by Liz Crowe
Conditional Offer
Stewart Realty, Book Five
Liz Crowe
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Liz Crowe
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Conditional Offer
Copyright © 2019 Liz Crowe
Buoni Amici Press, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected].
Published by Buoni Amici Press, LLC www.buoniamicipress.com
Book and Cover design by Buoni Amici Press, LLC
Disclaimer:
Material in this work of fiction is of a graphic sexual nature and is not intended for audiences under 18 years of age.
Chapter One
Craig held the phone to his ear and let the cheap, fake leather office chair turn him in circles as he listened to his brother rant. Distracted, he touched the computer mouse. The screen flickered back to life, glowing in the cubicle’s gloom. A bank statement was on it, reminding him how little remained of the money his father had left him. The same alarmingly low number flashed at the bottom of the page as he’d seen that morning.
He sighed and rotated the chair again so the motorbike showroom was visible through the wide expanse of glass. It was busy, but he had no energy for it anymore. A familiar, unwelcome sense of boredom, coupled with mild panic, was gaining ground in his brain. He tried to focus on the words coming from the earpiece.
“You have got to go back to school Craig,” his sister-in-law, Grace took over the conversation. Married to his oldest brother, she was more like a sister than an in-law to him. She’d been part of Robinson family life for years.
As the super-duper-surprise baby to an already large crew of boys, he’d had plenty of experience with the various girlfriends, and now wives, of his brothers, all big fans of giving well-intentioned advice. He sighed, tossed a tennis ball up in the air and caught it. “You’re wasting your life there doing... whatever the hell it is you're doing.”
“Selling, Gracie. I'm selling. Making a living. Drawing a salary, and a decent one. Did I tell you about my new gig? We’re playing in Chicago in two weeks. At the—”
“Craig. Spare me the rock band bullshit. That doesn’t matter either. I mean, it does, but…” She sighed in his ear. “Damn, your brothers ruined you didn’t they?”
He missed the ball, felt it hit his leg and watched it bounce away under the desk. “What? No. Don’t be silly.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, attempting to quell the restless energy that coursed through him.
“They coddled you, enabled you to slide through your life. Jesus.”
“Please, I’m not that lame.” But at that precise moment, he didn’t buy his own argument. He put his hand over his eyes. Fighting the gloom that threatened his psyche he did a mental switch-off so Grace could keep talking and he could toss out the occasional “uh-huh” and “sure” to placate her.
When they’d moved from his boyhood home in Louisville, Kentucky, to Michigan so his father could take a huge promotion at an auto company, he’d been the only kid left at home. He was the only one who experienced the not-so-special thrill of moving to a new town and a new high school in his junior year.
After finishing high school pretty much a loner, he’d been on a fast track at the University of Michigan in math and science, slated to graduate in three years. The youngest by far of five boys his life had been paved by good intentions. But right now he felt like an utter failure, and it was tempting to blame his siblings and their well-meaning spouses. He never felt the almost eight-year difference between him and his nearest age brother so keenly as he did right now.
As Grace filled him in on the latest from his rambunctious nephews, he pulled up a photo album on his laptop. There were zillions of pictures of his four older brothers, doting mother and successful but happy father. He could spend hours flipping through the virtual slideshow. With the addition of the surprise son, the photos multiplied exponentially.
They were a large, happy family, plenty of blond hair, expensively straightened teeth, various shades of tanned bodies abounded at the large family home on the east side of Louisville. He stared at the ones taken later at the Grosse Pointe, Michigan house. The Christmases with the young men and their various girlfriends and then wives, the large kitchen, pool, patio, all of it rendered in living color forever and ever, amen.
One photo made him lean forward and frown. He studied his father’s smiling face as he held his youngest son. Craig figured he was probably about four years old—the year he and his dad started swimming together.
The man looked genuinely happy, but he, as a small boy, appeared ecstatic. Because he had been. Time with his almost sixty-year-old father had been hard won. His parents had been worn out by the time Craig made his appearance, and left the bulk of his supervision to the small battalion of teenaged boys already in the house. When his father had started taking Craig to the local, slightly cushy, YMCA in Louisville every evening after the usual chaotic family dinner, they had bonded to the point that Craig would nearly always associate the smell of chlorine and the bone-tired feeling you got from a long hard swim, with his father.
He’d been very close to his dad, had relied on him for advice on nearly everything, treasuring their time spent swimming, and a meal afterward every week. They’d somehow avoided the usual father/son conflicts that beset his brothers and friends.
When Leo Robinson died suddenly, from an aneurism in his office while Craig was halfway through his program at the University of Michigan, Craig’s anchor had simply evaporated out from under him. He'd lost everything—his motivation for school, all of it. He spent a solid month in deep mourning. And now, he sold bikes, played in his band and watched his bank account dwindle—a real twenty-three year old success story.
“Damn it. Are you listening to me?” His sister-in-law yelled, making him flinch from his reverie.
“No,” he admitted. “Sorry.” He leaned back in the creaky chair. A sudden flurry of movement in the showroom caught his eye. “I love you Grace, tell Brian I’ll talk soon.” He ended the call and let his brain focus on the smoking hot woman circling the Triumph Bonneville bike, a fancy-looking camera held to her face. His gaze traveled up the long, slim line of her dark-denim clad leg to the curve of her ass. Her whip thin waist was barely covered by what looked to be a cream silk blouse that lifted and pulled delectably as she knelt and rose, snapping her pictures.
He smiled, relishing the shivery feeling that shot down his spine as he stood and stretched. A colleague was making a be
eline for her, but he stepped out, looked around, and slid in front of the guy. “Ah yeah, the magician,” the other man said, patting his shoulder. “Go. Work it.”
Craig rolled his neck around, shrugged his shoulders and shook off the loser-itis that had been gripping him. Grace's words, he knew, meant to motivate, but only served to remind him of his failures. He didn’t that shit. He was fine. And he was about to do two of his all-time favorite things: sell a bike and nail a beautiful older woman.
As if reading his mind, she looked up, caught his eye. The sparkle there went directly to his libido, right where he wanted it. Her full lips and high cheekbones screamed perfection. He’d guess her to be about forty, if not a tad younger. She leaned back, and he took his time walking over to her, getting his A-game firmly in place.
Anyway, he was bored. Getting laid, and good, by the woman about two feet from him would shake it all loose, get his head straight. No problem.
“Taking pictures for your boyfriend?” He pointed to the camera in her hand.
“What makes you think I have one of those?” She tossed her hair back, making him bite his tongue to keep from licking his lips. He took a step closer, directly into her personal bubble, then moved past her, letting his fingers trail along the seat of the bike. The leather was soft under his palm as he put the machine between them. A small frown flickered across her face.
“Well, I would assume that someone walking around in broad daylight looking like you would have one. It’s how it goes for guys like me.” He turned the full force of his genuine smile on her.
She tilted her head. “Jesus, you’re cute. But I’m guessing you know that.”
He let himself have the blush, allowed the thick shock of his blond hair drop over his eye and then brushed it back. A corner of her dark red lips lifted, mesmerizing him. “I’m Lindsay.” She held out a hand.
He took it, lingered just the right amount of time. “Craig,” he said. “And this.” He put his hand back on the expensive bike. “Is a classic Steve McQueen Bonneville. If you’re considering it for yourself, I’m gonna ask now—will you marry me?”
Her light, pleasant laugh made his skin pebble. She touched the leather seat. “Talk to me Craig. Convince me I should spend ten grand on a motorized bicycle.”
“Well, first off you have to change your attitude about this machine.” He put his hand near hers, close enough to feel the heat of her skin. “It’s hardly a bicycle.”
She leaned forward, giving him an unimpeded view of the tops of her breasts. He raised an eyebrow at her, forced his inner beast down under a layer of polite exchange. “The classic lines are just the beginning here.” He touched the cold chrome handle, let his fingers slide down to the fuel tank. “She is so very responsive. Both smooth and powerful.” He walked around to the back and rested both hands firmly on the leather, imagining the woman’s hips under his palms in front of him.
“And when you red line her, I mean really bury the throttle deep?” He smiled when her face flushed. He touched her hand then moved away, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, then you know you’ve really scored.”
She threw her head back and let loose with a throaty laugh. Craig smiled and saw the line of salesmen across the back of the luxury bike shop watching him work. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he turned back to the woman. The fall of her inky black hair, the deep blue of her eyes, and the promise of what lay under the simple silk and denim she wore like a model made him take a long deep breath.
“Okay Craig. I think you need to take me for a ride.” He let his smile linger as she leaned over the bike seat close enough to kiss him. “On the bike, I mean.” She stepped back, tucking her camera into a case. “You know, so I can really get a sense of how much I can score."
Before he realized she could move that fast she was around on his side of the bike. Her hand touched his shoulder, then moved down and practically caressed his bicep. He tried not to gulp. He didn’t like feeling out of his league, and this woman had a strange kind of predatory vibe about her that had a red flag waving in his brain.
"On the bike, I mean.” She grinned, and her smile was sincere when she took her hand off him. He shook his head, cleared the cobwebs, and refocused on the task.
“At your service,” he said, turning and catching the keys another salesman tossed his way. He grabbed two helmets and walked the bike outside. The woman’s scent—a subtle, floral aroma surrounded by a clear spike of lust—was all up in his head, making him dizzy. His sales manager appeared by his side.
“Robinson, listen, the last time you did this.” He lifted his chin to the woman who stood nearby, strapping on a helmet. “I didn’t get the damn bike back for a week.”
Craig put a hand on the man’s shoulder, looked him right in the eye. “Don’t worry boss. I’ll bring the bike back soon. I promise.” He leaned in to the guy’s very married ear. “I gotta ride this one out, you know.” He glanced over his shoulder.
The man’s eyes glazed over at the sight of the walking orgasm looking at Craig as if she was about to eat him alive. “Yeah. Um, okay.” The man backed away.
Craig hopped on, fired up the engine, and let the woman mold herself against his back, her breasts mashed to his body, arms around his waist gripping his torso. He smiled, revved the engine, and took off into the near dusk of Ann Arbor.
Yeah. Get laid. That’s the answer.
He smiled as her hand moved along his chest, then down, just as he knew it would. He put the bike through its paces on the four-lane Jackson Road all the way into Dexter. He then flipped them onto the interstate, flooring it and letting the roar of the machine and the feel of lovely female against him block out all the noises he’d been entertaining lately in his brain. The messages from his mother, brothers and sisters-in-law about getting his act together and going back to school, the clear signals from his dwindling bank account, and the yammering of his own ego were an annoying cacophony. But the cool air whipping over his face and the feel of Lindsay’s breath on his neck gave him strength. This was what he needed, period.
“Get off at State Street” she said in his ear. “Twelve eleven Pauline Drive. That’s my place. I think we should take a break.”
He nodded, and drove them up the exit ramp. The sky was getting purple, clouds scudded over the moon, and he felt like five million bucks. He was going to fuck this woman’s brains out and all was right in his world. Her hand hit his thigh. “You okay with that, sales boy?”
He chuckled and gunned the bike through the intersection making her squeal and press against him, in a most satisfying way. He let her whisper guide him, her hand moving up his leg and blatantly cupping his erection, as he steered the bike over South Main and past Michigan Stadium to Pauline.
It was almost full dark when they pulled into her drive and under an overhang, in lieu of a garage. He put the kickstand down and took off his helmet. Her hands trailed back up his torso and lingered over his shoulders. He climbed off and let the helmet drop to the concrete. His body was calling the shots, and he let it, happy to rest his brain that had been causing him no end of stress and anxiety. She lifted one long leg up and over the seat and then just stood, letting her helmet dangle from her fingers.
“You said something about a break?” he whispered. He willed her to make the first move. As he expected, she planted her feet on either side of his, and ran her hand up his arm, gripped his neck, but stopped, letting her lips linger just close enough.
“I want more than a break Craig,” she said, her low voice making his cock even harder, which surprised him, considering. “No games. No bullshit. I want you.” She reached down to unbuckle his belt then leaned up and bit his earlobe as he reached back and gripped her ass. He sighed into her neck as she unzipped him and shoved his khakis down.
“Hmm…well, that might cost you extra.” He cupped her breast, then yanked her shirt up and flicked open her bra. “I mean, you know, I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Really,” s
he said, wrapping her hand around his cock, and bringing her lips to his. “I think you are very much that kind of guy. And I like it.”
He licked her lips, stopping just short of kissing her. His brain buzzed, and his body tensed. He loved the buildup almost more than the act itself.
Almost.
“You have too many clothes on,” he said, and unzipped her, shoving her jeans down before picking her up and setting her on the black leather Triumph seat, grateful a lack of streetlights or other ways the neighbors could catch them. He smelled her dark, lusty energy and wanted to taste it. Her breath was ragged as he stepped away, then dropped to his knees, running his hands along the slim musculature of her legs.
“That’s it,” she whispered as he licked his way up her inner thigh then flicked his tongue over her bare clit. “Somehow I knew you’d be good at this.”
She groaned as he slid his finger inside her. Her hips angled and she draped her long lean legs over his shoulders digging her heels into his back. Her smell swirled in his brain and his body took over as he sucked and finger fucked her to a loud, operatic orgasm. He stood slowly, and she wrapped her legs around him, tugging him into her orbit.
“Nice warm up, hot stuff.” She sighed and threaded her fingers in his hair. He angled into her, let the head of his cock have full contact with the heat of her glorious pussy. “But I want more.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning over her and grabbing the seat to brace himself. “Me too.” He thrust hard, and let her low moan of satisfaction fill his ears and his brain. She grabbed his ass, met him thrust for thrust, but he held back, counting backwards from twenty, and mentally reciting baseball stats while watching her face.
