Mayday (20 page)

Using his body as a wedge, Wes finally managed to get them through the crush of people and to the Maypole. The two of them stood and contemplated their options for a moment.

“Which ribbon do you want?” he asked.

“Yellow,” she decided. “My favorite color.”

He ran a finger down his green ribbon, and then reached over to brush her cheek with the same fingertip. “Just as soft as the satin ribbon,” he said into her ear. “Though I know some parts of you are even softer. And much hotter.”

As if on cue, her cheek grew warmer to the touch. When she wagged a scolding finger at him, he just laughed.

One by one, the other winners of the raffle took their places around the Maypole and looked to him for further instructions.

“You want to do the honors?” Wes asked Helen. “You know more than I do about how this is supposed to work.”

When she agreed, he got her a wireless microphone and watched with pride as she explained how the dance worked.

“Let's start by counting off. I'm one,” she said. “The mayor is two. Now keep going around the circle.” When everyone had spoken their number, she continued, “Once the music starts, everyone with an odd number, like me, will move clockwise. Everyone with an even number, like the mayor, will move counterclockwise. In other words, the people on either side of you will be moving in the opposite direction from you. As you encounter people coming toward you, you'll alternate moving your ribbon over and under their ribbons. Odd numbers will start over. Even numbers will start under. Does that make sense?”

“Uh, not really,” one older man said.

Helen grinned at him. “Don't worry about being perfect. Just have fun, move the opposite way from the people around you, and try not to strangle anyone with your ribbon.”

“That I can do,” the man said.

“Keep going until the ribbons are wrapped all the way around the pole, or until we don't have room to move. Whichever comes first,” she said. “We'll dance to the accompaniment of our wonderful musicians. Mayor, is the Maryland Public Symphony Orchestra ready to play Vivaldi's ‘Spring'?”

Wes took the microphone from her and gave it to a volunteer. With a flick of his finger, he signaled to the conductor, and the orchestra started playing.

At the first swell of music, everyone stood frozen in place. Then, with a laugh, Helen began to skip away from him. Despite his urge to follow her wherever she went, he went in the opposite direction, knowing he'd see her again halfway around the circle. Everyone else began moving slowly, testing out the rhythm of the dance and learning when to raise and lower their ribbons. By the time he met her again, their speed had begun to pick up, and the dancers were laughing and raising their ribbons in shining arcs against the night sky.

He made sure he didn't run into anyone or tangle the ribbons too terribly. Otherwise, all his focus was on one woman and one woman alone. By torchlight, Helen's hair glowed. Her skin looked golden. Her green dress flared out around her as she danced and giggled, smiling at each person she passed.

His breath caught at the sight of her, the sun in his world. He couldn't help himself. When they passed in the circle, he leaned forward and snuck a quick taste of her soft mouth, to the whoops and delight of the crowd watching them.

After a few passes and a few more stolen kisses, he could see the ribbons intertwining on the pole, forming a shining pattern against the wood. Each circle of the Maypole also brought the dancers closer and closer together, until he couldn't help but brush against each passing person. Of course, when it came to Helen, he didn't try very hard. Instead, as they crossed paths, his mouth caught at hers and held it for a hot moment while his hand stroked her hip. By the time she moved on each time, her breath came fast and her cheeks had turned even pinker.

A few minutes of dancing later, the ribbons had become so short that the dancers were pressed up against each other, barely able to move. He ensured he was standing next to Helen when he stopped dancing altogether and gestured to a nearby volunteer for the microphone. The other dancers came to a halt too, some of them bending over and bracing their hands on their knees as they laughed and caught their breath. The musicians found a natural stopping place in the piece and put down their instruments.

“We've danced into May,” Wes declared to the cheering crowd. “Here's hoping for a spring full of new promise and prosperity, both for Niceville and each and every one of you. Please stay here in town for more music, dancing, eating, and shopping. Good night!”

With that announcement, the crowd began to head for the ribbon-covered Maypole. Before they were crushed by the hundreds of people coming their way, Wes put an arm around Helen and moved them both across the square. As they walked away, he noticed several other couples from the ranks of the dancers doing the same. He also noticed a few hands roving where they wouldn't usually go in public, but he chose to ignore that.

“I want to touch the pole!” one woman shouted as she reached out to touch the cherry tree's trunk.

“I don't blame her,” Helen said.

“Do you want to go back? I didn't mean to drag you away before you were ready.” He came to a halt and turned to face her.

Her brown eyes looked steadily into his. “No, I don't want to go back. I want to go forward. With you.”

His heart, usually so measured in its beat after years of endurance training, began to race. He couldn't perceive any worry in her expression, any tension in her shoulders. Instead, he only saw heat. Desire. Enough to match his.

“Are you sure?” He raised a single fingertip and trailed it over her satiny cheek, across her jaw. Slowly, he traced down the line of her neck, to where her pulse beat hard at the side of her throat. Leaning forward, he replaced his finger with his mouth, brushing his lips against that sensitive spot. As she shivered, he scraped her soft skin with his teeth. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her she was his. To reinforce his claim, he drew on that skin until he knew he'd left a tiny mark, then soothed the spot with a lick.

He withdrew, not touching her anywhere else as he watched her expression. Her soft frame had begun to tremble, and her cheeks looked feverish.

“I'm sure,” she said, her voice thick. “Take me home, Wes.”

Her eyes met his without hesitation, and he couldn't see any doubt in her gaze. Exultation rushed through his veins, quickly followed by determination. Tonight, at long last, he'd make up for that disastrous night in his bed. He'd make her forget every man she'd ever been with before, including himself. Especially himself.

In that moment, he didn't care what the newspaper might say the next day. If Bea had lied and was hiding behind a bush somewhere watching him, he didn't give a fuck. All his thoughts about the wider world he'd meant to conquer, about the success he'd chased for so long, about the paralyzing possibility of failure . . . they were gone. They'd fled, dwarfed in importance by the woman standing in front of him. His sun. An expansive universe, encapsulated in one soft woman with the most beautiful brown eyes he'd ever seen.

“Stay here,” he said.

He set off for the nearest volunteer at a jog. “Mark?” he asked. “Can you coordinate the rest of the events for the evening and make sure the cleanup goes according to schedule?”

“I guess,” the young man said, looking confused. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes.” And without another word, he sprinted back to Helen's side.

They didn't speak on their way to the parking lot, but when they reached the side of his truck, he leaned her against it. Sliding a hand to the small of her back, he nudged forward and pressed her into the cold metal. Close enough that her breasts rubbed against him. Close enough that her body heat combined with his. Close enough that she could feel how she affected him, the hard pressure against her belly.

His next words were whispered into her ear. “I'm going to make you come so hard around my cock that you won't be able to see, hear, or think. And then I'm going to make you come again. Over and over. Until you beg me to stop.”

Her hips arched, rubbing against him at the words. Then she stilled, and a small smile curved her mouth. “I've spent pretty much every night of my life alone, with only my hand or a vibrator for company. You think I'll beg you to stop?”

She raised that mouth to his, giving his lower lip a tiny, stinging bite. “Bring it on, Mayor. Bring. It. On.”

A
ll during the ride to Wes's house, Helen fought to stay in the moment. To forget the very limited future of her relationship with the man sitting tense beside her, his fingers wrapped around her thigh. She was determined to squeeze every last ounce of pleasure and emotion out of their time together, knowing the memory would have to keep her company for a string of long days and nights to come.

Of course, staying in the moment proved considerably easier when his grip on her leg loosened and his fingers trailed downward slowly. Without taking his eyes from the road, he pulled up the soft fabric of her skirt inch by inch. Then those long fingers explored the bare skin beneath, as she'd once again followed his request not to wear leggings. He traced patterns on the tops of her legs, sliding until he'd reached the warm flesh on the insides of her thighs.

Even as her breath hitched in her lungs, she realized she wasn't the only one affected by Wes's actions. He was breathing hard and fast too, and a quick glance at his lap confirmed his arousal. Even through the jeans, his erection was obvious.

Just like him, she kept her gaze forward as she moved her left hand to that hard bulge encased in denim. When she gave him a squeeze, he made a low, rough sound. The truck swerved a tiny bit on the road, and his right hand lifted from her panties. He gently nudged her fingers away from his cock with a breathless laugh.

“If we want to arrive at my house in one piece, we'd both better behave,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Silence fell like a blanket over them again, intimate and warm. It lasted until he pulled into his garage, hit the button to close the door, and turned to her.

“Have you changed your mind about tonight?”

She gaped at him. “Are you kidding?”

“Um . . .” He tilted his head, eyeing her carefully. “No.”

“Look, Wes, if you don't finish what you started in this truck, I'm going to be very, very unhappy. Like, Carrie-at-the-prom unhappy. So . . .” She stabbed a finger toward the door leading into his house.

A grin split his face, visible even in the dim light of the garage. He shifted to face her, his gaze tender. Both his hands lifted, sliding through her fine curls until he was cradling her head. He leaned forward and rubbed his nose softly against hers.

“You looked so pretty tonight,” he said. “I couldn't stop watching you.”

A sharp pang caught at her chest, but she ignored it. Placing her own hands on his upper arms, she stroked the muscles there and felt them quiver under her touch.

Power. This was power like she'd never known.

Deciding to test it further, she lifted her head a fraction of an inch and kissed him. Her lips clung to his with gentle suction, rubbing back and forth so she could experience his texture and warmth. His hands in her hair immediately tightened, drawing her closer, and as soon as her lips opened beneath his, his tongue swept inside. He took control of the kiss, delving into her mouth with fierce hunger.

She pushed firmly against his shoulders, tearing herself away from him. “Doesn't it make sense to take this inside?”

He stared hungrily at her mouth. “I guess.”

Despite his grudging response, he got out of the truck and came to help her down, lacing his fingers through hers.

When he let them inside the house, she knew she was supposed to comment on it. How neat it was, or how well-decorated, or what nice architecture it had.
Something
. After all, it was the second time she'd seen it, and they'd been in such a rush the first time that she hadn't really noticed anything on the way to the bedroom. But she couldn't see anything now either. Wes and the image of him working between her thighs filled her vision, leaving room for nothing else.

“Bathroom,” she said. “Then bedroom.”

He was waiting for her outside the bathroom when she emerged, and he led her to the shadowed bedroom she'd visited once before. This time, though, the room looked different. A bedside lamp threw dim light over the huge bed, whose covers were neatly turned back. And on that bed . . . rose petals.

When she turned to him, he shrugged uncomfortably. “Had some left over from the heart I made the other day. I thought it'd be more comfortable than lying down on rice.”

She laughed. “True enough.” Her fingers trailed over the soft petals spread on the pillow. “This is lovely. Thank you.”

“I wanted to show you . . .” He sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “I wanted to show you this is different. From last time. I don't just want a distraction from my life. I don't want you to leave after we make love. I want you, in my bed and in my arms. All night. I want you to know how much I . . .”

He trailed off, his jaw clenched tight in frustration.

“It's okay,” she soothed, coming closer. “I understand.”

“I can't seem to come up with the right words,” he said. “But I can show you another way.”

With gentle hands, he cupped her face and kissed her until they were both panting again. Then he reached back an arm and yanked the Henley over his head, fully baring his chest to her. At the sight of that muscled expanse—its obvious breadth and hardness—she moved in close. Then closer, until she could see every last detail of the flesh he'd exposed to her.

His rapid breaths expanded his rib cage as he stood still and allowed her to explore him. She ran her fingertips over the light coating of hair over his chest, hair that formed an arrow pointing down to his jeans. That arrow tempted her into rushing. Into unzipping him and claiming what she wanted without further delay.

But she refused to be distracted. This might be the one and only time she'd ever see him like this, and she wasn't going to hurry. So instead of roaming below his waist, she counted his ribs, giving each a stroke of her hand. His collarbone she traced with her thumb, marveling at its fragility. A small bump in the bone caught her attention, and she rubbed it lightly.

“A reminder of where I broke it in a fall,” he said. “One of the hazards of cycling.”

She gave that spot a kiss before moving on. A spray of freckles below his right nipple intrigued her, and she trailed her fingertips over the unexpected variation in his smooth, tan skin.

“Birthmark.” His voice was gravelly, and his breath caught when her tongue tasted each of those freckles.

The skin on his back was warm and satiny, though it pebbled with goose bumps when her caressing fingertips explored there. She stood on her tiptoes and nuzzled against the hair at the nape of his neck, shivering at the bristly friction against her cheek.

Finally, she turned to the scar she'd expected to see. A line along his left shoulder, where his rotator cuff surgery had opened his flesh and changed the entire course of his future.

Before touching that scar, she paused. Would he welcome her attention there? Or would it drag him away from her, into a past where she couldn't reach him?

She knew he could see where her gaze had fallen, but he didn't move. Didn't flinch or give any sign that the reminder of his injury pained him. So she placed her hand on the scar, wishing she could heal the damage through force of will. He bent down slightly so she could rest her cheek on the spot and kiss its entire length. Though he didn't say a word, she could hear the hitch in his breathing, see the rapid blink of his eyelids until he brought himself back under control.

After a long minute, once she knew he had a grip back on his emotions, she finally spoke. “I'd like to see the rest of you.”

He didn't hesitate, just took off his shoes and flicked open the fly of his jeans. He shoved those jeans to the floor, along with his black briefs and socks. Once he'd kicked them aside, he stood motionless before her again. She started with his feet, kneeling down to admire their broad strength. Then she wrapped her hands around his muscled calves and gave them a squeeze. His knees were speckled with little raised pink marks and faint white lines. She pressed a kiss on each one.

“Tripped on some gravel during a run. Went down hard,” he said. “Um, Helen?”

“Hmm?” She dragged her mouth up the length of his thigh, appreciating the firm evidence of all his training and dedication. Honoring each place where that dedication had both strengthened and damaged him.

“I wanted this night to be about you. Just you.” His fingers brushed over her cheek.

She looked up at his face, which he'd tipped down to watch her exploring him. “But this is what I want,” she said softly. “I want to know you.”

“You do. Better than anyone else ever has.” He gave a gentle tug at her arm. “Come up here so I can explore you too.”

“Soon.” She took a deep breath, trying not to think about her total lack of experience in this particular area. And then she kissed his hip bone before turning her head and taking his rigid cock into her mouth.

His body instantly stiffened, and he released a low groan. She tentatively sucked and licked at the tip of his cock, marveling at how smooth and hot it felt against her tongue. Her main concern, honestly, had been whether she'd find the taste of him appealing, but that wasn't a problem. He tasted and smelled like . . . Wes. And anything so suffused with him was just fine by her.

Her status as a blow job novice must have been painfully obvious to him. Still, he shuddered in response to her every movement, and his hands fisted in her hair. Not to force her closer, she realized. To make sure she didn't take him too deeply. His hips arched toward her, but otherwise, he remained still, allowing her to find a rhythm as his big body vibrated with tension.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Helen . . .”

But she ignored him, experimenting with how much of him she could take. Tasting the saltiness at his tip against her tongue. Figuring out what made him jerk against her in pleasure. Finally, though, his hands in her hair moved to her shoulders, and he gave her a firm tug upward.

“I didn't get to admire your ass,” she protested.

“Later.” Helping her to her feet, he gripped the hem of her dress and began to lift it.

But there won't be a later
, she thought before forcing the future back out of her mind.

The green dress fell to the floor with a whoosh, and then he turned to her underwear. Despite his trembling fingers, he swiftly removed her bra and panties with the ease of long experience. He supported her with a strong hand on her back as she stepped out of those panties and toed off her Mary Janes. Then he turned her to face him.

She stood naked, completely naked, before him for the first time. As if sensing the sudden shyness overtaking her, though, he kept his eyes on hers.

“Glasses on or off?” he asked.

“Off,” she decided. “I want to see you, but I hate smudges.”

“Another time, let's leave them on. I have some librarian fantasies I'd like to indulge, if you're willing.” He grinned at her and slid the frames from her nose, placing them on his bedside table.

Now she saw everything with a slight blur, which she figured was for the best. She didn't need to see the expression on his face when he noticed every stretch mark, every flaw on her body. While exploring him, she'd seen so little that wasn't smooth, strong, and perfect. In contrast, her body was chaos. He wouldn't be able to easily pinpoint aberrations from the ideal as she'd done so lovingly with him. All of her was imperfect. Nothing was ideal.

But he didn't seem to realize that. When his gaze finally dropped below her face, he drew in a sharp breath. His cock somehow got harder, stretched closer to his firm belly.

“So beautiful.” He ran a reverent hand down her side, from shoulder to hip. “I can't believe I didn't get you naked last time.”

Her lips twitched. “You were in a hurry, as I recall.”

“I was a fucking moron.” He shook his head in disgust, and then bent down to kiss the cuts on her arms. “These feeling better?”

“Very much so, thanks to Nurse Ramirez.”

He grinned as his fingers skated over her shoulders, down her back. He cupped her bottom, giving the ample flesh there a squeeze. “Such soft, pale skin,” he said. “I could touch you forever, baby.”

He dropped to his knees to stroke her legs, and she frantically tried to remember whether she'd shaved that morning. But then all thought left her brain when his hands closed around her knees and nudged them further apart. She jerked at the first touch of his mouth on the side of her knee, gasping as his tongue began to swirl against her flesh and move higher. Interspersing little stinging bites in between licks, he followed a line up her inner thigh until he was forced to stop.

“Spread your legs.” He didn't look up as he gave the rumbling order.

Clutching his shoulders, she moved her feet an inch or two.

“Wider.”

She shivered. “But I'm not sure—”

“I'll make certain you don't fall,” he said, preempting her objection.

Embarrassed and incredibly aroused, she did what he asked.

When she glanced down, she couldn't believe the sight, even though she'd witnessed it once before. Wes—Wes Ramirez, for Christ's sake—kneeling between her widespread thighs, staring at her pussy with heated intent. She could hardly stand already. And if he started to do what she thought he was going to do . . .

He lifted a hand from her knee, licked his finger, and traced it down the seam of her sex, parting her curls. Leaning forward, he brought his mouth to within an inch of those curls and softly blew. She bit back a whimper and tried to steady herself. He did it again. And again. And again, until she was close to begging for real contact. Real pressure against her clit and her slick folds.