The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3)

by Julianna Keyes

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, I’m still mired in my own pit of hell, because I’m parked across the street from the single-screen theater in the tourist town of Merritt, Wisconsin, watching Susan flirt with somebody.

  The theater is part of a little strip of businesses, its ticket booth accessible from the street, approximately eight feet away from a coffee shop. Susan’s standing out front sipping one of her massive chocolate concoctions, chatting with a decent-looking guy in a business suit, also holding a coffee cup. Wearing a flower print sundress and flip-flops and holding that straw between her lips, she’s a walking wet dream, and I hate that someone else is getting a piece of that.

  I realize I’m gripping the steering wheel hard enough to snap it and will myself to calm the fuck down. I don’t do jealous. I can’t remember the last time I got jealous over a woman that wasn’t Susan. I mean, even Susan doesn’t inspire those kinds of feelings, namely because she’s so fucking oblivious sometimes that it’s hard to imagine her even knowing how to flirt. But here she is, in the town of Merritt, population eleven hundred, flirting.

  The marquee over her head advertises the lone movie playing today. It’s called The Sunshine Schools and if I’m not mistaken it’s some sort of Eat, Pray, Love rip-off based on a best-selling book. Not exactly my cup of inspiring women’s fiction tea, but I don’t know what else to do, so I close my eyes for a minute, concentrate on breathing normally and not like a psychopath, and get out of the car.

  Susan’s gone.

  So is her new friend.

  My heart is pounding as I cross the street and buy a ticket to the show starting in ten minutes. The lobby inside is cool and quiet, just one kid working the concession stand and an old man buying popcorn. I pay for a bottle of water and make my way into the theater, an old-fashioned room with red velvet curtains, a single tier of low-back seats and a handful of moviegoers.

  And there, in the back corner, munching on a bag of popcorn, is Susan.

  Alone.

  The next closest person is about twelve rows away, so no one overhears her shocked exclamation when I take the seat beside her.

  “Surprise,” I say.

  She looks at me wide-eyed as she finishes chewing. “What are you—Did you follow me here?”

  “Nope. Coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe you. I was willing to believe the yurt was a coincidence, but not this.”

  I shrug. “Believe whatever you want. Where’s your date?”

  “My what?”

  I don’t elaborate. If she’s already forgotten him, I’m not about to remind her.

  “Oh. Do you mean Ben? The orthopedic surgeon?”

  I feel my spine stiffen. “I don’t know. Do I?”

  She tosses another piece of popcorn into her mouth and washes it down with a drink she’s not even allowed to have in here. “Probably.”

  She leaves it at that, and I glare at her from the corner of my eye as the previews start to play. She ignores me, absorbed in ads for every other estrogen-infused movie coming out this year, and I try to feign interest as well. But I can’t. Because her legs are crossed and her skirt ends about four inches above her knee and who the hell is this orthopedic surgeon? Did she meet him at the conference? Is she going to see him again?

  I lean in to put my mouth close to her ear. “Tell me about Dr. Ben.”

  She glances at me. “He’s very nice. An excellent doctor.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  My brows raise. “Not yet?”

  “That’s right. I met him at the conference, but he works in Chicago, so...we’ll see.”

  I echo her earlier accusation. “And he just so happens to be here? What a coincidence.”

  “A lot of Chicago doctors have summer homes in Merritt. It’s not uncommon.”

  Of course he has a second home. “And he just so happened to be in front of the theater?”

  “There’s only one street in this town with anything to do on it, Oscar. Maybe it was a coincidence...or maybe it was fate.”

  I can’t tell if she knows what she’s doing to me or not. Oh, hell. She knows. She’s not that oblivious. And I know she doesn’t believe in fate. She’s a fucking doctor. Whatever. If she wants to make this hard, then so can I. “Did you tell him what happened last night? That you got yourself off thinking about me?”

  “I didn’t mention it.”

  “Does he know I taught you to give a sloppy blowjob and swallow every drop of my come?”

  “Be quiet, please. The movie’s starting.”

  I couldn’t possibly care less about this movie, but I try to watch it. I fail miserably because I can see down Susan’s top, that gorgeous swell of flesh, and my libido doesn’t care if we’re not on good terms, it wants some action.

  She tosses her head back when she laughs, the smooth column of her throat exposed and so, so tempting. Because I know she likes it when I tug on her hair and drag my teeth over her neck, biting a little harder than I’d dare with any other woman.

  At the halfway mark I slouch in the seat, cramped and uncomfortable. I drape one arm around the back of Susan’s chair and she finally looks over at me, the first time since the show started, as though she’d forgotten I was here. Wordlessly she turns back to the movie, ignoring me even when I stretch my legs and my knee bumps hers. I leave it there, my jeans against her bare skin, and stare at the spot where we touch, wanting more.

  “Susan,” I whisper during a romantic scene in which the heroine and her lover kiss in a rice field. “Doc.”

  She doesn’t even blink. “Shh.”

  I scowl at the screen, bitterly watching as the heroine helps the Vietnamese villagers build a school from scratch so their children can learn English and have more opportunities in life. She’s vapid and inept but she shows up every day, even when the locals laugh at her because she can’t navigate a wheelbarrow and keeps falling into the same puddle. Eventually, though, they accept her, and she stops trying so hard to fit in, and together they build a school. At the end she leaves and it’s sad, then one of the kids steps forward to wave goodbye saying, in English, “Thank you, Kate. See you again.”

  A loud sniffling from Susan brings me back to the present, and I jolt in my seat when I realize I’m a little teary-eyed, too. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m even more alarmed when I peek over and the sight of Susan dabbing at her eyes makes me want to tighten the arm that’s still draped over her chair and bring her in close and remind her it’s just a movie. Like every horny teenage boy, I also want to use that opportunity to accidentally feel her up.

  Susan stands before I can do anything. “That was good,” she declares with a curt nod. “Did you like it?”

  I stand, wincing as achy muscles voice their complaints. “Better than I expected.”

  I trail her outside, the afternoon sun blinding as we stand on the sidewalk. Susan yawns, covering her mouth and rolling her shoulders to work out the kinks. “I need a nap.”

  If that’s code for “let’s go to bed,” my cock is more than willing to put aside its hurt feelings for naptime. Still, all I say is, “I’ll follow you back.”

  Susan drives well over the speed limit, and whenever I manage to get close enough to see her in her rearview mirror, she’s rapping or tossing Junior Mints in her mouth. It takes me back to the night she’d followed me to Mache 42, the first time we’d kissed. When I knew nothing about her and wanted to know everything. How is it that a month later I still feel the same way?

  By the time we’re bumping along the five-mile-per-hour lane that leads back to the yurt, I’m ready to crawl out of my skin. The camp is pretty full so we end up parking in different areas, and when I step into the tent, Susan is already there, drinking a glass of water. “Too much singing,”
she explains.

  “Be honest,” I reply. “Too many Junior Mints.”

  She laughs and finishes the drink, sticking the glass in the small sink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I watch her approach, loose skirt swishing around her thighs, her bare feet, nails unpainted, everything about her natural and exposed, no pretense. She just is, like it or not. Take it or leave it.

  I’m taking it.

  I step into her path and she looks up, a fleeting expression of surprise crossing her features as I cup her face and lower my head. I want this. She wants this. We need it.

  But our lips have barely touched before she’s leaping away, squawking like a startled bird. “What the hell?” she demands. She bumps into a stack of pink and orange pillows and stumbles before righting herself.

  I’m a little taken aback by her response, but I can’t deny that there’s a part of me that perks up, intrigued by her resistance. The thrill of the hunt and all that, I suppose. “What’s wrong? This morning you—”

  “This morning you told me this wasn’t going to happen,” she interrupts sternly. “You were very clear.”

  “I changed—”

  “Or did you just want to get in a few more insults before you tried to get laid again?”

  “I—”

  “Or did seeing Dr. Ben make you realize you’re not the only man who can stomach me, maybe you’d make the most of your last night in Mongolia?”

  Wait a second. She’s mad at me? Her hands are balled into fists, her cheeks are flushed, her brows are drawn together. And she’s hot as hell. It’s so unfair.

  “C’mere, Susan.”

  Those dark brows shoot up. “I beg your pardon? Absolutely not.”

  “You want to fight? Don’t hide behind those pillows while you do it.”

  “I’m not—” She kicks the toppled tower of pillows aside. “I’m not hiding, you asshole. I’m—I’m...offended.”

  I toss back my head and laugh, though nothing’s particularly funny. “Offended?” I echo, nodding at her tits, her nipples poking through the fabric. “Offended like you were last night when you took off to finger yourself while you thought about me? That kind of offended?”

  Her jaw is clenched. “Would you stop bringing that up? You did it too. It meant nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I prowl toward her and she backs up until her shoulders bump the tent walls. “I think it meant the same thing.”

  “That is the same thing.”

  “I think it’s you eating s’mores and popcorn and Junior Mints—I think it’s wanting something that’s bad for you, but not being smart enough to stay away.”

  “I did stay away,” she responds, not moving when I near, stopping with less than six inches between us. I’m close enough to smell her again, see the heated glow in her eyes, the way she’s squeezing her thighs together as though denying the dampness I know is gathering between them. “You told me to, remember?” she continues angrily. “Don’t show up to the grand opening—well, I didn’t. Not only that, I didn’t even return to the state. But here you are. You got in the bed. You came to the movie. You’re initiating...this.”

  I dip my head to catch the edge of her ear between my teeth, thrilled sparks of arousal dancing up and down my spine when she whimpers. “So stop it,” I murmur, tongue flicking out. When she doesn’t stop me I slide a hand over her shoulder, down her arm, squeezing her fingers, then dipping below her skirt, cupping her pussy through the thin fabric of her panties.

  She’s hot.

  She’s wet.

  She’s trembling.

  I take my hand back and hold it between us. “Smell that?” I ask. “That’s what I do to you.” I step into her, letting her feel my erection against her belly. “That’s what you do to me.”

  “It’s not enough,” she mumbles unconvincingly.

  “It’s enough for right now.”

  She raises her eyes to mine, and there’s something sad in them. The first real indication that she recognizes that her betrayal broke something. That she understands.

  I kiss her and this time she doesn’t stop me. In fact, she raises onto her toes, gripping my head in both her hands and kissing me back like it’s the last kiss we’ll ever have. It’s hot and rough and a little desperate, but that’s exactly how I’m feeling.

  I wrench her dress over her head and toss it behind me, taking a second to appreciate her matching bra and panties, the same blue shade as her eyes. I don’t bother undoing the clasp, just lift her tits out of the lace cups and drag my fingers back and forth over the pointed tips, feeling them tighten even more.

  Her short nails scratch against my stomach when she fumbles for the hem of my T-shirt, but I snare her wrists in one hand and pin them over her head. The canvas walls are sturdy, but she has to rely on me for balance when I catch one of her legs behind the knee and pull it against my hip so I can grind the hard edge of my fly into her crotch.

  Susan whimpers and I stop, gauging her reaction, but there’s nothing there but a frantic, undeniable need, the same one coursing through me, the same one I know I should run from but barrel into headfirst instead.

  She kisses me again, wrapping her other leg around my waist so I’m supporting her completely, her ass cheeks in my hands as I lift her and rub her over me, smelling her arousal through the damp cotton, goading me on. I feel the muscles in her thighs flex as she abrades herself against the denim, seeking, questing, and I flash back to the afternoon on her balcony, the same thing, making the personal impersonal.

  This time I’m okay with that.

  I clasp her back as I lower to my knees, then bear her onto the messy sprawl of pillows, dropping over her, catching her hands when she goes for my shirt again. Both our eyes are open for the next kiss, and she’s watching me, unsure what the game plan is, just aware that she’s got the weaker hand.

  A groan rumbles up from somewhere deep inside, something primitive and darkly appealing, something that wants nothing to do with propriety and desperately just wants to fuck her. But first.

  First I want her to know.

  I flip her onto her belly and press my weight against her, effectively pinning her to the pillows. She writhes and moans when I slide my fingers over her throat, arching her head, lowering mine so I can look her in the eye when I ask, “You want it, Susan?”

  She closes her eyes and pulls in a breath, refusing to answer.

  “You want to come?”

  I roll my hips over her ass, letting her feel how hard I am. How much I want it, too.

  “Tell me,” I murmur. “Tell me the truth.”

  “Oz...”

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  She’s trying to move. I can feel the muscles straining, but she can’t budge me, can’t do it herself if I won’t let her. And I can’t let her, not right now. Not when I know just how much damage she can inflict if I’m not careful. It’s the fighter who thinks he’s won who loses in the last seconds, the one who doesn’t keep up his guard, who underestimates his opponent.

  There’s no underestimating Dr. Jones.

  Not this time.

  “Just fuck me,” she mutters into the pillow, her face pressed to the side, the words muffled, resistant.

  “What’s that?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Say it again.”

  She’s breathing hard. I can smell the mint and chocolate on her breath, taste it when I lick the corner of her mouth, just to show her I can. That she can use me and I can use her. We can use each other and it doesn’t have to mean anything.

  “Convince me,” I say, when she doesn’t repeat herself.

  Her forehead wrinkles in consternation. “Why?”

  “Because I want to believe you.”

  She goes complete
ly still. “You don’t believe me?”

  “I don’t know, Susan. Should I?”

  “Let me turn over.”

  “I’ll—”

  “Now.”

  I’ve never had sex like this before. A little rough, sure. A little grabby, yeah. But I’ve never held someone down and bossed them around, never dared to, not the way I have with Susan. But we don’t have any ground rules, and I’m not sure I want to take it that far anyway, so when I hear the unyielding note in her voice, I push up enough to let her roll over so she’s on her back. I don’t know if she’s doing it to slap me or bite me or just because she’s uncomfortable, but when she’s in position, her thighs spread on either side of mine, she only reaches down to unbutton my jeans and shove them over my hips. I don’t stop her hand when it slips into my boxers and strokes over my cock, which is so painfully hard I wince when I feel her palm slide against the wetness easing from the tip.

  “Get a condom,” she orders softly, and I’m pathetically grateful I keep one in my wallet and my wallet’s in my pants. A minute later I’ve got one rolled on and Susan’s holding the crotch of her panties aside, guiding the head of my cock over the slick folds of her pussy, but not letting me inside.

  “Susan,” I growl. This is my show, not hers. “Don’t.”

  She stops moving but doesn’t let go of my cock, her liquid blue eyes finding mine. “Why?”

  “Because I’m fucking you, not the other way around.”

  “Why can’t we fuck each other?”

  I laugh harshly, still coherent enough to reach down and pull her hand away from my junk before admitting, “Because you already fucked me, doc. Remember?”

  I ignore the way she inhales, wounded, the way my guilty side pipes up, reminding me there are rules for this sort of thing. You can’t keep whaling on a guy when he’s down. But is Susan down? Or is she just faking it? Again?

  I can’t do this much longer. My cock is threatening to overrule my brain and just pound into her, and I want to hold back, channel some of that distance Susan’s so fucking good at. I kiss her and try to think about something else, buy myself some time even as I hook my arms behind her knees and drag them up, planting my elbows on the floor by her ribs, opening her, making her vulnerable.