by Nina Lane
Sticky
NINA LANE
STICKY
Copyright © 2015 by Nina Lane
Nook Edition
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Published by Snow Queen Publishing
Cover designed by © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
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To love is to lose control.
—Paulo Coelho
CHAPTER ONE
‡
Fucking PTO meetings. They drove me crazy. The Parent-Teacher Organization of the Sweetwater school district was filled with elitist mothers who drove BMWs, took yoga, employed housekeepers, and weaseled their kids into programs for the academically gifted. The mothers were sweetly bitchy and obsessed with their children’s progress, which made them pit vipers at the PTO meetings.
I knew because I was one of them. In fact, I was the PTO president.
“I should be back by nine.” I peered at myself in the hallway mirror and took a tube of lipstick from my Prada handbag. “Take the casserole out of the oven in fifteen minutes.”
My husband Richard grunted in assent. I slanted a glance at him. He was lounging in his recliner with a glass of scotch. At forty-five, he was still good-looking, but over the years whatever romantic connection we’d once shared had flat-lined into a routine of dull tedium. Richard sat in that chair every evening after work, more interested in TV than in his wife.
I applied lipstick and fluffed my shoulder-length blond hair around my shoulders. It wasn’t my fault, I thought, as I studied my reflection in the mirror. My daily workouts had given me a tight, firm body, and frequent trips to the beauty parlor and spa kept my hair soft and my skin supple.
I looked damn good for a forty-year-old mother of two. Even after seventeen years of marriage, my husband should notice that.
Unfortunately, he didn’t. Even worse, he’d been taking me for granted for too long now, just expecting that I’d keep the house in perfect condition, care for the children, and have a delicious dinner on the table when he got home from work.
Which of course, I did.
And considering both my appearance and the exquisite way I ran the household—no dust anywhere, ever—you’d think my husband would want to have sex with me every now and then.
He didn’t. Our sex life had gone by the wayside after we’d had kids, and Richard had done nothing to try and revive it. Though I’d never been one of those women who needs sex—just the opposite, in fact—this lengthy drought had intensified my erotic urges. I’d even resorted to masturbation to take the edge off my sexual frustration, but my resentment toward my husband simmered incessantly.
Mid-life crisis, I thought irritably. His, not mine.
“The children are downstairs watching cartoons,” I told Richard as I smoothed my gray pencil skirt and slipped into the matching short jacket. “They’ve done their homework and music practice. There are some gluten-free, organic cookies in the cupboard for dessert.”
He didn’t respond. With a sigh, I left the house and drove my Mercedes to downtown’s Main Street. Our affluent California town, home to computer companies and investment firms, was known for the exclusivity of its shops and boutiques. Unlike bustling San Francisco an hour north, Sweetwater prided itself on understated but expensive elegance.
I went into the high-end Sweet Shop bakery, which always supplied the treats for various school functions. My blood rushed at the scent of all the forbidden things I never allowed myself—sugar, chocolate, butter, and flaky, carbohydrate-laden pastries.
I inhaled, filling my lungs with the delicious scents while covetously eyeing the glossy chocolate truffles and éclairs, the jam-filled tarts, and the layer cakes decorated with swirls of thick, rich cream.
“Hello, Mrs. Collins.” The owner’s wife came out of the kitchen carrying several white boxes filled with cookies. “Here you go. We’re trying out a new sugar cookie recipe, so let me know what you think.”
Though I had no intention of trying the sugar cookies, I promised her I would. I put the boxes in the trunk of my car and drove to Sweetwater Elementary School. The PTO meetings were held in the multi-purpose room, with folding chairs lined up in rows and a smart board set up for presentations.
A few mothers were milling around when I arrived, all of them holding cups of coffee in their perfectly manicured hands. We greeted each other with fake smiles before I began arranging the cookies on a long table. The Sweet Shop had gone all out with the assortment, including chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, snickerdoodles, peanut butter, and white chocolate macadamia nut. Not to mention an entire plate of sugar cookies.
“Mmm.” A deep male voice rumbled through the air. “They smell like they’re fresh out of the oven.”
I glanced up to where Mr. Hunter, the new school principal, stood beside the table. My defenses locked into place.
Wearing a navy suit and tie, Mr. Hunter was in his early thirties—a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark blond hair, surfer-boy handsome features, and striking blue eyes. The other mothers giggled and whispered about his good looks and muscular body, though I considered myself above such juvenile gossip.
Not to mention, Mr. Hunter and I had been locking horns for weeks over the school budget, and I found his stubbornness infuriating. I’d had the previous principal—a malleable, grandfatherly man—well under my thumb, until he’d moved to Arizona in January. In the three months Mr. Hunter had been principal, he’d made it clear he was the one in charge.
I straightened, nudging a plate of cookies toward him. “If we’re lucky, maybe two or three cookies will actually be eaten. All the mothers are too worried about their figures to indulge.”
Mr. Hunter’s gaze slid down my body with an insolence that made me grit my teeth, despite the strange heat prickling my skin. Maybe he could get what he wanted from other mothers with one glance, but I would not succumb to such nonsense.
Still, I half expected him to make some remark about my figure, and when he didn’t, I experienced a sharp stab of disappointment. Which was most irritating.
“So why do you bring cookies to the meetings anyway, Madeline?” Mr. Hunter asked, biting into a chocolate-chip cookie.
“Public relations,” I replied. “I’ve been the PTO president for three years running, and I’ve no doubt these cookies have something to do with that. I’ll leave them in the teacher workroom after the meeting.”
“Smart,” he remarked. “You should have been a politician.”
“If I were a politician, I’d do a much better job of convincing you not to spend the PTO money to expand the school computer lab.” I leveled my gaze on him.
“Technology is an essential part of the curriculum,” he replied, reaching for a sugar cookie. “And the school board denied my funding request, so I expect the PTO to step up.”
“You expect us just to give you the money,” I said. “That money is allocated for playground improvements.”
“Not if I can help it. And the playground was renovated just two years ago.” A faint hardness infused Mr. Hunter’s eyes as he stepped toward me.
“I know you’re accustomed to getting what you want, Madeline,” he said, his
voice low. “I know you expect people to defer to you. But I warn you, I never will.”
My spine stiffened. I hated that this young upstart was threatening my authority with the PTO and the school board.
We stared each other down. We were both on the meeting agenda to advocate for our respective positions, though I already knew Mr. Hunter had the edge with Sweetwater’s PTO mothers.
I stepped away from him and strode to the front of the room. The seats were now filled with mothers, teachers, and a few fathers. I gave my presentation about the need for playground improvements, including new monkey bars and swings, before Mr. Hunter approached to advocate for the computer lab.
Even before he’d finished, I knew he’d won. All the women gazed at him with rapt fascination, and even the men appeared impressed with his eloquence.
Yes, Mr. Hunter was a man who knew how to work a crowd. The vote for funding wouldn’t take place until next week, but I was running out of lobbying ideas.
After getting through the rest of the agenda, the crowd dispersed, some people wandering toward the cookies and others approaching the principal.
“Nice try, Madeline, but it looks like you’re going to lose.” Linda Crawford stopped beside me, lifting a plucked eyebrow with superior enjoyment. “Still, you’re rich enough. Perhaps your husband should donate the funds for the playground.”
I responded with a tight smile. “Perhaps your husband should stop fucking the maid.”
Linda gasped, two red spots of anger appearing on her cheeks.
“You bitch,” she hissed.
“Oh, come off it, Linda,” I replied curtly. “Everyone knows. We’re all just wondering when you’re going to join them in the sack.”
“Well, at least I’m getting some, unlike you,’” she snapped.
I went cold. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t.” Clearly realizing she’d hit a nerve, Linda smiled. “Everyone also knows you and your husband don’t have sex anymore.”
“How in the world would you know such a thing?”
I tried to sound nonchalant, though a panicky feeling was brewing inside me. I heard a lot of catty talk about other mothers, but I had never been the subject of gossip because I conducted myself with such propriety.
“Rebecca said she overheard you yelling at your husband last week in a restaurant parking lot.” Linda smirked, her eyes flashing vindictively. “Apparently, you were upset because Richard hasn’t screwed you in months, and you shouted that you hadn’t signed up for a sexless marriage.”
My panic intensified. It was true. I’d suggested a dinner date to Richard one night in the hopes of setting the mood for a romantic evening. But after we’d eaten, he’d said he was going to watch a ball game when we got home, and I’d exploded with sudden—and clearly ill-conceived—fury, heedless of anyone overhearing.
“I’m quite certain Rebecca misunderstood,” I told Linda crisply.
She smirked again. “I’m quite certain it’s impossible to misunderstand the phrase, ‘If you won’t fuck me, I’ll find someone who will!’”
A burst of shocked laughter came from a group of nearby mothers.
Shit. Shit. Shit. My cheeks burned as I realized this story would be all over town by tomorrow morning, if it weren’t already. The other women were still giggling.
“Well.” I drew myself up, schooling my expression into one of cold impassivity. “I’m delighted to know everyone finds my sex life so fascinating.”
I turned to walk away and almost bumped right into Mr. Hunter behind me, his muscular body like a solid wall. I gasped, bringing a hand to my chest.
He looked at me, his eyes oddly intense. A flush scorched my face as I wondered exactly how much he’d heard.
“Excuse me.” I slipped past him and walked quickly toward the cookie table, my heels clicking on the tile floor. My heart was beating too fast.
I’d heard enough gossip over the years to realize no one was immune from attack. The problem with me was that the rumors were true. And if anything could destroy my reputation in the community, it was vindictive gossip.
I suddenly had trouble pulling in a breath. The crowd felt like it was closing in on me, stealing all the air. My hands trembled as I grabbed the plate of sugar cookies and hurried out of the multi-purpose room.
I walked past the classrooms and went into the wing of school offices to the teacher workroom.
“Madeline?”
My heart lurched. I looked across the hall to the principal’s office, which sat near the front desk and opposite the workroom. Mr. Hunter’s door was open, and he was sitting behind his desk.
I gripped the plate. “I was just leaving these for the teachers.”
“Are those the sugar cookies?” He rose and approached me, pulling the door open wider. “Can I have one?”
The question sounded exactly like one my eight-year-old son would ask. I held out the plate. A reluctant smile tugged at my mouth.
“Just one,” I said. “Or you’ll ruin your dinner.”
“Luckily, I already ate.” Mr. Hunter plucked a golden-brown cookie from the pile and gave me an engagingly boyish grin.
My heart quickened in response.
Madeline, remember he’s a stubborn ass.
I know, but that grin of his is a killer.
“Come in, Madeline,” Mr. Hunter said, biting into the cookie. “I want to talk to you.”
He took the plate from me and gestured toward a chair in front of his desk.
Since at the moment, I had no desire to return to the viper pit of the multi-purpose room, I went into his office and sat down, smoothing my skirt over my thighs.
Mr. Hunter closed the door behind me and put the cookies on his desk.
“I have a proposal for you,” he said.
My breath caught. “Um, a proposal?”
“Yes.” He moved around his desk to sit in his office chair again.
He’d taken off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. I couldn’t help noticing the muscles cording his tanned forearms, the circle of paler skin where he sometimes wore a watch. The dark brown hairs dusting his arms were tipped with gold, like they’d been burnished by the sun.
“I thought of a way we can both get what we want,” Mr. Hunter said.
“What…” I swallowed to ease my suddenly dry throat. “What way is that?”
“Instead of expanding the computer lab, we can use half the funds to purchase tablets for in-classroom use,” he explained. “And then you can use the other half for the playground.”
I blinked in surprise. “Really?”
He nodded. “But you’ll have to choose between new monkey bars or swings. I’m afraid you can’t have both.”
“I… I can choose,” I said quickly. “That’s a lovely compromise. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Again he gave me that engaging grin.
Something hot and powerful fluttered inside me. I had a ridiculous urge to squirm.
“I’ll write up a proposal to submit to the school board and the PTO,” Mr. Hunter continued.
He reached for another sugar cookie and nudged the plate toward me in invitation.
I started to decline, but I was still panicky over the idea that all the mothers, and probably some teachers too, now knew about my sexless marriage. I didn’t want to return to the multi-purpose room until I was certain everyone had left.
I reached for a flower-shaped cookie dusted with sugar crystals.
“Cookie toast.” Mr. Hunter bumped his cookie against mine. “To our new deal.”
Since when had the man become so… cute?
“To our new deal,” I echoed.
I bit into the cookie and almost moaned with pleasure. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d tasted the incredible combination of sugar and butter laced with vanilla. The cookie was light and crisp, almost melting on my tongue.
“Good, huh?” Mr. Hunter asked.
I glanced
up to find him watching me as he polished off his cookie. His eyes were very blue.
We’d never been alone together before. We’d always confronted each other at PTO meetings or in his office with other people around.
I nodded, wiping a crumb off my lip. “Very good.”
Was I becoming aroused by a cookie? It had been so long since I’d been turned on by anything except my own fantasies that I wasn’t even sure it was actually happening now.
I glanced down at my white silk blouse, shocked to see that my pink nipples were budding up against my flimsy bra, the circles of my areolae visible beneath the thin material.
Apparently I was enjoying the cookie more than I’d thought. Either that, or the school principal was having a shockingly sudden and potent effect on me.
When I looked up, I discovered that Mr. Hunter had noticed my arousal. He was looking at my breasts, his chest rising with increasing breaths.
He lifted his gaze to mine. I could only stare at him. My pulse kicked up in gear, and I fought another urge to squirm.
“It’s true,” he said, his deep voice rolling like sunlight over my skin.
“What… what’s true?”
“What Linda said.”
I swallowed. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re wound so tight you’re about to explode,” he replied.
My heart stuttered. Was it that obvious?
He rose from behind his desk and walked around toward me.
I resisted the urge to retreat. Instead I flipped my hair back and looked him in the eye.
“I’m quite certain it’s inappropriate for the principal to say such things to a school mother, Mr. Hunter,” I said coolly.
“And I’m quite certain it’s inappropriate for a school mother to look as if she wants to get fucked by the principal, Madeline.”
I gasped, my hand going to my throat. “Mr. Hunter!”
He gave a low laugh, shaking his head.
“Damn, but I love the way you say my name,” he remarked. “Haven’t you ever wondered why I never asked you to call me Ben?”
