Chapter 13 #2
Instead of talking, he simply gathered her into his arms and held her. She huddled into him, letting him support a good chunk
of her weight as her heartbeat gradually slowed and steadied.
For some reason, the embrace seemed more intimate than his fingers between her legs.
His bristly cheek rubbed over the top of her head, and his hard dick prodded her thigh. He was apparently ignoring that inconvenience,
though, so she did too as he ran a slow palm up and down her back and urged her face against his neck.
Slowly, her thoughts began to clear.
When was the last time Rob had offered her pleasure without expecting something in return from her? Ten years before their
divorce? Fifteen? She genuinely couldn’t remember, it had been so damn long. When it came to orgasms, if she got one, she
gave one. Because that was only fair, right? Even though she was multi-orgasmic, and he wasn’t.
In retrospect, their entire marriage had been a series of carefully calibrated equivalencies, attempts to balance what they
each got and gave in a practical, equitable way. And to her shame, she hadn’t noticed her husband’s thumb on the scale until
far, far too late.
Or at least she hadn’t allowed herself to acknowledge the injustice, because that would mean she’d made a terrible mistake
in marrying him, even after so many years together. That would mean she’d wasted her time and energy and not valued herself
highly enough.
It would also mean she’d repeated her mother’s mistake of trusting the man she’d wed. Repeated her own teenage mistake too: trusting the man she’d loved most in the entire world.
Still, here she was, leaning on Karl as if she could depend on him. He was sheltering her, soothing her, and she was letting
him. Which was probably a terrible mistake too, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from making it.
Untold minutes later, she finally stirred in his arms. “My legs are pudding, and it’s your fault, Dean.”
There. That had sounded convincingly casual. Calm and unruffled.
Mentally, she offered herself a round of admiring applause.
“My fault, huh?” His snort ruffled her hair. “Gladly plead guilty to that charge.”
More lighthearted conversation, coming right up. “You’re also facing one count of attempted cannibalism and one count of reckless
hickey infliction.”
The teeth marks on her shoulder would probably disappear in minutes, since he’d barely nipped her. That love bite on her neck,
though? Given how hard he’d sucked, it’d take far longer to fade. If her shirt collar didn’t cover it, all of Harlot’s Bay
was going to see it and know exactly what she and Karl had been doing. Well, some of what they’d been doing, anyway.
“Please know that anything you grunt in response can and will be used against you in a court of law,” she added.
His hand glided up to the base of her neck and squeezed. He rubbed his thumb over the sore bit of skin there, then slid his
fingertips over the place where he’d sunk his teeth so carefully into her shoulder.
He paused on that spot. “Shouldn’t have marked or bitten without asking. Got carried away. I’m sorry.”
His voice was gruff but sincere. And honestly, even though he really should have asked first, she didn’t truly mind. Especially since she hadn’t relaxed this thoroughly in years.
“The court accepts your explanation and is prepared to render judgment.” She lifted his head to smirk at him, then nudged
her leg against his unflagging erection. “I hereby sentence you to one afternoon of blue balls.” After a moment’s thought,
she added, “Although, technically speaking, sexually disappointed testicles don’t actually turn blue. Otherwise, I imagine
there’d be way more Papa Smurf–related jokes made at their expense.”
He waved that off, intent brown eyes searching hers. “We good, Dearborn? You forgive me?”
“Yeah.” Part of his beard had gone wonky, and she smoothed it down with her finger. “We’re good. Truly.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed, and his palm stroked back down her spine as he tried to ease her closer once more. With regret,
she resisted the gentle pressure.
“That said”—she fished her phone from her back pocket, where it had luckily remained safe and sound during all their shenanigans,
and checked the display—“I’ll need to take a rain check on lunch. It’s later than I realized, and Lise and I should be meeting
not too long from now. I want to get cleaned up before seeing her.”
Her inner thighs remained uncomfortably damp, he’d worked her into a light sweat before she came, and she probably smelled
like sex. As soon as she got back to the Spite House, its tiny bathtub-shower combo would have to reluctantly accommodate
her once more.
Also, she needed to impose some distance between herself and Karl. Needed enough time alone to emerge from her orgasm-induced
daze and get her head on straight.
Sliding free from his embrace was harder than it should have been. But she locked her shaky knees and did it, stepping back from him. One pace. Two.
He let her go without a struggle, although his stare remained uncomfortably sharp. “Today went way better than that goddamn
escape room. Even before I finally got my hand inside your jeans. You agree?”
She nodded and tucked her phone back into her pocket.
While the orgasm definitely constituted the highlight of her afternoon, today’s exercise had in fact convinced her of a few
important things. For instance: Karl wouldn’t take advantage of her vulnerability. Even blindfolded, she hadn’t felt unsafe
for even an instant, which wasn’t such a small revelation. Also, when given the chance to talk about foodstuffs, he could
in fact communicate clearly and sufficiently, and they could work as an effective team.
Those discoveries probably explained why she’d let him overhear her call with Rob. Why she’d willingly told him why and how
her marriage had ended and what her ex-husband currently wanted from her. Why she’d allowed herself to accept Karl’s support.
But life wasn’t all blindfolds and bougie goat cheese, sadly. She wished it were. And unfortunately, she had a sinking feeling
that he was about to—
“You trust me now?” he asked, his voice gruff but eager.
There it was. The question she’d hoped to avoid. The question that, if answered with total honesty, would douse the hope and
anticipation gleaming in his dark eyes and erase the small, happy smile curving his slightly swollen lips.
An expression of even cautious joy didn’t appear often on Karl Dean’s face. The thought of wiping that joy away literally nauseated her. But . . . lying wouldn’t help anyone in the long run, including—maybe even especially—him.
Did she trust him now?
“More than I did before,” she said carefully, and watched his smile flicker and die, because he didn’t get it.
Even that guarded, incomplete faith in Karl was far more than she would have predicted after their disastrous escape room
attempt. More than she’d granted anyone but Lise in years. The shift constituted genuine progress, and it had real significance.
It meant something.
Something wasn’t everything, though—and Karl apparently wanted everything. Now.
“You trust me more than you did before,” he repeated, each word precise.
She braced herself for an argument. Nodded again.
He set his fists on his hips. “Enough to stay in Harlot’s Bay?”
“I . . .” Her brow crinkled in confusion. “I am staying in Harlot’s Bay. Currently, in a ten-foot-wide house built as a fraternal middle finger.”
Hadn’t they already had this discussion? And hadn’t a mixture of guilt and lust and her lost bet to Lise led to an entire
month spent far away from home?
His eyes rolled to the drop ceiling. “Long-term, Dearborn.”
Her mouth clamped tight as she processed that question and what it implied. What it revealed about what he truly wanted.
Was her moving to Harlot’s Bay his real end goal here? Rather than getting her to trust him enough that he’d feel comfortable
fucking her, as he’d led her to believe, or—more ambitiously—enough that she’d consider a long-distance relationship?
If so, why hadn’t he told her before?
Because if he wanted her to trust him so much that she’d uproot her life and move across an entire continent for him, if that was the fundamental reason they were cycling
through various corporate trust-building exercises, then . . . wow. When she’d thought that Karl wanted everything, she hadn’t
realized what everything truly entailed for him.
She genuinely didn’t know what it would take to trust him so completely. And even if she figured out what was required, the
prospect of putting that much faith in yet another man terrified her.
Once again, he’d left her with only one honest answer to a very difficult question.
“I don’t think so,” she told him quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
Then, before he could push her even harder, she snatched up her bag and fled the bakery.