Dirty Little Midlife Disaster: A Motorcycle Hottie Romantic Comedy (Heart’s Cove Hotties Book 4)

by Lilian Monroe

  I also end up looking for—and finding—a child therapist for the kids. Seeing Toby’s hostility toward his father and Katie’s tears when she said goodbye to Kevin put my butt in gear. Enough thinking about myself. Enough worrying about a hottie like Mac. Time to do right by my kids.

  Candice, at first, tries to refuse to charge us rent. When I insist on having a lease and paying her rent, she relents, but charges us such a small amount for a four-bedroom house that I almost break down and cry.

  Once the kids are in school, I’ll get a job and I’ll pay her back somehow—but she’s all loved-up with Blake, building her dream home while Allie prepares for college next year, and I have a feeling she truly doesn’t care. She’s happy, and she’s paying it forward.

  Mac and I don’t get to see each other, but we do text frequently over the course of the week. I send him updates on the cat, telling him how Mr. Fuzzles is adjusting to the new home.

  Not surprisingly, I don’t mention the last conversation I had with Kevin, and I don’t ask him about the status and size of his junk.

  Mac sends me pictures of his pottery projects, of sunsets he sees on his motorcycle rides, and everything in between. Every day I wake up to a good morning text, and every evening he sends me a sweet goodnight. It makes my heart flip every time I see it.

  It doesn’t feel wrong to be talking to him. Even though I’m recently divorced and Kevin keeps making snide comments every time he calls the kids or sends me a message, they wash over me without burrowing under my skin. It’s like a switch flipped, and I can see the kind of man he truly is…and rise above it.

  By the time Friday rolls around, I haven’t seen Mac in a week, and I feel like I’m about to burst out of my skin. Thank goodness for moving and busy kids. At least I haven’t had time to pine after him too much.

  But on Saturday night, when the kids are bathed, have their teeth brushed, and are having story time with Nana, I pick up my phone and stare at the screen. The moving and cleaning is done, the kids have everything they need for school on Monday, and my weekend is free.

  I need to woman up and do this.

  So, I find Mac’s number and with a trembling hand, hit the call button.

  His deep voice makes butterflies explode in my stomach. “Hello, gorgeous.”

  “Hi, Mac.”

  “I’ve been wondering when you’d call.”

  “Doesn’t seem like your phone is broken.” I smile as I talk, my eyes on the gorgeous backyard of Candice’s—no, my—home. I could live here. I could be happy here.

  “Wanted you to be sure you wanted to see me.”

  “Well, I’m sure.” When did I get so bold? I glance over my shoulder, listening for any little footsteps; hearing nothing, I turn back to the window. Movement near my feet makes me look down to see Mr. Fuzzles circling through my legs before jumping up onto my foot. “I think Mr. Fuzzles can hear your voice. He just came by to say hello, and he usually gives me a wide berth.”

  Mac chuckles, and the sound of it makes everything inside me clench. Why did I wait a week to call him, again? I want to feel like this all the time.

  Gathering my courage, I take a deep breath. “Look, I was wondering if you wanted to meet up tomorrow?”

  Mac groans. “I’m working tomorrow. Have a lot of prep to do before Monday”—what happens Monday, I wonder?—“and the Four Cups pottery order is way bigger than I expected. I told them I’d have samples for them tomorrow, and—”

  “Oh, that’s fine.” Heat rushes to my cheeks. I clear my throat. “It’s cool. Whenever you’re free. Or not. Whatever.”

  I should have known he’d blow me off. Yes, we’ve been texting, but would a man like him really want to get involved with a single mom? He probably saw the kids’ stuff, saw my mom, and decided it was just too much work to hang out with me. I shouldn’t have called. How embarrassing. How utterly, completely embarrassing.

  I’m never dating again.

  “Trina.” Mac says my name in a low, rumbly voice, and I have to grip the wall to stop myself collapsing.

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  I close my eyes at the word, heart still thundering.

  Mac hums, then keeps talking. “I’ll get my work done and I’ll pick you up after dinner. That work for you?”

  “Um…”

  “It doesn’t work for you?”

  “It’s just that the kids start school on Monday, so the evening will probably be busy.” I bite my lip and squeeze my eyes shut. Why didn’t I just call him yesterday? Or earlier today?

  “How about right now?”

  My eyes snap open. “What?”

  “Are you busy right now?”

  “Uh…no?”

  I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. “I’ll be at your place in half an hour. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I whisper, and when we hang up, I look down at my yoga pants and the shirt I reserve for cleaning, then hop into panic-fueled action. Turns out when you only have a few minutes to get ready for a date, it only takes a few minutes to get ready for a date.

  When my mother sees me emerge from my room in jeans, a black sheer blouse over a black lacy cami, and the quickest makeup I could muster, she arches a brow. “I’m guessing you’re not having a glass of wine with me tonight?”

  “No. You don’t mind watching the kids for a few hours?”

  “Honey, they’re in bed, and I live here. Of course I don’t mind. I’m guessing this”—she motions to my outfit—“is related to a certain motorcycle man?”

  The sound of a Harley approaching answers the question for me.

  Mom grins. “Have fun, Trina.”

  “I will,” I tell her as I plant a kiss on her cheek, and I already know it’s the truth.

  16

  Mac

  There’s nothing better than feeling a beautiful woman’s arms around my waist while I ride through hilly, wooded landscapes on a warm summer evening. Trina’s thighs press against mine as we bank around a corner, her chest plastered to my back.

  We ride for forty minutes, taking the long way back to my place, a wooded property I bought over a decade ago. I park outside my pottery studio and Trina dismounts, giving me a broad smile as she removes her helmet.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get over how much fun that is.” She combs her fingers through her hair and shakes it out as I get off and put our helmets away.

  “You’ve got the bug.” I grin as I intertwine my fingers with hers to lead her to the studio. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but I have to be touching her whenever I’m nearby. It’s like there’s a magnetic pull between us, and I can’t resist holding her hand, touching her back, curling my arm around her shoulders. I just want to be close.

  This growing need to be near her should scare me. Under normal circumstances, it would. But with Trina, it feels too easy to be around her to question it.

  Rolling open the big, corrugated iron door, I smile at Trina’s sharp intake of breath.

  “Mac,” she breathes as she steps into the space.

  I flick on the warm yellow lights and steal a glance at her. It’s the first time I’ve had anyone in here, apart from my brother and my father. Definitely the first time a woman has stepped inside the space. My studio is usually my sanctuary. It’s where I come to be alone, to create. But when Trina called me earlier and asked to see me, I knew I wanted to show it to her.

  She walks up to the wall of shelving, where pottery projects are displayed from floor to ceiling. She touches a glazed plate that has a seam of gold paint running through the center before standing in front of a tall, fluted vase, shaking her head. “You’re really talented, Mac.”

  Heat rises over my cheeks. I rub the back of my neck and turn away, reaching for one of the bags of clay I bought earlier today. “You want to make something with me?”

  My voice comes out gruff, and in the few silent
moments that follow, I realize I really, really want Trina to say yes. I want her to sit with me and throw a bowl or a pot or whatever we decide to make. I want her to sit here and soak in the magic of this space, the meditative qualities of the pottery wheel. I want her close to me.

  When I lift my gaze to her, a bag of clay hanging from my hand, I see her face split into a wide smile.

  She nods. “Yeah. But only if you’re ready for my mediocrity.”

  My brows twitch into a frown at her words. Mediocre? Trina is the furthest thing from mediocre. Sure, she kind of sucks at pool, and she’s a beginner at throwing pottery, but one look at the woman and you’d know mediocre is not a word that describes her in any way.

  Jerking my chin to the wheel, I cut a piece of clay, prep it, and tell her to pull up a stool. Then I realize she’s dressed for a nice dinner out, with her designer-looking jeans and lacy black top. “Hold on.” I put the ball of clay down and grab a pair of coveralls.

  Trina grins. “And he cares about my clothes too. I’m liking you more every minute I spend with you, Mac.” She says it in a joking way, but I can’t help the warmth snaking through my chest at her words.

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  And it’s the truth. All my worries about getting involved, about committing to someone…they just disappear whenever Trina’s around.

  She blushes, then gets to work putting the coveralls on over her clothes. When her arms are in, I can’t resist stepping closer to her and zipping her up. Her eyes meet mine as my hands linger at the top of the zipper, that lush lower lip caught between her teeth.

  Clearing my throat, I nod to the stool. “Sit down.”

  “You sure like ordering me around, don’t you?” An arch of her eyebrow makes me want to kiss the sass right out of her. But she still does what I say.

  “Woman, you have no idea.” My voice is full of gravel, and Trina’s cheeks blush pink.

  “I should smack you for calling me woman.” She sticks her tongue out at me and laughs, sitting in front of the pottery wheel with her hands on her lap. “Okay. Now what do we do?”

  I grab another seat and place it behind hers, pressing my thighs against her hips and reaching my arms to rest on her legs. It’s a reversal of how we ride the bike, and I love the way Trina leans back into me and fits her head into the crook of my neck. She, too, can’t stop leaning into me. Wanting more contact.

  It’s almost enough to make me forget about the clay and rip those coveralls right off her body. But Trina looks at me expectantly and dips her hand into the bucket of water beside us.

  With a grin, I follow her lead, sliding my hands over hers as I turn on the wheel and start centering the clay. This is something I’ve always done by myself. I don’t teach many classes, and I’ve never invited anyone to work in my studio. Pottery-making is something I do alone in the woods with nothing but my thoughts and maybe a stereo blaring my favorite songs. I can sit here for hours, and on a warm night like tonight I love keeping the studio doors open while yellow light spills out into the night.

  This is new for me. Having a beautiful, magnetic woman wrapped up in my arms, feeling every little moment of delight as she feels clay moving under her touch. Knowing she’s experiencing this for only the second time, and I get to experience it with her.

  It’s turning me on.

  The way she leans into me, then gets caught up in what we’re doing and moves forward, eyes on the spinning wheel, on our hands, on the water and clay running over our fingers. For a few long minutes, we don’t speak. We center the clay together, the stubble on my jaw rasping against her cheek as I lean over her shoulder, my body wrapped up around hers.

  I wonder if she can feel how hard I am. I wonder if she knows every time I catch my breath. I wonder if this moment feels as intimate and spellbinding to her as it does to me.

  When I curve my fingers over hers and start opening the clay, Trina’s body relaxes into mine. Her hands turn pliable in mine and we work together, our bodies so close we move as one. We don’t speak. There’s only the noise of cicadas outside and the pottery wheel whirring inside, our quiet breaths, the rustle of the bucket of water any time one of us dips our fingers into it.

  “What are we making?” Trina finally asks as I guide her to pull up the sides. “It’s smaller than what we made in class.”

  “A cup,” is my reply. My breath ruffles a strand of hair near her temple, and I feel her smile against me.

  “Do I get to keep it?”

  “Only if you come back to glaze and fire it.”

  She laughs. “Are you blackmailing me?”

  “Is it working?”

  Trina’s smile widens as she turns to look at me, her lips just a few inches from mine. Eyes twinkling, she gives me the barest of nods. “Yeah,” she says. “It is.”

  And in that moment, with her body relaxed against me, our hands messy with water and clay and her lips so close to mine, I can’t resist any longer. My hand finds the crook of her waist, the thick material of the coveralls crinkling under my touch. I pull her close and crush my lips to hers.

  Trina lets out the sexiest, sweetest little whimper as her lips part and her tongue searches for mine. Gripping her waist, I pull her close and cup my other hand to her jaw, my thumb sweeping over her cheek to keep her close.

  I’ll never get sick of this. Every time we kiss, it sets my body alight. I’m hard as steel right now, with her ass pressed against my crotch and her upper body twisted in mine. Her clay-covered hands find my shoulders. They curl around my neck, cool and slick from the pottery that now sits forgotten on the wheel.

  She tastes sweet, perfect. When her fingers curl into the hair at the nape of my neck, I let out a low groan.

  “You’re going to be the death of me, Trina,” I say against her lips before nipping at them and moving to her jaw, her neck. There’s a grey smudge of clay over her cheek where my thumb swept across it, and her normally perfect hair is already streaked with it.

  It makes my blood heat to see her like this. Messy. Undone. Eyes glazed and hungry, lips swollen with my kiss.

  I pull back an inch to meet her gaze, studying her expression. “You want me to stop?” I ask as my control frays. I brush my lips over her jaw, nuzzling her ear as I inhale her scent.

  Her brows tug together, confusion flitting over her face. “What?”

  My fingers dig into her waist as she clings to my neck, turning in my arms in a way that her perfect, pert ass rubs up against my hardness. I groan, closing my eyes. “You’re driving me crazy, Trina. I want you so bad I can barely think. If you want me to stop, you have to tell me.”

  That sinful lip gets sucked in between her teeth. Her fingers burrow into my hair, and then she says the words that undo me completely. “The last thing I want you to do is stop, Mac. Especially not now.”

  17

  Trina

  This isn’t like me. I don’t go on motorcycle rides with men I’ve known only a couple of weeks. I don’t let them take me to their house in the woods, then make out with them with clay-covered hands. I’m a mother. I’m responsible.

  But right now, I feel the furthest thing from responsible. Recklessness heats my blood, drives me to the brink of madness.

  When I say those words to Mac, the tension finally snaps like a dry twig. He shifts his hold on me to pick me up, spinning me around as he stands and lifting me so I wrap my legs around his hips. One of his hands slides down to cup my ass while the other grips my hair, pulling me in for a hard kiss.

  He walks me to a workbench and sets me down, never once breaking our kiss.

  I love the way his body curls over mine. How he tugs me closer to the edge of the workbench and notches himself between my spread legs. I love the way his hands tangle into my hair, how his stubble abrades my skin, how his muscular arms wrap around me so tight it feels like every part of him is touching every part of me.

  I’ve never been manhandled like this. I’ve never had someone take control of a kiss
like this, showing me just how much he wants me.

  When we finally break the kiss, both of us panting hard, I laugh at the streaks of clay across his shoulders, his face, his hair. “Messy,” I say between breaths.

  “Perfect,” is his response as his lips brush over mine once again.

  I need more of this. I need to feel the muscles of his back clenching under my palms. I need to breathe in the scent of his skin and commit it to memory.

  Clawing at his shirt, I tug it up and over his head before leaning back and letting my hands drift down his body.

  He. Is. Magnificent.

  Hard slabs of muscle cover every inch of his body. My fingers run through the rough hair sprinkled over his chest as Mac watches me, his hands gripped on my thighs. When I run my fingers over the flat discs of his nipples, I catch the small inhale of breath he makes. I smile when he does it again when I run my nail over the same spot, glancing up at him through my lashes.

  Letting my hands drift lower, I run my fingers through the grooves of every abdominal muscle, sucking in a hard breath when I reach that deep V that disappears down into his low-hanging jeans. His body is thick, solid. So utterly manly. There’s an unmistakable bulge in his pants and I bite my lip, hesitating for a brief moment before running my hand lower, over the zipper of his jeans to feel the steel-hard shaft beneath it.

  Side note: my mother was right. It’s definitely not a micropenis.

  “Trina,” Mac rasps, his fingers tightening on my thighs.

  “You have a very nice body,” I tell him, one hand still cupped over his crotch. He throbs against me, sending a wave of heat crashing through my blood. I feel almost giddy. One touch and a few words have the power to make him throb like that. He’s hard as rock—for me.

  So, when Mac reaches for the zipper of my coveralls and tugs them down, it feels almost like an inevitability. Yes, I want to undress with him. I want him to touch and explore my body like I crave to explore his. I want to feel the silk-covered steel of his shaft wrapped in my fingers. I want to taste him on my tongue. I want him inside me. Every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had comes roaring to life inside me as the zipper of my coveralls parts and I pull my arms out of the thick blue material.