His Kind of Trouble

by Terri L. Austin

  Cal closed his eyes, his heart thudding at her soft, languid touch. “The knots are eternal, never ending. Like nature, they keep going on without us. Or some such nonsense.” Oh God, he should have kept his mouth closed. He came off like a prat trying to explain it. He wasn’t anything more than a car fanatic sounding pretentious.

  Monica peered up at him. “Nature, huh? Like those jungle ruins you talked about? That temple in Cambodia? Humans leave their mark, but nature keeps trying to take it back.”

  Cal’s eyes flew open, and he scanned her face. She didn’t appear to be mocking him. In fact, she gazed up at him with a serious expression. “Yes, exactly.” The moment stretched on as they stared at each other.

  Monica blinked first. “And ink raises your hotness factor, so there’s that.” She grinned and licked the curve of his bicep.

  “Of course. One needs to keep one’s hotness factor in mind at all times.”

  Monica poured more shower gel into her hands and finally—thank God—worked it over his cock, leisurely, with long, slick strokes. Straightening his arms, Cal placed his hands on the tiled wall and threw his head back, enjoying each pass of her hands.

  She worked him until his self-control nearly snapped. “Monica.” At the sound of his grating plea, she eased off, placing her hands on his hips before reaching around and caressing his ass.

  That was better. Her hands on him, sliding over his skin, the warm water hitting him at every angle—it felt amazing, but he could hold on as long as she wasn’t wanking him off. “I’m going to have to touch you soon. It’s rather imperative.”

  She leaned forward and licked his nipple. As she gazed up at him, her wet lashes clinging together, her cheeks pink from the humidity, Monica shook her head. “But I’m not through.”

  He reached down and grabbed her wrists. “It’s my turn. I insist.” He let go of her long enough to snatch the bottle and pour a generous amount into his own palm. Then he began sliding his way over her breasts. His hands were slick against their fullness and skimmed over her nipples. She gasped, and he did it again. He let himself play with her. He hadn’t spent nearly enough quality time with them. Not as much as he’d like, at any rate. They were firm and heavy in his hands.

  Monica guided her fingers along his forearms. “That feels so good. Don’t stop.”

  He bent down, and taking her nipple in his mouth, suckled until she cried out. “Cal.” Releasing her, he smiled against her breast.

  He traced a path to her waist, then over that ass he couldn’t get enough of. With his middle finger, he followed the seam of her bottom and teased her little hole some more, slipping the tip inside. Lord, she was tight.

  “Cal.” She rested her chin on his chest.

  “If you want me to stop, tell me now.”

  “No, I like it.”

  Cal worked his finger in a little farther. Monica retaliated by licking a circle around his nipple, then flicking it with her tongue.

  He monitored her breath. She was panting, but relaxed, not clenching around him.

  Cal lightly glided his finger in and out of her while she wrapped one leg around his thigh. She smoothed her palms down his back, propping her hands at his waist. When she started breathing a little harder, he increased the pace. She may lose her Miss Prim moniker after all.

  “Cal, I want you inside of me. Now.”

  So demanding, his Monica. Never afraid to ask for what she wanted. At least not where sex was concerned.

  Tenderly, Cal removed his finger from inside her. He reached to the stone bench and retrieved a condom packet, hastily rolling one on and letting the package flutter to the shower floor.

  Lifting her by the waist, Cal settled her back against the wall. Before he could thrust inside of her, she stopped him by tugging on his hair.

  “Hey, I want it hard this time.” She linked her ankles behind his back and fingered the side of his neck. “None of that steady-wins-the-race business.”

  He laughed at her use of the old expression. No, Monica definitely wasn’t shy about what she wanted. “I’m sorry, love, do you think you’re in control here?”

  She nodded. “Yep. In the office, you had it your way. Now I want it hard and fast.”

  “Like a good car.”

  “If that analogy works for you.”

  Cal reached down and positioned his cock at her tight entrance. With one swift thrust, he drove inside her. God, that felt good, being inside Monica Campbell. Having her stare up at him with passion-filled blue eyes, with her lips parted, her face damp, her hair a tangled, wet mass—Cal couldn’t remember when he’d seen anything more lovely.

  “And what if I decide to go slow?” With an unhurried movement, he withdrew almost all the way before easing back into her inch by inch. “Like this.”

  “Then I’ll die of old age by the time I come.”

  “With a car, sometimes you have to start off at an even pace.” He continued his slow retreat before stroking into her pussy once more. “You have to take it easy before you get her onto the open road.”

  She raked her nails down his back. “Damn it, Cal, I’m not a fucking car.”

  “No, darling, you’re not.” Cal closed his eyes. He couldn’t stare down at her, look at her tits squashed tight against his chest, or he’d start hammering into her. Teasing her was agony. But so delightful, he wanted to hold out for a few minutes more. “You’re a sexy, exciting woman.”

  “And you are a well-hung stud of a man. That voice of yours,” she cooed, “it makes me want to get on my knees and suck you dry. It makes me want to bend over and let you have your naughty way with me while you slap my hot ass.”

  Cal stopped and opened his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Is it working?”

  Cal let go of her hip and grabbed one of her breasts, pinching her nipple hard. “Yes.” He slammed his mouth over hers and began doing what she’d asked. He pounded into her, pulling out and plunging back in, digging his hand into her hip. He had to remind himself to be a bit gentler with her and relax his grip. Cal didn’t want to damage her lovely skin.

  Monica Campbell made him lose all reason. Filling her, thrusting into her—it felt so right. Made him block out all of his problems, all of his worries.

  He sank into her, retreated, then did it again. She took every stroke, absorbed each thrust. Cal wanted her to come first, but bloody hell, he was close. Gritting his teeth, he tried picturing Monica in one of her somber suits. God, even that was a turn on, because he knew exactly what she wore beneath those drab clothes. Sexy red bras. Fuck.

  Cal clenched his jaw and continued working in and out of her. Harder, faster. Filling her up. Fucking brilliant, that—being balls deep inside Monica Campbell. He didn’t want it to end, yet he needed release.

  He let go of her nipple and slid his hand between her legs. Using his thumb, he flicked her distended clit. Back and forth, he grazed it. Still, he kept up the pace, driving into her without losing his rhythm. A difficult maneuver, but Cal was determined to give her the ride she deserved.

  With a cry, Monica dug her nails into his shoulders and came. Now Cal allowed himself to come too. Helpless, he clamped down on her hip. With a flood of pleasure crashing through him, Cal pressed his lips against her hair and groaned. So good. So goddamned good.

  Screwing his eyes shut, he continued to plunge into her, even after he was empty. And he remained inside her as he tried to catch his breath.

  After a few minutes, his brain jolted back to life. “Well, was that hard enough for you? Any harder, and I might have knocked us into the next room.”

  She nodded against his shoulder. “That was fucking awesome,” she muttered.

  That might be the nicest compliment he’d ever received.

  He supported her legs while she unwound them from his hips, then set her on her feet. “I concur. And that’s the quote I want on my sex trophy.”

  Monica rested against the wall and laughed. Placing one hand on his
chest, she gazed up at him. “I could walk before, but I’m not sure I can now. You may have to carry me to the car.”

  Cal felt a little shaky himself. “Let me get you a towel.” If he had his way, she wouldn’t go home tonight. And he wasn’t above using bribes to get her to stay. He shut off the shower and stepped out. A lemon-scented fog clouded the room and coated the mirror.

  After discarding the condom, Cal grabbed a thick white towel embroidered with the casino’s initials and took it back into the stall. Monica stood exactly where he’d left her, slumped against the shower tile. “There’s something you’re forgetting.” He bent down and started with her ankles, drying one leg, then the other. “I have chocolate cake.”

  “I probably don’t need chocolate cake.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, everyone needs cake. And I have a huge fluffy bed that needs to be broken in.”

  “I think I’m broken. I can hardly move.”

  “That’s because I’m so fucking awesome.” He continued to rub the backs of her knees, up her thighs, over her hips and belly. He took extra care when he got to her breasts, massaging the soft, textured towel over her nipples a few times. They beaded at the attention.

  “I’m pretty sure they’re dry, Cal.”

  “I do like to be thorough.” Cal motioned for Monica to turn around so he could dry her hair. She spun and flattened her hands against the wall. He squeezed the water out of the ends and patted at her scalp. When wet, her hair transformed into a much darker shade of blond, almost brown, but not quite. He kissed the top of her head and inhaled deeply. Her lavender shampoo mixed with the lemon scent surrounding them. Divine.

  “You never answered me before,” she said. “Which do you like better, this place or your one-bedroom flat in London?”

  He didn’t know why it mattered, but she had something on her mind. He didn’t have to see her face to know it—he could hear it in her voice. “This is nice, obviously. But the flat in London is fine too. I don’t get too worked up over accommodations.” He moved the towel over her shoulders, down her spine, and gave her ass a good rub.

  “That’s because you’re used to staying in places like this. They don’t faze you anymore.”

  Cal’s hands slowed. “Allie’s been married to Trevor for years now. Aren’t you used to places like this?”

  “Not really. I grew up in an older neighborhood. Our house was falling apart, literally.”

  Unsure how to proceed, Cal continued stroking her back. If he asked too many questions, she might stop talking. Yet this was really the first time she’d volunteered any personal information, so he couldn’t let it go. “Why is that? Couldn’t afford to fix it?”

  “No. My mom’s medical bills were out of control. That’s why Allie and Trevor started the foundation, to help people like her.”

  Cal finally understood her, a part of her anyway. Monica was a sensual person, with carnal appetites she tried hard to ignore. His poor darling must have a bitch of a time reconciling both sides of herself—the self-sacrificing philanthropist and the lustful thrill-seeker. And this dichotomy somehow tied in with her mother’s illness, although he wasn’t sure how, exactly. “Staying in places like this makes you feel guilty, doesn’t it?”

  She didn’t say anything for a minute, and Cal thought she might change the subject. But then she swallowed. “I always feel guilty when I think about her.”

  His hands stopped moving. “I feel that way about Babcock. By the end, she was unconscious most of the time. When she died…” He couldn’t even say it out loud, it was too monstrous.

  “You were relieved?”

  Cal dropped the towel. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head in the crook of her shoulder. “Yes.”

  “Me too,” she said. “She suffered for so damn long.”

  Cal had been carrying that disgrace with him for months now. To hear Monica admit the same thing took away some of the shame. “It’s because we loved them, I suppose.”

  “It still makes us awful people.”

  He nodded. “Perhaps.”

  Monica shrugged her shoulder. Cal took the hint and moved back. She cleared her throat. “I should be getting home.”

  “Absolutely.” His carefree tone sounded strained, but he carried on. “After dessert. You’re not going to make me eat chocolate cake alone, are you?” He didn’t wait for her to argue again, but simply left the shower and walked out of the room.

  * * *

  Monica watched Cal walk away. And for the first time in a very long time, she didn’t feel alone.

  Monica’s mom had been sick for years, but when Allie talked about Trisha Campbell, she spoke only of the good times. Brynn would occasionally bring up a particular event, like the year all three girls got bikes for Christmas. Allie had received a purple ten-speed that made Monica so jealous, she’d stomped her foot and wrote a letter to Santa that morning, demanding an upgrade.

  Nearly every memory Monica had of her mother was tainted by guilt and remorse—about past mistakes, about being resentful when her mom had been too sick to pay attention to any of them. But most of all, about feeling relieved when her mother slipped away. The years of suffering were finally over. And Monica was so glad.

  While her family cried their eyes out, Monica remained dry-eyed. She realized, somewhere in the back of her brain, that her reaction wasn’t normal—that she was a horrible person. That’s when Monica’s life had spun out of control, which left her feeling even worse.

  Allie was right—Monica rarely mentioned Trisha Campbell, usually left the room if her sisters started reminiscing. She rarely discussed her mother with Evan. Yet for some reason, she’d opened up to Cal.

  And Cal, of all people, understood.

  Monica stepped out of the shower and grabbed the hair dryer from beneath the countertop. Cal’s leather shaving bag sat next to the sink. She unzipped it, pulling out his brush. Mason Pearson. Jeez, even his man accessories were high-end.

  She needed to get out of here, go home and hide under the covers for a while. She’d opened herself up to Cal, and he’d seen too much. Monica didn’t feel vulnerable baring her body, but she’d just revealed a piece of her soul, and that frightened her.

  First she dried her hair, then rubbed at the faint mascara smudges beneath her eyes. She grabbed the robe hanging next to the door and took a deep whiff. Cal. The lemon shower gel mixed with his woodsy scent. She shrugged into it and cinched the belt.

  She was going to march into that bedroom and get firm with him. She needed to go home, back to her life, where she didn’t get banged doggie-style in her office, where she didn’t share her deepest secrets. With her head high, she opened the bathroom door.

  But then she saw him, lying in the middle of the deep red sheets, holding an enormous piece of chocolate cake and two forks. And he was still buck-ass naked.

  That lopsided grin melted her determination. Every single bit of it.

  He patted the space next to him. “I’ll hold the cake, you run and jump.” He lifted the plate in the air and nodded encouragingly.

  Letting out a laugh, Monica ran four feet and belly flopped onto the bed. He was correct yet again. Soft and inviting, the mattress cradled her. Like a marshmallow. She felt as if she might sink right down into it.

  “See, what’d I tell you?” he asked.

  “You’re annoyingly cocky. If I admit you’re right, you’ll become insufferable.”

  “I’d never be insufferable. I’m far too charming.”

  “See? Cocky.” She took the fork he offered and cut a tiny piece of cake. Cal didn’t take his eyes from her mouth as she ate it. “Oh God. This is so good.”

  “I told you so. I’m always right. It should get boring, but it never does.” He crossed the space dividing them and licked the corner of her mouth. “You missed a crumb. And I have an idea about this cake. But first, you’ll have to take off the robe.”

  Chapter 17

  The next four weeks passed by in a blur
. Monica hadn’t heard a word from Allie. And it bothered her. She didn’t feel good about the way they’d left things. Monica had every right to be angry at Allie’s constant interference, but she could have handled things differently. Somehow. She could have kept a hold on her temper, for starters.

  At the office, Monica worked nonstop on the gala, shored up donors and sponsors, and tackled every crisis that popped up. She had two run-ins with Marcus Stanford, reiterating her position on his wife’s charity, and explained, for the millionth time, why the staff weren’t there to wait on him, type his letters, or photocopy his shit. But she said it nicely and with a smile.

  Monica also spent a part of her days avoiding Ryan McMillan. He texted every afternoon, called each morning—which she declined—and sent gifts. Right now, the break room contained Belgian chocolates, flowers, and mini-muffin baskets. Ignoring him wasn’t working. She needed to have the talk. Eventually. Maybe after the gala, when things calmed down.

  With everything else going on, Monica hadn’t done any work with the international grants. She’d pretty much given up her goals of changing the foundation’s agenda. Maybe in another year or two, but probably not. Still, every once in a while, Monica would take out the folder and read over the research she’d compiled. Then she’d chastise herself for wasting time and shove it back in the drawer.

  On a happier note, after only three days in town, Jules had wandered into the office and volunteered her time. Apparently, talking Cal’s ear off while he replaced an exhaust system wasn’t as thrilling as she’d hoped it would be. Monica immediately put her to work on the silent auction.

  Cal’s sister had the vocabulary of a truck driver and an opinion on everything, and she freely shared both. Jules’s clothes still rated a nine on the skank scale, but she’d toned down her makeup and removed the extensions from her hair. They started a routine of eating lunch together, and Monica grew fonder of her by the minute.

  Jules had made herself at home in Allie’s mansion. She loved Allie’s fussing—weird, but true—thought Trevor was a god, and played with the twins every afternoon.