She lets me guide her to a sliver of daylight at the bar where there’s no seat, only standing room. Which ends up suiting me, because I can wedge her into the opening and protect her with my back facing the chaotic restaurant. Unfortunately, the crowded space also brings our bodies close. Really close.
And it might be Sunday morning, but my dick isn’t sleeping in.
Having Naomi’s back pressed to the bar, the view of us blocked in on either side, I can’t help but fantasize about how easy it would be to let my hands climb up beneath her skirt. To get her supple ass in my hands, lift her up on her tip toes and rock that sweet pussy against my lap. I’d whisper in her ear that I’m interested in eating one thing and it isn’t brunch. It would damn well be the truth, wouldn’t it? She’s got every cell in my body buzzing.
The harried bartender sets down menus on the bar, but I wave him off, forgetting to feel out of place in the face of my need. “Eggs for me. Basic, scrambled eggs and a bagel if you have it—”
“Is sliced challah okay?”
I groan inwardly, no idea what the fuck he’s referring to. “Sure. She wants the Nutella French toast.” I look down at Naomi to find her transfixed by the collar of my T-shirt. “Coffee?”
“Tea.”
“Coffee for me. Tea for her,” I relay to the bartender. “Thanks.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when the guy walks away, and Naomi smiles up at me. “That wasn’t easy for you. This isn’t. You weren’t lying.”
“You could tell?”
She reaches up and taps a finger against the pulse at the base of my neck. “Only because of this.” I want to grab her hand and press it there more firmly, but she takes it back like she’s touched a stove. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.” I want to tell Naomi that she pushed me out of my comfort zone. That in a way, she rescued me from my bullshit orange juice routine that might have gone on indefinitely. But she distracts me. “Can I ask you something personal, Mr. Bristow?”
“Shoot.”
“Why did you come home to take care of Birdie? Where are your parents?”
I encounter a familiar surge of anger and it takes me a moment to answer. “I got leave to come home for Nat’s funeral. It was only supposed to be a week, but I couldn’t believe the way my parents looked at Birdie. Treated her. They…” I break off to bite down on my tongue. “They cringed when she walked into the room. And I know it was grief. I understand. But I couldn’t leave my sister in that environment. I took an extended leave and told them to get out of St. Augustine until they pulled themselves together. My aunt on my mother’s side lives in Dallas, so they found an apartment near her.”
“Poor Birdie. That must have been so hard. Her own parents…”
“Yeah.” I rub at a kink in my neck. “I think she’s dealing with it all right now.”
Naomi nods, scrutinizing me with a thoughtful frown. “Have you asked her how she’s doing?”
I drop my hand, laughing without humor. “I’ve reached about the end of my capabilities. I’m not exactly cut out to raise a teenager. Food, a roof, a pageant coach. These are the things I can provide.”
She wants to press me. Or disagree. But she doesn’t. “Don’t forget you can cook a mean halibut,” she says, referring to the one time I convinced her to come to dinner.
“Apparently my roasted potatoes need work. You didn’t touch them.”
“Of course not,” she gasps, rearing back. “They’re made of carbohydrates.”
“You just ordered Nutella French toast,” I point out.
“Carbs don’t count during brunch. Everyone knows that.”
I don’t bother subduing my smile. “Who scared you off weeknight potatoes?”
“Well…” Her nose wrinkles. “Potatoes were always on the table at dinner time, but my mother would frown every time I ate one, so I stopped.”
That pisses me off good, but I’ve got her standing close and talking to me. I’m determined not to ruin the moment or send her running. “So it wasn’t me and Birdie that scared you away, it was the starch.”
“You didn’t scare me away.” The stilted way she says it tells me that’s not entirely accurate. “Why would you think that?”
There’s an obvious answer to that—I definitely don’t hide my interest, much as she tries to conceal hers—but there’s something else I’ve been curious about since that dinner. “You seemed nervous when we argued.”
“Did I?” She smooths her sleeves absently, then frowns over a stray thread. “I suppose I’ve gotten used to playing mediator.” Her attention leaves the thread and she seems to realize what she said. “Um. To my parents. They argued a lot about the affair. Gosh, I still haven’t gotten used to talking about it out loud to someone other than my family.”
“You made it sound like a big deal. No one in Charleston talks about it?”
“Only the polite way. Behind our backs.”
We share a quiet laugh. “Did you mediate out of necessity or because you enjoy it?”
“What an odd question.” She shifts side to side, patting her hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought it through. Not in that particular way.” A beat passes. “Out of necessity, I suppose.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. The fighting scared me when I was a child. I didn’t want to be scared,” she whispers, cracking my chest in half. “So I did whatever I could to distract them. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. And then I got older and it became more of a burden than something that inspired fear. I must just be conditioned to jump in and calm the waters.”
“They shouldn’t have argued in front of a child. Especially not about that.” I swallow, wishing I had the freedom to pull her closer, kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry. It’s not your job to calm the waters. I might not be…thrilled you were getting married the day you ran away, but I am glad you made the waves this time. Good for you, baby.”
“Thank you,” she breathes, looking up at me, like she’s seeing me for the first time. We remain suspended there for long moments, before she visibly snaps out of it and stands up straighter. “Here’s what I know. Next time, I’m going to eat enough potatoes to choke.”
“Good girl.”
The dose of heat in my voice brings her eyes back snapping up to mine and there’s no help for it, I have to get closer. This woman is not available to me, but I want her anyway. I can’t imagine anyone else having her, frankly. Especially when she’s moistening her lips, clearly aware I need to kiss her. Christ, she’s such an impactful combination of vulnerable and funny and brave and empathetic. And seriously, since when does empathy make my cock hard? If I pushed forward with my hips, Naomi would feel the erection she conjured up with her nearness. Again.
“You’re a good man for staying home with Birdie,” she whispers, forcing me to lean down to hear. “For giving up your calling and focusing on hers. You might not even be aware of the difference you’re making, but I am.”
I’m going to kiss her. I’m going to kiss her ex-fiancé out of her mind. Her eyelids droop a little more with every inch I close in. She wants it—
There’s a clatter of mugs in saucers on the bar behind Naomi and she jolts forward, her tits flattening on my stomach. On reflex, I reach out to steady her, but she’s already cradling my hard cock, her lips popped open in surprise.
“Come on, baby, you knew it was there,” I rasp into the crown of her head, my hands shifting the dress up her thighs. “It’s always there, hoping you’ll need it.”
Naomi seems to gather her will, whirling to face the bar. But that only drags her ass into my lap and I feel the moan pass through her. Hear the low answer of mine, right as the food arrives. It’s indecent and it’s fucking torture, but that’s how we eat our meals. The crowd grows, pushing us closer together. Closer. Naomi’s tight little backside rests against my cock, one of my hands gripping her hip, the other operating my fork. Hell if I taste a goddamn thing when I’m more turned on than I’ve ever
been in my life.
I can feel every inhale and exhale she takes. Can feel her swallowing, can hear her breaths. I’m salivating to bite and lick the back of her neck, but I sense she’s looking for any reminder she’s doing something bad. Any excuse to pull away and be faithful to someone else. That only makes me want to fuck her more. Claim her.
We eat in record time and I dig into my front pocket, grazing the curve of her ass as I retrieve my wallet. Another moan shakes her, but the spell is broken when I toss money onto the bar and we’re forced to separate. It’s agony. Agony not having her curves on my lap any more. I need to know she’s suffering, too, but she doesn’t look at me as I guide her to the exit. I walk home beside her in a fever state, the flesh angry and neglected in my pants. The closer we get to home, the more obvious it becomes that I’m going to suffer alone. She’s composed and serene where I’m hot and bothered. She proves me right by running up her apartment stairs as soon as we hit the driveway.
I curse vilely, all but ripping the door off its hinges getting into the house. As soon as I determine the house is definitely empty, I unzip my jeans and take my cock in my hands, jerking root to tip, root to tip as I stumble blindly into my bedroom, groaning the name of my torturer.
“Naomi.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ColdCaseCrushers.com
Username: StopJustStop
This is what happens when I leave the Internet.
All hell breaks loose. Well I’ll leave you to it, you big pack of lunatics.
I’m taking a break. I don’t need this!!
Naomi
I pace my apartment fanning myself. What just happened?
Have I lost my mind? Eating a meal in a public place while shamelessly pressed to a man’s intimate parts. Tempting him when I know darn well nothing good can come from a physical encounter. How wrong of me.
But my body seems bound and determined to be thrilled.
I tempted. I was a temptation.
My nipples pull into tight beads and I rub them with restless palms, pressing my thighs together. Thanks to years of stringent Sunday school sermons and the libido-dampening reality of living under my parents’ roof, I don’t touch myself frequently. I have no choice right now, though, do I? I’m going to explode into tiny particles unless I find release. Already I’m so wet, I wonder if I didn’t orgasm in the restaurant solely from the feel of Jason’s thickness, that big paw on my hip, tugging me back. Tugging, tugging.
Rolling his hips. Breathing into my neck.
“Lord,” I sob, bending forward over the kitchen table, reaching back to pull up my skirt. My few and far between masturbation sessions were usually in the dark under my goose feather duvet. But after having Jason behind me for what felt like hours, I want this position. I need to simulate being taken from behind, even though I have no idea what that’s like.
I’ve never even done it this way. Sex with Elijah was infrequent due to his busy schedule and when it actually happened, we moved like strangers, not speaking, rarely making eye contact. I always sensed he physically held back with me, but I was too afraid for confirmation of that—and a subsequent explanation of why—that I never brought it up. No, I simply gave him what I thought was expected and hoped it would be enough. When it was over, he would smile and go back to being a perfect gentleman, making it easy to tell myself I was being silly.
I wasn’t, though, was I? Sex is supposed to be like I feel right now. Like I’m going to die unless someone takes the ache away. Now. Not just someone, though. A specific man.
My eyes land on something sitting on the table. It’s the newspaper I found on the steps this morning. It landed there early and I didn’t want to wake up Jason or Birdie bringing it to them. There’s a subscriber sticker on the roll. Jason Bristow, along with the address. Suddenly there is a devil on my shoulder telling me I should return the newspaper. Now. Anything to get back in his proximity. My body is begging me. I’m not thinking clearly at all. I’m a servant to the memory of that hand on my hip, the offer of something…hot. Hard.
I’m already calling myself ten times a fool as I snatch up the newspaper and move on shaky legs back down the stairs.
“What are you doing?” I whisper. “What are you doing? Go back.”
A growl of pain comes from inside the house, snapping my mantra in half. Someone’s hurt. No, Jason is hurt. I only left him a few minutes ago—what could have happened in such a short time? I don’t know, but he obviously needs help. Hastily setting aside my selfish neediness, I drop the paper on the driveway, letting myself into the house.
“Mr. Bristow?” I call. “Are you okay?”
Panting drifts down the hallway. Loud. Rasping. Urgent.
I move toward it, already trying to figure out where Jason would keep his first-aid kit. Under the bathroom sink? The kitchen?
When I reach his bedroom door, I hesitate a moment. It’s an intrusion, but surely an emergency excuses this breach in manners. Yes. Surely it must. I push the door open.
Jason’s broad, tattooed, at least six-and-a-half-foot frame silhouetted in the window, his packed muscle chest rifling up and down. Standing. Corded thighs flexing. So his injury must not be too bad—
I slap a hand over my mouth to trap my gasp.
Jason’s head whips toward the door, his body turning to half-face me. I don’t move. How can I move? Buttocks tensing and loosening, thrusting hips, an expression of utter pain…and his hand. Jason’s hand is paused mid-way through its progress up his huge…huge. His erection is huge. Jason watches me through narrowed eyes for a few beats before continuing to stroke, his thumb rubbing over the veined head.
My back bashes up against the doorframe. “I-I thought you were injured.”
“Might as well be,” he grates, dropping his head forward, his hand pumping faster, faster. “Never been in this much pain, baby, and I’m sorry. You caught me at the point I can’t stop, so either shut the door or come help me.”
“Help you?”
I can’t even believe I’m still standing here. The second I realized Jason was pleasuring himself, I should have slammed the door, run for my Range Rover and driven straight to a monastery. Yes, a vow of silence and years of self-reflection are the only way I’m even going to get over this sight in front of me. This private male ritual that is so much more…raw and arousing than I ever realized.
Because it’s Jason performing it, whispers a voice in the back of my head. Help him. Oh Lord, that devil on my shoulder is back and it’s talking nonsense. There’s no way I could go closer, let alone participate. Unfortunately, my thighs are writhing and when I wasn’t looking, my hands started creeping toward my breasts. Breathing. When did my breathing get so shallow?
“Naomi,” he groans through his teeth. “Go. Or get over here.”
I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I’m back in that state of suspended reality, just like in the restaurant, trying to make excuses for doing something purely because my body wants it. Yes, before I can stop myself, I’m walking on shaky legs toward the bed. Jason’s head flies up, his nostrils flaring. Primal. Hungry. It’s intoxicating and exciting to have someone look at me like that.
Someone? Or Jason?
I can’t answer that. Not now, not ever. Maybe I can give myself this one pass, though. Like carbs at brunch. As soon as I get within reaching distance, he snags the back of my dress with his free hand, pressing me toward the bed. Into that position I need so badly. So badly that I whimper, falling forward onto my elbows, presenting my bottom to him. It’s indecent. It’s amazing.
Jason flips up the back of my dress, lifts, leaving it gathered at my waist. A hoarse sound leaves him. “Goddamn, Naomi.” His rakes his hands over the cheeks of my bottom, squeezing. “You’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Please…”
I have no idea what I’m asking him, but somehow he interprets. “You’re not ready for me to strip off these little panties yet, are you?” He runs a finger u
nder the narrow strip of cotton hiding my most private flesh, grazing my clit with a knuckle and making me suck in a breath. “You curious enough about my cock to come closer, but not enough to take the pounding.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“It’s too big for I don’t knows, baby.” His open mouth travels up the center of my bottom, his teeth nipping at the small of my back. “You want to get off without the guilt of letting me help? Then touch yourself, Naomi. I’ll even let you pretend afterward that I had nothing to do with satisfying that pussy.” He tucks my backside into the cradle of his hips, giving me a hard, punctuated thrust. “We’re just two people accidentally fucking ourselves in the same place at the same time.”
Lust blankets my brain, my world, my senses, and I can do nothing, nothing in the wake of those sexual words but touch myself. I brace myself with my left hand and slide the fingers of my right into my panties, whimpering when I make contact with my swollen clit.
“Fuck, baby. Fuck. Good girl.” I hear the wet strokes of Jason’s hand up and down his erection, faster than when I walked into the room, accompanied by guttural grunts. “Let me pull your panties down so I can see, woman. Woman, please.”
Woman. So base. So elemental. My answer is a moan and cool air greets my cheeks, carrying a heightened awareness of our positions. I’m facedown on the bed, this insanely strong male masturbating to the sight of me. Watching the desperate fondling of my fingers against my clit up close. Abusing his flesh harder and harder the closer I get to orgasm. Lord oh lord oh lord. It’s decadently sinful. I couldn’t have conjured a scene like this in my wildest fantasies and I wonder if I’ve been living at all. I’ve definitely never needed to climax so badly my thighs trembled, like they’re doing now.
“Put a finger in that gorgeous pussy and make my fucking life,” Jason says unevenly, instinct telling me he’s close. Just as close as I am. “Go on, baby. Let me see it disappear into that pretty pink slit.”
Runaway Girl Page 11
