by Ren Benton
The rain soaking through the seat of his pants let him know just how much discomfort she could ignore. “Are the kids okay?”
Movements slow, as if her hands were cumbersome, she opened her bag, checked the phone within, and closed the bag before giving him a toneless answer. “As far as I know.”
Stupid question. She would be with them, not sitting outside his office on a wet bench, if they were in any kind of need. “Is it Holly?”
“No.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s nothing. I don’t know why I came here. I have no right to. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
He was tired of that automatic apology when she caused a ripple in the world. He wanted her waves.
She stood but dropped back onto the bench at the barest touch of his hand against hers, as though she had so little will left, she’d submit to the slightest pressure from his. Something had shaken her badly. Considering the hits he’d seen her stand firm against, the possibilities scared the crap out of him. “It’s not nothing if you’re here, sitting in the rain, crying.”
“I’m not. It’s just rain.”
With the umbrella over her head, blaming the fresh wet streaks on the weather was a ballsy move. “It doesn’t have to be related to the kids or Holly to be something. What hurt you, Ivy?”
She took another of those breaths that foretold a dam about to burst, but only two words dripped out. “I overreacted.”
He was also tired of her feelings being dismissed as invalid. Was he the only one who cared what they were? “If you stabbed somebody with a fork, I’ll put up my house to cover your bail.”
Her laugh was forced. She reached into her bag again and pulled out... a jar of Nutella.
She thrust it at him. “Go ahead. Open it.”
She held the jar while he unscrewed the lid with the hand not holding the umbrella.
“I used to stash this stuff everywhere. I kept one in the glove compartment. On a hot day, you could drink it with a straw. I kept straws in the glove compartment, too.”
The jar was empty except for a slip of paper. Griff removed it.
“Then I thought I’d be happier, or at least hate one less thing about myself, if I wasn’t so fat, so I started being more active and eating for health and controlling my emotional eating. I had the brilliant idea to keep this jar as a souvenir, a symbol of my triumph over indulgence.”
The note said, You’re stronger than this.
“But I forgot that part. Today, I really, really wanted a mouthful of indulgence, and what I got instead was a fucking pep talk from my past self, the dumbass who made me what I am today.”
She was a wonder every day, but her perspective differed from his even more than usual at the moment. “What are you today?”
“Same thing I was yesterday. And five years ago. All my life, really. And suddenly, it was too much. I’m tired of being strong. I just want to sit on the floor in the corner stuffing my face and being overwhelmed and let somebody else deal with everything without feeling guilty for not being strong enough.”
Neither chocolate deprivation nor this piece of paper had led to her current state of distress, but they clearly hadn’t helped after whatever had driven her to seek solace in the bottom of a jar.
“My parents and friends would say it will all work out, I’ll manage like I always do. I would tell myself to snap out of it, I’m wasting time, there’s too much work to be done to wallow in self-pity.” She looked directly at him for the first time, eyes shadowed with bleakness. “You’re the only person I know who will let me just be. Even if what I’m being is bitchy and weak.”
She was letting him know what she didn’t need from him right now — a point-by-point debate about her strength or a cheerleader to boost her spirits. All she asked was the luxury of wallowing, as mere mortals were permitted to do.
He balled the note in his fist. The strongest woman he had ever met never needed to see another suggestion that she wasn’t being strong enough and needed to do better.
He stuffed the paper back into the jar and chucked the lot of it at the trash can at the end of the bench. It struck the rim of the rain cap and fell to the ground.
She watched the trash tumble to a stop in a shallow puddle. “I don’t have it in me to lecture you about the evils of littering. I must be empty.”
Not empty, just too exhausted to pump from the well. “When do you have to be back at work?”
Her only answer was a shake of her head.
“What time do you have to pick up the kids?”
“Four.”
He checked his rain-dotted watch. Plenty of time to dry her off, get some food into her, and find out what had shaken her right out of herself. “Come with me.”
She didn’t ask where, just stood obediently.
He fought against panic. Both of them couldn’t lose it at the same time. She wanted somebody else to deal with everything, so that’s what he would do for her.
“Hold this for a second.”
He left her the protection of the umbrella while he picked up the jar and deposited it in the trash can so her permissive attitude toward his littering this one time wouldn’t weigh on her conscience for the rest of her life. Tomorrow, he’d talk to maintenance about putting a recycling can out here to offset the sin of throwing plastic in the trash. He would turn that jar into something positive for her.
He reclaimed the umbrella, put his hand on the small of her back, and guided her toward his car.
Ivy wouldn’t have blamed Griff for calling security to remove her from his office because her moping was bringing down company morale. She thought, briefly, when he put her in his car that he would drive her to the country and dump her like an unwanted dog, for which she also wouldn’t have blamed him. In the past forty-eight hours, after all, she’d made him clean up puke, turned down his marriage proposal, and stalked him at work to be all morose and self-pitying at him. His tolerance for her must be out of sight in the rearview mirror.
That scenario was clear in her mind as the icing on the dirt cake of the day, yet she was unsurprised when they arrived at his house because of course Griff wouldn’t dump a dog in the country. No matter how annoying the animal was, he would find it a good home with a guy he knew.
He parked in the driveway. When he turned off the engine, the rain roared on the roof of the car. “Sorry. We’re going to get wetter. The cabinets are taking up the garage.”
She remained seated when he got out of the car, unmotivated to leave her isolation chamber. The sight of him coming around the hood with the umbrella spurred her to exit under her own steam rather than make him serve as her personal valet.
They entered through the front door, a first for her. She felt like a guest, the sort that wasn’t welcome enough to be invited in through the laundry room.
She dripped on the rug in the foyer while he continued deeper into the house.
“Take off those wet things and help yourself to my clothes so we can get you dry. Take a hot shower while you’re at it.”
The rug squelched beneath her shoes. “I don’t want to get your floor wet.”
He whirled around, nostrils flared. “Fuck the floor!”
She could only stare as he stalked toward her, marveling that he could be shouting mad and not frighten her at all.
“You have scared the shit out of me enough for one day. I will not have you catching a chill and getting sick because you will not take good care of yourself or let anybody else do it because you don’t know how not to do every goddamn thing on your own.”
He made self-sufficiency sound like a crime.
He stopped in front of her and bent his head in a menacing parody of a kiss. His clipped words pelted her lips. “Take off your clothes. Get in the shower. Put on a shirt. Then you will eat lunch and tell me what happened so I can fucking fix it.”
Orders issued, he turned and stalked back the way he had come.
He didn’t understand. The problem couldn’t be fixed because the problem was
her. She was a doormat, and people stepped all over her because doormats existed to be stepped on, and he was doing the same thing to her right now.
“You want my clothes?” She yanked off her sodden blouse and threw it. The weight of the water ensured it hit his back with a satisfying slap. “Have them!”
The blouse clung for a second before plopping to the floor, leaving a wet blotch between his shoulder blades. He turned his head and glared over his shoulder.
Her pulse accelerated. “Have my shoes, too.”
The first one went wide because she’d never thrown a shoe in her life. The second, now that she had experience, would have nailed him squarely between the shoulders if he hadn’t turned and swatted it out of the air.
This time, he didn’t stalk. He strolled. As if he had all the time in the world to throttle her.
He could extend his arms and touch both walls. She couldn’t run past him. Unless she planned to bolt out the door in her bra and bare feet, there would be no escape.
In that case, she might as well commit to what she’d started. The zipper of her skirt came down with an angry rasp. She peeled the saturated material from her hips and threw it at him.
He caught that in one hand and hurled it at the floor.
She pulled out the waistband of her thigh-smoothing undergarment. The spandex snapped against her skin like a wet bathing suit. “I have to wear these sexy things to keep my fat thighs from rubbing together and looking like a couple of raw pot roasts, but if you want them, take them!”
She couldn’t miss because he was a foot away by the time she wrestled free of the wretched things and tossed them.
He backed her against the door, which was shockingly cold against her skin, but she didn’t erupt in goosebumps until he growled, “Might as well finish this tantrum and hand over the bra, too.”
She put her hands against his chest and pushed.
He didn’t budge. He was big, she was puny, and she was safe only because his fists weren’t connected to his anger.
“And after you take it off, will you be getting in the shower, or will I be carrying you kicking and screaming?”
She was cold and wet and wanted a hot shower and dry clothes and something to eat, but she wanted to fight more. She was so sick of being nice and getting nothing for it. He was going to win and force all that comfort on her no matter how much of a bitch she was, so there was no risk of losing anything by behaving horribly. “I’m not taking it off. If you want it, take it.”
His jaw bunched, and he reached for her. She slapped at his hands until he pinned her wrists above her head and bellowed, “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to go back to the way you were before!” A sob tore from her throat, which made her angrier because she wanted to rage, not mewl like a pathetic weakling with tears trickling down her face. “I wanted one person to think I was exciting and sexy, and I wanted it to be you. But I’m a lousy actress, and the more you got to know the real me, the more you lost interest.”
He recoiled, all trace of anger ripped away. “What? No. The more I know you, the more of you I want.”
She jerked her chin in denial. “You’ve started treating me like everyone else does. Boring Old Ivy, bridal concierge, middle-aged soccer mom, domestic drudge.”
“That’s not true.”
She banged her wrists so his knuckles cracked against the door. “You have me naked and pinned against a wall and all you’re interested in is my laundry!”
His fingers tightened around her wrists. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “I’ve been trying to show you there’s more to our relationship than sex.”
Any sane woman would be happy about that. She would be one of them, if it hadn’t been an either-or deal. “As much as I love that you’re concerned about my home security and you’re trying with the kids and you get along with my friends, I miss the sex. That’s the only time I’ve ever felt like the woman I wish I was.”
“There’s where our disagreement about you comes from.” He lowered her hands to her sides and pressed his palms against hers. “I don’t separate Sex Goddess Ivy from World’s Best Aunt Ivy and Charming Young Lady Ivy. I see all of you, all the time.”
“And the more you see, the less you want to fuck me!” She jerked her hands free and shoved at his chest hard enough to back him up a step.
His eyes narrowed. “I see now. This isn’t about you having a bad day. This is about me not being good for anything but fucking and failing to perform.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re perfect at everything.”
“Not perfect enough, obviously.” His frigid, all-seeing gaze raked her from top to bottom and back up, stopping at the bra that had been an object of contention. “I’ve been fighting off an erection since you snapped out of helpless-waif mode and didn’t need to be coddled anymore, but if all you want from me is dick, I’m happy to oblige.”
He wasn’t happy. Whatever he was didn’t seem like anger, either, and that bothered her in a way his anger didn’t, made her want to stop and dissect the nerve that had been exposed, but thought fled when he unzipped his pants and released his cock, hard and thick as promised. She shivered as hot blood rushed between her legs, leaving the rest of her body cold.
He grabbed her ass in his deft hands and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. The panels of the door dug into her spine. Every discomfort throbbed, but it was only more sensation to fuel her need.
He snarled against her lips. “Sure this is what you want, Duchess?”
The tip of his cock grazed along her labia, picking up ample lubrication that a lesser man would have taken as permission enough. Asking only made her more desperate for him. “So much. Please.”
He gave her what she wanted.
Griff choked off his need to stop this and cuddle her and whisper pretty words against her lips until her tears stopped. She didn’t want sweet and tender from him. She wanted heat, and dammit, he could give her enough of that to reduce them both to ash.
Her pussy felt like a wet mouth kissing the head of his cock, lips parting to welcome him inside. He yanked her hips and impaled her. The back of her head banged against the door, but the sob against his jaw begged for more, not less, so he did it again, and again, and again, each jarring thrust forcing a moan from her lips that goaded him onward as much as the tight, slick walls squeezing him.
He was racing toward orgasm, but he couldn’t take a hand off her ass without dropping her. “I can’t give your clit the attention it deserves. Use your fingers.”
She clamped one hand around his nape, chilled fingers making his skin twitch. Her other hand slid down his chest. Blunt nails raked his abdomen through his shirt. Those fingertips were warm by the time they teased the base of his cock, thawed by the furnace she’d made of him. Then her hand dipped lower to cup his balls, inciting him to bury himself in her as deep as he could get. It still wasn’t enough.
She’d incinerate him. Death he could handle, but not leaving her unsatisfied after battering her like a rutting animal. “Do you need me to show you where it is?”
She laughed against his chin at the presumptuous man who presumed to enlighten her about her own body, her dark eyes full of every secret of every woman since time began.
“Ivy. Love. Please.” His voice dropped with every word until nothing was left but a ragged whisper. “I need you to come to make this okay.”
She gave his sac one final caress, then trailed her fingers upward, using his shaft like a bridge to reach the sweet spot she needed touched to achieve orgasm. He pushed into her and felt the hard press of her finger. When he withdrew, her fingers slid down in an inverted V and squeezed him like a vise.
He dropped his head to her shoulder and groaned. Her skin was so cold everywhere except where their bodies joined. What the hell good was he if he couldn’t even keep her warm?
Her fingers kneaded the steely cords straining the back of his neck. “It’s always been okay.” She brea
thed against his ear. “Don’t stop.”
He ground the top of his head against the door so hard it hurt, and he used that pain as a distraction from her diabolical fingers. “If I had you on your knees, I’d never take my fingers off that spot.”
She gasped and — sweet, merciful suggestibility — left her fingers on her clit thrust after thrust.
He put his mouth against her ear. “If I had my mouth on you—”
She whimpered and shuddered in his arms.
“—I would lick you, soft and slow, until you came for me, and then, while you were still breathless, I’d slide my fingers into you and suck your clit until you came again.”
She sank her teeth into her lower lip and squeezed her eyes shut.
Please, beautiful, imagine it. Because I am, and it’ll be the death of me if I’m alone here.
Holding every bit of her in his arms, he felt every bit of the tension coiling in her muscles, the strain of reaching for relief, and the ecstatic shudder the instant it was in her grasp. Her rapt cry did him in. He pumped once, twice more, and emptied himself into her.
Griff sat on the floor with his back to the door, cradling her in his lap. His breathing remained irregular long after his exertion ended — she suspected due to words lodged in his throat. “Don’t you dare apologize to me.”
The pressure building in his chest hissed between his teeth. “No condom.”
She covered his mouth with her fingers to prevent any further recriminations. She didn’t want to hear it had been reckless, irresponsible, inexcusable. She knew what it was — and she had desperately needed him to be irresponsible toward her to prove she hadn’t been a good influence and ruined him. “I take the blame for that. If you’d waited another second, there would have been bloodshed.”
Protection had been the last thing on her mind until she felt the scalding gush of him ejaculating inside her, a foreign sensation that added another shockwave to her orgasm. Responsible Ivy had never had sex without a condom before, of course. She felt... marked. Griff was here.
Which was a dangerously stupid idea to develop a fondness for. She countered it with a dose of cold, clear practicality. “I’ll stop at the drugstore and get a pill. It’s not the end of the world.”
