Bedwrecker

by Kim Karr

  At fifty, my mother is more than content living alone. She dates on occasion. And I’ve known her to have an overnight guest, as she calls it, every once in a while.

  And still she’s happy.

  So again, what is it about Keen that I am afraid of?

  Besides getting hurt again. But come on, he had a life crisis. I should be able to forgive that. In fact, I have.

  Don’t judge.

  You would too.

  I know you would.

  Unable to answer my own question, I run a bath and add lavender oil to it. Soon enough I’m settling in and I let the water enfold me, hold me, cradle me even as I sink deeper and deeper.

  When the water is at the halfway level, I let my chin rest on the surface and watch as my hair floats all around me like seaweed.

  Remembering that one-and-only genuine smile Keen gave me yesterday, I slide my hands over my body in the hot water. The bath oil makes my skin slick. Smooth. Soft. Slippery enough that my palms skid over my stomach and thighs with ease.

  For some reason, my arousal seems heightened even after the mind-blowing sex Keen and I had last night. It’s like the key to the candy shop was given to me and now I can’t stop thinking about going in. All I want is more, more, more.

  Sinking lower into the deep tub, with my ears now in the water, I’m able to hear the wildly beating thump of my heart.

  The pitter-patter caused by thoughts of him.

  Spurred on by the sound, I cup my breasts. Stroke them. Pass my palms over my nipples before pinching them both between my fingers. A sigh leaks out of me as they burn and tighten.

  His voice is in my head. “I want to come all over your gorgeous tits.”

  I tug and tug and tug until I feel an answering pull in my clit. I move the firm flesh back and forth, tugging on them harder and harder, waiting for it to feel like his hands are on me.

  Needing more, I open my legs and push my hips against the water. Still tugging on one of my nipples, I slide my other hand down between my thighs.

  My clit is more than ready for my touch, his touch.

  I bite my lip, the gentle stroke enough to make my hips jerk toward the surface. Still not enough. Not nearly enough. Not him.

  Needing even more, I apply pressure and circle my clit. The water supports me and lifts me, but not for long. Soon I’m pushing my pelvis against my fingers and my shoulder blades bump the bottom of the tub.

  His hands.

  His big, callused palms.

  Rough and soft.

  His long, strong fingers.

  That’s what I want to feel.

  That’s what I pretend I feel.

  Sliding two fingers inside, I try to make believe it is okay that it is not his thick, hard cock fucking me. And for a minute, it is okay. My clit swells. And my body opens with an ache to be filled. But then I realize it’s not him, and I force myself to keep pretending.

  I imagine it’s him in here with me. Fucking me. Telling me to sit on his lap. To ride his hard cock. And we’re all tongues and hands, and then I explode in a small whirlwind of tiny sparklers.

  No fireworks.

  No stars or other galaxies.

  And certainly no earth moving under my feet.

  I may not know what it is about Keen Masters that is making me feel like I should keep my distance, but I do know for absolute certainty that I will never be truly happy without a man in life.

  My mother has lived without one for as long as I can remember.

  My grandmother had lived without one too.

  But me, I need the touch of a man, crave it, yearn for it, and right now not just any man. One man.

  And there it is.

  That is what scares me . . .

  It’s always been men. I need men in my life. Men make me happy. Men make me feel good.

  Men.

  Generic.

  Not anyone in particular.

  Not one man.

  Not a man.

  Not Keen Masters.

  My skin is pink from the hot water and my arousal not nearly satisfied, yet I force myself to get out of the tub because the bottom line is, I want him.

  His hands on me.

  His mouth on me.

  I want to feel him lick the soft, wet slit of my pussy.

  I want to feel that smile of his when I come hard under his tongue.

  I want him to fuck me with his hands and his cock and his mouth until I come.

  I want to make him come and beg for more.

  I want him.

  And this time I am the one who turned him away.

  The question is . . .

  Can I get him back?

  Keen

  There’s no way to describe this thing between us.

  One part forbidden. One part intimate. One part sexual. And about the rest, I have no fucking clue.

  Checking myself in the mirror, my shirt is wrinkle-free, my tie is straight, my pants new, and . . . fuck, my erection is at half-mast, pushing against my trousers.

  This is ridiculous.

  Fucking ridiculous.

  I can’t be getting a chubby every time I think of her.

  I’m a powerful man with a company to run.

  I’m not a fourteen-year-old boy who has all the time in the world for palm action, for Christ’s sake.

  Besides, she’s going to want to chop my dick off when I see her, especially since I came on all porn-star king and then didn’t even have the balls to show up and put my money where my mouth is.

  I blame it on the no fucking clue part.

  Why would I want to mark her?

  I’ve never wanted to do that to any woman before.

  Seriously, this is a big-ass problem. I’ve always been the kind of guy that could take Trudy or Judy or Ruby or whichever girl wasn’t claimed. Josh wanted Trudy with the blond hair; sure man, take her. Evan wanted Judy with the big tits; go for it, dude. Ruby with the red lips was fine by me.

  And now I want to punch some douchebag’s lights out because he kisses Maggie on the back of the head. And to boot, I want to mark her as my territory so no other man even looks at her in the wrong way.

  That is insane.

  And I can’t talk to Cam about it because A, he is out of town, and B, he would probably punch my lights out.

  I consider calling Brooklyn but I know he won’t be up yet, and since he lives with Maggie, I’m not 100 percent certain he’ll be cool with the fact that I not only fucked her once, but twice. And make that multiple onces.

  Better wait until I get my shit figured out to bring it up to either him or Cam. I’ll need to come clean, no doubt, but I think I’ll keep it under wraps until we return from New York City.

  Hopefully by then what happened between us will be forgotten, or at least not all I can think about.

  Before leaving the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Fuck, I really look like shit. But what would I expect? I didn’t sleep much. And I refuse to think about why.

  Sometimes pretending is the only way.

  Maggie

  February temperatures in Los Angeles remain as cool as January. If we’re lucky, there might be a little less rain and slightly more sunshine.

  That is if we’re lucky.

  Lately, we haven’t been lucky.

  The forecast calls for more thunderstorms and colder temperatures. Not exactly my favorite weather, but there’s a silver lining. Much to my delight, this has me breaking out my boots for work, the flat, comfortable ones that zip to right below my knee.

  For clothing, I decide on a figure-hugging pencil skirt and a tight black V-neck silk blouse with bell sleeves. Very matchy-matchy, but still I like it.

  While brushing my hair, I pull it back, and then let it fall, deciding to wear it straight. Yes, I know he likes it down, and yes, I’m leaving it down for that very reason.

  Finally, I slip on one of Makayla’s signature crystal gemstone necklaces. I chose the desert rose because it signifies all things possible.
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  Cross your fingers that it works.

  Besides, he owes me one freak-out.

  It’s a little before seven thirty, and I decide to head on out. This will help me mentally prepare myself to see him, and all his hotness.

  In addition, I can go over my speech again. Although I really haven’t finalized even the first few words.

  Crap.

  Pulling my suitcase behind me, I open my door, and suddenly everything I worried about all night and morning disappears.

  Just like that.

  Because there he is, leaning against one of my pillars, with two cups of coffee in his hands, looking like he just walked off the runway.

  Black and white never looked so good.

  Black suit.

  White shirt.

  Funky black and white tie.

  Simple and yet smoking hot.

  A Simon Warren, I can tell.

  I want to lick him, and I haven’t even apologized.

  I’m so screwed.

  But then a slow, easy smile turns up the corners of his lips and my heart melts a little. Mind you, my heart has never melted. Somehow that smile says it all, and I know in my gut that everything is going to be all right.

  “Maggie.” His voice is warm and gooey caramel, smooth and yummy.

  “Keen,” I say, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. No need to overwhelm the guy. “You’re early.”

  With my body a trembling bundle of nerves, I find that I’m struggling to get myself, my raincoat, umbrella, suitcase, and oversized purse out the door.

  With his eyes devouring every inch of me, he sets the coffees down on the porch railing, and I swear the air crackles as he rushes toward me. “Hey, let me give you a hand.”

  The Maggie of yesterday would have scoffed at the thought of Keen Masters helping her. The Maggie of today can play the damsel-in-distress card if it means gaining empathy. “Yes, that would be great. Can you grab—”

  Just then he reaches for my suitcase and as soon as our hands connect, a zap of electricity whispers wicked promises for the night. “What is all this, anyway?” he asks, although it comes out much more mumbled as the first signs of thunder boom in the distance.

  The wind picks up and I feel like I’m talking too loud. “I’m going to stay at my mother’s tonight. The early morning flights are killer, and staying in West Hollywood shaves an hour off the morning commute to LAX.”

  He wheels the suitcase to the top of the steps. “Great idea. I’ll grab my stuff before we leave and get a hotel for the night.”

  Disappointed he didn’t whisper a naughty invite in my ear, I lamely agree with him. “Yes, it will be much easier that way.”

  Okay, that was dumb and this is awkward.

  Keen grabs one of the coffees and hands it to me. Right away I can see the box next to the word vanilla is checked.

  My heart skips a beat. Yesterday in the kitchen he had paid attention to what I was drinking.

  “You brought me coffee? Do I have to call you ‘dear’ now?” I say with a smirk.

  “No.” He laughs. “But you can call me ‘sir.’”

  “Um . . . no.”

  We laugh together and it feels good. Like everything is going to go right back on track. Whatever track this is. Undefined. Unknown. And okay.

  Instead of reaching for me, though, he takes a seat on the railing beside his coffee and leans slightly forward, his head dipping down and his eyes lifting.

  After taking a sip of my coffee, I warm my hands on the cup and meet his gaze.

  That’s when I know nothing is back on the unknown track. I know I have to come clean. Open the door.

  “About last night,” we both say at the same time.

  Uneasiness creeps over me, and not because in the distance I can see the sky growing darker. Call it intuition, call it whatever you want, I just know I am not going to like whatever he says next.

  It can’t be good.

  Suddenly I realize he’s out of character—he’s being way too nice. The coffees aren’t about him wooing me.

  The question is what are they about.

  A peace offering? No.

  An apology? For what? New Year’s again? The hate fuck last night? Crossing the line? We talked about all that last night.

  “You first,” he offers.

  I sip more coffee and try to release the tension in my muscles. “No, you first.”

  He runs a hand through his more-than-perfect hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t come over last night.”

  “Umm . . . what?” I hold up my free hand.

  He leans farther forward, leaning his arms on his thighs, those blue eyes still piercing me though. “I should have called.”

  Not expecting that in the least, I have to admit that it hurts like hell to know he didn’t even try to come to me.

  Here’s the thing: the shock on my face isn’t something I can control, nor is the ire I’m feeling. “You really are an asshole!” I shout.

  He straightens. “Let me explain.”

  I throw him a disgusted look, feeling triumphant when he flinches. “Don’t bother. I locked the door anyway.”

  The muscle in his jaw flexes. “You weren’t going to let me in?”

  Anger sparks in my eyes. “No, I wasn’t. I changed my mind before I even made it in the house. Decided I couldn’t trust you. And obviously for good reason.”

  His nostrils flare. “Bullshit.”

  I blink rapidly at the nerve of him. “Why weren’t you coming over?”

  He shrugs. “I thought it was for the best.”

  “Bullshit,” I curse, using his word. “You were afraid.”

  Standing up, he takes a step toward me. “You got me all wrong, sweetheart. I’m not afraid of anything, but obviously you are.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sweetheart’!” I scream.

  Just then the door swings wide open and Brooklyn stands there in a pair of board shorts, running his hand through his hair.

  We both look at him like deer caught in headlights.

  “What the hell is going on?” he says with a yawn.

  “Nothing,” we both say at the same time.

  “Then what’s with the yelling?”

  We look at each other and Keen gives me a slight nod to take the lead. What? No, he only relents control because he’s scared of his little brother. I should clue Brooklyn in, but I won’t. What happened between us happened between us and for some reason I’m not ready to let anyone in, so I straighten my shoulders and smile at him. “We are just discussing something that we can’t seem to agree on.”

  Brooklyn raises a brow. “Anything I can help with?”

  I ignore Keen’s questioning look. “No, you know how your brother is.”

  Brooklyn grins at me. “Yeah, you mean he can be an ass.”

  With a wink, I point my finger at him. “You know him well. Don’t forget I won’t be back until Sunday.”

  “Right; I’ll water the plants.” He laughs.

  It’s a joke between us. We have no plants or nothing live to take care of. It makes going out of town easy. Something Brooklyn does way more of than me.

  Without even looking, I can feel the burn of Keen’s stare on me as I grab my suitcase and head toward his car parked at the end of my walk. “Be a dear and unlock your car, will you?” I toss over my shoulder. “And the trunk as well,” I add, keeping my voice sweet for Brooklyn’s sake.

  “Just leave the suitcase—I’ll load it,” Keen calls to me.

  That damn chivalry, he can shove it right—well, you know where. “I got it.”

  To my surprise, the lights flick and the trunk pops right away. I had forgotten the trunk was in the front, so I’m thankful for that little hint. Still, I leave my bag on the walk for him.

  The beep-beep of the lock and the creak of the trunk mask the murmur of voices from the front porch, but I don’t even bother trying to hear what Keen and Brooklyn are discussing.

  I really don’t care.

>   In fact, as far as I’m concerned, the past is long erased. Right now, Keen Masters is nothing more than a two-week inconvenience that I have been saddled with.

  And trust me when I say I know just how to handle inconveniences.

  Maggie

  I’ve never owned a Louisville Slugger.

  In fact, I’m not certain I’ve ever even held one in the palm of my hands, but right now, I really wish I had one, and whether it comes in maple, birch, or ash, I really don’t care.

  It’s not a baseball I’m dreaming of hitting with it. Oh, and just to be clear, it’s not him, either. I wouldn’t want to mar his gorgeous drop-dead looks, even if I do think he is a giant dick.

  Pairing my phone with his radio is done easily enough. The rain is coming down in sheets and causing nothing but chaos on the freeway. Deep in concentration, he doesn’t even notice what I’m doing. Then again, we haven’t spoken a word since I laid on his horn to hurry him up.

  After tossing my suitcase in the trunk, along with his duffle and suit bag in the mini seat behind us, he got in, started the car, and has yet to glance over at me.

  As always, the tension is thick between us, but I’ve devised a way to help clear the air, or perhaps not.

  It’s a toss-up.

  But this is war, now.

  The screen on my phone blinks PAIRED, and just like that I have control of the radio. Goodbye hard rock, hello country. Now, I don’t usually listen to country, but when I was looking for anti–Valentine’s Day songs, I came across this little gem and downloaded it.

  Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” blares through the BOSE speakers, and Keen’s head snaps in my direction. “What the hell, Maggie?”

  Ignore your name on his lips.

  Luckily I’m able to.

  My smile couldn’t be brighter. “What?” I ask innocently. “I thought a little variety would be nice since we’re going to be in the car for a while.”

  Coming to a complete standstill on the pavement, I watch as Keen’s body stiffens, and then he stares over at me with an infuriating imperiousness. And yet, he remains silent.

  That is unacceptable.

  Stretching, I arch my back. “This is such a good song. Don’t you think?”

  His eyes rake down my body, and they take their time drinking me in on the climb back up.