Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Lou
I’m wonderfully alone for my morning sauna and swim. I don’t want to find Clay poking around outside again, so my inability to stop looking for him out the window in the sauna’s changing room is irritating as fuck. Why am I oddly disappointed every time he’s not there?
I must be spoiling for a fight.
Spoiling for something, anyway.
The last six weeks are finally catching up to me. The rage-fire that ignited when I discovered Hayden cleaned me out, the one that has fueled my every waking moment since, is dying. I need to stoke it back up before I sink into indifference.
I finish my sauna and once I’m showered and dressed, head directly to the bar, letting myself in the back, ready to pick a fight.
So what if he promised he’d give me the bar back and pay for my silence by replacing the 60k Hayden stole.
He’s still using my bar to launder money, and he’s doing a shitty job of it.
Deep down, it’s more than that. Despite being the worst idea ever, he’s making me want him. That’s unforgivable.
A Latin song I vaguely recognize with a sultry beat and sexy vocals is blaring from the bar. I reach the end of the hallway and freeze.
Clay has traded the usual dress slacks and well-pressed button-up for a well-worn pair of jeans and a black undershirt. But that’s not what stops me in my tracks.
Nope.
He’s dancing with the mop.
Goddammit.
He’s not just some annoyingly hot, rich douche badly laundering money through my bar. Nope, this motherfucker has a touch of whimsy in him.
The fight goes out of me. It’s unexpected in someone aloof and asshole-ish. It’s adorable. And sexy.
The muscles in his arms and shoulders flex as he holds the mop handle at a distance, doing something complicated with his feet. His hips move. He drops a little, rolling back up, dipping the mop. Then he actually mops for a few seconds, his back still to me, before the rhythm gets his body again.
For an embarrassingly long moment, I want to be that mop.
Luckily, I have a far safer option in the toys I left charging in the camper, so I reluctantly back away from the sight of his arms and shoulders.
Once I’m safely inside the camper, I lay the toys out on the bed. They’re all fully charged, but that’s likely a damn lie—they’re old and cheap and have disappointed me only slightly less than any given one-night stand.
I leave the windows and curtains open to catch the sun-warmed scent of grass in the breeze. I’ve got all the privacy I need, surrounded by forest. And I’ve never been all that averse to the idea of getting caught.
I shimmy out of my underwear and climb into bed, still in my dress.
Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who have to work for it to reach an orgasm, and in all honesty, I prefer someone else to work for it, which isn’t an option.
So I start slow, lying back against my pillows, my hands drifting over the bodice of my dress, slowly working the buttons through button holes, while I close my eyes and imagine someone else’s fingers. Today, it’s a man.
He doesn’t have a name or even a distinct face.
Maybe it’s dark, and I can’t see him anyway.
But he has a dancer’s grace and long, clever fingers, and hair that’s soft against my cheek as he kisses my neck.
His body is sculpted and lean, and he’s hungry.
He’s definitely not Clay, but I can take inspiration from the man and pour some gasoline on it.
The cool breeze kisses my breasts as I expose them, and with my eyes closed, it’s easy to pretend my fingers are his as I pinch and roll my nipples to stiff peaks.
He tastes like bourbon when he kisses me, his body warm over me, and when I inhale, I can almost smell the sparkling citrus of his cologne. With trembling hands, I inch the skirt of my dress higher. I’m wet enough that I might not have to worry about the battery dying before I come.
That would be a nice change of pace. God, with the way my life is going—
I blow out a frustrated breath and force myself to focus.
To imagine my very much made-up lover’s mouth moving lower, leaving hot, wet kisses along the side of my breast, teasing before taking my nipple in his mouth.
His other hand—my other hand—remains between my legs, softly rubbing circles over my clit until I’m ready for the toy to take over.
I reach for the sure bet, the clitoral stimulator that—when it doesn’t die in the lead up—delivers the best orgasms. Pleasure builds, my hips rocking as I imagine his tongue, the heat of his mouth as he licks and suckles. Fingers digging into my skin as he holds me open.
The toy gives up before I get there.
Not unlike Hayden.
That name floating up brings me right back to square zero.
I toss the toy across the campervan, determined not to let that asshole steal this like he did my savings, and start the fantasy over. It takes even longer to get to the point where I’m reaching for my second-most reliable toy.
The rabbit vibrator brings me most of the way before it craps out. Tears of frustration sting my eyes, and I throw it a hell of a lot harder than I had the last one. It connects with the door, which I belatedly realize is opening.
Clay ducks, but the vibe bounces off the edge of the door instead of his stupid head. It gives me time to flick the skirt down and pull the bodice of the dress closed.
“What the fuck?” I demand, sitting up and starting on the buttons. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”
His eyes flick to me, but instead of bored disinterest, there’s something new there. A mild curiosity, maybe. “I did.”
I snort because he fucking didn’t. Or else it was the softest tap in the world.
“So you weren’t throwing that rabbit at my head, then?” He steps into the camper, closing the door behind him, cautiously stooping for the low ceiling before he discovers he doesn’t need to. He didn’t even step inside before he bought it? I guess this is part of his money laundering.
“I wasn’t aiming at you.” I hold up a simple, smooth vibrator—the smallest and saddest of my collection. “Yet.”
He holds his hands up in surrender as his eyes land on the clitoral stimulator already on the floor. It’s about six inches from his left foot. “Why are you throwing sex toys?”
I reach for a smartass comment, but in my frustration, the truth comes out instead. “These cheap-ass off-brand pieces of shit don’t hold a charge.”
He frowns. “You can’t bring yourself off manually?”
“Not the point.”
He nods thoughtfully, his eyes drifting through the camper and settling on me. “Then you’re lucky I came by.”
The audacity of men never fails to amuse, and I laugh. “I’m not hiring you to service me. I still have one toy left.” I hold up the little bullet vibe and click it on to show it still has some buzz.
Nothing happens.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, smacking it against my other hand a few times before I give up and toss it over my shoulder. It clatters against the corner and rolls down one of my pillows.
Clay clears his throat. “This isn’t a business transaction.”
“Then what? A hook-up?” It’s tempting, but isn’t that how I get in trouble every single time?
Ignoring that little voice in my head and jumping into bed?
“That’s not happening. Just once will turn into a second time, and then a third.
Before I know it, you’re half-assing it in bed, complaining that I won’t cook for you, and then one day I wake up to an empty bank account. ”
He raises an eyebrow at the all-too-accurate account of my relationship with Hayden.
“No offense,” he says calmly, “but I lose interest fast. Once will be enough.” He takes a step closer, nudging the clitoral stimulator aside with his foot so he can lean against the counter. “I’m not offering a hook-up.”
“What are you offering?” Why am I not kicking him out? I’m not considering this, am I? I hate to admit I’m curious.
“No small talk. No kissing or foreplay. I’ll get you off once and leave. I don’t want anything in return.”
This is all suspiciously too good to be true. “Why? Give me one reason.”
“Because I’m selfish,” he says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I want your orgasm.”
Oh no. Why is this working on me? Desire is overriding common sense, and I already know I’m down for this, even as I ask, “Are you for real?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t been terribly interested in sex for a while. For some godforsaken reason, I find myself drawn to you, though I expect that interest to end once I’ve made you come. Do we need to dissect this? I’m offering to get you off—you can have my hands or my mouth. Take it or leave it.”
My nipples pebble under my dress, an ache building between my legs at the thought of his mouth on me, his long fingers in me. Shit, where’d that breeze go? It is a million degrees in here. “And you expect me to return the favor?”
“No. If you aren’t averse, I’ll touch myself over my pants, but I won’t bring myself to completion.”
“Orgasm-denial?” I’ve never met a man who’d deny his own orgasm—only mine through bumbling incompetence.
Another shrug. “It’s more about self-control. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I don’t.”
There’s a beat of silence before he says, in a soft voice, “Well, Louisa?”
Am I really going to do this? Should I? It can’t be this easy. Nothing ever is. “Things won’t get weird between us? We still have to work together.”
“I’m a professional. Can you avoid catching feelings for me?”
I roll my eyes. “Should you manage to give me the best orgasm of my life—which is doubtful—I promise not to fall in love with you.”
“It wouldn’t end well for you if you did,” he cautions.
I make a dismissive noise. “Has anyone ever fallen in love with you?”
“Mm. Probably not. Are we going to sit here talking all day, or can I get you off?”
I don’t really need to think about it. This man had Kristen glowing, and I want some of that—just once.