At the coffee shop, Momma grabbed a table while I waited in line amidst the business men and college students, the moms with their stampedes of towheaded children gabbing and grabbing any damn thing they could get their hands on.
I was waving at a youngster peeking out behind a display of stupidly expensive tea bags when a recognizable heat radiated against my back.
It was him. On-fire Rat Bastard Reardon. Of all the Starbucks in all of Charleston.
“You slummin’ it, Mr. Boone?”
He tweaked my ponytail the way I wanted him to squeeze my nipples. No, scratch that, I’d rather he fisted all of my hair, pushed me against the counter, using his legs to spread mine and…
“Fancy meeting you here too, Miss Greer.”
He stood close enough that the brush of his trousers against my bare legs made me arch backward into him. Appearing as if we were making nothing more than small talk, he placed a hand over my rear, gave it a rub, and then a sharp swat.
Goodbye cloak and dagger, hellooo Mr. Goodbar
.
His cocky grin met my surprised eyes, and his hand stayed on my ass.
Beneath the swanky tails of his tailored suit jacket, I jerked his leather belt before moving onto the half shell sinew of his glutes, giving him a rub of my own.
His eyes slamming shut, he purred, “Shay, if you don’t remove your hand right now, I’ll have no recourse but to fuck you in front of these pleasant baristas.”
I’ll take two of those to go, please.
I turned to him, my hip bumping against his full erection. My face flamed and I mumbled to myself.
His grin brimmed with naughty implications. “What was that?”
“I said, it’s good to see you’re upwardly mobile.”
“You’ve got no idea.” He kept a hand on my hip and pointed to the menu board. “What can I get you?”
Under the guise of inspecting the other offerings, I wiggled until my bottom was seated against him. “You referrin’ to a beverage, or somethin’ better?”
“The former, for now,” he gruffly replied. “We’ll get to the other later.”
“I’ll settle for a latte then.” Swiveling my hips in diminishing circles, I added, “And if y’all are very good, later, maybe I’ll grant you a lap dance.”
With a groan, he stepped away from me.
“And a cappuccino for my momma,” I tacked on.
“Your momma?” He scanned the room, his gaze snapping between me and the other patrons before he stalked away.
Wearing a small smile, he returned and placed our order, pushing a folded bill into the tip jar.
“Well?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Satisfied?”
“Thoroughly.”
I huffed. “So?”
“She’s a beautiful lady, your mother.”
Prideful, I nodded.
He tipped my chin up. “I see where you get it from.” Sweeping his hand down my neck, he gazed at me as no one had in a long time. “Not only your looks, but your spirit.”
“Will you stay?”
He handed over two cups and ushered me away from the counter. “I don’t think that’s wise, Shay.”
Of course not. Commitment-opposed Reardon meeting my Momma? That was never gonna happen.
“Hey.” He pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “I’ll see you Monday.” He bowed slightly and made for the door where he gave a final nod.
Momma sat in the back corner near the toys, as close to the toddlers as she could get. She watched the surrounding chaos with glee, enjoying the hubbub.
She focused on me. “Y’all are glowin’, what happened up there?”
Patting my hair, I mumbled, “Am I?”
“Mmm hmm. So?”
I wiped the goofy smile off my mouth and settled for a sulk. “Nothin’.”
“Don’t you bullshit me, Caroline Shay.” Snap. Momma pulled out the swears and the double-barreled guns
.
“Well, the barista was kind of cute.” I winked.
* * * *
For the remainder of the weekend, after I’d worshipped as expected–tucked between Momma and Palmer before a God who had ignored my pain and my prayers–I did the washing and wiled away a lot of time on wanton fantasies.
I was deliciously enfolded against a body I’d never felt before. A muscular thigh parted my legs and sat between the lips of my sex. Against my ass a hard shaft swelled while a strong hand ran down my spine to my bottom, spreading me open, moving lower. I stretched into the hot length, needing to be filled.
And opened first one eye.
Then the other.
To find Palmer, snoring beside me.
I checked the clock.
Six o’clock. Not sex o’clock.
I cursed the Sandman who’d teased me with erotic delights, then plunked me unceremoniously back in my wedlock bed.
Palmer needed to get up. I lifted the sheets.
Oh Christ, Palmer was already up.
I hadn’t seen his erection in a long time. Not even a glimpse of morning wood.
I honed in.
A jerk of cloth, a hush of breath, a lick of my tongue, and I had him inside my mouth. Closing my eyes, I remembered how much I loved giving head.
He came awake with the first kiss and lap around him, from root to tip. “Shay?” His voice was hoarse with sleep and the promise of sex.
I wanted his come, a creamy treat in my mouth. I wanted to taste him.
I’d never speak to Reardon again. I’d shred the contract, I’d try to never want what I didn’t have.
Swiping the bulb of his cock with my tongue, I smiled. His hips punched up, his body in command. His hands beat the mattress and stroked his chest and found my hair, calloused fingers working through the flames of my snarled tresses.
His cock swelled, the tip coaxed my throat open.
His hips stopped moving. He lifted me off his hard, wet shaft.
He pushed me aside.
He wouldn’t meet my eyes.
Pressing his cock between his thighs, effectively emasculating himself, he exhaled. “I’m late.”
I watched him pull his up boxers.
I watched him walk to the bathroom.
His back turned.
I slapped my palms to the bed and whispered, “You’re too late.”
I felt denied. Discarded.
Cheated from his love, I closed my eyes, waiting for Palmer to leave the house.
* * * *
“You’re late,” Reardon said, looking entirely too mouthwatering from his stubbly jaw and rumpled shirt down to his bare feet. Bare toes had no right looking so completely suckable.
“I had good reason.”
An exquisite surge ran between us as we relished the sight of each other.
Rhett Butler, eat your heart out.
I was ready to be Reardon’s Harlot O’Hara.
“Family emergency?”
“Not exactly.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Rip, dip, and clip,” I squeaked. “You know, wax, highlights, haircut?”
His glare gave way to a grin. “Just a good old lowcountry gal, aren’t you?”
“You sayin’ I’m old?”
“No, I called you a local girl, darlin’. My sister calls it a rip, dip, and clip too.”
“Sister?”
“Mmm hmm, all country, raised in McClellanville.”
I caught the drawl he usually hid behind clipped tones. “So, y’all are nothin’ but a good ol’ boy.”
“Good
doesn’t cover the half of it.” He took my elbow and lowered his voice. “But don’t distract me. You were tardy, Miss Greer, and that doesn’t bode well.”
“Whatcha gonna do, country boy, demote me?”
“I don’t ever want you below me, unless we’re in bed.” His lips made a moist path down my neck. “Though I wouldn’t mind you taking me for a ride.”
“Okay,” I croaked.
“Really?”
“No.” I beseeched my voice to remain steady, my nipples to stand down, my cha-cha to shut the hell up with her greedy capitulating tendencies.
Shaking his head, Reardon took in my appearance. “The wait was worth it.” His gaze swam over me, from my heels to my hem, to my hips and silk halter.
I swayed toward him, and he took the opportunity to run his hand along my waist, guiding me against his body before propelling me away with little mirth. “Shay.
Jesus.
”
“Why
,
Mr. Boone, did you just break your cardinal rule?”
He squinted.
“No swearing, right? I distinctly recall your reaction when I asked…” I traced the inside of his bicep, soft skin over mountainous muscle. “If you wanted to fuck me
.
”
“Woman, I have a feeling you’re going to make me break all my rules,” he growled. “C’mon. I could use a drink.”
Through a maze of muted hallways, we entered a small sitting room. Understated and welcoming, dark wood floors and an intimate seating arrangement showcased a spread of paintings I didn’t dare inspect. Shit looked Museum of Modern Art-worthy.
When he handed me a glass, I pooled the caramel-colored liquid around until it coated the sides of the tumbler. I took a bracing drink. “Branch and bourbon.”
Reardon’s eyes crinkled. “Had you pegged right.”
“My momma says a stiff water and whiskey’s the cure for what ails ya.”
He raised his glass. “To your momma, fine woman to have made you.”
We watched each other, alcohol alleviating the anxiety, aroused anticipation building.
“Lord help you if you ever meet her.”
Polishing off his drink, he ignored my statement.
Friends, family. Off limits.
Right, I knew the rules.
He grabbed my hand. “Come. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
Grand Tour? Were we going to Europe?
Apparently not. Our jaunt was quick.
“Kitchen.”
Uh-huh.
Iron Chef
-style kitchen.
“You cook?”
“Yes.” He was busy sampling my tits and ass with his hot eyes.
Oh, Hell. He meant between the sheets.
Parlors, powder rooms, library, dining room–Ding Dong, I wanted him to wine, dine and 69 me on the long table
–
guest rooms.
This place had more rooms than the Dugger-momma had offspring, and at last count the infamous super-reproducer had nineteen kids.
Everything was seamlessly appointed, minimally decorated. Dashes of his personality revealed by a dog-eared book lying atop a cushion, running shoes shoved under a side table, a
Southern Boating
magazine folded back on a glossy black marble hearth.
He finally slowed before a set of carved double doors whose handles were old-fashioned brass, a skeleton key hanging from the jagged-tooth lock.
Inside, the chamber was a calming dark blue. Lamps were lit, their glow echoing the setting sun outside. A cascade of books slanted in the top-heavy curve of the Leaning Tower of Pisa beside a divan.
A second door led to his bedroom.
Slate, with a touch of saffron.
Cool, yet fiery.
His humidor and a flat lacquered box sat on the dresser.
A mosquito net canopied the king sized bed, adding to the libidinous tropical feel.
Hot.
Passionate.
He folded his arms and leaned against the dresser, a scandalous glint in his eyes.
I tested the mattress, bouncing twice.