I’m close, so fucking close, but there’s no way I’m coming before her. No way I’m going off before I get to feel her warm, sexy body clenching down on me.
Sliding a hand between us, I stroke my thumb around her clit. Once, twice, then again and again as she cries out brokenly. She’s rocking against me now, setting the pace as her hips move faster and faster.
I love how into this she is, love how she’s all about the pleasure. All about chasing another orgasm. I let her set the pace for a little while, let her take what she needs from me as I pinch her clit between my thumb and forefinger.
She cries out then, bracing her hands on my chest as the pressure continues to build around us—between us.
“Shawn,” she gasps. “I need, I need—”
“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” My voice is hoarse from restraint, strained from the iron will I’m using to fight off my own climax. I take back over from her, pistoning my hips like a jackhammer against her. “I’ve got you. I’ve got—”
She comes crying out my name, her body convulsing on mine in a rhythm that breaks the last of my determination. I thrust into her once more. Twice. Then I’m coming, coming, coming, emptying myself into her so completely that for a moment—just a moment—I swear I can’t tell where I end and she begins.
Leaning forward, I rest my forehead against hers as the pleasure keeps coming. Swamping me. Dragging me under.
Sage holds me tight—arms around my shoulders, leg around my hips—her body cradling mine as I shudder against her.
When it’s over, when I can finally think again—finally breathe again—I slowly pull out of her. Gently lower her to the ground.
She wobbles a little as I pull back, so I keep a hand braced against her stomach as I deal with the condom. “You okay?” I ask softly.
“Yeah.” She still looks dazed. “I’m good.”
I can hear two women talking somewhere down the hall, so I move closer, angling my body to give cover to hers. She smiles a little sleepily, and I don’t even try to stop myself from leaning in for another kiss.
I keep it easy on purpose, light, and Sage relaxes into it, her body melting against mine even as her lips turn up in a grin.
Eventually, the voices disappear into the bathroom. With nothing left to protect her from, I pull away. Then bend down and scoop up her pants and underwear.
Draping her pants over my shoulder, I hold her panties out for her to step into. She looks at me, a little bemused, but she goes along with it, bracing herself on my shoulders as she steps into them.
I do the same for her pants, then kiss her again as I fix the mess I made of her blouse. When her body is finally covered again—every gorgeous inch of it—I pull back. And look at her. Just look at her.
She’s beautiful like this—skin flushed, lips dark rose and swollen, eyes nearly iridescent. Her hair is asymmetrical—pixie short on one side and angled down to her chin on the other—and I take a second to run my hands through the softness of it.
She smiles at me, arches into my hand, and I don’t even fight the urge I have to kiss her again. Normally I’d be out the door by now, but there’s something about her that keeps me here. Something about her that makes me want more. More of this. More of her.
I move to deepen the kiss, but voices sound from down the hall again. Sage stiffens in my arms, pulls away.
I let go of her immediately, take a couple steps back. After the intensity of the last twenty minutes, it feels strange not to be touching her. Wrong.
“I should get back to the party,” she says, putting even more distance between us. For the first time, things feel awkward.
I don’t like it, any more than I like the distance she seems hell-bent on putting between us.
“Can I get your number?” I ask, pulling my phone from my pocket.
“I…don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Her answer is such a surprise that for long seconds I just stand there, blinking at her. I can’t remember the last time a woman refused to give me her number. Maybe never?
I know I should be graceful about it, but I’m so shocked that I can’t help but blurt, “Why not?”
Her eyebrows go up. “Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just, I’d really like to see you again.”
She bites down on that rosy red lower lip of hers, worries it between her teeth. “I, um—”
“Sage! There you are!”
I glance down the hallway to find the redhead who’d been eye-fucking Clay heading toward us. “Come on, silly! It’s time for the cake! You don’t want to miss Skye cutting off that big ole dick, do you?”
Sage makes a choking sound deep in her throat, mutters something that sounds an awful lot like, “Who’d want to miss that.” Then she’s turning to me, a polite but distant smile on her face that belies everything we just did together. “I should go. Autumn gets pretty strident if you cross her.”
“Of course.” I step back, then make one more try. “How about I give you my number? Then you can text me if you decide you want to go to dinner or for a drink.”
She glances over her shoulder, then turns back, eyes wide as she realizes how close Autumn is getting. “I’m going to pass. But, thanks. I had…a really good time.”
Pass. She’s going to pass. Women usually jump through hoops to get my number, and Sage is going to pass. I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here.
I don’t say that though. Instead, I nod and say, “Yeah. Me, too.” Then watch as she heads down the hallway and intercepts Autumn before she can get to us.
I continue watching as the two of them head back to the main part of the bar, a little stunned and a lot intrigued. Sage and I just had the best sex I’ve had in I don’t even know how long and instead of trying to explore the chemistry that led to that, she just walked away.
I don’t understand.
Maybe she has chemistry like that with every guy she meets, but it’s rare for me. Really rare, and I want to explore it.
Still, the lady said no, and unless I want to turn into some testosterone crazed stalker (I really don’t) it’s not like I’ve got a choice but to accept her wishes.
Still, her refusal rankles as I make my way back to the bar. I’ve got a vague notion of spending the next hour watching her, maybe seeing if some more bar flirting—from an acceptable distance—might change her mind. But I’ve barely sat down next to Clay when I see Sage making a beeline for the door at what can only be described as a jog.
We had mind-blowing sex, and now she’s so anxious to get away from me that she’s actually running?
I’d be lying if I said that didn’t sting. A lot.
“Hey, where’ve you been, man?” Clay asks as I settle down beside him.
I’m too busy watching Sage’s exit to answer.
Clay leans around me to get a look at what’s holding my attention. “Hey, isn’t that the girl you sent the old-fashioneds to?”
I’ve got to hand it to the man. Nothing gets by him.
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“Guess she didn’t like the drinks. You should have bought her a chocolate martini like I suggested.”
What I should have done is stuck to the original plan. The one where I wait for the woman to make the first move.
Sure, I wouldn’t have just had incredible sex in the back hallway of this bar. But I also wouldn’t have this gnawing, nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach like something great just slipped through my fingers…
Chapter 5
Sage
What did I do? Oh my God, what did I just do? My mind is racing as I fumble my keys out of my purse. I try to press the unlock button on the key fob, but my hands are shaking so badly that all I end up doing is dropping them onto the asphalt of the parking lot.
Shit.
&
nbsp; I swoop down and grab them while looking over my shoulder for Shawn. I’m terrified he’s going to follow me. Not in a creepy stalker, I-won’t-let-you-reject-me way, but in a hey-I-had-a-good-time-are-you-sure-you-won’t-take-my-number way.
Which might be fine for somebody else, because I had a good time, too. An amazing time. An incredible time. And Shawn is a sweet, generous, hot as fuck guy. But there’s no way I can take his number and no way in hell that I can give him mine. Not when he’ll expect to take out the same woman he just met in that hallway and that is so not me.
I finally manage to get my car door open and my ass planted in the driver’s seat. With one last glance toward the front door of the bar—which is still mercifully empty—I get my car started. Then I all but peel out of the parking lot in an effort to get away from Shawn. And from what I just did.
I don’t look back and I don’t stop until a red light on Prospect forces me to several minutes later. Closing my eyes, I rest my head against the back of the seat and wonder, again, what the hell did I just do?
I don’t have one-night stands with men.
I don’t even have one-week stands with men.
And I sure as hell don’t screw guys in the back hallway of a bar.
So what the hell just happened?
That third lemon drop martini is what happened, I try to tell myself as the light turns green. I have a two-drink limit, and obviously that stupid drink pushed me right over the edge from sane behavior into insanity. The fact that it was an hour after I had that drink before I even spoke to him doesn’t matter. I was obviously insane.
Except it didn’t feel insane while it was happening, a little voice deep inside me whispers so quietly that I can almost ignore it. Almost.
It felt good. More, it felt right, like I hadn’t just met Shawn.
Which I know is total, absolute and complete bullshit. I’m not my mom, who believes everything is written in the stars and that every person we meet is there to somehow guide us on our journey. Shawn is just a gorgeous guy who knows how to handle a woman’s body. That’s all.
Who really, really knows how to handle a woman’s body.
God, did he really just give me three orgasms in twenty minutes? I’ve never had three orgasms in one sexual encounter in my life, let alone with a stranger in the back of a bar.
The enormity of what just happened—along with the utter absurdity of it—overwhelms me. I don’t want to think about it, but the truth is, it’s all I can think about as I pull my car into my driveway.
I just slept with a stranger.
I just slept with a stranger.
Holy fuck. I. Just. Slept. With. A. Stranger.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I put the car in park, and for long seconds I just sit here, in the dark, letting my thoughts chase themselves around in my head. I can try to blame that lemon drop all I want, but the truth is, I’m stone-cold sober. I never would have gotten behind the wheel of this car if I wasn’t. Alcohol didn’t make me fuck Shawn against a wall in the back of that bar.
So what did?
I still don’t have an answer ten minutes later, when I finally make my way up the front porch stairs and into my townhouse. Once inside I think about going straight to bed, about burying my head under my pillow and not coming out until I’ve convinced myself that everything that just happened did so in an alternate universe. With an alternate Sage who has none of the same hang-ups that I do.
The only problem with that theory is that I can still smell Shawn on me, the orange and bergamot and whiskey smell of him is on my clothes, in my skin. Because I like the smell—too much—I force myself toward the laundry room off the kitchen. I strip down right there in front of the washing machine, and shove everything but my shoes inside of it.
Even though tonight’s outfit is the only thing in the machine, I throw in some laundry detergent and start the delicate cycle. Ecological responsibility be damned tonight. Right now I’m too busy worrying about my own sanity to worry about the amount of water I’m using as well.
With that in mind, I walk naked to the master bedroom at the back of the house. For a moment I contemplate taking a bath, but I need this smell gone—along with the memory of Shawn’s feel and taste and deep, gravelly voice—as soon as possible.
Besides, a bath will only give me too much time to think.
I hop in the shower instead, and focus intently on thinking about anything but Shawn. Anything but what I did tonight. What we did tonight.
It almost works.
But twenty minutes later when I’m lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling in the dim light cast by the streetlamp outside my window, I know I’m screwed. There’s no way I can stop my brain from going into overdrive now, with nothing else to concentrate on. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to fall asleep with thoughts of Shawn, and what he did to me—what we did to each other—racing through my head.
I throw back the covers with a groan, grab my laptop off the floor and make my way to the kitchen for a cup of tea. If I can’t sleep, I might as well work.
It’s the motto of my life, and one I find especially comforting as I wait for the teakettle to boil. Not as comforting as Shawn’s body pressed against—
I cut the thought off before it can fully form. That is not how I’m going to deal with what happened tonight. I’m not going to think about that godforsaken bachelorette party, I’m not going to think about Shawn and I’m sure as hell not going to think about what the two of us did together in the back of that bar.
After making a cup of good strong English breakfast tea—which my mother derides as being both capitalistic and soul-destroying—I settle down at my desk and start making my way through the monthly bills for Soul Studio, my mother’s yoga place. Payroll doesn’t go out until Friday, but everyone turned their hours in yesterday so I might as well do that, too.
I can feel myself settle a little as I crunch the numbers, feel the tension start to leach out of my shoulders and my stomach as they slowly, slowly begin to unknot. I know there are a lot of people in the world who hate math and budgeting, but I love it. I love the way numbers never lie, love the way they just make sense. No matter how you move them or change them around, when you add or subtract, multiply or divide, you’re always going to get the same answer. Two plus two really does equal four.
To be honest, it’s the main reason I became an accountant to begin with. My mom always said I was doing to it rebel against her, and I’m honest enough to admit that maybe there’s some truth to that. When you spend your whole childhood living on a commune and your teen years in a traveling yoga studio and bookstore, you end up craving a little stability. A little normalcy.
When it came time to declare my major in college, accounting was the most stable and normal job I could think of. The fact that I fell in love with it from my very first class just made it better. At least until my mom started having trouble with Soul Studio my sophomore year, and I ended up sucked into her woo-woo business whether I wanted to be or not.
I’m cruising happily along now, my brain focused on numbers and decidedly not on Shawn’s incredible biceps and even more incredible tongue. Once I check through all the time cards, comparing them with the last two weeks’ schedules, I pull up the studio’s bank accounts to deal with the direct deposits.
And nearly have a heart attack the moment the zero balances flash across the screen.
What. The. Fuck.
I try to click through to withdrawals, but I’m so frantic I click the wrong button and end up in bill pay instead. Cursing under my breath as thoughts of fraud and identity theft race through my brain, I finally manage to get to the right screen. And nearly have a heart attack all over again when I realize my mom made the withdrawal. My mom took all seventy-six thousand dollars out of the checking account and the hundred-and-twelve-thousan
d-dollar nest egg I’ve spent four years building for the business out of the savings account.
We have exactly seventeen cents in our savings account and absolutely nothing in checking.
Bills are due, salaries have to be paid and—thanks to my mother—the yoga studio is dead broke.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I pull up the transfer records, see that she moved the money from savings to checking two days ago. I’m still holding out hope, still praying for fraud as I click on the check that took out all one hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars—check number 0078643—and see that yep, it really was her. She wrote a check for one hundred eighty-eight thousand two hundred fifty-four dollars two days ago to someone named Ram Arjan.
Guru Ram, I realize as nausea churns deep inside me. She wrote a check to her guru for every penny the studio has. Well, almost every penny. She did leave us with seventeen cents.
Anger supplants the nausea, or at least buries it for a while, as I make a run for my phone. It’s bad enough that she took off for India two months ago to find herself (for the fourth time in the last decade alone) and left me to run the studio alone while balancing all my other clients as well. Bad enough that she swore she’d only be gone a month and we are currently on week nine.
But to do this? To sabotage the business she swears she loves? The business I’ve worked so hard to make—and keep—solvent for her?
What am I supposed to tell all the yoga instructors who deserve to be paid? How am I going to order food and tea for the café? Pay the electric and water bills—or the mortgage?
Fury races through me. I’ve got the money in my personal accounts, accounts my mother doesn’t have access to for this precise reason, but damn it, that’s my nest egg. I’ve saved and scrimped for that nest egg, from the time I took my first job at fifteen, so that I’d never have to sleep in a car or homeless shelter again. Never have to play guitar on the street (because eight-year-olds playing for money get so much more attention than adults begging for it, according to my mother). Never have to couch surf from one of my mother’s friends’ apartments to the next.