“Steve. Do it now.” The steel beneath the velvet of Megan’s voice was close to the surface now and he gave up the fight, slipping his hand beneath the table and into the loose pocket of his carpenter’s shorts.
The pants were just roomy enough for him to barely reach his dick, where it now stood at attention beneath the baggy drape of the material. He ran his fingers familiarly up its rigid length and saw her eyes flare.
“Mmm, that’s nice. I like the way you do that,” she murmured approvingly. “I think you need to do that for me without the clothes, though. I want to watch you stroke yourself ‘til you get so hard a breeze would set you off. Until your balls tighten and you go off like a rocket for me. I’d like that a lot.”
Her eyes felt like a physical touch. Everywhere her gaze moved, Steve felt the tingle and the heat.
“Do it again. I didn’t tell you you could stop.”
The table must be smaller than he realized if she could see that.
He drew a long, shuddering breath in through his nose as he let his hand go back to making slow sweeps up and down. The barrier of the material kept him from getting any kind of a real grip and the tantalizing barely-there touches were maddening. Steve knew how to touch himself. He’d jacked off hundreds of times. Knew to the exact degree how much sensation he needed. But this was different. Something about having her eyes on him while he did it made all the difference. And the thought of being naked in front of her, touching himself—for her—forced a groan out through his clenched teeth.
“Sssh. We don’t want to draw a crowd,” she chided softly. “In fact, I think you’d better stop now.”
Like most men, he touched himself frequently. Pleasure, comfort, boredom—they were all good reasons. But touching himself had never felt a fraction as good as it had just now. “I want you to put both hands, that’s right, up on the table where I can see them and keep them there. Don’t move again until I tell you.”
He wanted to rock his hips, push her down on top of his throbbing cock, savor the feel of her tight little pussy for the first time. The thought of forcing his way inside her, an inch at a time, danced at the edge of his consciousness.
Steve watched as Megan closed up her computer, shutting it down before carefully packing it away in a soft leather case. She gathered her papers, putting those neatly into a colored plastic folder. As she bent to place her belongings next to the wooden bar chair, her shorts pulled taut across her backside, revealing a heart-shaped ass he instantly coveted.
Megan looked over her shoulder at him and smiled a little at the look she intercepted.
“I have to go now,” she said, standing.
“Go?” His tortured libido screamed in protest. He was on fire for her. “But what about—”
She turned back to him, as calm and collected as though this had been a business consultation and not a … Steve didn’t know what it had been. But to leave him in this condition was nothing short of cruel.
“I want you to do two things for me, Steve.” Megan adjusted the cap on her head with one hand, smoothing her ponytail with the other. Again giving him that look that shot straight to his soul, she said, “I want you to think it over tonight. If you liked this, and you think you’d like more, then meet me back here tomorrow night. That’s one. Two is, if you do decide to meet me tomorrow, you can’t touch yourself between now and then. And don’t think you can lie to me and fool me, because you can’t. I’ll know.”
Picking up her possessions, Megan straightened. Seeing her standing for the first time, Steve was startled that she didn’t rise any taller than she did. The top of her head wouldn’t even clear his shoulder.
“Have a good night,” she said, conversationally. And turned and walked out of the bar.
Megan didn’t allow herself to look back. Not even a quick glance as she pulled the door to the street open and walked out into the crisp, evening air.
It had been dusk when she had stopped off at Goldie’s for a working dinner before she headed home and it was now full dark as she walked to her truck. Although Christa had plans to buy a twenty-four-foot full-sized truck in a couple of years, Megan gave thanks that the current operation she had taken over consisted of a light duty truck loaded only with coolers. She didn’t think she could handle an unfamiliar vehicle of that size in her current condition. While the law wouldn’t recognize it, she might as well be drunk, her head was so full of the man she’d just left.
Megan hadn’t touched the beer she’d ordered and she’d barely made a dent in the abomination Goldie’s had the nerve to label shepherd’s pie. The only shepherd that disaster had been fit for was the four-legged German variety. Not that she’d noticed much past the first couple of bites. As soon as Steve had sat down at her table, her appetite for anything other than the man had fled south. Just like the blood supply to her brain, she thought miserably.
Unlocking the cab of the truck, Megan unloaded the computer case from her shoulder and flung the rest of the articles weighing her down onto the seat beside her. She spared herself a moment to bang her head against the steering wheel as she contemplated what she had just done.
Stupid, stupid, Megan.
She had no business beginning anything, particularly with someone this close to home. She knew the risks that came with her lifestyle and she knew the rules for safe play. But she had gotten one look at those long legs and that pale copper hair, and she’d been a goner. And those eyes. Even as she’d nearly fallen headlong into them, she had known that they were going to break her heart. She could see it coming already and there was not a damn thing she could do about it.
Megan drove home on auto-pilot. She’d grown up in this town; learned to drive on these streets; gotten her first kiss behind the bleachers at the Fourth of July parade. And just like her friend Jaci had known from the time she was twelve that she loved women, Megan had known from an early age that there was something different about her. Even her Barbie and Ken dolls had had a relationship that, in today’s parlance, would be called ‘alternative.’
She was what she was and there was no changing that fact. Just like Steve was what he was. Although she’d bet her best ceramic knife he didn’t realize it. There had been that slight hesitancy—that sweet hint of confusion she had seen in his eyes—that told Megan that he knew no more than the average Joe about the lifestyle.
Lifestyle.
God, she hated that word. Why couldn’t it just be her life? Why couldn’t it be different, but accepted, like being left-handed or having eyes of two different colors? Dammit, this was exactly why, before deciding to come back to Remington, Megan had also decided she wouldn’t be dating any time soon. Dating. Another word she hated.
Why couldn’t she just meet a nice man, fall in love, and settle down? More importantly, why was she beating herself up again over things she had realized a long time ago she couldn’t change? Megan knew better. She knew why she was alone and likely to stay that way.
Because, like so many things in life, it was a numbers game.
Start with all the people in the world. And not that, if she were stuck on a desert island with just herself and Ashley Judd, she couldn’t learn to go the other way—but she knew her core preference was for men. So take away the fifty-one percent that were women.
Then start factoring in things like age, geographic proximity, sports compatibility, and political beliefs. And before you knew it your choices for available sexual partners were getting slimmer than Lara Flynn Boyle on a hunger strike. Throw in one more little detail like the need to sexually dominate your partner and Megan was living testimony to a lot of lonely Friday nights.
Just fitting her key into the front door of her half of a duplex, the phone in Megan’s purse chirped. Not that she needed Caller ID to tell her who was calling: it was the same person that called every night to make sure she got home okay.
Punching the talk button, Megan juggled her armload of paraphernalia to get the phone to her ear. “I’m home, Christa. You c
an go to sleep now.”
“Har-di-har-har. Very funny—it’s only seven o’clock, you ungrateful little butthead.”
“Love you too, sis. And I’m fine. I appreciate the concern but you’re supposed to be resting and thinking nothing but calm thoughts. Not worrying about your employees.”
Having piled the load of gear she had hauled in from the truck on the coffee table nearest the door, Megan didn’t bother to hide her grunt of relief as she lowered herself down to the sofa.
“You’re working yourself too hard, Meg. All you have to do is keep things going for a little while. I’m not looking to put Martha Stewart out of business, okay? So relax a little and ease up.”
Megan had never been particularly close to her older sister. Born seven years earlier and the center of their parents’ universe, Christa had been content in her role of princess. Megan’s arrival had come as a complete shock to everyone, but even more so to the pampered Christa. It hadn’t helped that throughout her teen years Christa had persisted in referring to her younger sister as “Oops.” But their mutual hostility had gradually softened over the years, until lately Megan had even begun thinking of her former nemesis as something of a friend.
“I’m fine. Really. Although, would it have killed you to throw down the extra hundred-and-fifty bucks it would have cost for power steering on that pig you call a truck? I’m going to have shoulders like a trucker here, soon,” Megan cheerfully groused.
“I mean it, Meg. Your day is over after lunch. Hear me? You shouldn’t be getting home this late. What, were you shopping for shallots to add to the tuna salad again?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was having drinks in a bar and flirting like mad with the cutest thing in pants I’ve seen in a long time?” A picture of Steve as he’d looked sitting across from her, stroking his cock at her command floated into Megan’s head. She could almost feel the liquid silk of his glorious hair under her hands as she thrust her fingers into it and drew his head down to her soaked pussy. She closed her eyes and sighed at the picture in her mind. Her still unsatisfied cunt began to throb again.
“You lying little bitch, you did not.” Her sister paused, no doubt waiting for Megan to laugh and confess she’d been working on new recipes for the business. When she didn’t, Christa began to grill her in earnest. “Did you really? Oh, good for you. You go! Who is it? Do I know him? I do, don’t I? So tell me, tell me. Come on, I’m dying here. And you even said—I’m supposed to stay calm. Tell me before I hyperventilate.”
“No way am I telling you anything. It’s too early. I don’t want to jinx it. Besides, it probably won’t turn into anything. You know my luck with men.”
Megan heard the concern in her sister’s tone as she replied, “Meggie, I know how you are with advice. But, can I just say, be a little less picky? You’ve thrown back some keepers over the years. And try being a little more … feminine. No offense, honey, but not too many guys want to fuck an Amazon. You know?”
Chapter Three
“Hey there, big guy. We don’t usually see you in here two nights in a row. What’s the occasion?”
“Hey, Jace,” Steve called, smiling, as he brushed through the swinging doors and into the familiar darkened interior of Goldie’s. “Heard you got a new cook. Word is four people ate here last night and not one trip to the E.R.”
Smiling at Jaci Ralston, general manager of Goldie’s, was no hardship. A few years younger than Steve, Jaci was blonde and gorgeous. Nearly as tall as he was, he’d watched her break hearts from the time she’d gotten out of grade school.
“Yeah? You know what you can kiss, pal,” the attractive blonde smiled back from behind the bar. Giving her perfect behind a smack, she added, “A big wet one, right here.”
“I’m tempted, Ralston. But I’ve seen that right hook of yours in action.” He grinned at her mock indignant look as he turned to scan the main floor of Goldie’s. “Besides, I’m meeting someone.” Jaci said something about letting her know when he was ready but his attention was already elsewhere, his eyes taking in the various groupings of tables, chairs, and patrons.
Four twenty-something men about his own age, eyes glued to the game on the big screen over the bar. Three couples. Evan again, looking as though he hadn’t hooked up with the cute little bank teller after all. There had to be a story to that one. A big group of assorted ages and types—probably coworkers blowing off steam on a Friday night.
Shit.
No petite brunettes looking dangerously underage.
So Megan wasn’t here yet. He’d have a beer and sit down to wait. That she was coming he knew in his gut. The Kings game looked close, he could kill some time watching the boys tank another one.
Steve signaled the waitress and sat down at a table with a view of both the TV and the door. He was just sliding his hand around the frosty glass of amber pilsner when the hair rose on his arms and he felt the crackle of electricity across his skin.
“Can non-basketball fans sit here, too?”
Looking over his shoulder in the direction of that soft alto voice, Steve’s eyes caught and tangled with Megan’s.
She looked so serious. He wondered what would it take to get her to smile again. Whatever it was, he knew he would do it. He wanted it. Needed it.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I take my roundball pretty seriously. You’d have to promise to at least give it a chance.”
As she pursed her lips, thinking it over, Steve took the opportunity to covertly study her. Tonight she’d worn a skirt and the tight denim hugged her subtle curves, while a good ten inches of smooth thigh showed under its brief length. A snug red t-shirt showed off her slender arms and trim waist. Megan turned her head to gaze up at the television in consideration, her ponytail swinging in counterpoint. When she looked back she seemed to have made up her mind about something.
“I like a man with dedication. And loyalty. But I don’t think basketball will ever win me over. No consideration for the female fan.”
Momentarily puzzled before realization struck, Steve said, “Oh. Cheerleaders?”
“Worse. Baggy pants,” she deadpanned. “Now, football, on the other hand, has a lot to offer.”
The glint in her eye said ‘Gotcha’ as clearly as if she’d spoken the word.
“That,” Steve responded, acknowledging the hit, “is why I never talk sports with a woman. Sit. I can see we have a lot to clear up.”
He stood, pulling out a chair with a guilty twinge over not doing it sooner. He could almost feel the imprint of his mother’s hand on the back of his head for his bad manners.
As he stood behind Megan, holding her chair, he noticed again how much taller her bearing made her seem. Standing close to her Steve could easily see the top of her head, the way the way the subdued glow of Goldie’s elderly light fixtures brought out gleams of red and mahogany in her hair.
She sat, her manner almost regal, the way she seemed to take his service as her due.
When Steve had seated himself again opposite Megan at the small circular table he raised a hand to call the waitress again, asking, “Something to drink?”
“Just a Coke, thanks. Make it diet.” The waitress left and they were alone again. “I’m glad you came,” Megan said. “I didn’t know if you would.”
“Hey, that’s supposed to be my line. Besides, I can’t believe you get turned down very often.”
Steve slid his fingers along the sides of his beer glass, beads of condensation allowing them to slip easily over its curves. It didn’t take much imagination to imagine his hands sliding just as easily over Megan’s. He knew already that they would be understated. Elegant. Her skin firm and resilient under his hands. Raising his eyes from where they followed the path his fingers were making on the moist glass, he let her see the heat he knew was there.
He wasn’t surprised when Megan didn’t respond immediately, instead, letting the tension build.
“You might be surprised. It happens,” she answered finall
y. Her gaze continued to hold his, steady and dark—so direct it was like a touch. His dick responded.
The waitress returned with Megan’s soft drink, taking her time placing it just so. Steve wasn’t sure why tonight was different, but he couldn’t recall the staff at Goldie’s ever putting so much emphasis on presentation. She left finally and the tension, momentarily forestalled, began to build again.
“So, did you have a chance to think about it last night, Steve?” Megan asked, watching him even as she lowered her head to take a sip of her Coke. Her tongue lingered on the straw just long enough to make him wonder if it was deliberate.
“Yeah, I did,” he acknowledged with a smile. “Once or twice.”
“That’s good. And since you’re here, I hope that means you’re interested in exploring a little more tonight.”
It was all too fucking unbelievably good to be real. His cock was rising to full attention and he could barely think to form words. “Oh yeah. Definitely. More.” Steve reached for her hand, but she drew back, only slightly out of reach.
“Good.”
Wordlessly Megan stood and Steve stood up with her. Picking up a small backpack purse he hadn’t noticed, she brushed past him, heading toward Goldie’s back door. So casually it might have been accidental her hand brushed his fly, where his burgeoning erection tented the front of his shorts and a bolt of lust so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees blasted through him.
Momentarily stunned, by the time he could piece together a coherent thought Megan was halfway to the door. As he caught up to her, she gave him that smile that made him feel like he could stop a speeding train or leap tall buildings in a single bound. “Ready?”
Down, girl.
Megan reminded herself for what felt like the tenth time that night to slow down. If it was meant to be, it would happen. But it might happen a week from now, or even a month. There was no need to inhale him like a rich dessert that might be whisked away before she’d had a chance to indulge. She needed to get a better grip on herself before the evening spun completely out of control.
Cruel to Be Kind Page 2
