She whimpers and continues to hump my leg, focused and unashamed. She’s holding my head so tightly I can barely move it, so I lean back in the chair as much as I’m able and she follows me, the angle bringing her clit into better contact with my leg. The hand that’s already down there slides over her thigh and digs into the curls covering her pussy, dipping low enough to brush over her clit, making me grin when she gasps into my mouth.
My other hand returns to those gorgeous breasts, bouncing against my chest, and I pinch her nipples carefully, gauging her reactions as I tighten my grip. She purrs and moans, then stiffens when it gets too tight, and I let her go. I break away for air and fasten my lips to her neck, sucking hard, feeling her rapid pulse against my tongue.
“No marks,” she mumbles, pulling on my ear to stop me.
“No marks,” I echo, dropping my head back to watch her. Her eyes are closed this time, her phone and sex plan forgotten, but the look on her face makes something in me lurch in concern. She looks so fucking...intense. Desperate, almost, like she knows this is her one opportunity to get off.
Now that I think about it, she’s rubbing like crazy on my leg, the friction so hot it has to be borderline painful for her. I’m no Casanova but I’ve been with enough women that I’d like to think I know how to get them off, and Susan’s a challenge, but she’s not impossible. I can do this if she’d just let me.
“Susan,” I say, gripping her waist to still her.
It takes a second for the action—and its implications—to set in, and her eyes fly open, outraged.
“Don’t you dare—” she begins, until I slip a hand over her mouth.
“Shut the fuck up,” I murmur calmly, uncovering her mouth and nudging her back so I can stand. “I’m going to get you off. Me, not you. Understand?”
Her lips move but no words come out, not even when I back her into the table and boost her up, ignoring the line of pain that radiates from my sore wrist. I’m not about to listen to that fucker now. Instead I scoop up the glasses and dirty napkins, tucking them out of the way, and turn back to Susan.
Her chest is rising and falling like she’s the one who ran a race today, but my words appear to have silenced whatever protest she’d been forming, and she stares at me, half mutinous, half needy. I like her this way. I like it when her brows yank together in warning even as I spread her legs and hook my thumbs into her pussy, opening her for my gaze. I like it even more when her jaw drops when I spit right onto the slippery folds, hot from the grinding, and maybe a little too sensitive. Yeah, definitely too sensitive, I think, when I roll her clit under my thumb and she tries to hide a wince.
“Relax,” I say softly, leaning in to nip her lower lip, then lick away the sting. “I’ve got this.”
“You’ve—” She sounds disbelieving. “Oscar, I just—”
“I’m going to get you off now, Susan. And it’s going to feel so fucking good, understand? And you’re not going to do anything but sit there and let me.”
“Where’s the man who got mowed down by a crate of watermelons?” she mumbles. She shakes her head weakly, though what she’s arguing, I don’t know, since my offer sounds pretty damn good.
I laugh and catch her lower lip between my teeth. “Say please,” I order.
“Oh, fuck you,” she replies.
I laugh again. “Susan.”
She’s trying not to laugh with me. “Oscar.”
I push two fingers into her tight pussy and we both groan. Her inner muscles clamp down desperately and I keep my hand still so she can adjust, even if her writhing hips say she doesn’t want to wait any longer. I grip her waist hard in my free hand and catch her eye, a silent warning not to move. She hisses out a breath but manages to stop shifting, her expression growing more and more impatient as I wait. It takes a minute, but eventually I feel the muscles in her thighs slacken and she finally gives in. Trusts me, for now.
I move my fingers slowly, long thrusts in and out, feeling every inch of the amazing slipperiness that hides between her legs. I’d love to shove her back and lick up and down her slit until she explodes, but I’m going to withhold something for next time. And the next time. Because we can both get off. Hell, we don’t even need each other for that. But I want more. And if she stopped fighting for a second, I think she’d realize that more is not the worst thing that could happen.
Every few thrusts I twist my hand so my knuckles rub over that sensitive patch inside, and her nails dig into my biceps each time, asking for more. I act like I don’t understand, like each scrape over that elusive spot is an accident, but it’s not.
“Oscar,” she pants, the sixth or seventh time I do it then stop. “Keep touching it, right...there.” Her teeth are digging into her lower lip and she’s straining again, fighting for the orgasm I’m more than willing to give her.
“Do what?” I ask innocently, plunging my fingers deep but avoiding that spot. “This?”
“No, there’s a spot, you hit it before, just...”
“Susan.”
“What?”
“Shut up and relax, please. I know what I’m doing.”
“I know what works,” she argues. “Just listen.”
“I hear you, doc. Now you listen.” To underscore the message I rub hard on that spot, her tormented screech making my slowly hardening cock surge to life. “Oh,” I drawl. “That spot.”
“Oscar—”
“Oz.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m close, just let me—”
“Hold up your tits again,” I order. “I want some more.”
She sighs, aggrieved, though her clenching pussy says otherwise, and braces herself on one arm while offering up her breast for my mouth. I’ve already got an idea of how hard she does and doesn’t like it, and I do my best to walk that line while continuing to work her pussy, easing in with a third finger, feeling her thighs fall open even further to accommodate me.
I step in close enough that my throbbing cock bumps against her inner thigh and my thrusting hand. I can hear it and smell it and feel it, and it’s so fucking hot and filthy I never want to stop.
“Oz—” she pleads.
“Other side,” I say, releasing her tight nipple from my mouth.
She whimpers but obeys, and I tease this side harder than the first, feeling her pussy contracting on my hand as she gets close. Mindful of the overstimulation earlier, I’m careful when I place my thumb on her clit, letting her own gyrations guide the pressure so I don’t overdo it.
“Kiss me,” I tell her, and she shoves herself to a sitting position, legs bent up on either side, spread wide. I take a second to glance down at the vulnerable display, hiding nothing, trusting me with all her secrets. She grips my head and kisses me hungrily, artlessly, tongues and teeth colliding. I stop messing with her and stroke that spot inside while my thumb rubs harder on her clit, and it doesn’t take long for her whole body to tense up then shudder with release, her pussy bathing my hand with slick, wet heat as she cries out.
She grips my neck as she comes, her body squeezing my fingers so hard it hurts. And even though I told her pain doesn’t get me off, this is different, and it only takes a few rough strokes in my palm before I’m coming for the second time, my cock pressed between us, spraying all over her belly.
When conscious thought returns, I realize I’m clasping her against me, her legs around my waist, her forehead resting against my shoulder. We’re both still struggling for breath, skin slick, temples damp with perspiration.
“Doc,” I murmur. “You okay?”
I’m half expecting her to leap up from the table, put on her clothes, shake my hand and send me out the door with a prescription for getting the fuck over myself, but instead she tips back her head and looks up at me, dazed.
Then she nods. “You?”
I kis
s the tip of her nose, not sure if that’s too much. Then I laugh to myself. That’s too much? After what I just put her through? “Yeah.” Reluctantly I ease my hand from her pussy, watching my slick fingers emerge, shiny with her juice. She passes me the remaining tissue from the table and I wipe up what I can, then we silently collect our clothes and head inside, away from the heat.
When the chilly air conditioning hits my skin, I shiver, post-sex—or whatever that was—lethargy stealing into my veins. I tug on the scrub pants and T-shirt as Susan pulls on her shorts, then hesitates as she contemplates the wisdom of putting on her top, given the trails of come drying on her stomach.
“Sorry about that,” I say, wetting a cloth in the kitchen sink and slowly wiping her off. Because I can and because I’m a guy, I deliberately lift each breast to clean beneath it, patient and thorough. She gazes up at me balefully, not at all fooled, then pulls on the shirt, which does little to hide her tits. She’s incredible to look at, hot to fuck, a challenge to be around. And I want more.
“I’ll let you get some sleep,” I say. “I know you had a busy morning.”
“So did you.”
“Running in circles isn’t quite the same as saving a life.”
“You’re right,” she says, nodding. “Never mind.” She keeps a straight face for a second, then a smile sneaks out. “Thank you, Osc—Oz,” she says. “I needed that.”
I’m not ready for the brush-off. “Go out with me,” I say. “What night are you free this week?”
She freezes, and I’m sure she’s about to turn me down, but then she cautiously offers, “Wednesday.”
“Do you remember how to get to Mache 42? Or I can drive, if you like.”
“I remember. I can meet you there.”
“I’ll make a reservation. Does eight work?”
She inhales carefully. I wonder about the last time she went on a date. “Eight is fine.”
There’s a pad of paper and a pen stuck on the refrigerator, and I scrawl my cell number on the top page. “Call me if anything changes,” I tell her, then head over to slip on my sneakers and gather my dirty clothes.
I hear a rustling noise and Susan approaches with a plastic bag. She holds it open and I toss in my things, then look down at her to be sure I’m reading this right. I’m pretty certain she doesn’t want me to stay, and I don’t want to overdo it on the third...encounter.
“You need anything before I go?” I ask, just to be clear.
She looks at me, bemused. “Oh, I think you covered everything.”
I smile and kiss her briefly. “See you Wednesday.”
Chapter Five
Jade’s all over me Monday morning.
She sits at the front desk, located five feet away from the only entrance to the office, and the second I stroll through the door she’s on her feet. Today she’s wearing a tight red T-shirt, equally tight dark jeans, and bright blue stilettos, hair in a high ponytail. I try to picture Susan in the getup and I can’t. Baggy scrubs, old jeans, buck naked. I like her every which way.
“What’s going on?” Jade demands, looking me from head to toe. “Something’s different. What’d you do? What happened?”
“Sit down,” I say, trying to sound bored. “You’re seeing things.”
She looks suspicious. “Am not. Something’s up.”
“Yeah. Your time at this job if you don’t start working.”
She rolls her eyes, as unfazed as ever. I know if I don’t carry through on some of my threats she’ll never take me seriously, but Jade’s a good worker when she’s not being a pain, and I don’t actually want to fire her. Or maybe I just don’t want to go through the hassle of trying to find a replacement. Whatever the case, I ignore her continued nagging and head for my office, closing the door on the inquisition. I have clients coming in at two, but until then I loosen my tie and sit down to work on a few payroll accounts.
That lasts all of ten minutes, as has every other thing I’ve done to try and forget Susan and yesterday’s...rendezvous. I still don’t know what to call it. It wasn’t sex, in the traditional sense. But it wasn’t any less intense than the best sex I’ve ever had. Perhaps more importantly, it was the first time in a long time that I’ve really let go, said and done exactly what I wanted, and trusted that it was okay. That the person I was with could handle herself, stop things if they went too far, call me on my bullshit. As much as I called the shots on the balcony yesterday, I wasn’t the only one running the show, and that’s the biggest turn-on of all.
I give up on payroll and decide to do a little bit of research into what permits and paperwork would be required if I decided to give this whole tannery-buying project a go. The City Hall website is as derelict as the town, so I end up calling, spending half an hour navigating my way through the phone tree, another twenty minutes on hold, then close to an hour chatting with a bored-sounding woman who nevertheless is a wealth of information.
When we wrap up the call I’m equal parts overwhelmed and kind of excited. It’s not going to be easy, there are hurdles to cross and fiery pits of hell to run through, but it’s not impossible. I absently search online for nearby plant nurseries and start tallying up the cost of preparing a garden on short notice. Because it’s already summer I’d have to start with seedlings instead of seeds, which predictably cost more and will limit the variety of things we can grow. Still, I map out a garden layout similar to what I remember seeing at Mache, and jot down prices for things like irrigation systems, planter boxes and soil amendments.
I’m so absorbed in my work that I don’t even hear Jade come in until she rounds the desk to stand at my shoulder, staring at the nursery website. “What’s this?” she asks.
I jolt out of my focused stupor and nearly tackle her. “Fuck, Jade! Don’t sneak in.”
“I don’t know how I could possibly ‘sneak in’ when you’re facing the door, Oz.”
I exhale heavily and minimize the website. “I was busy.”
“I can see that. Do we have a new client I don’t know about? A gardener?”
“No. Mind your own business.”
“This is my business. I work here.”
“No, it’s my business. And I pay you to sit out front.” I wait, but she doesn’t move. “What?” I say, imbuing the word with as much irritation as I can muster.
Jade couldn’t care less. “There’s someone here to see you.”
I’m not expecting clients until two, and it’s just past noon. Hope surges in my chest and somewhere a little lower. Somehow I manage to sound calm when I ask, “Who?”
A pause. “Sheree.”
I grit my teeth. “What the fuck, Jade?”
She props her hands on her hips and peers down at me, disapproving. “Uh-oh. Two ‘fucks’ and two ‘Jades’ in one conversation. I knew something was up with you, and I don’t think it’s aphid spray. What’d you do this weekend? You weren’t at the gym on Sunday.”
“If you’re not working out at the gym, you shouldn’t be there. Go to the library or something.”
“Sure, Oz. What’d you do on Sunday instead?”
“Send Sheree home, Jade. I’m not interested.”
“Three Jades! This is serious. It’s a woman, isn’t it?” She peers down at me, scrutinizing. “It is a woman, right? Or do you bat for both sides?”
“Of course it’s a woman,” I say, before I realize I’m going to.
Jade claps a hand over her mouth, barely disguising an excited squeal. “I knew it!” she exclaims, jumping as only she can in three-inch heels. “Who is it? Wait, let me guess...Lana? She’s into you.”
Lana’s what the guys at the gym call a “gymbo”—one of the girls who gets dressed up to come out to watch them spar and workout, hoping to hook up with a fighter. It’s like a puck bunny in hockey, if they aspired to mu
ch, much less. The guys would call Jade a gymbo too, if they weren’t afraid of what she’d do to them if she overheard.
“It’s not Lana,” I say, pushing back from the desk.
“Manuela?”
“She’s not a gymb—” I barely manage to cut off the word and try again. “She’s not a gym...member.”
“Then how’d you meet her?”
“At the race,” I half lie.
“That was this weekend? How’d it go?”
What am I going to tell my secretary—that I ordered a woman I’ve never even bought dinner to blow me, then finger fucked her on her patio table? I haven’t thought about anything else in twenty-four hours, but I’m not about to start confessing.
“Oz? How was the race?”
I see the faint concern on Jade’s face and realize she’s thinking about my mother and sisters, not the mystery woman. “Oh, ah, fine. It was good. Lots of people.”
“That’s good. It’s important.”
“Yeah.” Some of my irritation with her fades. Though Jade was only fifteen at the time of the accident, it was big news in Camden, and she hadn’t been immune to it. Camden’s small enough that everybody knows of everybody else, and when I’d interviewed her for the job here, I’d warned her about showing up to work late because she was too hungover from partying the night before. She’d given me a look that would fell an ox, and told me she rarely drinks. She’d been two grades behind my youngest sister, and though they hadn’t known each other, the accident made an impact. I don’t know what it says about her judgment that she picks the guys she does when she’s sober, but again I remind myself that I’m her boss, not her father.
“You’re sure it’s not Lana?” she asks, shooting me a sly look from the corner of her eye. “Because I’m going to call her, and you know she’ll tell me if it’s true.”
The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) Page 7
