Breaking All Her Rules

by Maisey Yates

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  “You wanted that?”

  “I’ve been wanting it. I thought you were going to make me ask.”

  “Hopefully I’ll be able to figure out what you want. But if I don’t get it right, I expect you to tell me just what you want. I want to blow your mind. I want to give you the best you’ve ever had, but we don’t know each other. We aren’t in a relationship. That means you have to tell me what you want. Because I don’t know.” He squeezed her nipple gently. “I don’t know if you like Italian food or Mexican food better. I don’t know if you like classical or rock. I don’t know if you like it bent over the bed, or if you like to be on top. If you like to give head or get it.”

  “Yes,” she said, her whole body hot now. “Yes to all. And any.”

  He was making her experience seem woeful. She’d never been bent over anything. She’d been on top a few times, but mainly to speed things along for herself. Or rather, to make the climax creature less elusive.

  “Maybe we’ll start here,” he said. He lifted his head up and circled her nipple with his tongue, then ran the flat of it over the tightened bud before sucking it deep in his mouth.

  She closed her eyes, let the pleasure wash over her, through her. There was something about him. Not just what he did, but him.

  He traced the indent of her spine with the tip of his finger. Such a mundane action in many ways. But when he did it? It left a trail of fire. It left her feeling like she would never be the same.

  “Oh...crap.” He reached to the nightstand and opened the drawers, his hand pressed against her lower back, holding her to his body while he turned and fished around in the drawer. “Oh...thank you, Marsha.”

  She wasn’t going to question that. Not too closely. Especially not when what he produced turned out to be condoms. There was no happy road for her mind to go down there.

  It didn’t matter why he had the condoms. Nothing mattered but this moment, because this was the only moment they would have.

  He shifted her, handling her like her weight was nothing, the well-defined muscles in his arm and on his chest shifting as he did. Then he opened the condom and positioned it on the head of his member, rolling it on slowly.

  He guided her onto his length, his hold firm. She went with him, taking him in slowly, gripping his shoulders tight as he filled her. Stretched her. He felt so good. So much better than anything or anyone had a right to.

  It was like the first hit off a potent drug. She imagined. She’d never done drugs. Because drugs were for the other daughter. The bad one. Just like she’d never done a stranger. Because this wasn’t something for the good daughter, either.

  Because it was wrong. Because there was a chance that the drugs and the men would be addicting, and that she would never get enough.

  That she wouldn’t be perfect. That she would be ruined.

  He flexed his hips and thrust up fully inside of her, and then she knew. She was ruined. For sex. For all other men. Forever.

  There had never been anything like this before, and in that blinding moment, with him fully inside her, she knew there never would be again.

  She looked down at him, their eyes clashing, and she felt it hit deep inside.

  Then she squeezed her eyes tight and started to move. Holding onto his shoulders, starting slow before building up, the taut wire stretching out again, through her whole body.

  She rode him harder, sweat beading over her skin, his hands moving over her curves before gripping her hips and holding on tight.

  “Oh...Zack,” she said.

  She wasn’t ready for the second climax. It crashed over her like a wave, sudden and shocking, moving through her whole body, taking her over completely.

  It was enough to send him over, too. He thrust up into her two more times before freezing, fingers digging hard into her flesh as he gave up control, his head falling back, his expression that of a man in pain, a harsh groan on his lips.

  Then he released his hold on her, his arms thrown back above his head, his chest rising and falling sharply with each breath.

  “Dammit,” he said, short and sharp.

  “What?” She got off of him, her hand still planted on his chest, her heart beating fast. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I just...I couldn’t think of anything else to say because I think you might have killed me.”

  She could feel his heart pounding beneath her palm. “You’re still alive. I can feel it.”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty sure...yep, pretty sure I’m dead.”

  “Because it was good? Or are you now an emotionally scarred ghost due to some terrible error in my intercourse technique?”

  “Because I didn’t remember sex was this damn good,” he said, rolling onto his side.

  “So the condoms weren’t from a recent encounter with Marsha?”

  He looked stricken. “What? No. I mean...she probably made sure they were here. Trying to keep me out of trouble. I think she’s of the opinion I land on the evolutionary scale several positions below her basset hound. That is an ugly dog. She thinks he’s beautiful.”

  “Who is Marsha?”

  “Do you really want to talk about this now?”

  “Only if she’s your lover or your wife.”

  “None of the above. She’s my manager.”

  “Oh.” She blinked. “Your manager?”

  “Oh...artsy shit.” He waved his hand. “Not a big deal.”

  She flashed back to the fox. “What kind of artsy...stuff?”

  “I’m am artist, I guess,” he said, looking painfully uncomfortable.

  “You’re an artist?” she asked, feeling completely incredulous that the rather rough, uncultured man who’d just taken her against a wall was an artist. “That’s how you make your living?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s...incredibly hard to do.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I got lucky. I got some recognition for some things early on. And then I signed on with Marsha and she’s...well she’s not a basset hound. She runs more toward pit bull. But that’s what you want in a manager, right?”

  “I suppose you do.”

  “I’m here for a gallery thing,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “I’m not very comfortable with any of it yet.”

  It was so weird, sitting on a stranger’s bed, naked, talking about work.

  But it was interesting. To see him uncomfortable. He was so confident, so unaffected. But there was something to the way he talked about being an artist. A strange dismissiveness.

  She had a feeling, for whatever reason, that probably meant he cared about it.

  “You’re actually doing an exhibition here?”

  “Yeah, and schmoozing stuff. It’s not my thing. I’ve done it before, but I don’t get any more comfortable with it, it turns out. Damned inconvenient all things considered.”

  “I guess it would be.”

  “Anyway, I don’t really want to talk about me. I’d rather talk about you. And your breasts.”

  She looked down. “These ol’ things?”

  He threw his head back and laughed, then lifted his thumb and dragged it over her nipple, sending a shiver through her body. “Yeah. I’m pretty impressed.”

  “At the private school I went to the girls used to ask if I’d gotten bitten by mosquitos on my chest.”

  “Small is fine,” he said. “You’re small and perfect. And real. Better that than fake, I think.”

  “Well, you’re in the minority.” She stood up. “I guess I should go. It’s...well, what is it...seven o’clock?”

  “Nearly.”

  “I should go home and...water my plants.”

  “Right. I should...order room service.”

  “I ho
pe you can skip the porn now.”

  He nodded. “It’s safe to say that particular urge is managed.”

  “I think I’m flattered.”

  “Then maybe my charm has improved with the orgasm.”

  “So...should we...should I just go? I’ve never done this before.” And she was starting to shake, the buzz from her orgasm wearing off, leaving reality in its wake.

  “Do you want the honest truth?”

  She picked her clothes up from the floor by the wall and started tugging them on. “Depends. But...hit me.”

  “I’ve never done this before, either.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I’ve been in two comfortably friendly relationships. One wherein I lived with the guy until one day he wanted to move out. Neither of us were too sad about it. That was six months ago...I can’t even muster up any sadness over it. And...and that’s been it for me. No wild one...afternoon stands.”

  “Well, I’m sort of coming off a...uh...marriage.”

  She froze. “Oh.”

  “I’m not married,” he said. “It’s just...I was. And that kind of ate up my wild one-night-stand years.”

  “I bet.”

  “That was information you didn’t need,” he said, looking down. She examined his profile, his square jaw, the rough whiskers on his chin. He was embarrassed now. It was sort of adorable. It made her heart do very strange things. “See?” he said, looking up at her, his forehead creasing, the light from the bedside lamp casting shadows over his muscles. “I’m bad at this.”

  Well, so was she. Because, suddenly, she didn’t want to tear herself away from him.

  “Well, me, too. But I promise I won’t boil your rabbit or anything similarly inappropriate.”

  “What about my fox?”

  She wrinkled her nose as she wiggled back into her skirt. “Think I’ll keep him. Maybe he’ll be worth something someday.”

  “Like after I cut my ear off and die?”

  She laughed. “Well, I killed you so...the market value on your work will have gone up exponentially in just the past few moments.”

  “I’ll alert the media. Or rather, I’ll tell Marsha to.”

  “Great. Sounds like a...thing. So...I’m going to go.”

  “Don’t forget your phone,” he said.

  For a full thirty seconds, she had no idea what the man was talking about. Then the memory trickled in slowly. Her phone. What she was there for. The thing she was addicted to. That didn’t seem to matter so much now.

  “Right. Phone.”

  He rummaged around the bedsheets. “Here it is.”

  “The things it must have seen,” she said, holding her hand out, her stomach lurching as he placed it in her palm, his fingertips brushing her skin.

  “Yeah, true. I feel like maybe it didn’t see quite enough.”

  That made her stomach free fall into her toes. “Oh. Well. I...”

  “Just a second.” He got up and walked out of the bedroom, totally unconcerned with his nudity, then returned a moment later with his phone, then he handed it to her. “Call yourself. With my phone.”

  She typed in her number with a shaky thumb and hit the call button. A second later, her phone started playing a piano riff. She hit Ignore.

  “Now you have my number,” he said. “If you want...something...again, call me.” He took his phone back and threw it on the bed. “If not, don’t. No pressure.”

  “Right,” she said. “No pressure.”

  “This was good,” he said.

  That was the understatement of the century. “Yeah.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you.”

  “Sure. Maybe we’ll grab the same cab.” She wouldn’t call. She wouldn’t be that weak.

  “Stranger things have happened,” he said.

  “They certainly have.”

  Like her whole day. Her whole crazy day. A day that she had a feeling had changed something in her forever.

  Chapter Five

  Zack thought he felt his phone buzz. He shoved his hand in the pocket of the ridiculous dress pants he was wearing, but his phone was still.

  Another phantom buzz.

  She’s not gonna call, moron. Tell your downstairs brain to chill out.

  Grace Song wasn’t going to call for a repeat performance. It had been a one-time thing. An amazing thing. But one time was better for both of them.

  Zack had more baggage that he could carry, and he wasn’t about to ask someone else to come walk along with him while he tried to complete the impossible task. It was way better to just trudge along, dragging it behind him. Ignoring it all and forging ahead with is...life.

  He looked around the room, at the exhibition of art. Great art. Women in black dresses and suits, men in black suits, too. The uniform didn’t vary much. It was New York, after all.

  This was the kind of thing Marsha said he had to do because...image, inroads, connections, blah blah, he’d stopped listening after that because he’d seen a Sabrett hot-dog cart and he’d immediately wanted that more than a high-powered art career. With relish, thanks.

  Of course, eating hot dogs wouldn’t pay his bills. Unless he could become a competitive eater. There was merit in that.

  Then maybe he could go back to doing art in the barn on his property.

  There’s nothing to go back to.

  His life was depressing as hell. Which was the thing that sucked so much about loss. Even when the knife edge on your grief dulled, you were still missing something.

  Almost a decade and his house felt too empty. He had a feeling it was one of those things that just left a hole. Though, in his case, he thought it might have left a lot more. He felt hollowed out, on a good day.

  Sex with Grace had filled him with heat, and that had been a whole lot better than the emptiness. So instead of paying attention to the exhibit, he was hoping his phone would ring.

  But it wasn’t going to. Because she had more sense than he did. Or rather, more sense than his penis.

  Not that that was a feat, by any stretch of the imagination. That body part wasn’t known for being the most discriminating. And since his had been on sabbatical for six years...well.

  His pocket buzzed and he jerked to attention, reaching down inside again and curling his fingers around the phone, tugging it out. Thank God. It was ringing. And it was a New York number.

  He answered it.

  “Hi.”

  “Zack?”

  It was Grace. It was her. He resisted the urge to drop to his knees and give thanks in the middle of the gallery.

  “Yeah,” he said, trying to sound casual.

  “I know I shouldn’t be calling you.”

  “I didn’t think you were going to.” Not that he was complaining.

  “Well, I wasn’t. Then I thought...a one-night-stand is awfully...you know...dicey. Maybe...maybe...You’re probably busy.”

  “Nope,” he said, looking around the room, counting all the very important people. There were a lot of them. “Not in the least.”

  “Good. Good. Um...121 West 72nd Street. My place. It’s small but it’s...there’s a bed.”

  “That’s all we need.”

  He disconnected the call, gave a halfhearted goodbye to anyone who might be relevant, then slipped out of the party as quickly as possible.

  It took way longer to get a cab and get across town than he wanted. In the end, it probably would have been faster and cheaper to walk, but he didn’t like the idea of hoofing it down the streets of Manhattan with a hard-on that probably looked like a crowbar pushing against the front of his jeans.

  Not that it was much better to have something like that while in a cab, but at least he coul
d sit down and pretend it wasn’t happening.

  He drummed his fingers on his thigh, impatience and arousal coursing through him. Why the hell was there traffic at ten at night? If people were out in Pine Ridge Falls at this hour they were just parked in the bar.

  He let out an exasperated sigh, and was about a second from getting out and walking, when the cab stopped in front of an older-looking building with an open convenience store on the bottom floor.

  He handed a large bill to the driver and got out, shutting the door harder than was strictly necessary. Then he took his phone out of his pocket, and selected her number out of the recent-call list. “How do I get in here?” he asked.

  “Oh! Zack?”

  “No. Candygram.”

  “You have to go to the door, it’s next to the store, and kind of set in.”

  He looked around and saw what she was talking about. “Okay.”

  “And I’ll buzz you in. I’m in 3B.”

  “Great.” He heard the buzz and tugged the door open.

  “The elevator is rickety,” she said.

  “I’m good with the stairs,” he said, hanging up.

  He was surprised how old the building was. Surprised that Grace didn’t live somewhere with a shiny lobby and more frills. Though, he did know that rent was inflated beyond reason here. Still, he’d never had a reason to look for a place in the area, so he had no idea just what that meant in a practical way.

  The stairs were narrow and drafty, dirt pushed deep into the grooves between the steps. It was obviously clean overall, but not scrubbed deep. Another testament to the age of the building. It would never sparkle.

  He found himself fascinated by it. The architecture. The lines. It was rooted to the earth in a way other buildings didn’t seem to be. Like it was created rather than built.

  And that made him think of a potential piece. A collection.

  Unusual for him to get any inspiration here. Typically, he needed to be home. Closer to all the past’s poison. He had to kind of wallow in it to feel enough to work sometimes.

  Dammit. He was some kind of clichéd tortured artist. What the hell was that? He blamed it on eating fricking pâté at all these parties. Back at home that crap came out of a cat-food can.