Just My Type (21 page)
“Mac,” she groaned.
“Hmm?” He licked and sucked another moment. “Sorry, I didn’t answer, did I?” He looked down at her, cheeks flushed with desire, nipples erect and wet from his tongue. She was everything he could ever imagine wanting.
Dammit.
It’s just lust. It’s just another beautiful woman, letting you do what you want, thinking you’re the king
right now… Been there, done that.
“What’s your favorite part?” she asked, panting a bit as she tried to talk.
“The chocolate syrup.” She was on his kitchen table, after all. Food was a natural combination in the kitchen.
He had to only take one step and lean a bit to grab the chocolate syrup from the door of the fridge.
“This is going to be cold.”
Her eyes widened as he flipped the top open and turned the bottle upside down.
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“Oh,” she breathed as the first drizzle touched her skin.
He made a looping design starting between her breasts and dribbling down her stomach and stopping just below her belly button.
Before lowering his head, though, Mac moved to the end of the table, between her knees.
Without a word, her eyes on his, Sara let her knees fall apart.
He couldn’t swallow. Or breathe. That seemed to be happening a lot around her.
“God, Sara, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful,” he told her sincerely.
“Touch me, Mac,” she said, her voice thick.
“Oh, I intend to, princess. Nothing could stop me.” For the moment he was just going to look. She was all his. She would agree to anything, he knew. He could have her in any way—in every way—he could think of.
And it would still not be enough.
He was completely screwed.
He bit back a laugh at that. So true and yet, so ironic. He was screwed and yet that was the last thing he was going to be.
Hating the way his thoughts and emotions were jumbling on him, he concentrated on what he did know for sure.
Sara was naked, on his table, covered in chocolate.
What was he doing
thinking
anyway?
He lifted the bottle and squeezed. The thin line of chocolate fell, landing in the center of the triangle of soft hair between her legs, then drizzling lower, over the wet, pink folds begging for his attention.
Her eyes slid closed and she breathed in and out deeply, twice.
“Mac,” she whispered.
“I know,” he answered softly.
He started at her ribs, lapping up the chocolate, licking and kissing the sweeter skin beneath, even nipping gently at her hip bone and then dipping his tongue into her belly button. He spent a little extra time on her new crown tattoo from St. Croix. She was squirming and begging by the time he got to the final pool of chocolate. He followed that trail as well, his tongue picking up every drop, even if it took two, or three, or four licks to get it all.
“Open up, princess,” he said, his hands on her knees. He nudged and she spread them even further.
“That’s it,” he coached softly. “Just like that.” He pulled the pad of his index finger through the chocolate on her mound, drawing it down into the sweetness of her body. She arched closer to his hand as his finger slid over her clitoris. He swirled just the tip of his finger around it, making her gasp, then dipped it in the powder and added that flavor as well.
Not that she needed it.
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He knew he shouldn’t do it. He knew it would only make him want more. He also knew there was nothing that could stop him. Mac leaned in and tasted Sara, long and deep and thoroughly. Anticipating her reaction, he’d clamped his hands on her thighs, keeping her from thrusting her hips too hard at the sensations.
His tongue stroked the outer tissue, flicked over her clit, then plunged deep.
“Mac!” she cried out. “Oh, please, please.”
“Yes, Sara, that’s it, honey.” He licked again, then suckled her clitoris, making her sob.
“It’s too much!”
“Let go, Sara.”
She arched again and cried his name.
“Come for me, princess.” He slipped two fingers into her tightness, hooking his index finger to find her G-spot and sucked again.
She shattered a moment later. His name left her lips in a loud cry as her hips came off the wedge, her hands grasping the edges of the table.
He kept his fingers in her, moving gently with the waves of her body, loving the feel of her muscles clenching and releasing as her climax slowly subsided. Her legs were trembling, when he finally slid his fingers free and lifted them to his mouth, tasting her as she watched him.
He licked his lips free of chocolate, powder and Sara. “Delicious.”
“I don’t think the table’s going to hold both of us up here,” she said, breathlessly.
“It won’t.”
“We’re going upstairs?” she asked eagerly.
He just about threw her over his shoulder and headed for the staircase.
“I have to get back to work.
“Work?” She stared at him.
“Yeah, I’ll see you Friday, princess. Around noon, probably.” He almost couldn’t walk he was so hard, but he had to go. To work. And away from his wife. The wife that he was going to have to somehow walk away from, for good, eventually.
Her eyes widened and she struggled to sit up. Difficult with the wedge under her. She finally rolled off of it and got upright. “What? You’re
leaving
?”
“My shift starts at seven.”
“You knew you had to go back?”
“Of course. I always work Wednesdays.”
“You’ll be home tomorrow though?”
“No. Friday.”
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She didn’t look angry. She looked disappointed, which flattered him. She also looked sad, which pulled at his heart. Dammit.
“You always work Fridays too,” she said.
He shook his head. “No. Never Fridays. Unless we’re covering someone.”
“But…I never see you on Fridays.”
“Does Sam work Fridays?” he asked.
She was still naked, flushed, tousled and sticky from the powder, syrup and sex and he was having a hard time not bolting for the door…or for her.
She frowned. “No. But you’re never with us, you’re never around.”
“Sara, I don’t work without the crew. We don’t work Fridays. I can promise you.”
“What do you…” She trailed off, suddenly looking sick.
Concerned he stepped forward. “What is it?”
“Nothing. I just figured it out.” She wouldn’t look at him as she slid to the floor and went to retrieve her dress.
He was distracted for a moment as she bent over to pick it up, but she straightened and held the dress up in front of her, allowing his brain synapses to work again.
“Figured what out?”
She sighed. “You see women on Fridays. That’s why I never see you. I got it now. Never mind.” He should just let her think that. Instead he said, “I come to Oscar on Fridays.”
“For a woman?” She looked appalled by the idea. “Oh, my God, Mac, do you have a girlfriend
here
?”
Absolutely not
. “No, it’s not that. I come home on Fridays. Because it’s home. And I’m only here a few days a week when I don’t work or…have something else in Omaha.” Like her. The truth was, he spent more time in Omaha than he really needed to. Because of Sara. He convinced himself, and apparently his friends and her family, that he was there to help her, look out for her and enjoy his friends. The truth, that he was even just now fully understanding, was Sara was the draw. He loved the guys, would have spent a lot of time with them anyway, but without Sara in Omaha he would have been in Oscar a lot more.
“Oh.” She clearly wasn’t sure what to think. “So Friday afternoon?”
“I brought some of your books and movies and stuff,” he said, as a consolation. He could, of course, come home tomorrow after his shift too. But he wouldn’t. He wanted this to be tough on her. Just like he wouldn’t go downtown and give the Style ladies a piece of his mind. If she was his wife, to keep, truly for as long as they both should live, he’d go down and tell Shelly and Angela and Karen to lay off. But if they gave Sara a hard time, it might make his job of convincing her to go back to Omaha, single, easier. “I’ll bring the box and your clothes in.”
“Great. Thanks.” She finally met his eyes. “I do appreciate it.” He didn’t know how to describe the expression on her face. “No problem.” 120
Just My Type
When he came back in with the rest of her things, she was gone and he could hear the shower upstairs running.
He ran a hand over the top of his head. The scent of her drifted to his nose and he closed his eyes.
None of this was turning out as he’d planned.
He didn’t want her to go. Ever.
What a frickin’ mess.
Sean picked her up Friday morning at ten, just as they’d arranged.
She walked toward Style With A Smile at ten nineteen. In the black and white workout pants and a loose white V-neck T-shirt that Mac had bought her.
Half of her felt her stomach flip at the thought of Mac. And his kitchen table. And chocolate syrup.
The other half of her felt her eyes narrow at the thought of Mac. And the fact that he’d left her, on the kitchen table, after the most sensual experience of her life and the most amazing orgasm she could imagine, to go back to work.
He’d known all along he had to go back to work. Still he’d kissed her. Still told her to get on the table.
Still used the powder and syrup. And the wedge.
She felt her body heat at the memory, even as she was annoyed beyond belief.
He’d made her come, laid out on his kitchen table and then walked out, as if they’d just had a sandwich together.
The jerk.
She hitched the pants up as she approached the door to the shop. Both the pants and shirt were a size too big. Fortunately the drawstring worked to keep the pants from falling to her ankles.
There certainly wasn’t anything flashy or skimpy about them.
“’Morning ladies,” Sara greeted. She took the huge box of muffins from the bakery to the counter where the stylists scheduled appointments.
The lady at the bakery had been pleasant enough. She’d also been too busy to spend much time asking Sara who she was or what she was doing here. Then again, Sara had her hair pulled into a simple ponytail, plain pearl studs in her ears as her only bling and just basic makeup applied. It had been absolutely no fun getting ready for this trip into town.
She loved to primp. Maybe that made her a snob. Or a princess. But she loved it.
Sure, she’d saved forty-one minutes getting ready today, but what was she going to do with forty-one extra minutes? She couldn’t sleep past six thirty no matter how she tried. The Oscar paper didn’t take long to read and it wasn’t a daily paper anyway. The Today show could be watched even while straightening her hair, or waving her hair, or curling her hair. She didn’t eat breakfast. So she now had forty-one minutes to
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think about all the wonderful makeup and hair accessories and body glitter she wouldn’t be using. She had time to lament the invigorating face masks and hot-stone massages and vanilla-cinnamon—and other luscious varieties—body creams she was no longer going to be purchasing.
And what was she going to do with all the jewelry she had? What about the heels? What about all the nail polish? The girls at the center would think she’d gone crazy.
Her greeting still hadn’t been returned.
“The muffins are fresh and my nails are in terrible shape,” she announced to the, once again, full house.
“The nail polish and emery boards are in aisle six at the grocery store,” one of the stylists said.
Of course they didn’t wear nametags. In a town this small, everyone knew everyone else. Probably since kindergarten.
“So you don’t do manicures on Thursdays either?” Sara asked.
“We don’t do manicures at all,” another stylist said, not even bothering to look over.
“How about haircuts?” Sara asked. “I could use a trim.” She’d just had her hair cut in St. Croix, but she’d sacrifice a quarter inch of hair to show these women she wouldn’t be bullied.
The stylist closest to the door stopped clipping and turned to her. “We’re full.”
“I’ll make an appointment for next week,” Sara said.
“We’ll be full.”
“I’ll make an appointment for next month,” she said stubbornly.
“We all have full schedules. With regulars. We aren’t open to new clients.” And what did Mac expect her to say and do now? Sara wondered. She couldn’t drive to Omaha for fear of offending someone and she couldn’t get in to the booked-up schedules of the only salon in town.
Was she just supposed to let her hair grow indefinitely?
“Any chance there’s a place in town that sells jeans?” she asked, giving up on the bonding over hairstyles and muffins.
Six pairs of eyes stared at her in the mirrors in front of the stylists’ chairs. Looking around the waiting area, four more pairs of eyes regarded her with interest.
“No place that sells your kind of jeans,” the stylist nearest the door, the one that seemed to dislike her most, said.
“My kind of jeans?” Sara repeated. “You mean the denim kind?” Her sarcasm was not missed. Nor was it appreciated.
“I’m sure you’re used to jeans that are a little better than what we have here.”
“Better how? You only sell worn-out jeans here?” Her patience was pretty much gone. Sara had never been a sarcastic or nasty person in her life. She’d never had a need. But she was already regarded as a snob.
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She didn’t want to be the snob that ran from the shop crying too and if she didn’t parry their attacks that would be the only other thing she could do.
“I just don’t think we have anything here of interest to you.” If it was possible, the woman’s tone had gotten cooler.
“Okay.” Sara clapped her hands together and spun toward the door. “Thanks for your hospitality. I see why people are so drawn to charming small Nebraska towns.” She exited before she saw or heard a reaction.
