Her Best Worst Mistake

by Sarah Mayberry

  He reached for patience. “Violet—”

  She held up a hand. “No, Martin. I’m not going to be browbeaten into submission. I’m not a delicate flower, I’m not a people-pleaser, and I don’t need or want your protection. Us having sex doesn’t make you automatically responsible for me. In case you hadn’t noticed, that kind of thinking went out with pointy bras and girdles.”

  She tossed her hair, her chin lifted defiantly. Not so long ago, that little chin lift had made him want to punch a hole in the wall. Now, it made him want to get close enough to kiss her full, pink mouth again, a tectonic shift that made him feel decidedly off balance.

  “Let me pay for your cab then.”

  She made an outraged sound. “On what planet would I let that happen? I’m not some prostitute you need to send back to her pimp.”

  He glared at her. She was starting to piss him off. Much more familiar territory. “When have I ever indicated that I see you as a whore, Violet?”

  Her chin dropped a notch. “You haven’t. But you get my point.”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  “We had sex, Martin. You don’t owe me, and you don’t own me.” She flipped up the collar on her coat. “Let’s just agree that this was yet another stupid, impulsive mistake that happened for God-only-knows-what reason and leave it at that. You go your way, I go mine.”

  She didn’t wait for him to agree or disagree, she simply turned her back on him and started walking. He swore under his breath, a choice word from his Hackney days, then got behind the wheel. He followed her out of the mews, engine barely revving higher than an idle. She glanced at him once over her shoulder, then proceeded to ignore him as she headed for the nearest taxi stand. He shadowed her, stubbornly refusing to abandon his escort. The driver behind him leaned on his horn and Martin waved out the window, signaling that he should overtake.

  Violet threw him a bemused, annoyed look as she reached the taxi stand. Clearly, she couldn’t understand what he was doing. Why he felt responsible for her. She wasn’t the only one. It wasn’t because he felt he owed her anything—what had happened in the back seat of his car had been an exchange of equals, neither of them supplicant to the other. But he couldn’t simply drive away and abandon her as though their encounter had been as casual as shaking hands. It had been intense, mind-blowing, consuming.

  He frowned as he watched Violet slip into the back of a cab, confused by his own thoughts and feelings. The taxi signaled, then pulled out from the curb. Martin followed. At the next intersection, Violet’s cab turned left, he turned right.

  When he’d left her apartment a month ago, he’d honestly believed he’d never see her again. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe that any more. Whether he liked it or not, he was drawn to Violet Sutcliffe. He might fight it—he would fight it—but he had no confidence that he’d win. Not after what had just happened. There wasn’t a cold shower in the world that would cure the memories he was taking home with him tonight.

  It wasn’t until he was undressing half an hour later that he realized he still had her panties in his pocket. He drew them out, looking at them for the first time. Black silk, beautiful quality. She’d want them back, no doubt. First thing on Monday he’d put them in the mail.

  Even as he thought it he knew it was a lie. But for now he allowed himself to believe it, because he was nowhere near ready to even attempt to reconcile his lust and need for Violet with everything else he wanted in his life.

  Violet poured herself a stiff drink the moment she got home. She sat on the deep windowsill and stared down at the street, watching pedestrians scurry along, faces muffled in scarves.

  She’d slept with Martin again. In the back seat of his car, no less.

  Craziness. Absolute craziness, of the kind she hadn’t indulged in since she was a desperately unhappy, reckless teen, bent on self destruction.

  Tonight hadn’t felt self-destructive, though. It had felt necessary. Inevitable. And it had felt good. So good. The feel of his skin on hers. The taste of his mouth. The thick hardness of him moving inside her...

  She could feel herself growing wet again. She swallowed more vodka and pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window.

  Maybe her stepmother had been right all those years ago, maybe she was a born slut. Amoral, self indulgent, undisciplined. Maybe that was why she’d pushed aside decades of friendship with a wonderful, loving woman in exchange for ten excruciatingly hot minutes in Martin’s arms.

  It was tempting to flagellate herself, to really give in to the self-disgust that hovered, waiting to descend, but everything in her rejected that old, cruel judgment. She’d fought too long and too hard to regain her self esteem after the disaster that was her teens to let such an ancient recrimination take root in her mind again.

  The truth was that what had happened with Martin had been extraordinary. A temptation beyond the usual. She didn’t understand why he had to be the one who set her world on fire so spectacularly, but the fact remained that he did. One look and she’d been ready to have him anywhere, any time. One touch of his hand on her flesh and she’d been ready to come.

  In another time and place, she would welcome him into her bed and ride out their mutual passion until it burned itself down to ash. But Elizabeth was an intrinsic part of her world. She couldn’t allow desire and need and lust to destroy the most enduring relationship of her life. She simply couldn’t.

  She tossed back the last of the vodka, then went to bed. Only when she was drifting toward sleep did she allow herself to think back to those moments in the back of Martin’s car again.

  The street light reflecting off his dark hair. The hard, urgent thrust of his body inside hers. The firm strength of his muscles. The heady spice of his aftershave.

  Oh, it had been good. So good.

  She felt a single moment of deep, piercing loss as she registered the thought. Which was crazy, because it was just sex. It didn’t mean anything.

  She was still puzzling over her own reaction as she slipped into sleep.

  Everything was much clearer the next day. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she’d made a terrible mistake in allowing herself to get swept up in her desire for Martin again. It wouldn’t happen a third time. From now on, she would check if Martin was on the guest list before she agreed to any social event. And if he was, she would bow out. People would wonder, but she could excuse herself on the basis that she felt uncomfortable because of Elizabeth.

  It was painfully true, but not for the reasons that people would assume.

  Christmas was just five shopping days away, and the store was busy all morning with people looking for last minute presents. She didn’t normally stay open past three in the afternoons on Sundays, but at this time of year it paid to make an exception. She skipped lunch, and by four was feeling more than a little famished. Taking advantage of a lull, she ducked into the back room. She’d bought a bag full of mangos the previous day, an indulgence to cheer herself up in the midst of winter. She sliced into one now, peeling the flesh away from the pit before cutting it in a checker pattern and eating it in a greedy rush. The sweet juices ran down her chin and she had to wash her face at the sink when she’d finished. The bell over the door hadn’t chimed to signal any more customers, so she reached for a second mango and sliced it in two. She was about to get sticky and messy all over again when the chime sounded.

  Well. At least she’d gotten something into her empty stomach. She dried her hands on a piece of paper towel, then tossed it into the bin as she returned to the shop floor.

  “Good afternoon, how can I—”

  She stopped in her tracks, words momentarily escaping her. Martin didn’t speak, either. He simply stood there watching her, his dark gaze intent and hot. She felt an answering heat spring to life inside her, even as she gathered her will to send him packing.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They were both lying. She hadn’t n
eeded to ask why he was there, and they both knew what he wanted.

  “We can’t keep doing this,” she said weakly.

  So much for sending him packing. So much for being a good friend.

  “Tell me how to make it stop, then.” He took a step toward her. “I’ve got court tomorrow. I’m supposed to be going over financial statements, but all I can think about is you. Why is that, Violet? When a few weeks ago we could barely stand one another?”

  “I don’t know.” She didn’t, either. She didn’t understand how all the things that had once infuriated her about him now turned her on so much it hurt. His neatly combed hair. His precision-close shave. The crispness of his pale blue shirt. The quiet quality of his corduroy blazer, complete with leather elbow patches.

  Once, his neatness had driven her nuts. Now she looked at all that careful order and saw the tightly leashed need beneath. She saw the strong cords in his neck and the fullness of his bottom lip. She saw the breadth of his shoulders and the firm, gym-honed hardness of his thighs. She saw the tamped-down desire in his eyes and was powerless to resist her own instinctive response.

  “Lock the door,” she said.

  He hesitated a moment, then turned and twisted the lock. She watched as he flipped the open sign to closed. Then she watched as he walked toward her. Her gaze dropped to the bulge in his jeans. She took a deep, bracing breath.

  Oh, boy, this was going to be good.

  He closed the final few feet between them and kept coming until he had her pressed against the counter.

  “I can’t get you out of my head, Violet.”

  She slid her hands inside his jacket, smoothing her hands over warm, fine cotton. “Shut up and kiss me.”

  She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think or consider or weigh the decision she’d just made. If she stopped long enough, she’d remember why she shouldn’t, couldn’t do this. And she needed Martin. She needed him so badly...

  He didn’t wait to be asked twice. His head lowered, his mouth capturing hers. His tongue stroked into her mouth, confident, demanding. His hands found her breasts, plucking at her nipples through the softness of her cashmere sweater. The ache between her thighs intensified to a demanding throb. She reached blindly for the buttons on his shirt, sliding them free one at a time.

  The door rattled. She broke their kiss, glancing over her shoulder to see someone peering through the glass panel. Martin’s hand fell from her breasts. She took it and used it to tow him into the back room, kicking the door shut behind them. There wasn’t much in here—an old pine table, a couple of bentwood chairs, the sink and microwave and fridge—but it didn’t matter. The important thing was that Martin was here, and no one could interrupt them.

  Belatedly it occurred to her that they could go upstairs. It wasn’t exactly miles away, after all.

  “Do you want to—”

  Martin swallowed her words with a kiss, the force of his desire tilting her head back. His hands found her backside and he lifted her onto the table. She automatically spread her legs as he moved between them, her knee-length skirt bunching up around her thighs. He pulled her sweater over her head, his grey gaze sweeping from breast to breast. He cupped her, then lowered his head and drew first one nipple and then the other into his mouth. The wet heat and the insistent pull combined to make her moan. She reached for his buckle but he nudged her hands away.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  She braced her arms behind her on the table and gave herself over to his sensual assault. He licked and sucked and bit her nipples, lavishing attention on her. Heat built between her thighs, an aching throb that demanded satisfaction.

  As though he sensed her need, Martin smoothed a hand beneath her skirt, gliding his palm over her stay up stockings, pausing briefly when his hand moved from stocking to warm skin. He lifted his head from her breasts, his eyes sharp and knowing as they looked into hers. Then he pushed her skirt high and surveyed what his hands had just discovered.

  She followed his gaze and saw herself spread before him, the black lace of her stay-ups framing the pale skin of her upper thighs. His gaze zeroed in on the pale pink silk of her panties. She bit her lip as he reached out and ran his index finger lightly down the crease of her sex. Her breath came out in a shudder. His touch delicate, Martin slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of her underwear and gently slid them down her hips. He didn’t take his gaze from her as she lifted her backside to allow him to remove then entirely. A heartbeat later she was bared to him.

  Once again he stepped between her thighs, pushing her wide with his body and his hands. Her arms gave out and she sank onto her back as he framed her sex with both hands.

  “I’ve been dreaming about this. About you,” he said, his voice very deep.

  She lifted her hips as he delved between her thighs, the movement sending the knife she’d used earlier tumbling from the other end of the table.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said when Martin glanced at her.

  She willed him to return to what he’d been about to do but his gaze had fallen on something behind her on the table.

  “Is that a mango?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love mangoes.”

  There was something about the way he said it that made her heart bang against her ribs with sudden, heightened excitement. He leaned past her and picked up the mango half she’d been about to eat before the bell announced his presence. He lifted it to his mouth and took a bite.

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “Yes.” The word was barely a whisper.

  He considered the mango, then her widespread thighs. His gaze lifted to hers. She reached for the edge of the table and held on for dear life as he brought the mango between her thighs. The cool, slippery, sensual pressure of the fruit against her sex made her moan. His gaze locked with hers, Martin dropped to his knees. She watched as he studied her for a beat, his cheekbones flushed with desire. Then he lowered his head and replaced the mango with his mouth.

  His tongue lapped at her, by turns rough and firm then fast and light. He tracked rivulets of mango juice across her skin, sucking and licking and devouring her most sensitive flesh. She lost all sense of time, all sense of place. The world was reduced to his mouth on her and the hot, wet press of his tongue and the rising tension in her body.

  He pressed the mango against her again, and again replaced it with his mouth. He was so avid, so ardent. She’d never had a man go down on her like this, as though she was the most succulent, delicious thing he’d ever tasted. As though he could never get enough of her.

  Her climax rippled through her body. She panted and gripped the table and rode it out as he coaxed more and more sensation from her. Only when she was sobbing with pleasure did he pull back, pressing kisses into her thighs, smoothing his hands over her hips and belly.

  She closed her eyes for a second, trying to recover. She heard the sound of a condom being opened. When she opened her eyes again, he was rolling the condom down the thick length of his erection. The slow, patient way he stroked the latex into place was deeply erotic. She imagined him touching himself like that in the privacy of his bedroom.

  Did he think of her when he touched himself? Did he imagine it was her hand instead of his own?

  His gaze focused on the heart of her as he took himself in hand. He found her entrance, wet and hot from her climax, and slid the head of his cock inside. It felt incredibly good, exactly what she needed. She murmured her approval. He lifted his gaze to hers, then slid deep inside her.

  He smoothed his palms up her ribcage to her breasts as he started to pump into her. She wrapped her legs around him and gave herself over to the slide of his body against hers and the ratcheting need inside herself.

  She came first, her body clutching at his, and he followed seconds later, his breath leaving him in an anguished, desperate rush.

  He withdrew almost immediately, turning his back to take care of the condom. She didn’t bother sitting up
and making herself decent this time.

  She wasn’t decent. She was driven by and obsessed with a man who used to be her enemy. A man who used to belong to her best friend. If Elizabeth hadn’t called off the wedding, they would be getting married in just a few weeks.

  The thought made Violet reach for her skirt and draw it back down over her thighs. Martin turned to face her and she could see her own confusion mirrored in his eyes. He didn’t know what this was, either.

  It was some consolation. Not much, but it was better than nothing.

  The worst thing was, she couldn’t kid herself that this would never happen again any more. She couldn’t deny him. And he couldn’t stay away from her, if today and last night were anything to go by.

  His expression shuttered, Martin handed her her sweater. She shrugged into it, then slid off the table and scooped her panties off the floor. Martin followed her into the shop, watching silently as she cashed out the till. Together they climbed the stairs to her apartment, still not talking.

  When they entered, she threw her bag onto the couch and turned to face him.

  “I need a shower.” He’d been incredibly thorough, but she was sticky with mango juice.

  “Okay.”

  She started for the bathroom, then glanced over her shoulder. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

  He looked delightfully surprised, as though it had genuinely never occurred to him that they could shower together, or that she might want him to. A small, almost naughty smile curved his lips as he started after her.

  Something in her chest got caught on that smile. He looked happy. The notion that she might have the capacity to bring him happiness—as distinct from pleasure—was a revelation.

  He reached her side and lowered his head to press a kiss against the side of her neck.

  “Tell me you have a big shower,” he murmured against her skin.

  “It’s tiny. Barely big enough for one.”

  “We’ll make do.”