by Staci Hart
She held on to my neck, the weight of her intoxicating, the kiss hard, her body alive. A desperate mewl purred in her throat, and I broke away, panting.
Another handful of minutes, and I’d have her saddled up in full. And that was not how this was going to happen, not this time.
I removed my hand from the cradle of her body, sliding it over the curve of her thigh, down the back of it until my fingers hooked her knee. Looking up at her left me stunned—her hair fell toward me in golden waves, her eyes lust-drunk and parted lips bruised from kisses.
“Please, don’t stop,” she said, her voice raspy.
“I don’t plan to.”
I scooped her up to a whoop and a giggle, striding through my living room and up the stairs, and she took that time to press tender kisses to my neck, along the line of my jaw, the dip behind my ear, the dart of her hot tongue Morse code to my cock, which strained against the confines of my pants. And when we were finally in my bedroom, the air grew heavy and thick with anticipation.
I laid her down, held close by the loop of her arms around my neck. But her gaze rested on my lips as I settled on top of her, aligning our hips, flexing to test the connection—her gasp told me I’d hit the spot. And I descended to take her lips before I took the rest of her.
My hands were occupied with the curve of her neck, down to the curve of her breast, and hers were just as busy—maybe more as they made quick work of my shirt buttons. But she stopped halfway, impatient to slide her fingers inside, seeking the planes of my chest, the ridges of my stomach.
When she broke the kiss to look down at her fingers, I rose to my knees and spread them, spreading hers. As I unbuttoned my shirt and shucked it, I cataloged every detail of her. Her red dress against the white of my sheets. Lily-white thighs slung over mine, parted to expose a sliver of her panties. Her hands riding her panting ribs, her fingertips threaded absently. Her face, framed by flaxen hair, tilted to the side. She tracked the motion of my fingers as they unbuttoned my pants, lowered my zipper.
She rose, her hands taking the place of mine, her lips connecting with my abs. I cupped the back of her neck, heart thundering as she snagged the hem of my pants and underwear and slid them over my ass, down my thighs, releasing my cock. First her hand, soft and warm around my shaft. Her breath, humid against the tip. The shock of her tongue drew my desire from deep within me, the hot chamber of her mouth the single point of awareness in my universe.
A moan rumbled through me, echoed by her. A languid lick, a slow suck. The rush of pleasure was intense and immediate, not only for the silken feel of her, but for the way she tasted me, as if I were a discovery, a wonder, and she wanted to know every bit of me as best she could.
When I finally pulled myself away, it was to lay her down, pinning her to the bed with my hips, meeting her lips as soon as they were within reach. The cool shock of air against my slick cock was gone when I settled between her thighs, resisting the impulse to move her panties out of the way and drive into her.
If I stayed there, I would. But I had other plans.
I leaned back and kicked off my pants, scanning her body, dragging my hand in the wake of my gaze. “Too many clothes,” I mumbled, flipping up the skirt of her dress, pressing my palm to the flat of her stomach, kissing the V of her neckline. And then the cumbersome dress was gone in a frenzy of hands and lips and whispering fabric.
And with a kiss that ended with foreheads joined, time stretched thin and long before stopping completely.
There was the sound of our breaths, the heave of our chests. The thumping hearts and drumming pulse. There was Maisie, soft and lovely, snowy white but for the pale of her nipples and the flush of her cheeks. And there was me, dusky and hard and nestled between her thighs. She was perfect, and not for symmetry or size. But because no one and nothing had ever been so right as she was in that moment.
It was an alignment, a clicking into place of a thing we knew was there but hadn’t seen. That rightness settled into me, occupying a space I hadn’t realized was vacant. Not until here. Not until now.
Not until her.
I kissed her both to forget what I felt and to brand the truth of it on her lips. My throat was caught in a vise, a desperate ache in my chest. A longing, not for her. A longing to keep her.
Something in her kiss told me she felt it too.
I broke away to move down her body, to ebb our connection while I still could. But she stopped me with her hands on my jaw and a crane of her neck, a stretch to capture my lips again and keep them against hers. Her thighs split wider, her hips shifting in search until she found what she sought—the aching tip of my crown, caught in the slick heat of her. With a hiss, I withdrew, putting enough space between us that I wouldn’t thoughtlessly take the invitation.
I reached for my nightstand drawer, her hands stroking my ribs, then my chest as I tore open the condom and rolled it on, kissing her. Kissing down her. Spending a long moment at her breasts, tasting the tips, learning their shape. And then my patience was lost. Hastily, I slid off the bed, dragging her to the end by her thighs. Spreading her open, touching her to find her wet and wanting. Falling to my knees to bring my lips to her, to discover the taste of her. A gentle shake of my head, buried in her heat. A lick, a lap, a suck left her impatiently tugging my shoulders, whispering my name as a plea.
A final taste, and I stood on legs weak from desire. Blindly, I gripped my base, my eyes on the rippling flesh between her thighs. A flex, and I disappeared inside her to the sound of a gasp that parted her lips, shuddered her legs.
And when I could go no further, when my heart hammered in its cage, when the whole of me drew tight, reaching into her depths, I realized that rightness had become a fact, as tangible as the heat of her body sheathing mine.
With a shift and drive of my hips, I emptied and filled her again.
A long, relieved sigh echoed in the room. I wanted to kiss her but refused to leave her warmth, rolling my hips to retreat and advance in waves. Starving eyes devoured the sight of her breasts, jostling with every drive of my body into hers. I wanted to bask in the heat of her, in the feel of her, the sight and sound and smell of her. I wanted to fuck her until she fell apart, and I wanted to love her down for hours.
Her chin lifted, her hands scrabbling at the bed for purchase, the sweet sounds of pleasure slipping out of her, sliding over me. One desire rose above all else. To feel her beneath me. To cage her in my arms where she was safe, where she was wanted, where I could keep her.
I felt the loss of her body the second I left it and found my way back inside as quickly as I could, climbing up her body, filling her up, kissing her with my palm on her neck and fingers gripping her chin. And I stayed right there, buried inside her without moving, occupying her mouth, consuming her as she’d consumed me. Pinning her with my body, a cage she couldn’t escape, and she went boneless, not wanting to.
When I pumped my hips again, it was with intent.
Our bodies fit together in such a way that I didn’t have to seek the places she needed me. With the arch of her back, the flush of color from her chest to her neck to her cheek, she whispered something I couldn’t understand. Braced herself. Tightened around me painfully, her lips stretched in a silent cry.
A gasp, and she came, drawing me deeper, deeper with every pulse, every squeeze.
Heat gripped my chest, spreading through me, overtaking me. And with a heady pull from the very depths of me, I followed her down in a blind spiral of pleasure to the aftershocks of hers.
I collapsed, burying my face in her neck, her hair stuck to my panting lips and the scent of gardenias in every breath. Her arms looped my neck, both of us damp from exertion, our bodies still linked with no intention of upsetting the fact. I lay languid in her arms, heavy and spent and relishing in the feel of her fingertips in my hair, on my neck, my spine to a trail of goosebumps. I could have stayed right there forever, lost in a timeless haze with her.
But awareness rose again like a gn
awing nag, reminding us that life was happening somewhere out there.
I turned to press a kiss to her neck, pushed myself up so I could see her.
My God, she was beautiful, the tiny freckles on her nose and cheeks glistening. Her face was soft and sated, without a line of tension or worry to be found. I’d done that, I thought with arrogant pleasure.
If only I could keep her in this state forever. But the world wouldn’t wait for us, and I couldn’t save her from everything.
“Stay tonight,” I said, cupping her cheek, knowing her answer.
She leaned into my hand. “I wish I could. I don’t know what I’d tell my mother, and somehow, she’d know I was lying. She always knows.”
A string of curses whispered through me at the woman who had Maisie so firmly under her watch. “We’re looking for an apartment. Tomorrow.”
She chuckled like I was kidding. “I can stay for a while though.”
“Good, because I’m not through with you.” I kissed the tip of her nose. “If I can’t have you all night, I suppose I can make do.”
“Would you like to have me tomorrow too?”
“I’ll have you tomorrow, tomorrow night, the morning after. I’ll take you whenever I can get you.”
Her smile made me feel like a goddamn king. “I’m going to have to come up with a story. She won’t believe I’m out with friends every night. I don’t have enough friends to constitute a busy social calendar.”
“Not even friends from high school?”
She shrugged. “A few, but they moved away. And remember—I’ve been living with sheep for the last few years.”
“Ah, and I can’t imagine they’d be entertaining dinner guests.”
“I don’t know. They have their charm,” she teased.
For a moment, we just smiled at each other across the inches that separated us, alive with possibility. Because this was the beginning of something—I knew it in my marrow.
Hang the rest. Because Maisie was mine.
And I wasn’t about to let her go.
13
Perfection Defined
MAISIE
It was nearly midnight when I floated out of Marcus’s apartment and into a cab, tossing my coat and hat in without a care in the world. The city rushed by, but I didn’t see it, smiling stupidly at nothing with every thought consumed by Marcus.
Consumed, all of me, as if I’d been swallowed up by feeling.
Leaving was the actual worst. I’d have given my right arm to stay the night, but I was already pushing it with midnight. Didn’t want to risk anything more. Staying out all night would be grounds for the inquisition to lay its heavy eyes on me.
Nobody wanted that.
This late, Mother wouldn’t be awake, and thank goodness. One look at me, and she’d know more than she should. I didn’t think I could pretend I was the dejected girl I’d been this morning.
Not after Marcus.
Marcus.
Good, sweet God, my imaginings—of which there had been many regarding Marcus Bennet—had paled in comparison. And yet it somehow came as no surprise. It just felt right, exactly as it should be. As if for the first time in many, many years, the stars had aligned, and I was given a perfect moment.
A flash of fear dimmed my smile.
It was too perfect, too good to be true. Was I being blind? Crazy? How could he hurt me, what could he do with my trust?
But I took a breath and pushed the thought away. Because that was the influence of my mother, and I refused to be influenced by her for another minute of my life.
When my thoughts wandered back to him, my smile returned, and absently my fingers rested on my lips as I thought of his.
Tomorrow seemed a world away.
Deciding I needed to be more productive than all that, I tried to come up with a story for my mother—a problem that needed an immediate solution. But it was no use. Instantly, my thoughts flitted like book pages back to him.
I think I’m twitterpated.
A giggle bubbled out of me, and the cabbie gave me a look in the rearview. But I didn’t care. It was blissful, this feeling. Was this what it was like to be happy? Had I lived my whole life thinking happiness was oatmeal, the misconception falling apart now that I’d had a steak dinner?
I told myself it was just brain chemicals. And/or that it’d been a while since I’d seen anyone. Dating was a hassle, a string of awkward dinners with the vaguest of intentions, especially in York. Plus, there had been no reason to put in too much of an effort when I knew I wasn’t staying.
For the first time, I was glad I hadn’t.
We pulled up to the curb, and once I paid, I stepped out into the brisk spring evening. Up the stairs I went, my heels clicking on the concrete stoop. Noting the sound, I slipped them off, hooking them on my fingers so I could unlock the door.
The house was chilly and silent as a tomb, the shadows swallowing everything on a moonless night. Goosebumps raced up my arms, down my spine.
When the light clicked on, I discovered they had nothing to do with the chill.
My mother stood in the entry, her pajamas stiff and her slippers pointed at me. In fact, everything about her pointed at me—from her glasses to her glare to the aggressive shift of her hips and square of her shoulders.
“Why are you home so late?”
“Why are you up so late?” I countered.
“I was working.”
I stopped myself from scoffing. Since we were both lying, I said, “I was out with friends,” and headed for the stairs in a vain attempt to bypass the conversation.
“I wasn’t aware that any of the three people you knew were in town.”
“You are not entitled to every corner of my life. Only Bower.” I marched up three steps before she stopped me with a single word.
My name.
It was the swing of an ax, never spoken with love or tenderness. It was a weapon, wielded for control. And as she’d trained me, I stopped and turned.
“Where were you?” She was the only human I knew who could order someone with a question.
“Why do you want to know? Your adult daughter was out like adults do. I don’t see how it matters to you.”
“Adult,” she mocked. “Adults accept their responsibilities—they don’t run and hide. They don’t keep secrets.”
My eyes narrowed. “Funny, because I have a feeling you have a secret or two of your own.”
Fury smudged her cheeks with crimson. “You will not keep secrets from me. Are you seeing someone?”
“It’s none of your business.” I turned to walk away.
“Margaret Bower. You will answer my question.”
With slitted eyes, I looked down at her. “Or what?”
“Do not test me,” she seethed.
“I’m not doing this with you.” Again, I turned.
But she laughed. “I’m almost proud, seeing you pretend your power. Just a little taste, and look at you.”
A shock of dissent wheeled me around. I opened my mouth to tell her the many ways she could go to hell, but she headed me off with a triumphant look on her face.
“I shouldn’t worry. Whatever your little fling is, it won’t last. How could it? Oh, don’t look at me like that, Margaret—you have no ambition, no backbone, and … well, take a look at yourself. You don’t even try, not for anything worth something in the world. It’s why you’ve never had a boyfriend worth a damn. So have your fun while you can. And if it makes you feel better to pretend I won’t find out, go right ahead.”
The bald cruelty stung, the slap painful. “Thank you for the permission,” I snapped, doing my best to steady my voice. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Her flippancy twisted into something tighter, darker at her realization that I wasn’t going to fold. “Don’t be stupid, darling. If you think you can keep this from me, you’re mistaken.”
“And if you think I give a shit, so are you.” I spun around, desperate to leave.
Somet
hing close to disdain struck her face. “You have always been weak, but at least you used to be respectful.”
“You’ve always been a miserable bitch, so at least one of us is consistent.”
I marched up the stairs with furious tears in my eyes, ignoring her calls, hoping to God she didn’t follow me. The last thing I needed was to assault my mother in the middle of the night, on my perfect night.
But when I slammed my door and found myself in my old room, the gravity of the situation laid its full weight upon me. Because perfect would only find me in fluttering, fleeting moments.
Not forever, I reminded myself.
Because if things didn’t change, I would leave. And if Marcus and I went like I thought we might, I’d tell my mother about us, and I’d have to leave.
Either way, fate would decide.
But my mother would not.
14
Whistling Maisie
MARCUS
I walked through the turquoise door of Longbourne, a tray of coffees in hand, cheerfully whistling my way inside.
Jett glanced up at me from the register, double-taking when he really got a look at me, head cocked and dark brows drawn.
“Morning,” I said, nodding at the customers in the shop as I passed, heading for the counter. “Got you a coffee from Blanche’s.”
He took it, confused and suspicious. “You’re awfully chipper this morning.”
“What can I say? I got a great night’s sleep.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’m trying to think if I’ve ever heard you whistle.”
“Oh, look at that. A customer.” With a smirk, I moved out of the way for the woman behind me, turning the corner into the workspace.
The shop was bustling, as it always was these days, even on a Wednesday morning. Over the summer, Luke and Tess had renovated the storefront, planning weekly installations that brought people through the front door in droves. We sold out of her market bouquets daily, our deliveries were up four hundred percent, and our greenhouse was booming with blooms.
