The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical)

by Morgan, Tamara

  Radio silence. He’d gotten nary a word in reply, and the natural conclusion—that he’d taken part in a one-night stand—was the only logical one. Which was fine. A little insulting, maybe, but in the grand scheme of crimes against him, not seeing Whitney again wasn’t the worst rejection he’d ever suffered. Not by a long shot.

  So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  Matt whirled to find Laura leaning against the counter, looking calm and relaxed in slacks and a button-up shirt, her hair a soft cascade around her shoulders. She’d never looked like that when they were together—she’d always been in a rush, bearing the harried look of a woman with hundreds of things to do, even though he had no real idea how she filled her days.

  To be fair, he’d never really asked.

  “You know you can only put food scraps in the garbage disposal, right?”

  She chuckled softly. “That’s really what you were thinking right now? With that frown?”

  He shrugged. He hadn’t realized he was being so transparent. “I can leave you the number of a couple of good plumbers if it acts up again. And put paper products in the garbage next time.”

  “Sure.” She hesitated, poised as if to speak. Matt could tell she wanted him to press her to find out what was going on, but he refused to ask questions, to engage her in any way.

  “You’re good to me,” she continued. “Too good.”

  “It’s just a sink, Laura.”

  “I know it is.” Then, the words a tumbled rush, “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

  “Of course we are.” Friend was a bit too strong of a word for the giant chasm of nothing he felt whenever Laura walked into the room, but he had to say something. And the truth seemed unnecessarily cruel. “Anything else you need before I go?”

  She shook her head, and Matt knew what was coming next. It was always the same three words, an I’m so sorry that seemed to slough right off wherever it landed.

  “I’ve got to run,” he said quickly, not allowing her to get the words in this time. The apology would lead, as it always did, to a cup of coffee, a friendly chat about work, the same banalities that had become commonplace for the pair of them in this post-divorce life they’d created. But he was tired of trying to make her feel better about her sins, of trying to make himself feel better about his lack of interest in them.

  He wanted something more.

  He wanted to see Whitney again.

  Tucking the toolbox carefully under the sink, Matt nodded and ducked his head and pretty much avoided making any eye contact with Laura. Cheap tricks, all of them, but they worked.

  It wasn’t until he was in his car and several miles away that he realized he wasn’t headed in the direction of home—rather, he was pulling near the old dental office just off Main Street, where a pile of wood and a few work trucks indicated a transformation was taking place.

  Huh. Apparently, he wanted to see Whitney a lot more than he realized.

  And apparently, he intended to do something about it this time.

  Chapter Six

  “I have the paperwork right here,” Kendra repeated. “The blueprints have been cleared, and all renovations are in keeping with the local building code.”

  Whitney had to hand it to her friend for remaining so calm. In another lifetime, Kendra could have been a diplomat—she had an incredible way of placating people without losing any ground. The skill came from her sweet face and tiny stature, underneath which existed a deceptively iron-clad negotiating ability. Whitney’s starting salary was a testament to that.

  Now she, on the other hand, had the unfortunate tendency to overreact to situations—which was naturally followed by mountains of regret and apologies. Despite being familiar bedfellows of hers, neither one was her favorite thing.

  “Breathe, Whit,” John murmured in low, soothing tones. “I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.”

  “How is there even such a thing as a beautification petition?”

  It sounded made up. And the man presenting the petition to them ran a bicycle shop across the street, of all eyesores. Three dozen bikes lined up outside every morning, each one boasting a handwritten price tag. What was that contributing to the local ambiance?

  “You know what would make this place look better?” she persisted. “About fifteen pounds off his midsection and a neck lift to take care of that wattle.”

  “Quiet down, Whitney. He’ll hear you.” Despite his firm words, John’s whole body shook with laughter as he pulled her away from the parking lot. “Maybe we better sit this one out.”

  “But did you hear the way he was trying to intimidate her? City ordinances, long-standing community service...like we don’t already know all that. What is it he thinks we’re going to do? Put up giant neon lipo signs?”

  John clucked sympathetically. “If anyone can put our new friend in his place, it’s Kendra. Leave her to it. There’s a reason we put her in charge.”

  “And how could he possibly have five hundred signatures already? How can that many people protest an office they haven’t even seen yet?”

  “Kendra will take care of it with her vocabulary and fancy politics,” he soothed.

  “You mean my four-letter words won’t do the trick?” She released a begrudging laugh. It was hard to understand how anyone opened a business without the support of their best friends. Slicing people open was one thing. Cooperating with them was another. “Fine. I’ll be good. But if you try to pacify me with your Papa Bear voice one more time, I’m going to put you in need of a beautification petition.”

  He didn’t even blink at the empty threat and turned his attention to the road, where an understated Ford Focus had just pulled up. “That a friend of yours?”

  “Who?” Whitney turned, squinting into the sun. “Oh. Crap. That’s Matt.”

  “Matt? The schoolteacher?” John leaned over her for a better look and let out a low whistle. “I can see what Kendra was talking about.”

  “Why?” Whitney grew instantly suspicious. Her friends weren’t the most complimentary of people when it came to the men she chose to share her bed. They almost always ended up giving them nicknames based on their most prominent body part. The Mustache. Shoulder Boy. And for one particularly bad decision during residency, Moobs. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “So far?” John shook his head. “Not a damn thing. Though I do question his taste in shoes.”

  She elbowed him. “Be nice, okay? It’s not his shoes I admire.”

  “The Tongue?”

  She beamed. “Talented beyond your wildest dreams, but not big enough to warrant a nickname.”

  John nodded like that made perfect sense. “Soft Hands?”

  “Nuh-uh.” She shook her head. “His hands weren’t at all soft when they—”

  “Stop right there. I have it. We’ll call him Dimples.”

  Her inner girl squealed. She’d forgotten about the dimples.

  “Matt?” she asked, playing it cool as he sauntered up. His gait was slow and relaxed, part of the lackadaisical confidence that came so naturally to him. “How nice to see you again. Are you feeling a craving for some toast?”

  “You could say that,” he replied, unfazed by her goad. “I see you’re still making fun of me.”

  She couldn’t help herself. “It’s just so easy.” And he took it so well.

  He nodded politely to John, introducing himself with an underlining of suspicion. Whitney recognized the motion for what it was—a delicious, toe-tingling jealousy—and wrapped her arm around John’s waist. Or as far around it as she could get. “John and I go way back. He’s our massage therapist. You wouldn’t believe what he can do with a bottle of oil and his thumbs.”

  Matt looked back and forth between
them, his mouth growing firm. “I’m sorry—am I interrupting something? I can go.”

  Tempted though she might have been to push harder, to see how Matt might react, John interceded. “Well, you’re too young for me, or I’d do my best to lure you away. It’s nice to meet you and I hate to be rude, but I think I’m going to go help Kendra. It looks like she’s at least got a copy of the petition now. No, Whitney, don’t you dare ruin what little progress she’s made.” He turned to Matt with a grimace. “Please do us both a favor and get her out of here before she says something we’re all going to regret.”

  Without another word, John tipped an imaginary top hat and sauntered away.

  “This is a bad time.” Matt’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and an apology darkened his brow.

  Whitney hadn’t intended to see Matt again. Yes, she’d picked up the phone at least twenty times in the past five days, his number halfway dialed before she thought the better of it and tossed the phone away. Yes, the thought of his cock had spurred no fewer than three hot showers made hotter by virtue of her detachable massaging shower head. But Matt was young and cute and schoolteacher-y and clearly looking for something long-term.

  In short, he was the exact opposite of her. Calling him would have just been cruel.

  Yet faced with his elbow patches and the full lips that haunted her dreams, she found him impossible to resist.

  “You drive the most pathetically sensible car I’ve ever seen,” she said by way of capitulation. “I bet it gets great gas mileage.”

  Matt’s frown melted away, his eyes lighting with laughter. “We can’t all be rich surgeons. How come you never called?”

  Cut to the chase, why didn’t he? “I told you—it wasn’t a date.”

  “So I can’t even talk to you now? If I see you downtown, should I pretend you’re not there, or move to the other sidewalk? We could share custody of Main Street.”

  Whitney’s lips twitched, and Matt was pleased she found humor in the situation. It would have been very easy for his sudden appearance to be taken as creepy or overbearing or, even worse, sad. But he was none of those things. He was just a guy who saw something he wanted.

  Whitney. He wanted Whitney.

  “And what if I need a waxing?” he persisted. “I’ve heard manscaping is very hot right now.”

  Her lips opened and a full laugh escaped. “Okay. You win. I should have called. But don’t you dare touch a hair on that delicious body of yours. A hairy chest gets me hot like you wouldn’t believe.”

  He let out a falsely longing sigh. “Me too.”

  The next move was a mystery to Matt. He’d done the unthinkable and stopped by Whitney’s place of work when it was clear she didn’t want to talk to him—and somehow managed to make it seem cool in the process. Asking her out on a real date would invariably lead to another shutdown, but he could hardly suggest they retire to his car to make out.

  “You want to go make out in your car?”

  He blinked, unsure if the words had actually been spoken or if he’d somehow willed them into being. “Um...what?”

  She cocked her head, studying the blue vehicle he’d had since he first started teaching. “It’s compact but workable, I think. I’ve never done it in a Focus before.”

  “You’re serious?”

  Whitney snaked a hand into his pants pocket, her palm warm where it pressed into his hip, fingers insistent as they plunged deeper. Matt was just about to protest in the shared names of public decency and self-preservation when she whipped her hand out, his keys dangling from her grip. “Are there any good parking spots around here?”

  She was serious.

  And even though Matt knew he should be strong, resist the urge, insist on dinner first...who was he kidding? He grabbed the keys.

  “I’ll drive.”

  * * *

  “What do you mean, no sex?” Whitney pulled away, breathing heavily, her head hitting the roof of the passenger side seat. “I have condoms in my purse. Extra large. I bought them just for you.”

  Matt placed his hands on both sides of her hips, stilling her movements where she straddled his lap. With her skirt hiked up to her waist and Matt’s cock in her hand, he was one or two quick maneuvers away from being inside her.

  She arched. And she wanted him inside her. The deep, empty aching gave an anticipatory clench. She wanted it so much she was damn near ready to beg for it.

  “I don’t mean no sex,” he corrected her, swallowing as she slowly stroked his cock, her grip tight against the hard length of him. “I mean no intercourse.”

  Her movements stilled. “Excuse me? Did you just use the word intercourse while your dick is in my hand and I’m so wet I could ride you for hours? Don’t you think we’ve passed the bounds of propriety at this point?”

  His laugh was soft, almost painful. “It’s just that riding a man is the sort of thing I’ve always considered kind of a big deal. You know—to be shared between two people who actually date.”

  Whitney scooted back even more. The windows had fogged up so much it was impossible to see out, but the car was nestled in a dark, secluded wood—the kind of dark, secluded wood her father had always told her to avoid with young men she didn’t know very well. Here she was, flouting paternal advice, pretty much ready to bend backward over the seat if it meant she could feel even the tip of Matt’s cock pressed against her, and she still couldn’t get fucked.

  “You’re serious about this? You’re punishing me because I won’t go on a date with you?”

  He brushed the hair from her face, his hand gently cupping her cheek. When his thumb drifted close enough, she swirled her tongue around it, pulling the digit in her mouth and sucking. That would teach him.

  He groaned. “I mean it, Whitney. You’re an incredible woman, and I’d like nothing more than to take things to the next level with you, but only if you’re willing to go with me. I’ll happily—gladly, diligently, many times over—give you all the satisfaction you want this way. But I’m not a toy. I have feelings. And this is where they draw the line.”

  “So you will do anything for the rebound, but you won’t do that,” she said flatly, conjuring Meatloaf.

  He laughed softly. “We can stop if you want.”

  Whitney studied him, searching for a crack in that immovable façade. A confident woman even when she wasn’t on top of a man, holding his most vital bits, she had no resources for this kind of flat refusal—especially from a guy like Matt.

  Because he meant it. He was seriously going to deny her the best part of him out of a misplaced sense of chivalry...and she had no choice but to comply. That grim, apologetic expression was the look of a man who meant what he said and intended to enforce it, even if it meant turning that car around and taking her straight home.

  A thrill ran through her. He would, too.

  “Okay, you win.” Hesitant to let him see how profoundly his strength of resolve affected her, she resumed her attention to his cock, her movements a little faster, a lot harder. “But if you get to make a last-minute stipulation like that, I think I should get one too.”

  He sank further, and Whitney dropped with him. Even with the seat all the way pushed back, space was limited. She used the sudden shift to tug her skirt higher, slipping her free hand between her legs. The slick heat of her own desire greeted her, but it wasn’t that which made her turn suddenly warm with liquid satisfaction. No—that honor belonged to the look on Matt’s face as he realized she meant to get them both off. Like he was seeing his first Christmas and she was all wrapped up in a shiny red bow.

  She moaned, getting into it, losing herself momentarily in the double sensation of her hands working them both.

  “Wait—what’s your stipulation?” Matt managed, never once tearing his gaze from her fingers working her clit.

 
“Oh, God. I can’t stop. You’re going to have to give me a minute first.”

  She switched hands, her own moisture acting as a lubricant as she finished jerking Matt off. The sound of him calling her name, begging her not to stop, was all it took to push her over the edge, and they came together, bodies jerking and making the kind of glorious mess that signaled complete and utter release.

  Minutes later, slumped in the opposite seat, doing her best to clean up with a school-sized pack of tissues in Matt’s glove compartment, she finally rolled her head to the side to address him.

  “I’m ready to make my demands now.”

  He groaned. “After that? I honestly don’t think I can.”

  With a shout of laughter, she tossed him the tissues. “Don’t worry. You can give those boys a much-deserved rest. But if we’re going to do this—if we’re going to make sure you’ve rebounded so hard your feet won’t have time to touch the ground—you have to promise not to get attached.”

  He outlined her lips with the tip of one finger, and that gentle touch did more to sway her than the entire past hour they’d spent fooling around. He was so sweet. She wasn’t used to guys being sweet.

  “Too late. I’m already attached.”

  She grabbed his finger and held it aloft. “I mean it, Matt. Let’s just have fun, okay? Take it one day at a time?”

  He made the motion of an X on his chest. “No intercourse, no dates, lots of fun. I accept the challenge. Should we shake on it?”

  She sighed, knowing full well she was going to regret taking his extended hand. But she did, and there was no mistaking the jolt of electricity that passed between their palms. Just imagine what it must feel like to have that man’s cock inside you. Dammit. She was getting attached too.

  “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?” she asked.

  But then, what man ever did?

  Chapter Seven