The Men of Laguna

by Kim Karr

  Now she’s practically panting. “What else?”

  I grin. “Oh, there’s so much more. You’re going to suck me off.”

  “Am I?”

  I nod. “And then I’m going to come all over those gorgeous tits of yours.”

  Her nails are digging so hard into my skin, I’m pretty certain I’ll be bleeding from the back of my neck too. “It sounds like you’re trying to mark me,” she says.

  Just like that, I feel my body tense.

  Is that what I’m trying to do?

  Because fuck, if it is, I’d better back the hell away…

  And fast.

  21

  BLANK SPACE

  Maggie

  Brooklyn James is at it again.

  This time with the usual tall blonde, hair halfway to her hips and brushing the bare skin exposed by her halter top.

  I can’t see her face, but I really don’t have to. I’m sure she’s beautiful in that cold, neutral way Brooklyn prefers.

  Perfect features.

  Blank expression.

  A fame seeker.

  One hundred percent fake.

  Every week he says he’s done with that kind of woman, and yet he keeps bringing them home.

  Through the window beside my front door, I watch as he backs her toward my large, comfy chair until her ass settles against it. His mouth never leaving hers, he moves between her legs.

  Crap.

  He’d better be taking her upstairs, and soon.

  I can’t take the “Oh God, Brooklyn, that’s it. That’s it” that I’ve been hearing for the past six weeks.

  The same six weeks I’ve been home in my bed every night, alone.

  Without thought, my gaze lands back on the window. In the few seconds I looked away, Brooklyn has turned his blonde so that her hands are flat on the back of the chair.

  Control issues like his brother?

  Perhaps.

  Just as I’m about to put the key in the front door, I start to wonder, what else do they have in common? Is his brother just like him? Or worse, what if he is just like his brother?

  A strange feeling washes through me.

  One I’m not accustomed to.

  I sigh, feeling like my skin is too tight. Like my emotions are swooshing in green slime. Yes, green slime, because for some reason the thought of Keen being like Brooklyn isn’t one I want to even consider.

  In fact, the thought of Keen with any other woman burns like fire as it races through my mind.

  What the hell?

  No I’m not, I can’t possibly be feeling this emotion. It’s crazy. Preposterous. Insane. Yet, as soon as I look again into the living room and see Brooklyn leading his blonde toward the stairs, I know I am feeling this way.

  Possessive.

  Jealous.

  And so unlike me.

  Makayla’s words come crashing back to me: “Keen’s the male version of you.”

  Oh, God.

  I want the anger back; it was so much easier to deal with.

  The thought that he is going to do to me what I have done to so many guys isn’t one I can even consider.

  Worse, do to me what he already did to me.

  The nonchalant “just have fun” attitude and “not label this” frame of mind I have always had is nowhere to be found.

  Just like it to up and run when I need it most.

  Staring at the key in my shaky hand, I decide I can’t do this. I just can’t. I can’t explain it other than something deep inside me is screaming that messing around with Keen Masters again will only mess with me even more than it already has.

  Because—

  No, I can’t even think it.

  And yet I am.

  I’ve never felt like this about any man.

  There, I said it.

  Happy?

  This is lust to the tenth degree. This is what all those movies are about…when men and women do more than fornicate for the simple pleasure of orgasm. They do it to satisfy the full-blown desire that exists between them.

  I close my eyes, remembering the way he held my gaze as he moved inside me, the way his hands moved on my body like they wanted to own me, the way he licked me and nipped me like he couldn’t get enough.

  The chemistry between us is straight up off the charts.

  But if Makayla is right, and Keen and I are alike, then like me, he is going to have a hard time being able to accept that this is more than anything but a sexual attraction. And then what?

  Flooded with the sensation of being with him all over again, I can feel my body shake. I swear I can still smell him. Taste him. Feel him.

  And he’s not even here.

  It scares me to death.

  Making me uncertain.

  Fearful.

  More confused than I have ever been, I slip my keys back into my purse.

  Leaving the front door locked, I walk around to the back of my house, where I let myself in through my bedroom doors, and then turn around and lock them.

  Tight.

  22

  NEW ROMANTICS

  Maggie

  The sound of a text pinging wakes me up.

  Probably Makayla, the early riser that she is, wanting to know how my day went yesterday.

  I need to talk to her in person, and come clean, which I will do very soon, just not today. I have enough to deal with today.

  Stretching under the soft blankets, I stare over at the empty pillow beside me. The one that had I not caved under the pressure of the unknown—had I not been worried about what the hell this rip-roaring flame is between us—could have had Keen’s gorgeous face on it right now.

  More than likely, he’d be smirking at me, and the hot mess I am in the morning. The thought makes my stomach do that damn flippy thing again.

  Enough already.

  I get it. He’s all sexy and handsome and charming and he makes your knees go weak, but he’s also all kinds of arrogant and cocky, and let’s not forget how he already hurt you once, so you need to stop it.

  Little rant completed, I sit up rubbing my eyes, and then look down at myself and have to laugh.

  What a wreck.

  After showering last night, I sat on the bed completely naked beneath my towel and slipped back into my shoes, thinking if he really wanted to see me, he wouldn’t let a locked door stop him. He’d call, or perhaps outlandishly bust the door open with his brute strength. And then I’d begrudgingly let him in my bed, but let him in nonetheless.

  That call never came.

  And my door is still intact.

  But hey, I was ready for him in case of either.

  And doesn’t that just suck.

  That I’d locked him out, and he didn’t want me enough to push past the obstacle, is proof I made the right decision.

  See, I wasn’t that wrong about him.

  Kicking off my damn shoes, I pull the sheet up and reach for my beeping phone.

  The sun is just starting to rise, so I know I’m not late.

  The text is not from Makayla.

  It’s from Keen.

  My lower belly flips again in response, and this time a burst of tingles erupts between my legs.

  Oh, geez.

  I told my body to stop already!

  Opening the text, I brace myself for his rant. More than likely he’s going to be madder than a hatter and I will have to suffer his wrath all day.

  Yes, he will become Miranda Priestly today and I will be Andrea.

  Damn.

  Oh, and let’s not forget he’s the male version, so I get to be all hot and bothered at the same time. I really need to work on repelling his super-annoying sex appeal.

  Realizing I’ve been squeezing my eyes, I open them and read the message.

  Asshole: I’ll pick you up at 7:30 sharp.

  Me: I’ll pick you up at 8.

  Asshole: No. I’m driving and I’ll pick you up at 7:30.

  Me: The store doesn’t even open until 10!

  Well, it’s
not what I expected.

  No mention of the door being locked.

  No mention of all the wicked things he wanted to do to me last night.

  It’s like it never happened, and he’s back in yesterday morning’s full arrogant work mode.

  Also, I should probably change his name.

  Minutes pass and there is no return text, and then ping. Already holding the phone in my hand, I open up the message.

  Keen: Please. I’d like to talk to you first.

  Me: Fine.

  Talk about taking the wind out of your sails.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I let it out and set my phone down. Too mentally drained to argue with him, and honestly too exhausted to make the drive to LA.

  Letting him drive works out for the best, anyway. Tomorrow we have to fly to New York, so I’ll stay at my mother’s house tonight and take an Uber to the airport in the morning.

  Let him pay for long-term parking. I’ll spend the money on upgrading to first class so I can have a drink or two or ten to gain the strength to be beside him for five solid days, and not want to jump his bones every minute of every hour of every day.

  After hauling myself out of bed, I decide that since I have time, I’ll take a bath. My feet are still killing me and the soak can only help them get ready for another day. There will be no sky-high heels for me today—that is for certain. If I want to look Keen Masters in the eye, I’ll get a freaking stool and feel proud when I stand on it.

  My bathroom retains the original claw-foot tub and black-and-white checked floor from when it was first built. Something I always loved when my grandmother lived here and am glad my mother kept when she renovated the place before I moved back.

  Making quick work of undoing my towel, I stand in front of the mirror and look at myself.

  I am a woman in control of my own life.

  What am I afraid of?

  A man.

  Why?

  My mother and her mother did not let men define them. They went out and conquered their worlds—without being in love.

  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?

  23

  OUT OF THE WOODS

  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.

  24

  ALL TOO WELL

  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.