Breaking All Her Rules

by Maisey Yates

  “You sound enthused.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What do you like to eat?”

  “Stuff that is too big for a toothpick.” He bent down and picked up his pants, then put them on without putting on any underwear. Oh, my. That would be fun later.

  He was so hot. All hard abs and pecs, sprinkled with a light dusting of brown hair. For a moment she forgot what they were discussing.

  “Right um...pizza? Thai? Indian?”

  “Indian would be good,” he said, sinking onto her white, Victorian-style settee. He looked...almost comical on it. So big and masculine and dark against the floral velvet.

  “Great, I’ll put in an order.” She walked into the kitchen and pulled up her favorite restaurant on her phone and placed a quick order. “Done.”

  “You didn’t even make a call.”

  “Yeah, I try not to talk to people if I don’t have to. I have to talk to people all day in my business so...”

  “So you avoid them later. Good plan. That’s what I do six months out of the year, not in a solid chunk, mind you. Then for the other six months I do things like this. I was in Paris two months ago, and went all through Europe. I have to go again soon.”

  She laughed. “Oh, wow. You have to go?”

  “Yeah. London.”

  “I think that sounds amazing.” She rested her elbows on the kitchen counter and looked at him. “You don’t seem thrilled.”

  “I am. I mean...I don’t know.” He took a deep breath and looked away from her, staring straight out in front of him, at nothing. “Sometimes I think my give-a-damn is busted.”

  This probably pertained to his ex-wife. And she bet that was off-limits for them, since they were just having sex. And apparently eating takeout.

  “How did you get into art?” she asked, a safer question. “You really, really don’t seem like the type. You’re too...”

  “Country?”

  “Grounded. I think of artists, particularly of the modern variety who are successful, and I think of...whimsy.”

  “Whimsy?”

  “Yes.”

  He spread his arms out wide, the muscles in his forearms shifting. “Am I not whimsical?”

  “Not so much, cowboy.”

  “What about the fox I drew for you? Wasn’t he whimsical?”

  “All right,” she said, smiling when she thought of the sketch. “He was kind of whimsical. What medium do you normally work in?”

  “I do a lot of metal work. Iron. Welding.”

  “Oh, that makes sense.” It accounted for his physique, that was for sure.

  “I’m basically a glorified blacksmith. But I make animals and people rather than armor and shoes for...animals and people.”

  “I think that’s amazing.”

  “Gives me something to pour a lot of physical frustration into that’s for sure.”

  “It’s more interesting than being a financial advisor.”

  He tilted his head back, his eyes meeting hers again. “Then why are you a financial advisor?”

  “I’m good at it. And I do enjoy it. I want...I want to be successful.”

  He nodded slowly. “You know what’s funny?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve never cared if I was.”

  “And you are,” she said. The downstairs buzzer went off. “Bet that’s the food.” She walked to the door and hit the intercom button. “Yes?”

  A voice crackled through the speaker. “Ms. Song, I have your dinner.”

  She pushed the button to open the door, then looked back at Zack. It was funny. Sometimes he just seemed like the a man’s man. Steady, not taking much too seriously. Like he was a guy who didn’t care about much with any great depth.

  And then in a flash she would witness a moment of deep, aching sadness that she didn’t think matched anything she’d ever felt in her whole life.

  She was seeing it now. And it made her wonder if it was there all the time, kept under everything else, but there.

  It was terrifying to her. She wasn’t sure why, only that it was.

  There was a knock at the door and she jumped. “The food.” She turned and went to the door, took the order in and paid as quickly as possible. Then she went into the kitchen and started setting the foam boxes out on the counter. “Oh, good. Paper plates and plastic utensils in here. And...want to open a bottle of wine?”

  “That would be good.” He got up from the couch and walked into the little kitchen, filling up the space even more alarmingly than he’d filled up the couch.

  “Everything for that is in the cupboard by the fridge, including the aerator.”

  “Aerator. That’s pretty fancy considering we have paper plates.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re celebrating,” she said, dishing rice, chicken tikka masala and naan onto their plates.

  “What are we celebrating?” he asked, turning the corkscrew, then tugging the cork out before pouring the wine. He’d skipped the aerator but she wouldn’t be shrewish about it.

  “Good sex,” she said. “Which is a lot rarer than you might think.”

  “Yeah?” he asked, tipping the glass of wine up to his lips.

  “I’ve never had it before you.”

  He snorted into his wineglass and sent several droplets of dark red over the edge of the glass. “Really?” he asked, coughing.

  “I’ve had okay sex. I’ve had orgasms but...you know I can give those to myself. Have been for six months now. Batteries are cheaper than men, I find.”

  She didn’t know why she was telling him this stuff. Normally she’d be embarrassed. But the guy had just bent her over a table so there wasn’t really much to be embarrassed about at this point.

  He poured a glass of wine for her, and handed it over. “Where do you eat?” he asked.

  “The couch,” she said. “That’s what the coffee table is for. But this place is the size of a goldfish bowl so I find less furniture is better.”

  They took their plates into the living room and he sat on the couch. She eyeballed it, and the little wedge of space left for her. David hadn’t taken up so much space, that was for sure.

  She let out a breath and sat down next to him, their thighs touching.

  “So tell me about the previous sex, which was bad,” he said.

  “Uh...not bad. Just...not remarkable. I had a boyfriend in college who was young. You know what I mean by that.”

  “Fast?”

  “Very.”

  “And after that?”

  “Two years of celibacy, followed by David. Who I was with for five years. I lived with him for a while. Which I think was kind of the beginning of the end. He was like a fixture, and so was I. And you stop looking at fixtures, especially when you’re busy. And you?”

  He took a bite of his rice and looked away. “Before you, I hadn’t had sex in six years.”

  Chapter Six

  Well, damn. So, he’d confessed that. Something about this little velvet couch must have been reminiscent of a psych office. Not that he’d ever been to one. Though, some, like his manager, would argue he should go. Deal with his issues. His grief.

  But he didn’t want to. His grief was his blanket and without it...without it he would be exposed.

  Though, grief was a damned itchy blanket.

  Even so, he was attached.

  “You...what?” She blinked rapidly, dark lashes fluttering with the movement.

  “Are you asking for me to elaborate or to repeat the statement?”

  “Elaborate, please. I was under the impression you just went through a divorce. Though, if you hadn’t had sex in six years, I can see why the divorce was necessary.”

  He shook his head. “I got divorced six year
s ago. Or rather, my wife left me six years ago, I’m not really sure when the thing was finalized. I just signed papers. Neither of us did much. She didn’t want the house. We didn’t have any...kids to fight over.” That always pulled him up. Saying he didn’t have kids.

  He didn’t. But he still felt like a father. He still loved a little girl with everything in him, even though she wasn’t here.

  “It was an easy divorce,” he said, because that much was true. There hadn’t been any glue holding him and Stephanie together in the end.

  He didn’t blame her for it. She wanted to leave their house, leave the town. He didn’t. She wanted to run from the memories, he wanted to live in them. And in the end, it had meant she’d needed to run from him. He couldn’t be angry at her for that.

  “Oh...I...I’m sorry. I mean...good for an easy divorce, but...I’m sorry.”

  He looked down at his food, a ball of hard, heavy emotion settling in his chest. The worst thing was, now he felt like he had to talk about it. Because pretending Tally hadn’t been a part of everything was...it wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to act like she didn’t exist. But he didn’t like talking about her, either.

  So he wouldn’t. Not now.

  He set his plate down on the pretty little side table. “Suddenly, I’m not so hungry for food,” he said.

  “But we just...not a half hour ago we...”

  “Come on, Grace. I just told you. Six years.” He picked up his wineglass and knocked back the remaining contents. He needed it. He needed to forget.

  He needed her.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” he asked.

  “Down the hall.”

  He stood up and she did, too, then he scooped her up into his arms. She squeaked and wrapped her arms around his neck. She was so small, so light. He kind of liked it. Because it made him feel strong. And because he knew he could lift her up and move her around easily. For sex in interesting ways. He was a simple man. At least, he would prefer to be. Sex and beer. He could deal with that.

  Maybe that had been half his problem for the past few years. Beer and sadness. Not beer and sex. He was changing that.

  He was changing it now.

  He charged down the hall, holding her close to his chest. “That door!” she said, gesturing to the one near the end of the hall.

  He pushed it open with his shoulder and brought them inside, putting her down on the center of the bed. He stripped his clothes off as quickly as possible. “This is becoming a habit when you’re around,” he said. “Why did I even bother to get dressed?”

  “You would have emotionally scarred the delivery guy.”

  “Is my body that hideous?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Hideous is not the word I’d use.”

  “What is?” he asked, arching a brow.

  “Jaw-dropping. Sexy. An ode to classic masculinity.”

  “Stop it, Gracie, you’ll make me blush. Now take off your dress.”

  She obeyed, revealing herself to him slowly. Inch by tantalizing inch. “How about, cowboy? What do you see?”

  “I’m an artist, you know,” he said, feeling like a jerk for saying it in even a semiserious manner. “So I’m an expert on art and the like.”

  “Are you?”

  “I am. So I know a little something about fine pieces. About beauty.” He got down on the bed beside her, tracing her curves, shaping her body with the palms of his hands like she was clay. “You are a masterpiece.”

  He pressed a kiss to her stomach, then lower, spreading her thighs and burying his face between them. He would never get enough of this. Of her.

  Grace thought she was headed for an early, pleasure-induced death. Wasn’t that what the French called orgasm anyway? A little death? Clearly, no French person had ever slept with Zack Camden.

  An orgasm from him was destruction. It leveled everything in its path. Had changed everything inside of her. And he was about to do it again. She wanted to stop him. And she wanted to urge him on.

  She gripped his hair, and he gripped her legs, tugging them up over his shoulders as he deepened his tasting of her.

  He changed their positions, moved up her body and kissed her lips. She could taste her own arousal on his lips.

  “Ah, damn. Left the condoms in the kitchen,” he said.

  “I have, like, one or two in the drawer there, I bet. Though, sadly, they aren’t ribbed.”

  “You liked it ribbed?”

  She smiled. “I did.”

  He reached to the left and opened up her bedside drawer. And a somewhat horrifying thought occurred to her.

  “Oh! Wait...” she said.

  And it was too late.

  “Oh...” he said.

  “Sorry. I should...have...gotten them.” She wasn’t going to get blushy over a vibrator. Obviously she had one. She was a single woman, with needs and stuff.

  He should expect that she had one. He probably had lube by his bed to facilitate handiwork.

  Even so, she was embarrassed. She was not one of those women who went to parties where there were sex toys. Not one of those women who let their friends in on how successful their new vibrator purchase was. Though, she had one of those friends. She kept silent while that friend talked and made subtle notes about what she’d recommended. Which was how she’d ended up with her most personal of battery-operated devices.

  But as with everything else in her life, she kept her personal indulgences—meaning sexy toys—to herself. Because it just didn’t seem like something she needed people to know about.

  He took out the two stray condoms—condoms that were left over from when she’d actually had a man living here—and kept his eyes on her very blue, very realistically shaped, vibrator.

  “It’s a personal massager,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You can buy a whole set. Lots of different body-part options. Hands, et cetera. Thought this one might be perfect for getting in that hard-to-reach place between my...shoulder blades.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “But I would like to investigate further.” His eyes met hers. “Do I have your permission?”

  “What?”

  “Toys are meant to be played with, Grace.”

  Her heart hammered, hard and steady, heat flooding her face. Well, so much for keeping this private. But suddenly, she didn’t want to. Suddenly, it wasn’t embarrassment flooding her with heat. “I would have thought some guys would be intimidated by bringing another penis into the bedroom.”

  “That little thing?” he asked, and admittedly, it was smaller than he was. “Nah.”

  “Sure...I guess...whatever makes you happy.”

  “I intend to make you happy,” he said. He took the blue phallus out of the drawer and her stomach tightened. She didn’t know why seeing him hold it was hot, but it was. She’d given up questioning this thing with him. She was ready to just embrace it.

  She was having a sexual awakening at thirty. Twelve years and two partners after her virginity had been lost.

  She’d love to claim it was because she knew herself better now, but that wasn’t it at all. Because it she hadn’t ended up switching phones with him they wouldn’t be here. She would have found another guy similar to her exes, she was sure. Another soft, well-dressed, well-spoken business-oriented type.

  It would have never occurred to her that someone so rough, so different from her, would be the man who lit her fire higher than anyone who’d come before him.

  “Do you know what you’re doing with that thing?” she asked, the question coming out breathless and thin.

  A smiled curved his lips. “I think I can figure it out. Open up for me.”

  She opened her mouth and he pressed the tip of the toy to her bottom lip. She curled her tongue around the hea
d, and he groaned, pushing it in farther. She closed her lips around it and he pushed it in slowly, gently, then pulled it back out.

  “You’re damn good at that,” he said, drawing it gently out of her mouth. “Need to make sure it’s good and wet for you.” His eyes never left hers, the deep, suggestive timbre of his voice shivering through her.

  “I’m good and wet for you,” she said.

  He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Lick it for me.”

  It was so absurd, and so dirty. And she did it. Because it turned her on to watch his face as she ran her tongue over the soft rubber.

  He pulled the toy away from her, then moved it down between her thighs, sliding it over her sensitive bundle of nerves, the rippled surface sending a flood of sensation through her. Then he twisted the base, turning it on, the addition of gentle vibration nearly sending her over the edge.

  She’d used this alone, sure, but it was different with Zack controlling the movements. She couldn’t anticipate what would happen next, where he would move, if he would apply pressure or take some away.

  “More?” he asked.

  She bit her lip and nodded, and he twisted the base again, amping up the speed and intensity. He slid it through her slick folds, before dipping the tip inside. She gasped, gripping his arm as he pushed the vibrator in deeper.

  “So wet,” he said. “You’re ready for me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  He pushed the vibrator further inside of her, then leaned in and ran his tongue over her clit. She bucked against him, and he moved the toy and his tongue in rhythm together, pushing her up over the edge. Her orgasm crashed through her body, her internal muscles squeezing tight, and she forked her fingers through his hair, tugging hard, forcing his head down harder between her thighs as she rode out her orgasm.

  He chuckled, then pulled away from her, vibrator still in hand. “Now it’s my turn,” he said. “Put the condom on me.”

  She sat up and tore the condom open, wrapping her hand around his thick arousal and squeezing gently before rolling the latex on.