look on my face should make it clear. Susan licks her lips delicately, then I feel her fingertips hook under the elastic waistband of my borrowed scrubs, and she slowly kneels at my feet, bringing the pants with her.
She glances up at me from this new position, my cock bobbing next to her cheek, and it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Until her pink tongue snakes out and starts at my balls, tracing the vein on the underside of the shaft all the way up to the head to lap up the precome that’s waiting there. That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
And this is suicide.
Susan hums thoughtfully as she bobs on my dick, her saliva-slick palm twisting the base of my shaft, her other hand sliding up the inside of my thigh to cup my balls. I feel her everywhere, and when I’ve got enough control I take another look down and see her hard at work, eyes shut, expression serious. As good as it feels in a technical sense, it doesn’t feel like anything else. It’s what I felt on the rooftop that day, step one, step two, step three. Like it’s a job, a duty. A box she has to check to get her own box checked, so to speak. As impersonal as it can be when someone’s got his dick in your mouth.
“Susan,” I say. I want her to look at me. I want to know she’s thinking about me, about this. Not merely anticipating the next part of her plan.
She doesn’t open her eyes. I’m not even sure she hears me.
Very carefully I lower a hand to cup the back of her head, her hair soft and warm from the sun. And just as soon as I think the word “soft,” she’s jerking back hard, one hand gripping my wrist and pulling it away from her head.
“Whoa,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “What’s going on?”
She looks slightly confused, like someone coming out of a trance. “I don’t—Don’t hold my head,” she says.
“I’m sorry. I was trying to get your attention.”
“Why? What do you want?”
We’re having this conversation while she kneels at my feet, my dick out, her bare breasts on display. And she doesn’t know what I want? What the fuck will it take?
Still, all I say is, “Eye contact, Susan. If you don’t mind.”
She inhales, then exhales, visibly calming, then holds my stare as she licks the length of the shaft a few times. “Better?”
I nod, struggling to speak, and watch her fingers wrap around me again. Oh fuck. Why was I complaining? I can’t
remember, not when she’s sucking hard and fast, taking me deeper than before, letting the head of my cock bump the back of her throat, making me feel so fucking big.
“Like this,” I mumble, covering her hand with my own, jerking myself off harder. She picks up the rhythm and I reach lower to squeeze my balls, gripping the rail with my free hand so I don’t make the mistake of touching her head. It only takes another minute or two before I know I’m going to spill, and when I’m close I snatch up a few of the napkins from the table and pull out of her mouth, finishing myself with a long, pained groan.
“Jesus,” I mutter, balling up the napkins and tossing them back on the table. “Fuck.”
Susan’s soft chuckle penetrates the fog surrounding my brain and she reaches for her water glass at the same moment I reach for mine. We watch each other as we drink, the same thought sling-shotting between us: what now? The morning’s race and the orgasm mean my legs aren’t up to much, so I sit back down in the chair and beckon her forward, hoping I look like I’m in control and not a fucking rag doll. She arches a brow, replaces the glass on the table and steps into me, hands at her side as I slide her shorts and panties down her legs so she’s completely naked. I see her fingers curl inward, like she’s trying not to cover herself, and I lean in and press my nose into her belly button, inhaling. I can smell her arousal from here, musky and dark, and I want it. I want to see it and taste it and smell it, but I hold back. I tongue her belly button and she scrapes her nails over my skull, then surprises me by straddling my bare thigh and sitting down. She adjusts her position and soon I can feel her wet heat on my leg, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever felt, I swear.
I clutch her head and pull her in for a kiss, plunging my tongue into her mouth the way we both wish I were doing lower down. She moans and sucks me in, hips undulating as she works herself on my leg. It’s nasty and crude, wet and dirty, and I love it. I skim one hand down her back, feeling the fragile ridge of her spine, circling her tailbone then moving lower, sliding my fingers right through her crack. I let her feel me there before I move lower, fingertips sliding between her slippery folds and gently opening her further.
The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) Page 6
