by Lili Valente
Beauty isn’t a word that usually pops into my head during sex, but it’s true.
It’s beautiful with her, so easy and simple and honest. There’s no guilt or worry, no shame, there’s just this woman who throws open the doors to her self and puts her pleasure in my hands, holding nothing back.
“Damn, Trouble,” I murmur against the damp skin at her neck, eyes squeezed closed as the last tremors pulse through me. “You’re ruining me for other pussy.”
“It’s so good,” she agrees, brushing my hair from my face as she grins up at me. “But you’ll eventually recover. Even chocolate cake gets old after a while.”
“I hate chocolate cake.”
“What?” Her swollen lips form a scandalized O that makes me want to kiss her again. So I do, even as she protests between kisses that chocolate cake is the best thing that ever happened to mankind.
“Aside from cupcakes.” She leans her head back as I kiss my way down her neck. “Because cupcakes have all the fun of cake, but with a higher cake-to-icing ratio.”
“Not into sweet things. Except your pussy.” I curse softly beneath my breath. “So, I’m pretty pissed at myself for sperming it up in there and ruining it for my mouth for the rest of the night.”
She laughs. “Oh my God. Put me down.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask as she laughs harder. “What?”
“Sperming it up.” She squirms out of my arms and reaches for her discarded shorts. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you? How are you the reigning Sex King of Sonoma County when you say stuff like that?”
I shrug, grinning as I adjust my clothes. “Standards are low around here?”
“I don’t think that’s it.” She shakes her head, eyes sparkling. “I think it’s your magical cock making up for your ridiculous mouth.”
“My mouth is not ridiculous. And I’ll prove it as soon as I get you back to my place for a shower tonight.” I draw her back into my arms because ten seconds after I’ve come, I start craving her body again. She’s an addiction, this woman.
“We can’t.” Her palms brush back and forth across my chest. “You said yourself—you never know when Dylan’s coming in to work. As early as he gets up, he could be downstairs making beer before I have a chance to sneak out.”
“Then I’ll carry you out in my suitcase. You’re small. You’ll fit.”
She rolls her eyes. “No, I won’t. And my mom is watching my every move, too. She’s just looking for a reason to lecture me lately, and I don’t want to give her one by staying out all night again.”
“All right.” I sigh, reluctantly abandoning my shower plans. “As long as you’ll ride my magical cock in the back seat while I bite your nipples.”
Carrie’s teeth dig into her bottom lip as she shakes her head.
“Is that a no?”
“No,” she says softly. “That’s me wondering how you can make me want you again when I just came so hard I still can’t feel my toes.”
Dropping my hands to cup her ass, I lean close and whisper, “Because I’m ruining you, too. You’re hooked on my cock, Trouble. Admit it.”
She grins, raking her nails over my swelling length through my jeans. “Fine, I admit it. So what should we do about this mutual addiction? You think we need a twelve-step program?”
I shake my head. “No, we need twelve days alone on a beach with nothing to do but each other. I could get away in August. Maybe sooner if I get Cal to watch the shop. You up for a sex-cation? We could rent a house on the beach in Mexico, see if we can set a world orgasm record?”
“Sounds tempting,” she says even as she steps out of my arms, the tension creeping into her features making it clear I’ve said the wrong thing. “But I can’t really commit to anything in the future. I’m not in that headspace right now.”
“It’s just sex, Carrie,” I say, lips curving. “I’m not asking you to be my steady date. I’m asking you to let me make you feel good in between relaxing on the beach and drinking beer with fresh lime in it. You could use some downtime.”
“I could.” Her hands slip into her pockets as her gaze falls to the ground. “I’m just not sure where I’ll be with work and the scandal and everything else by then. I might be filing a lawsuit against the last guy I went to the beach with, you know? Doesn’t seem like the best time to head off to the beach with someone else. Especially someone I’m supposed to be keeping things low key with.”
I nod, fighting not to let my disappointment show. It’s bad enough that I’m so bummed that she turned me down. It would be even worse if she knew it. Instead, I smile and nod toward the increasingly shadowy interior of the shed. “I hear you. No big deal. But we should probably pick a movie. It’s almost dark enough to start something.”
She grins, clearly relieved. “Oh, good. I’m excited. I’ve never been to a drive-in.”
“Drive-in virgin, huh?” I tease as I step around her. “Don’t worry, I won’t be gentle.”
“I would hope not,” she quips.
I slap her ass, making her laugh as we flip on the lights and open the metal locker holding the Tate film collection. We find a copy of Sixteen Candles at the back of the locker, behind Good Morning Vietnam and Full Metal Jacket, and settle in for some light-hearted teen angst.
We’ve barely made it past the first fifteen minutes, however, before we’re all over each other again, tumbling into the backseat as the movie flickers in the background.
As promised, Carrie straddles me, riding me as I suck and bite her nipples, giving me exactly what I want from her—hot sex with no strings.
She’s right. It’s better this way. Just her and me and this moment, without a past or a future or anything to interfere with how simple and perfect this pleasure is.
But when I drop her off at the edge of the vineyard later, so she can sneak into her tiny cottage unobserved, I can’t help wishing I was going with her.
Or that she was coming with me.
Wanting more time doesn’t mean I want feelings or the future. Wanting more time just means I want to wake up with her in my bed so we can start the day off as nature intended—with an orgasm or two—and have sex in a hammock on the beach.
I just need to find a better way to pose the question, a way that won’t scare off my commitment-phobic sex kitten. Luckily for me, as a long-standing commitment-avoider myself, I know where she’s coming from.
By the time I get home, I already have a few ideas simmering.
I’m going to have Carrie in my bed again. Oh yes, I will…
It’s just a matter of time…
Chapter 15
Carrie
Three days later…
For the first time since Rafe and I started our Bang-a-Pa-Looza, he has to work late, so I rearrange my schedule to make sure I’m out accomplishing things instead of sitting alone in the cottage, listening to my vagina softly weep.
Because my vagina is ridiculous and spoiled rotten and has nothing at all to cry about. At least not right now. When I go back to Berkeley and my fuck buddy is no longer an easy fifteen-minute trip across town, and I have to go weeks or even months without Rafe’s penis in my life, that will be a different story.
But I won’t think about that now.
I can’t think about it.
I have enough on my plate between navigating my P.R. nightmares, finishing a book that’s due in October, and pulling together a Yappy Hour wine, beer, and puppy-treat fundraiser eighteen days from now.
I should have had these fliers printed and posted two days ago. And if I were a smart organizer, determined to use her time wisely, I would text Zoey, get her and Tristan’s thoughts via email, and move forward with the printing without wasting time driving all the way out to the shelter.
But the shelter is my only semi-reasonable excuse to leave the cottage, so I print out my flier designs in Emma’s office and prepare to make my escape before family dinner commences. Emma always offers to include me, but I don’t want to impose upon her newly-
married life more than once or twice a week, especially not on nights when my mother has been sitting for Mercy and joins them for the evening meal. If we were being honest, I think Mom and I would both admit that we need more time apart than we’ve been getting, but I also have no doubt that Renee will lay on a guilt trip for skipping family bonding time if she catches me on my way out.
Stealth is of the utmost importance…
On kitty-cat silent feet, I sneak out of Emma’s office and through the living room with the fliers tucked under one arm and my purse slung over the other. The door to Mercy’s room remains closed, and not a peep comes from the other side of the house, making me think my mom might be taking a nap, too.
Score!
I’m out the door, the Mini Monster in sight and my keys in hand, when a voice from the rocking chair on the porch announces, “You shouldn’t be exhausting yourself with charity work right now, Carrie,” making me jump and drop everything, sending my purse thudding onto the porch and fliers scattering across the planks.
“Jesus, Mom, you scared me!” I turn to see Renee camped out in the red rocker. My niece coos happily on her lap, deeply engrossed in chewing on her stuffed fox’s oversized ear. “Why are you lurking out here when it’s a hundred degrees outside? You and Mercy should be inside in the air conditioning.”
“It’s perfectly nice in the shade,” Mom says with a sniff. “And Mercy and I like to have our afternoon treat on the porch so we can watch Mama come home.”
“Mama!” Mercy pipes up with a smile, pointing a pudgy finger toward the vineyard where my sister is busy supervising the thinning of the fruit.
I smile and nod. “She’ll be home soon. You love your mama, huh?”
Mercy kicks her legs and lets out a delighted squeal that breaks my heart a little.
What must it be like to be Emma? To know that just coming home from work is going to thrill the daylights out of this adorable person waiting for her? I’ve always had a soft spot for babies, but it wasn’t until I became an aunt that I started to seriously consider motherhood as part of my long-term plan. Seeing the incredible bond between Emma and Mercy, and how sweet that mama love is, makes me want it for myself someday.
“Dogs and cats are great if you’ve got time to spare,” my mother continues, reminding me that mother-daughter bonds aren’t always rosy and sweet. “But they’re not going to pay your bills.” She ducks her head, cooing in a high-pitched voice as she tickles my niece’s belly, “Isn’t that right, Mercy? Aunty Carrie needs to figure out her Plan B, not work for free.”
“I’m not working for free,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over Mercy’s squeal of laughter. “I’m getting paid to coordinate the fundraiser for the shelter. And I don’t need a Plan B. I’m under contract for two more books and sales of the first books in the series are still strong.”
“That’s not what I heard,” my mom says, still in her baby voice though she’s clearly talking to me, not Mercy. “Emma told me your agent said sales were down and he wants you to work on a thriller under another pen name.”
Jaw clenching, I silently curse my sister’s loose lips. Though, honestly, my mom could wring gossip out of a turnip. She’s that good at ferreting out things she’s not supposed to know.
“It’s fine.” I stoop down to gather the fliers from the porch. “Down doesn’t mean they aren’t still solid, and Seth suggested the thriller because I asked him about writing for adults and where he thought I might find an audience. It was about expanding and trying new things, not abandoning what’s already working.”
Renee’s lips prune in a silently dubious display, making Mercy laugh. She reaches for her grandma’s mouth, doing her best to pull the lips from Renee’s face and making my mother’s next words impossible to understand.
Thank goodness for those sweet, grabby little fingers.
“Can’t hear you, Mom, gotta go,” I call over my shoulder as I jog down the stairs to my car.
Thankfully the Mini Monster starts on the first try, and I’m rumbling across the gravel and up the lane before Renee regains control of her mouth.
I know Emma’s happy that Mom has committed to babysitting three afternoons a week so Mercy doesn’t have to go to daycare, but I can’t help wishing my mother’s generosity of spirit had stayed offline for a few more weeks. All the quality time with her has my jaw perpetually clenched and my shoulders full of stress knots.
Even with my nightly escapes with Rafe and my mornings spent in self-imposed isolation—writing as fast as I can before the tiny house heats to an insufferable level of stuffiness—I’m seeing way more of her than I would like to, bringing back memories I’ve done my best to avoid pulling out of the closet. Memories that highlight the undeniable fact that Emma has always been the golden child and I the disappointing second roll of the dice.
As a kid it didn’t bother me too much—Emma adored and coddled me enough to make up for two disinterested mothers—but after she went to college things got ugly. So ugly I’ve never told my sister about all of it. If Emma knew, it might affect her relationship with Mom, and as much as I resent Renee sometimes, I don’t want to do that to her. Or to Emma.
So I keep my mouth shut and let them have their relatively happy and stress-free bond. Ruining it won’t make my relationship with my mother any better. Only time travel and a personality transplant would have any hope of that, and Renee isn’t a good candidate for either.
“And I would use the time travel for myself,” I mutter as I pull onto the 101 headed north. “To go back and tell Jordan there’s no way he’s getting near me with a camera while I’m naked.”
Though, if Jordan hadn’t shot those photos, I never would have ended up camping out in Sonoma County long enough to hook up with the best fuck buddy in the entire world, or to learn that orgasms aren’t as elusive as my previous lovers led me to believe. As painful and embarrassing as this situation has been, I wouldn’t go back and change a thing—I’m that hooked on Rafe’s body and the things he makes me feel.
It’s an unnerving realization, but I shut down the trickle of foreboding before it can become more than a drip. Rafe and I are having an amazing time together, but we’re both grown-ups and decent human beings. When it’s time for this to end, we’ll find a way to make “goodbye” as easy as falling into bed was in the first place.
Everything with Rafe is easy. It’s one of the reasons he’s so much fun to spend time with—no drama, no angst, no stress or mess or worrying that I’m going to say or do the wrong thing. I can just be completely myself in the company of a man who is completely himself, and it’s all good. So good it seems like I’m always counting the minutes until I can see him again.
I arrive at A Better Way Shelter as the sun completes its slide toward the horizon, kissing the brown summer hills of the Dry Creek valley. Almost immediately, the air begins to cool, taking the edge off the July heat, a fact I greatly appreciate as I tag along with Tristan and Zoey to feed the horses.
“Wow, they look so much better than the last time I was here.” I reach out to stroke the nose of a kind-eyed bay who trots eagerly to the fence. This crew of ten mares came from a farm where they’d been half starved to death before a neighbor called to report animal cruelty, but in just over a week their ribs are already less visible.
“They’re doing so well,” Zoey agrees, handing me a handful of baby carrots to disperse among the animals while Tristan fills the feed bins. “We’re hoping to start taking applications for adoptions in a few months.”
“But they’re not saddle broken,” Tristan says, a warning in his tone. “So that’s going to slow the process down. A lot. We need to make sure we’ve got money on hand to keep them as long as a year if we need to.”
“Under control.” I pull out my flier designs for our Yappy Hour event and hand them over to Zoey. “I just need you guys to pick a design, and I’ll get them printed and hung all over the county. Emma’s going to hand them out to the winery owners at one of he
r networking events, and I’ve got a team of teen volunteers who are going to plaster Santa Rosa and the surrounding cities while I continue my phone call campaign to reach out to top donors I’ve culled from your list.”
“Thanks, Carrie.” Tristan joins Zoey and me by the fence as the horses finish the last of the carrots in my outstretched palm and move on to the now full feeding troughs. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“My pleasure.,” I say, lifting a hand to shade my face from the setting sun as I glance up into Tristan’s face.
He looks so much like Rafe—same dark eyes and bronze god skin—but so different, too. Not any less handsome, but definitely more haunted, as if he’s taking life twice as seriously to make up for his brother’s devil-may-care attitude. The shadows under his eyes look even worse than the last time I stopped by, making me think Tristan could use some TLC as much as the horses he’s helping bring back from the brink.
“This one,” Zoey says, pulling my attention her way. She holds up the flier featuring bulldog puppies in martini glasses. “I love it. It’s so insanely cute I can hardly stand it. But see what you think, boss.”
Tristan shakes his head, refusing the papers Zoey holds out toward him. “I trust you. You’ve got a better grip on cuteness than I do. If you say that’s the one, then that’s the one.”
Zoey grins. “All right. I’ll go print them up.”
“I can do that,” I say, patting my purse. “I’ve got a zip drive with the file on it. I can just swing by the printer in town on my way home.”
“No need,” Zoey says. “We’ve got a great printer here. If you want to give me the drive, I can have them done in a few minutes. Cut out the middleman and spare you a trip.”
