The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (6 page)

I move my fingers slowly, long thrusts in and out, feeling every inch of the amazing slipperiness that hides between her legs. I’d love to shove her back and lick up and down her slit until she explodes, but I’m going to withhold something for next time. And the next time. Because we can both get off. Hell, we don’t even need each other for that. But I want more. And if she stopped fighting for a second, I think she’d realize that
more
is not the worst thing that could happen.

Every few thrusts I twist my hand so my knuckles rub over that sensitive patch inside, and her nails dig into my biceps each time, asking for more. I act like I don’t understand, like each scrape over that elusive spot is an accident, but it’s not.

“Oscar,” she pants, the sixth or seventh time I do it then stop. “Keep touching it, right...there.” Her teeth are digging into her lower lip and she’s straining again, fighting for the orgasm I’m more than willing to give her.

“Do what?” I ask innocently, plunging my fingers deep but avoiding that spot. “This?”

“No, there’s a spot, you hit it before, just...”

“Susan.”

“What?”

“Shut up and relax, please. I know what I’m doing.”

“I know what works,” she argues. “Just listen.”

“I hear you, doc. Now you listen.” To underscore the message I rub hard on that spot, her tormented screech making my slowly hardening cock surge to life. “Oh,” I drawl. “
That
spot.”

“Oscar—”

“Oz.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m close, just let me—”

“Hold up your tits again,” I order. “I want some more.”

She sighs, aggrieved, though her clenching pussy says otherwise, and braces herself on one arm while offering up her breast for my mouth. I’ve already got an idea of how hard she does and doesn’t like it, and I do my best to walk that line while continuing to work her pussy, easing in with a third finger, feeling her thighs fall open even further to accommodate me.

I step in close enough that my throbbing cock bumps against her inner thigh and my thrusting hand. I can hear it and smell it and feel it, and it’s so fucking hot and filthy I never want to stop.

“Oz—” she pleads.

“Other side,” I say, releasing her tight nipple from my mouth.

She whimpers but obeys, and I tease this side harder than the first, feeling her pussy contracting on my hand as she gets close. Mindful of the overstimulation earlier, I’m careful when I place my thumb on her clit, letting her own gyrations guide the pressure so I don’t overdo it.

“Kiss me,” I tell her, and she shoves herself to a sitting position, legs bent up on either side, spread wide. I take a second to glance down at the vulnerable display, hiding nothing, trusting me with all her secrets. She grips my head and kisses me hungrily, artlessly, tongues and teeth colliding. I stop messing with her and stroke that spot inside while my thumb rubs harder on her clit, and it doesn’t take long for her whole body to tense up then shudder with release, her pussy bathing my hand with slick, wet heat as she cries out.

She grips my neck as she comes, her body squeezing my fingers so hard it hurts. And even though I told her pain doesn’t get me off, this is different, and it only takes a few rough strokes in my palm before I’m coming for the second time, my cock pressed between us, spraying all over her belly.

When conscious thought returns, I realize I’m clasping her against me, her legs around my waist, her forehead resting against my shoulder. We’re both still struggling for breath, skin slick, temples damp with perspiration.

“Doc,” I murmur. “You okay?”

I’m half expecting her to leap up from the table, put on her clothes, shake my hand and send me out the door with a prescription for getting the fuck over myself, but instead she tips back her head and looks up at me, dazed.

Then she nods. “You?”

I kiss the tip of her nose, not sure if that’s too much. Then I laugh to myself. That’s too much? After what I just put her through? “Yeah.” Reluctantly I ease my hand from her pussy, watching my slick fingers emerge, shiny with her juice. She passes me the remaining tissue from the table and I wipe up what I can, then we silently collect our clothes and head inside, away from the heat.

When the chilly air conditioning hits my skin, I shiver, post-sex—or whatever that was—lethargy stealing into my veins. I tug on the scrub pants and T-shirt as Susan pulls on her shorts, then hesitates as she contemplates the wisdom of putting on her top, given the trails of come drying on her stomach.

“Sorry about that,” I say, wetting a cloth in the kitchen sink and slowly wiping her off. Because I can and because I’m a guy, I deliberately lift each breast to clean beneath it, patient and thorough. She gazes up at me balefully, not at all fooled, then pulls on the shirt, which does little to hide her tits. She’s incredible to look at, hot to fuck, a challenge to be around. And I want more.

“I’ll let you get some sleep,” I say. “I know you had a busy morning.”

“So did you.”

“Running in circles isn’t quite the same as saving a life.”

“You’re right,” she says, nodding. “Never mind.” She keeps a straight face for a second, then a smile sneaks out. “Thank you, Osc—Oz,” she says. “I needed that.”

I’m not ready for the brush-off. “Go out with me,” I say. “What night are you free this week?”

She freezes, and I’m sure she’s about to turn me down, but then she cautiously offers, “Wednesday.”

“Do you remember how to get to Mache 42? Or I can drive, if you like.”

“I remember. I can meet you there.”

“I’ll make a reservation. Does eight work?”

She inhales carefully. I wonder about the last time she went on a date. “Eight is fine.”

There’s a pad of paper and a pen stuck on the refrigerator, and I scrawl my cell number on the top page. “Call me if anything changes,” I tell her, then head over to slip on my sneakers and gather my dirty clothes.

I hear a rustling noise and Susan approaches with a plastic bag. She holds it open and I toss in my things, then look down at her to be sure I’m reading this right. I’m pretty certain she doesn’t want me to stay, and I don’t want to overdo it on the third...encounter.

“You need anything before I go?” I ask, just to be clear.

She looks at me, bemused. “Oh, I think you covered everything.”

I smile and kiss her briefly. “See you Wednesday.”

Chapter Five

Jade’s all over me Monday morning.

She sits at the front desk, located five feet away from the only entrance to the office, and the second I stroll through the door she’s on her feet. Today she’s wearing a tight red T-shirt, equally tight dark jeans, and bright blue stilettos, hair in a high ponytail. I try to picture Susan in the getup and I can’t. Baggy scrubs, old jeans, buck naked. I like her every which way.

“What’s going on?” Jade demands, looking me from head to toe. “Something’s different. What’d you do? What happened?”

“Sit down,” I say, trying to sound bored. “You’re seeing things.”

She looks suspicious. “Am not. Something’s up.”

“Yeah. Your time at this job if you don’t start working.”

She rolls her eyes, as unfazed as ever. I know if I don’t carry through on some of my threats she’ll never take me seriously, but Jade’s a good worker when she’s not being a pain, and I don’t actually want to fire her. Or maybe I just don’t want to go through the hassle of trying to find a replacement. Whatever the case, I ignore her continued nagging and head for my office, closing the door on the inquisition. I have clients coming in at two, but until then I loosen my tie and sit down to work on a few payroll accounts.

That lasts all of ten minutes, as has every other thing I’ve done to try and forget Susan and yesterday’s...rendezvous. I still don’t know what to call it. It wasn’t sex, in the traditional sense. But it wasn’t any less intense than the best sex I’ve ever had. Perhaps more importantly, it was the first time in a long time that I’ve really let go, said and done exactly what I wanted, and trusted that it was okay. That the person I was with could handle herself, stop things if they went too far, call me on my bullshit. As much as I called the shots on the balcony yesterday, I wasn’t the only one running the show, and that’s the biggest turn-on of all.

I give up on payroll and decide to do a little bit of research into what permits and paperwork would be required if I decided to give this whole tannery-buying project a go. The City Hall website is as derelict as the town, so I end up calling, spending half an hour navigating my way through the phone tree, another twenty minutes on hold, then close to an hour chatting with a bored-sounding woman who nevertheless is a wealth of information.

When we wrap up the call I’m equal parts overwhelmed and kind of excited. It’s not going to be easy, there are hurdles to cross and fiery pits of hell to run through, but it’s not impossible. I absently search online for nearby plant nurseries and start tallying up the cost of preparing a garden on short notice. Because it’s already summer I’d have to start with seedlings instead of seeds, which predictably cost more and will limit the variety of things we can grow. Still, I map out a garden layout similar to what I remember seeing at Mache, and jot down prices for things like irrigation systems, planter boxes and soil amendments.

I’m so absorbed in my work that I don’t even hear Jade come in until she rounds the desk to stand at my shoulder, staring at the nursery website. “What’s this?” she asks.

I jolt out of my focused stupor and nearly tackle her. “Fuck, Jade! Don’t sneak in.”

“I don’t know how I could possibly ‘sneak in’ when you’re facing the door, Oz.”

I exhale heavily and minimize the website. “I was busy.”

“I can see that. Do we have a new client I don’t know about? A gardener?”

“No. Mind your own business.”

“This is my business. I work here.”

“No, it’s my business. And I pay you to sit out front.” I wait, but she doesn’t move. “What?” I say, imbuing the word with as much irritation as I can muster.

Jade couldn’t care less. “There’s someone here to see you.”

I’m not expecting clients until two, and it’s just past noon. Hope surges in my chest and somewhere a little lower. Somehow I manage to sound calm when I ask, “Who?”

A pause. “Sheree.”

I grit my teeth. “What the fuck, Jade?”

She props her hands on her hips and peers down at me, disapproving. “Uh-oh. Two ‘fucks’ and two ‘Jades’ in one conversation. I knew something was up with you, and I don’t think it’s aphid spray. What’d you do this weekend? You weren’t at the gym on Sunday.”

“If you’re not working out at the gym, you shouldn’t be there. Go to the library or something.”

“Sure, Oz. What’d you do on Sunday instead?”

“Send Sheree home, Jade. I’m not interested.”

“Three Jades! This is serious. It’s a woman, isn’t it?” She peers down at me, scrutinizing. “It
is
a woman, right? Or do you bat for both sides?”

“Of course it’s a woman,” I say, before I realize I’m going to.

Jade claps a hand over her mouth, barely disguising an excited squeal. “I knew it!” she exclaims, jumping as only she can in three-inch heels. “Who is it? Wait, let me guess...Lana? She’s into you.”

Lana’s what the guys at the gym call a “gymbo”—one of the girls who gets dressed up to come out to watch them spar and workout, hoping to hook up with a fighter. It’s like a puck bunny in hockey, if they aspired to much, much less. The guys would call Jade a gymbo too, if they weren’t afraid of what she’d do to them if she overheard.

“It’s not Lana,” I say, pushing back from the desk.

“Manuela?”

“She’s not a gymb—” I barely manage to cut off the word and try again. “She’s not a gym...member.”

“Then how’d you meet her?”

“At the race,” I half lie.

“That was this weekend? How’d it go?”

What am I going to tell my secretary—that I ordered a woman I’ve never even bought dinner to blow me, then finger fucked her on her patio table? I haven’t thought about anything else in twenty-four hours, but I’m not about to start confessing.

“Oz? How was the race?”

I see the faint concern on Jade’s face and realize she’s thinking about my mother and sisters, not the mystery woman. “Oh, ah, fine. It was good. Lots of people.”

“That’s good. It’s important.”

“Yeah.” Some of my irritation with her fades. Though Jade was only fifteen at the time of the accident, it was big news in Camden, and she hadn’t been immune to it. Camden’s small enough that everybody knows of everybody else, and when I’d interviewed her for the job here, I’d warned her about showing up to work late because she was too hungover from partying the night before. She’d given me a look that would fell an ox, and told me she rarely drinks. She’d been two grades behind my youngest sister, and though they hadn’t known each other, the accident made an impact. I don’t know what it says about her judgment that she picks the guys she does when she’s sober, but again I remind myself that I’m her boss, not her father.

“You’re sure it’s not Lana?” she asks, shooting me a sly look from the corner of her eye. “Because I’m going to call her, and you know she’ll tell me if it’s true.”

“She’d tell you even if it weren’t,” I return. “And it’s not.”

“And she’s not a gym member.”

I try not to laugh. “No, Jade. She’s not a gym member. Now get out.”

* * *

“Come in, come in. Please, be our guest.”

“Shut up, Rian.”

“Tonight I am Maître d’ McConnell.”

“Tonight you’re a fuckwit. Get out of here. If you mess this up for me, I’m going to be pissed. I mean it.”

“You think I can’t tell you mean it? Look at the suit, big guy. Is that a holdover from Wall Street?”

It is, but I’m not about to admit it. Rian was waiting for me at the door when I entered Mache 42 tonight, ten minutes early for my date with Susan. We’ve got a secluded table in the far corner, complete with candlelight and champagne on ice. As per my request, Rian even had his top-notch pastry chef make a special dessert inspired by Susan’s horrible coffee concoction.

I shaved twice today, once this morning and again an hour ago, after my second shower of the day. Despite the showers my palms are clammy and I feel nervous sweat between my shoulder blades, something I haven’t felt in a long time. I guess I haven’t looked forward to anything in a long time.

It doesn’t make sense, I know. I’ve seen her naked. Watched her come. She’s had my dick in her mouth. I’ve seen her at home, at work and in this very restaurant. But tonight is different. This date means that Dr. Susan “I don’t have time for more” Jones is making time for more. She’s making time for me. And I’m not going to fuck it up. I got permission from Rian to hang out upstairs when we’re done eating, and we can polish off the champagne and watch the sun go down and the stars come out. It’ll be romantic as fuck. Then if I’m lucky, things will only continue to improve, and we’ll head back her place or mine and do all the things we didn’t do on Sunday, and all the things I’ve been imagining in the three days since.

Three very long days.

“This is your table,” Rian says, leading me to the far corner of the restaurant. Every other table is full of well-dressed diners, and though it’s packed in here, there’s something subdued about the atmosphere, something sophisticated. Something I can’t find in Camden.

“Thanks.” I take the seat that puts my back to the wall and run my hands over my thighs, anxious. Susan’s not due for eight minutes, and I try not to notice the other diners eying me, wondering why Chef McConnell is being so attentive. “You can go now,” I tell him. “Everybody’s watching.”

“They’re waiting to see if your date prefers me,” he says.

“Ass.”

He laughs. “All right, I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything. Dietary restrictions, free bottle of wine, tips on sex positions from this decade.”

“Will do. Hold your breath.”

He’s still grinning when he saunters back to the kitchen, and I exhale nervously and check my watch. Five more minutes. I hope she remembers the way. She’d followed me last time, rapping and eating candy—what if she got lost?

The server comes over and fills two of the four glasses on the table with ice water, and I shoot him a cursory smile then flip open the menu, trying to appear busy. Everybody’s attention has wandered back to their own meals and dinner companions, but I still feel like they’re watching me. Waiting. Wondering what woman chose to come on a date with the guy so big he barely fits at the table.

At 8:01 my nerves are fully on edge, and by 8:10 I’m alarmed. I’ve checked my phone a thousand times, but there are no new messages and I don’t have Susan’s number.

Rian comes out at 8:15, smile in place, though the concern in his voice is genuine when he asks if there’s a problem.

“I don’t know,” I say through my teeth. “She hasn’t called. Did she call the restaurant?” Maybe she lost my number.

“No, Blake would have said so.” Blake is the manager. He’s walked past the table half a dozen times in the past fifteen minutes, as though that will make Susan appear.

“Maybe she’s stuck in traffic,” I say. It feels pathetic and unconvincing, and even more so when Rian agrees.

“That’s probably it. You want something to drink while you wait? Beer? Tequila?”

I shake my head, though I’d love a drink. Anything to quell the sick feeling building in my stomach. “I’m fine.”

“A snack? We’ve got some—”

“No,” I interrupt. “I’m good. Thanks.”

Whatever he sees in my face convinces Rian to back off. “Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen. I’m sure she’s on her way, man.”

He leaves and I study the menu some more, and by 8:30 I’m as familiar with the dinner options as every one of the servers. The bottle of champagne is now just floating in water, the tiny candle in the center of the table has burned down to almost nothing, and when I blow it out, it’s a signal to everyone secretly watching that I’ve been stood up.

Back rigid, I’m about to stand when I feel my pocket vibrate. I snatch out my phone, heart pounding when I see an unfamiliar Chicago number on the display. It’s a text from Susan.

Oscar
, she writes.
Sorry
,
can’t
make
it
tonight.
Watching
very
rare
surgery
—
big
deal
for
hospital.
Thanks.

And that’s it.

Sorry.

Thanks.

A giant
fuck you
tucked in between.

My face is hot when I stand, and Blake, who is approaching for the umpteenth time, freezes midstep. I jerk my head to warn him off, then do my best to ignore the stares of everyone in the restaurant as they follow my lonely, rejected exit.

I’ve never been so fucking angry in my life.

I’m parked a few blocks away, and manage to wait until I’m out of sight of the restaurant before I wrench off my jacket and tie, undoing the strangling buttons at my throat. My phone is buzzing but when I check the display it’s Rian, calling, hanging up, and calling again. I turn it off.

The only person I wanted to hear from tonight is now the last person I want to talk to. She’s made herself perfectly clear.

I’m done.

I hurl my things into the passenger seat and will myself to calm down before I drive. It’ll be close to ten before I get to Camden, but Titan’s doesn’t close until eleven. Plenty of time to find a fight.

* * *

I’m pretty sure a stampede of elephants is running circles around my bed. If I stay completely still, maybe they’ll get tired and go away.

“Oz! Oz! If you’re in there, you’d better open this door! I’m getting a crowbar! I don’t care if you’re mad! And I’m calling 911!”

The words filter through my consciousness, and finally I realize there are no elephants. What there is is the creaky spin of the ceiling fan above my bed, a bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand, and half a bottle of water. And my nightmare receptionist doing what she does best and making my life harder.

“Oz!” Tiny fists pound on the window next to the bed and I jerk upright at the sound of Jade’s shrill voice, then curse viciously and clutch my throbbing head.

“Fuck off, Jade,” I mumble into my hands.

“Oz! I couldn’t find the crowbar but I got a brick, and I’m throwing it through the window if you don’t open—” It’s the broken, terrified note in her voice that has me forcing myself out of bed and over to the window. The curtains are drawn over the glass and the air conditioner, and for the first time, I regret buying a one-story bungalow instead of an apartment in a high-rise with a concierge who could keep away the riffraff.