Chapter 13
Somewhere around the time Molly had let Karl listen to that awful conversation with Rob and physically support her while she
sparred with her ex-husband, her iron-clad independence had cracked, with predictable consequences. All her self-discipline
had drained out, then promptly evaporated in the towering heat that kept rising between the two of them in his silent back
room.
In its place, lust filled her to drowning.
Mere moments ago, Karl had stood between her legs, solid and strong and sheltering, eyes locked to hers, his cock pressed
tightly against the spot where she ached most, and she could barely see, hardly breathe. All her most atavistic instincts
had urged her to arch her back, cinch her legs to yank Karl tighter against her needy clit, and make herself come.
God, she wanted to come so much.
The only thing she wanted more? An orgasm that wasn’t self-induced, because the last several years hadn’t offered her many of those. Preferably, one coaxed out of her by the strong,
sure, capable hands of the man she’d wanted for two entire decades. Or, alternatively, dragged from her very willing body
by that man’s filthy mouth and talented tongue. Or even deep-dicked into glorious, climactic life by him, because she wasn’t
freaking picky at this point.
Nevertheless, she’d let him go when he pulled free, because she wouldn’t force him into sexual intimacy or beg for what she wanted—and now the poor man was cowering against the wall.
Apparently her excessive levels of horniness terrified even Karl fucking Dean, which she should probably consider a troubling revelation.
She closed her eyes. Gave herself a few seconds to steady her breathing and regain her vaunted self-mastery.
Karl didn’t say anything as she struggled, because of course he didn’t. But that was fine, because she didn’t feel like talking
either. Just banging. Or, alternatively, doing some light shopping at key Harlot’s Bay businesses.
Several excellent vibrators—along with other useful items—resided in her bedside table back home. Because she’d come for Karl’s
funeral, though, she hadn’t planned for coming in another, more pleasurable sense, and all her toys remained in California.
Good thing this town contained not one, but two adult stores. After her near miss just now, she intended to burn through some
double-As tonight.
“Come here, Dearborn.”
That was Karl’s rumbly growl. Karl’s hard hands on her hips hauling her off the stool as her eyes flew open. Karl keeping
her upright when she stumbled, Karl rotating them until he was walking her backward, away from the table.
He crowded her up against the cool concrete-block wall. Her body jolted at the slight impact, even as his hand cradled the
back of her head, protecting her from injury.
She braced herself against his chest and regained her balance. Tipped her chin to stare up at him, befuddled and aroused and
besieged by a million different emotions. Far too many to process in speech.
“What . . .” The word was barely audible, but it was the best she could currently do. “Karl, what are you . . .”
Then he kicked her legs apart, and her thoughts promptly disintegrated.
He pushed his thigh between hers and leaned into her. Propped himself against the wall with his free arm, his elbow near her
shoulder, his right palm flat against the concrete.
“Want to make you come.” His open mouth, his prickly beard, dragged over her flushed cheek, and he licked the rim of her ear
as her lips opened on a startled, needy gasp. “You good with that?”
He might as well have asked a woman wandering alone and delirious through Death Valley whether she was good with an icy bottle
of sparkling lemonade.
“Oh, god, yes,” she breathed, and that was all he needed.
He pressed his thigh up and in and observed her reaction, her hitched breath, with a stare sharp and dark as volcanic rock.
Readjusting his weight, he lowered his right arm from the wall and unfastened her jeans with quick, confident movements.
His grip on the zipper stilled. “Anything doesn’t feel good, anything you need I’m not giving you, you tell me. Got it?”
He waited for her nod. Then his fingers tangled with hers as they both shoved her jeans down over her ass. He simply watched,
his own breathing labored, as she did the same to her soft cotton boy shorts—or as best she could with his thigh in the way.
They’d created a tangled, lumpy mess of fabric just below her hips, and the wall was hard and cold against her bare butt,
and she didn’t give a shit. Didn’t try to slow things down or make anything about the moment more practical.
She gripped two handfuls of his tee for balance. Her half-lowered clothing bit into her legs as she tried—unsuccessfully—to
spread them farther in invitation.
Within a heartbeat, his hard, broad hand wedged between her thighs and cupped her there. Squeezed carefully but firmly, until her head tipped back in pleasure, pressing tighter against his other palm.
Her eyes closed, and she relaxed into the wall. Let the concrete bear her weight and let the press of his body into hers keep
her upright.
“That’s it, Dearborn.” His hot tongue swirled over her throat, his voice vibrated against her prickling flesh, and his fresh-bread
smell dizzied her. “I’ll take care of you. Just hold on and trust me.”
Her legs were barely splayed wide enough for his hand to fit, but he managed. His warm, strong fingers slipped through her
vulva, opening her to his confident touch, spreading her slickness wherever they leisurely roamed.
The pads of those agile fingers were rough from all his work, all his handwashing, and the unexpected friction against her
swollen, sensitive skin sent a jolt of lightning up her spine. Her mouth opened in a silent moan, and her back arched in an
attempt to shove harder against him, even though there was nowhere to go. They were already as close as two mostly clothed
people could be.
His forefinger teasingly circled her entrance, then trailed to her clit. He stroked slowly around and over the spot, flicked
and pressed, and she couldn’t hold back a rough, raw sound of building pleasure.
“There, huh?” He sucked hard at the base of her neck, and the pressure, the sting, arrowed straight between her legs and made
her jerk against the wall. “Got it.”
Her brain full of nothing but light and static and need, she released one hand’s trembling grip on his soft tee and groped blindly between them.
Slid her arm between their soft bellies, until she could reach down to where his fingers were gliding and rubbing, pleasuring her with such sure, gorgeous skill.
She laid her hand over his. Not to urge him to go faster or even press harder. Just to feel his movements inside and out.
To trace each tendon and jutting knuckle as he worked her toward the orgasm that rushed closer with every labored breath she
sucked into her straining lungs. Her hips were hitching against him now, rhythmic and searching, and she was so wet even his
rough fingertips couldn’t gain much purchase. They slipped over her clit in easy, repeated glides, each one a sunburst behind
her eyelids, sweet as honey trickling down her throat.
“Come on, baby.” His words were almost too rough to decipher. “I’ve got you.”
No. If she came, this would end, and she couldn’t stand the thought.
“I don’t . . .” she managed to whisper, before he gently squeezed her clit between two knuckles, and her legs nearly gave
way beneath her. Her head would have thudded against concrete, but his palm cushioned the impact. “Oh. Oh.”
A slow rub of his thumb over and around her clit. Another light squeeze between his broad knuckles, as she arched and trembled
and gasped. Then his hot breath washed over her shoulder and his teeth pinched the tender muscle there, biting just firmly
enough to sing down her spine and detonate her orgasm.
She came so hard, it verged on pain. Eyes scrunched shut, back arched violently under the impact, mouth open wide as her body
clenched and released again and again, urged on by the endless glides of his fingers over her slick flesh.
She ground herself against his touch, mindless and panting.
“That’s right. Take what you need.” His lips rested against her temple, and he pressed a hard, fierce kiss there. “Fuck, Molly.
So gorgeous when you come.”
Eventually, her muscles began to relax, and she sagged against the wall, against the thigh still helping to hold her upright.
Her thoughts had become a vague buzz, and every inch of her body felt limp and well used. Well satisfied.
Her first semi-coherent post-orgasm thought: Well, damn.
Her second semi-coherent post-orgasm thought: Apparently Karl Dean can finger a woman as capably as he pipes out a peony.
Even in her own muzzy head, piping out a peony sounded like a euphemism for deep dicking. But she couldn’t focus on that.
Couldn’t focus on much of anything, really.
While she was still floating in a come-drunk haze, those steady, peony-piping hands slid from behind her head and between
her legs and efficiently put her clothing back in order, then zipped and fastened her jeans. Even though the soft cotton of
her underwear seemed to abrade her oversensitive skin, and the way her jeans separated his skin from hers was a total outrage.
Dimly, she marveled that they were both fully dressed now, despite how naked and raw she felt. Both completely covered, down
to the sneakers on her feet and the green resin foam ridiculousness on his.
Which prompted her third semi-coherent post-orgasm thought: Does this mean the sight of Crocs is going to turn me on now? Because that would make future healthcare visits very awkward.
Self-assigned tasks complete, he didn’t hustle her out of his bakery, and he didn’t speak. Not to demand orgasmic reciprocation. Not even to ask whether the experience had been good for her. Which . . . fair enough. He didn’t need to ask. The answer was beyond obvious.