by Frankie Love
I shimmy them down, inch by inch.
“You’re teasing me, now,” she groans playfully.
“I am,” I admit. “But I don’t want to rush this, Greta.”
“Why’s that, man-bun?”
“That’s my nickname, now?”
“I think you’ve earned it.”
I laugh, pulling the panties past her ankles, and pushing my boxers down as well. I lean over her, hands on either side of her narrow frame. “You make me nervous,” I admit. “Excited, but nervous.”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of guy who gets nervous around women,” she says. The moonlight floats through the window, casting a faint glow on Greta’s face.
In this moment she looks so beautiful, so delicate—it’s the light of the moon, sure, but more than that, I see something desperate in her eyes.
She’s more than she lets on and I don’t know what she is exactly, but I know it’s something special. It’s like there’s another person behind those eyes, a person who hasn’t opened up in a long time.
“Usually I’m confident, but now, being here with you … it’s like….” I shake my head, embarrassed at the sentiments I am so close to sharing.
“What?” she asks. Her nearly naked body is under me, and her legs move, as I inch closer to her. It isn’t forced—being here with her feels like second nature—which makes no sense—Greta is a stranger.
“It’s like I suddenly feel inexperienced. Like, you know more about your body … about being loved, err, touched, than any other woman I’ve been with.”
She runs a hand through my long hair, looking in my eyes. “I know a thing or two about love, but not much about hooking up. I’m guessing you have a lot you could teach me, Ansel.”
“Should I be offended that you think I sleep around a lot?” I tease.
She twists her lips, and wraps her legs around me. She reaches a hand between us, taking hold of my hard cock. Fuck, it feels good to be touched by her.
“You’re the most handsome man I’ve been with in ages—I mean no offense when I say you look like a guy who has lots of sex.” She runs her hand up and down my length, and I pull her cami down, needing to kiss her breasts. I pull down the cups of her bra, licking her nipples, turned on by how fucking big her tits are.
“You’re so gorgeous, Greta,” I tell her, slipping a hand between her legs, feeling how wet she is. I groan as I touch her cunt, loving the fact that soon I will press myself inside her, and make her scream my name.
Reaching for a condom in my jeans picket, I roll it on quickly. Then I return to her—running the tip of my cock against her creamy pussy. I kiss her neck, her ear, her nose.
“You don’t need to flatter me to get me in bed,” she says softly. “I’m already here.”
“Greta, there is no flattery in my words, only the truth. You are divine, and tonight, you are mine.”
Chapter 6
Greta
He pushes himself inside me, gently, and I bite my lip, shocked at his size, my pussy stretches to take him—my body already begging for more. One inch at a time won’t do—I need to be filled and fucked and fueled.
I need him to make love to me and at the same time, take me hard. Harder. As hard as he can. I want it all tonight. I want to remember what it is like to be consumed.
He runs a hand under my cami, and I don’t steer it away. I may not be ready for the lights to be on, for him to see stretch marks from pregnancy, but I do want to be touched. Taken.
I inhale as his hands run over my belly, holding me at my waist as he sinks inside of me. He is big, filling me so completely.
“Am I hurting you?” he asks, brushing away a loose strand of my hair.
I whimper, but shake my head. “No. It feels so good. So right. Please. Don’t stop.”
I close my eyes, the worries from my real life slipping away—Milo and Lucy and Christmas shopping and gingerbread houses—all of it disappears as Ansel rocks his perfectly shaped body against my own.
As he takes me, his muscles intimidate me in their absolute strength, but it makes me feel safe too, beneath him. He towers over me as he fills me up. Under him, it’s like he’s the shelter from the storm.
I’ve missed this sensation, the way my pussy opens to take a man, the way my heart pounds as my skin remembers what it means to be kissed and held and licked and fucked—so many good memories. As Ansel moves against me, I wrap my arms around his neck, clinging to him as we move toward climax.
I’m loud—I forgot that about myself. And Ansel laughs, teasing me for my cries.
“You’re more wild than I expected,” he growls in my ear, turning me on even more. I roll out from under him, climb on top, straddling him. I pin him down playfully with one hand, as I lift my ass and ease him back where he belongs. Deep inside of me.
“Oh, god, woman,” he groans as I rock my hips in a circle.
“I’m so close,” I moan, moving faster and faster. “Oh, Ansel, oh, oh.” I come hard, my hands pressing against his chest as the orgasm washes over me. The pleasure ripples through my body and Ansel knows it. It makes him needy and I know he’s ready to come. He thrusts inside me, hard, coming against me too.
“Oh, hell,” he groans in pleasure as we rock softly until we both still against one another. I look down at him, this man that is unlike anyone I know—handsome and so damn smooth—and I laugh. Hard.
Hard enough that I cover my mouth as the laughter escapes.
The room is dark but I can faintly make out his face and for a moment his brow is knit with concern. “That bad, huh?”
I erupt in a fit of giggles, leaning down, close enough to kiss him. “Not bad at all. In fact, it was exactly, one hundred percent amazing.” I’m on my back and he is above me; it’s a moment full of moonlight and stolen kisses and skin on skin.
A moment where all is right.
“Thank you,” I say softly, as the laughter fades.
“For what?” he asks, rolling beside me on the bed, lacing his fingers with mine, and kissing the top of my hand.
“For reminding me that I’m alive, breathing.”
“Oh baby,” he says, wrapping an arm around me again. “You’re not breathing, you’re panting.”
I laugh again, covering my face with my hands, as Ansel lowers himself on the bed and pushes apart my legs.
Guess if I was looking for a good time, I’ve found it.
I wake around three am, with a start. I sit up in bed, looking around, disoriented. Then I see Ansel, bare chested and asleep, beside me.
Blinking, I remember the night. Did I seriously just sleep with that hunk-a-hunk-a-burning-love? I’m such a dork—yet he was all over me. It’s been so long since I felt so adored.
My shoulders fall and my face breaks out into a grin.
I seriously dominated that one-night stand.
Slipping from the bed, I tiptoe around the room and grab my clothes, dressing quickly. Standing in Ansel’s doorway, I pause, smiling at what is clearly the most uninhibited experience of my life.
Walking home in the early morning, I use the flashlight on my phone to lead the way—but that small stream of light is hardly necessary—right now I’m on cloud nine.
At home I shower and change quickly, knowing I need to get to the bakery to start the morning routine that starts at four am sharp. The biggest downfall of this profession is the early morning. I usually have a sitter who comes to be with the kids, but today they’re with Hazel and Clive.
I put on my uniform of choice, thick black leggings, a tunic long enough to cover my ass, and clogs. Not sexy, but certainly practical.
Pulling my winter coat back on, I head to Main Street, knowing the smile on my face is going to tell Maggie everything she’ll be dying to know.
A few minutes later, I am adding yeast and hot water to the giant Hobart. The floor mixer is my BFF most mornings as I get my famous cinnamon buns ready for the oven.
When Mags walks in a few minutes after I arrive
, tying an apron to her waist she doesn’t wait to ask. “So did you do it?”
I flip on the mixer and the yeast begins to froth. Not looking up at her, I measure flour in a commercial grade container. “Do what?” I ask.
She walks right over to me. “Oh, don’t you even. Dish!”
I look up at her and another laugh escapes me. Why is everything suddenly so freaking hilarious?
“Holy shit—you slept with Mr. Man Bun, didn’t you?”
I bite my bottom lip, raising my eyes, nodding my head. Suddenly tears fill my eyes. Apparently I’m manic too, because one minute I’m giddy, the next I’m stifling a sob.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mags says, taking my hand. “It’s okay. Luke knows you—”
I cut her off. “No, it’s not about Luke, Mags. Luke knows I love him more than life— I don’t doubt that. He’d want me to be happy.”
Maggie tilts her head. “Then why the tears? Oh God, did this guy do—”
I cut her off again. “No, Ansel was an absolute gentleman.”
“Then why are you crying?”
I wipe my eyes, collecting myself. “He made me feel … like I was…” I stop talking, feeling ridiculous to say these things out loud.
“Feel what?” Mags asks gently.
“He made me feel like I was more than a mom or a widow. I felt like I was a twenty-seven year old woman who was wanted. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel that way again.” I smirk. “Well, I knew I’d never feel like that with the guys who are from Linesworth—they’re all terrified of hitting on Luke’s wife.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
I raise a brow. “It wasn’t like that. It was sex. I mean, do you remember how handsome he was? He wouldn’t want to date a mom. He thinks I’m some girl on vacation. “
Maggie shakes her head, smiling too. “I’m glad you had fun, no one deserves it like you, Greta. I can’t remember the last time I saw you so happy.”
It’s hard to hear. “I’m happy.”
Mags shrugs. “You have a lot on your plate. I just like the idea of my sister having fun. It’s been a long time.”
I give her a squeeze and return to the mixer. “These cinnamon rolls won’t make themselves.”
“Yeah,” Mags snorts. “You should bring one to your Man Bun and see what he thinks of your cinnamon center.”
“Ewww,” I say, laughing. “I don’t even want to know what that might mean.”
“It means if you get the chance, you should see him again while he’s in town.”
I add flour to the dough, thinking she’s right. Truth is, I’d like some more cookie in my crumble, and some more icing on my cake.
Chapter 7
Ansel
“She didn’t leave her number or last name or anything?” Torin asks, pulling open the fridge.
I shake my head, running a hand over my beard. Damn, I wish I’d heard her when she left this morning.
“I know her sister, Maggie, is local, but that doesn’t help considering I know nothing about her.”
“You really want to see her again?” Jonas asks, reaching for his toast as it pops from the toaster. “Dammit,” he says, holding up a blackened piece of bread.
“I’ve got to see her again. It’s not a question.”
“Well before we can figure out how to canvass the town looking for Greta, can we go find some coffee?” Torin asks. “We don’t have any.”
“And we need breakfast, too,” Jonas says, tossing his bread in the trash. “This burnt toast isn’t gonna cut it. I want more of those cinnamon buns I grabbed us yesterday.”
“Agreed,” I say. “Those were the most amazing things I’ve ever eaten.”
“We know, bro, you practically came while you ate them,” Jonas jokes. “It was weird.”
“Whatever,” I scoff. “They were good.”
A few minutes later we’re walking down the snow covered sidewalk of Main Street. The mountains rise above us, the bright white snow blinding us with the morning sunlight.
“Are you planning on recording again after the new year?” I ask Jonas and Torin as we walk.
“We’re breaking until March. The tour kicked our butts. You should be happy you got out of the industry when you did.”
“Yeah, I’m happy to be doing my own thing, but I miss the collaboration sometimes, you know?”
“I bet,” Jonas says. “Being a writer, alone all day, seems like it could get old.”
“But getting a fat ass advance for the sequel was pretty sweet,” Torin notes, shoving me.
“New topic,” I say, hating to talk about my writing—especially since I haven’t made much headway with my work-in-progress. I know I got hella lucky with my first novel. I took a break from song writing, and wrote a book that had been burning a hole in my heart—next thing you know, I get an agent who sells it in a month.
“Fine,” Torin says, making a snowball and throwing it right at me. “We’ll lay off,” he jokes. “We know how sensitive writers can get.”
“Hey, watch it,” I say shoving a snow ball of my own in his face.
We laugh, walking until we get to the bakery Jonas found yesterday. We push inside a warm and cozy establishment that’s full of customers, which is a good sign. The coffee smells amazing too. Cases upon cases of baked goods tempt me and I’m drooling over the memory of yesterday’s cinnamon bun.
But then I look up at the person behind the counter. My face breaks into an incredulous grin.
“Greta?” I walk toward her, ditching my friends. She’s wearing an apron, her hair is in a knot on the top of her head, and she’s putting a pie in a box for the customer in front of me.
She looks up when I say her name—eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, uh, hi, Ansel.” Her head whips over to the other apron-clad person behind the counter— her sister Maggie.
Her sister jumps in and takes the box from Greta, assisting the customer.
Greta runs her hands over her apron front, refusing to meet my gaze. Her cheeks are bright red—she’s been caught in the act, only I don’t know what she’s hiding.
“Why’d you tell me you were on vacation?” I ask.
Behind me a bossy older woman asks if I’m going to take all day.
“Uh, no,” I tell her. Turning back to Greta, I say, “I’ll take a cinnamon bun. They’re the best I’ve ever had.”
Greta finally looks up at me, the hint of a smile on her lips. “I make them. They’re my specialty.”
I look her over, Greta the baker, I like it. Totally hot and not what I expected. I lean in and whisper, “Not surprised, considering how fast you made my dough rise.”
Her face is flaming red and she whisper screams. “There. Are. Other. Customers.”
I laugh loving the idea of getting her all worked up. “Right.” Shaking my head, I add, “Listen, why’d you lie about where you live?”
She scrunches up her face—looking so damn cute when she does. “Look, my life is complicated so I thought it might be easier if I—”
“Lied?”
“I guess. I know, that sounds stupid, but…” She hands me the paper pastry bag. “Do you want anything to go with that?”
I smirk. “Oh. I’d like plenty to go with that.”
Greta’s eyebrows raise and she leans over the counter, pulling at my coat collar so she can whisper. “Listen, you might have the wrong idea about me. Last night—”
“Was amazing,” I finish for her. Damn, she was more than amazing. She was the best sex of my life.
She was a real woman, who knew her body, yet at the same time vulnerable. It was the most desirable combination I’ve ever encountered. She’s the woman I’ve been waiting for.
“Sure, amazing, whatever,” she says, swatting the air. “But there’s a lot about me you—”
“Are you seeing someone?”
“God no. Nothing like that.”
Behind me the woman butts in. “Greta, I’m in a hurry. I just need a dozen donuts for the bridge c
lub.”
Greta gives the woman a gentle smile. “Right, of course, I’ll get that for you.”
Maggie slides over, taking a paper box from her sister’s hand. “Actually, I got this. Why don’t you make Ansel a latte, sis?”
Greta mouths a thank you then she spins around to an espresso machine while her sister takes over the line of customers.
“I don’t drink lattes. Just drip, and black,” I tell her curvy backside.
She wordlessly shimmies down to a coffee pot and fills my cup. “Here,” she says. “I’m surprised you drink black coffee. I’d have pegged you for some fancy latte guy.”
I scoff. “Just what kind of guy do you think I am?”
She laughs. “A guy with a man bun.”
I shake my head. “It was a bet. I lost. I had to wear my hair like that— I swear.”
She smiles, shoulders falling.
“So if you aren’t dating someone else,” I say. “Why pretend to be from out of town?”
She exhales, rearranging a tray of apple fritters. “Look, I wanted to have fun last night, and if I led with my actual life, I would have scared you away.”
“What aren’t you saying?”
“I don’t want to get into it, Ansel. But thank you for last night. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”
I run a hand over my beard, and then bring the coffee to my mouth. Damn, it tastes good. “Not okay. I want to see you again. Clearly, there’s a lot about you I don’t know, so fill me in.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. Leaning in closer she says, “We didn’t talk about anything real because we were too busy—”
She’s cut off though, because someone shouts and it catches her attention.
“Mommy!” a little boy cries, running toward the counter. Running toward Greta.
Chapter 8
Ansel
Greta’s face breaks into a beautiful smile. “Hey goose, you have a fun night?” She walks around the counter and pulls the boy into her arms. The little boy beams at her.
Okay. So when she said complicated, it was because she’s a mother.
“Mom,” another voice calls. A blonde girl of about six wraps her arms around Greta. She kisses her, then pulls back, crossing her arms. “Milo forgot his hat, he’s gonna get a cold.”
