“Talk to you soon.”
“Back at you.”
“’Bye, MeeMee.”
“’Bye, Lawrie.”
I hit the button to disconnect and kept at my cookies, thinking it was getting late and I’d not planned anything for dinner hoping that there might be some possibility I’d be eating whatever I’d be eating with Mickey.
After the cookie sandwiches got finished, packed up for transport the next day and I did the cleanup, I realized that was not happening and then got annoyed because I hadn’t taken anything out to defrost, and I had nothing in the fridge to make.
I opened the door, stared in the fridge and saw my only choice was an omelet, which didn’t sound appetizing.
But at least it was something.
Therefore I made my plans. Omelet. Wine. Book. Bath. Bed.
And no Mickey.
Before I started all that skin tingling excitement, I sent my kids their texts of the day and gave myself my only thrill of the day because I then got their replies.
I had the cheese grated, the garlic minced, the mushrooms sliced and was beating the eggs when my phone on my counter rang.
The display said “Mickey.”
I glared at it and the time above it, which told me it was ten to six.
I wanted to let it ring, go to voicemail, force him to make more of an effort to get in touch with me, but that was petty.
And I was no longer petty.
So I hit the button to accept then hit the button for speaker.
“Hey,” I greeted.
“On my way home from work.”
What?
No.
Whatever.
“Fascinating news,” I replied.
He said nothing for a few seconds before he stated, “Forgot if you had bacon on your burger.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m at Tinker’s. Picking up burgers for us for dinner. Remembered you got Swiss and mushrooms. Forgot if you got bacon.”
He was picking up dinner for us at Tinker’s, the scary burger joint out on route whatever?
No, he was not.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m having an omelet.”
“What?” he asked.
“I’m making an omelet. Right now. I’m covered for dinner.”
“You’re making an omelet for dinner,” he said like this was beyond belief.
“I’m hungry,” I replied.
“Tink’s burgers are better, baby.”
The edifice and its environs might be sketchy, but there was no denying the burgers would be better than an omelet.
“I’m beating the eggs now. If I don’t cook them, they’ll go to waste,” I shared.
There was a smile in his voice when he replied, “Amy, you’re a gazillionaire. Thinkin’ you can probably afford to pour a coupla eggs down the sink.”
“I am, indeed, quite wealthy as we’ve discussed frequently,” I replied tartly. “However, that does not negate the fact people on this earth are starving so it would be irresponsible and insensitive to have food and waste it.”
“Then throw in a coupla more eggs. When I get to your place, I’ll eat that with you,” he returned, sounding like he wanted to eat a roofing shingle between two pieces of bread more than he wanted to share an omelet.
“You can get your burger. The omelet’s just for me. And you can’t come over. I have plans this evening.”
He didn’t sound amused when he asked, “You got plans?”
“I do,” I confirmed.
“What plans?” he pushed.
“I’m washing my hair,” I snapped. “Now, the butter in the skillet has melted. I have to go. I’m sure I’ll talk to you later…someday.”
“Am—”
I hit the button to disconnect, turned off the ringer and turned my phone over so I couldn’t see the display. When it vibrated, making noise against my counter, I shoved it in a drawer and picked up the remote to turn on my system across the room, bringing up Pandora and listening to my Billie Holiday station.
The day was gray and drizzling. I was eating alone. Mickey was probably still dating a redhead who was not me. And he thought he could come over whenever he could squeeze me into his life.
It was time for the blues.
I was about to slice the side of my fork through the finished omelet, and not looking forward to it, when the banging came at my door.
My head whipped that way.
Through the glass, I saw Mickey.
On no, he was not banging on my door like he was angry when he said we needed to make plans and I agreed and asked when, then he did not bother to reply to me.
I wasn’t sitting around, anxiously awaiting his attention!
And I was not going to be the type of woman who accepted the scraps of attention from a man.
He had a busy life? He had things going on? We had to plan and be patient and time our moments together?
I could do that.
If we spoke about it, like two adults, and we both knew where we stood.
Not Mickey expecting I’d be hanging around waiting for him to decide to bring some burgers to me.
And being one of those two adults, the one not banging on someone’s door, I decided I’d be adult enough to share that with him.
I dropped my fork, stomped across the landing, unlocked the door and threw it open.
“I have a bell, you know,” I informed him acidly.
He moved in, his big body in motion meaning I had no choice but to get out of his way, so I did.
I watched him turn and did this shutting the door.
“Do you need something?” I asked.
“Washing your hair?” he asked back angrily.
“Yes,” I returned. “Though I haven’t gotten to that portion of my exciting evening yet. However, before I get to it, I’ll thank you not to bang on my door, which has beautiful stained glass in it that I very much like and would prefer it stays exactly how it is. So, in future, I’ll ask you to use the bell.”
He planted his hands on his hips, asking, “What’s this game, Amy?”
I crossed my arms on my chest and returned, “What game, Mickey?”
“Said I was comin’ over tonight, I’d bring dinner. And you got somethin’ up your ass and you’re dishin’ that shit to me for no fuckin’ reason.”
“You did not say you were coming over. I asked when you had a free evening this week. I asked that yesterday morning. Since then, I’ve heard nothing from you.”
“Took a coupla hours to reply but I did and I said tonight and I’d bring dinner.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You did not.”
“Fuck,” he leaned back and threw out his hands, “I did.”
I glared at him while stomping to my kitchen. I had to stop glaring at him to yank my phone out of the drawer and pull up his text string.
I recommenced glaring at him when I stomped back to him, shoving my phone his way.
“You…did…not.”
He aimed his angry scowl at my phone, his eyes narrowed, then he dug out his phone.
I crossed my arms on my chest as he ran his thumb over the screen for some time before he muttered, “Fuck, texted that to Janice Quiller.”
My stomach started roiling.
“And who’s Janice Quiller?” I asked.
Mickey looked at me. “Client of Ralph’s.”
“Oh yes?” I asked disbelievingly.
His expression turned stormy. “Yeah, Amelia. She is. And she replied she didn’t understand, and I didn’t understand what she didn’t understand so I texted her back something about the job, which was what we had been texting about. Answered her question. The texting died and I didn’t realize I’d fucked up.”
Well, clearly there was a mistake and it was an innocent one.
But somehow, that didn’t make me any less angry.
Mickey wasn’t either.
I could tell when he said, “And not real big on you in
sinuating that Janice could be somethin’ else to me.”
“If that’s the case then perhaps you’ll take this moment to share where things stand with you and Bridget.”
“Bridget?” he asked, looking perplexed, like he’d never heard that name in his life.
God!
Really?
“Yes,” I returned. “You see, you made it very clear when it became clear something might be happening between you and me that I needed to get rid of Bradley. It was uncomfortable and I’d already planned to do that, but just in case you have any ongoing queries about that, I’ll confirm that I ended things with Bradley. Now I’d like to know where things stand with you and Bridget.”
“Went out with her twice,” he told me.
“Is that your answer?” I pushed.
“Not sure what more you need,” he shot back.
“Are you going out with her again?” I explained, and his stormy expression turned thunderous.
“You really askin’ me that shit?”
“We’ve been on a date, Mickey,” I replied. “I’m rusty with this but I do think it’s within your rights not to want exclusive at this early juncture. However, I do believe it’s within my rights, if you don’t want that, not for you to expect that from me.”
He lifted up a hand, snapped loudly twice and clipped, “Reality check, babe. You are not standin’ here havin’ it out with your ex. I’m,” he leaned toward me, “Mickey.”
I felt my eyes get wide in preparation for my head to explode.
“Did you just snap at me?”
“Yeah, seein’ as you were in the middle of a flashback, havin’ a conversation with a guy who’d be asshole enough to make you end somethin’ with a douche so he could start somethin’ with you at the same time carryin’ on with somebody else. That guy not bein’ me.”
“Well, I’m sorry I’m troubling you with this conversation, however, I’ll make my apologies reminding you that we haven’t actually had this conversation or many conversations at all since we never see each other.”
“Amy, I work.”
“I’m aware of that, Mickey.”
“Got kids,” he went on.
“That hadn’t escaped me either.”
“And give my time to the department when I got it to give.”
“Which is a lot,” I noted.
The thunderous went out of his face and angry, surprised wariness slid in when he asked, “That a problem for you?”
I shook my head incredulously. “You doing what you’ve always wanted to do?”
“I made that clear enough you know that’s what I need, which makes your comment about me spendin’ a lot of time doin’ it somethin’ that doesn’t sit real good with me.”
“Perhaps I made that comment since you spend a lot of time doing a lot of other things and all those other things don’t really involve me,” I retorted.
His expression again changed to disbelieving with a hint of repulsion. “So you’re havin’ a shit fit because you want your piece of me?”
“No, Mickey Donovan,” I snapped. “I’m having a shit fit because I want you to give some indication you want your piece of me.”
His upper body swung back and his voice quieted when he replied, “You know I do, Amy.”
“Really? I’m sorry, that escaped me.”
“Got shit on, a lot of it, and you know it.”
“You’re right. I do. And I understand that. And I wouldn’t have a problem with it. One date we’ve had, I am aware that doesn’t shoot me up to the top of your priority list. But I’d like some indication I’ve actually been scratched on it.”
His face started to go hard again when he stated, “The shit in my life, I bring a woman into it, I need some understanding.”
“And you’d have that,” I returned. “If I knew what I was understanding.”
“And you’d know that,” he fired back. “If you’d fuckin’ asked.”
“Fine,” I bit off, throwing out my hands. “Consider this my formal request.”
His eyes flashed. “Jesus, you’re a serious fuckin’ smartass.”
I lifted my brows. “Shall I take that as you declining my request?”
“Yeah, babe,” he clipped while on the move toward me. “That request is declined until I can cool off and speak to you without doin’ that at the same time I wanna spank your ass.”
I didn’t have the chance to make a dramatic gesture by opening the door for him, considering he was moving so quickly he got there before me, but I did manage to get in my final shot.
“That effort would be appreciated, Mickey.”
I got that off, aimed at his back, right before he slammed the door behind him.
I glared at it.
Then I leaped to it and locked it.
That done, as Billie Holiday serenaded me, I stomped back to my kitchen, tossed down my phone and stared at the omelet on my fantastic new plate, trying to convince myself not to pick it up and throw it across the room.
Billie barely got in there before I heard banging at my door again.
My eyes shot there and I saw Mickey framed in the glass.
“This man cannot…be…believed,” I groused as I stomped back to the door, unlocked it and threw it open, looking up to him and on a near-yell demanding, “Do not bang on my—!”
I didn’t get it out because Mickey was kissing me. A hard, invasive, shut-up kiss that he delivered at the same time shuffling me in and closing the door with his boot.
I put my hands to his chest, pushed free and snapped, “I cannot believe—”
I didn’t finish that either because Mickey’s hand darted out, catching me at the back of my neck. He yanked forward and I slammed against his body right before his mouth again slammed down on mine.
I pushed back at my neck while lifting my hands to press against his chest. But he caught one wrist then swept it across and caught the other one, holding both tight in one hand between us.
This meant the only thing I could do was twist my mouth from his and order loudly, “Take your hands off me!”
He did.
I took a furious step back.
He took a furious step into me, lowering his torso and catching me in the belly with a shoulder.
Then I was up and he was stalking across the landing, taking me with him.
“Mickey!” I shouted.
He didn’t reply.
I was so angry I decided a fall from his shoulder was unlikely to kill me so I rotated my body to twist away.
Being the trained firefighter he was, he simply adjusted his hold to keep me where I was and kept stalking.
Down the hall.
To my bedroom!
“Put me down, Mickey Donovan!” I shrieked.
He did as I asked but only after planting a knee in my bed and tossing me off his shoulder onto my duvet.
My breath swept out of me as he instantly gave me his weight.
I stared into his irate, very heated, amazingly beautiful blue eyes and it struck me immediately that I’d made them that way.
Me.
“Mickey,” I whispered.
And that was again all I got out before he was kissing me. In his dusty construction clothes, his weight and heat pressing me into my bed, his mouth on mine wet and hot and demanding.
I’d given it a try, fighting him off.
I’d failed.
And if I’d learned anything, it was when to stop fighting when it was getting you nowhere and find alternate ways to get what you needed.
So I did that and kissed him back.
The second I did, he made a sexy, manly noise that drove down my throat and detonated right between my legs.
It was on.
And I was for once going to get what I needed.
I got it.
But Mickey helped me.
I didn’t care about his dusty construction clothes. I didn’t worry that I was out of practice. I didn’t get tense that I wasn’t going to give it like Mick
ey liked it.
I just took what I wanted, kissing him, touching him, ripping off his shirt.
He arched away to let me to do this then went back at me, rolling us so I was on top, then knifing up, still kissing me. I was forced to straddle him and his hands went to the hem of my top.
I lifted my arms as he tugged it off and threw it away. Then I put my hands to either side of his head and was going to dip in for another kiss, but I halted when Mickey did the dipping, trailing his lips briefly over the skin above the beige lace over the cranberry silk of my bra then, without warning, he went down and, through the lace and silk, drew my nipple in his mouth, swift and hard.
I arched back, grinding into his crouch.
I was wrong.
Now, it was on.
And it went wild.
He took.
I took.
He bit, licked, sucked, kissed, stroked and groped.
I bit, licked, sucked, kissed, stroked and groped.
He might argue but I had it better since there was so much of him to take in in so many ways and all of it was solid, hot and staggering.
Then I had nothing on but my panties, Mickey had nothing on but his jeans, our mouths were locked, our tongues tangled, our bodies sealed, I had my hand down his fly stroking something rigid and thick and long and promising, when I let out a cry because Mickey broke the kiss and hauled me up.
He settled on his back at the same time he settled me on him.
On him.
Straddling his face.
One hand yanking me down, one hand between his mouth and me shoving aside the gusset of my panties, suddenly his tongue was buried inside.
Oh God.
Yes.
“Mickey,” I breathed.
He said nothing. He was busy eating.
And he ate, licked, sucked, tongue-fucked and took me high, higher, flying, before he drove two fingers inside, sucked deep at my clit and I was soaring, arching, moaning, shuddering and coming.
It was so big, I couldn’t breathe. Whimpering and gasping, he kept sucking and finger-fucking me driving me higher until he stopped, gently pushed me off, tore my panties down my legs, whipped me to my back and covered me.
“Mickey,” I whispered, still feeling it, still up in the clouds.
I also felt him doing something between my legs.
Then he whispered back, “Good?”
Good?
No.
There were no words for how it felt when Mickey sent me flying.
Soaring (9781311625663) Page 29
