True Divide (13 page)

“Fuck, Lacey. You're so goddam sexy. You trying to kill me?”

I let my head fall back and close my eyes. I know I shouldn't rely on this, a man defining my worth with words about how I look. That's what's gotten my heart in trouble more times than I can count. But, God, I can't help it. His touch on my body and every word feels like truth.

His hands drop away once they pass over my thighs. The loss drives my head forward and, glassy-eyed, I'm sure, I land my eyes on his face. With a tiny grin, he shoves up the sleeve of his shirt and looks at his very large, complicated-looking wristwatch.

“I've got about half an hour before I have to head out. At the risk of sounding like a total asshole, can we spend that time fooling around until I get you off?”

My eyes widen for an instant but from the look on his face when he says it, I don't think he's trying to be particularly provocative, he's just putting it all out there. Doesn't take long for me to decide. Sounds like a brilliant plan, even if I think he's being a bit optimistic as to the outcome.

“And you think you can do that under a time constraint?”

Good luck with that. I'm not exactly prone to being a speed demon when it comes to orgasms. I usually need the whole routine: tons of foreplay, lots of handsy work, plus a good attitude and steady pressure in all the right places to get there. Jake crooks an eyebrow.

“Hell, yes. Maybe more than once if we're trying to put up numbers. I was figuring on a decent amount of making out before I really started working toward the goal line. But if you want all action, that's fine, too.”

All that confidence is tempting. Tempting enough to consider shouting for all action and grabbing him around the neck. Before I can, Jake's hands drop to find the bottom hem of my dress and he hooks his thumbs under the edge, hands dragging along the backs of my thighs. The thin knit fabric shows no resistance at the tug of his upward motions. My hands shoot forward and land against his waist.

Once he has my dress up enough to cup my ass, I've managed to move his vest out of the way and gotten my fingers in position to unbuckle his belt. Jake immediately shifts to grab my hands. “No, no. Not that.”

“Excuse me?”

I can't bring myself to look at him. I can feel him straining against his pants, hard and ready. My hands here, eager for him, and he's saying no? That would make this the worst kind of rejection, the kind that is all logic, inspired by him thinking through the decision to fuck me and concluding it's a bad idea.

“I said I wanted to get
you
off.” Jake tightens his hold on my hands when my fingers start to twitch and flick to gain some purchase around his buckle, hoping I can convince him to change whatever his plan of rejection is. “I'm not going to fuck you.”

I croak a simple question. “Why?”

Jake takes and pulls my hands behind my back, then grips them together. I can feel the bare skin on my ass and lower back skimming against my fingers and his. The feel is maddening, and before I can stop, I tilt my hips back in hopes of increasing the touch there. He groans and clenches his jaw.

“There is no way in the seventh circle of hell that I'm going to lay you out on this desk and take you when I have to leave and walk out that door. So the only thing that's happening is you spread out on it while I use my fingers and mouth on you. Either that or we'll put your dress back where it belongs and stand on opposite sides of the room while we discuss the weather or some crap. You choose.”

Heaving a heavy exhale, I remain hunched over with my face buried in his chest and try to think. What I should choose is for him to leave, no touching, no kissing. That would be the responsible thing to do. Avoid any idle chitchat to serve as a diversion. While I process my options, Jake runs his hands up and down the sides of my arms, slowly and gently.

“Let me give you a few things to consider. One, I turned the ‘CLOSED' sign and locked the front door when I came in. That means we're alone and no one can stumble in here while I work you over. Two, I promise to make it good. Just like you said you wanted it on the phone. All we have to do is slip these off”—Jake tucks one thumb into the side of my panties and tugs a bit—“and slide a few things over on your desk to make a little room. And, three . . .”

He leaves his one hand poised to remove my panties but urges my head off his chest by nudging his shoulder forward slightly. Once I lift it up, he catches my chin to cup in the palm of his other hand. I lock my eyes with his and the desire there prompts my jaw to drop open a small fraction.

“Three, I'm asking nicely. Please, baby, I need to touch you when you lose it. I'm tired of only hearing it on the phone. I need to feel it this time.”

Well, crap. This has never happened before. A man in front of me, asking for permission, nearly begging, to make me come. Just me. Without any intention of taking his own. And if I didn't admit it is the single hottest thing that has ever happened to me, I would be lying. When he steadies his gaze on my mouth and waits for an answer, drawing his thumb across my full lower lip, it's easy. Letting him give me this doesn't need to be complicated; it's an indulgence, and it's all about me.

“You drive a hard bargain, sir,” I say, almost inaudibly because everything feels heavy. My tongue, my breasts, my limbs. Using one hand, I put my fingers to his, where they remain tucked around the thin edge of my panties, and prod him with a small downward push.

Jake lets out a guttural groan and immediately uses both hands to shove them down until the scrap of lace lands around my feet so I can step out of them. Already, my eyes are hooded and languid, barely registering the shuffle of a few piles of papers on my desk as Jake shoves them to clear a space. Once he does, I find myself sprawled across it in seconds.

There isn't any thought beyond the immediacy of this moment. My dress sufficiently yanked up around my hips. Bare skin against the cool wood, legs hanging down, and Jake's hands moving up my thighs, almost too slowly, but I know it's only the hallucination of time muddling because I want this so badly. His thumbs softly tracing between my legs. Widening the space there so he can touch more of me. When he does, his thumbs disappear in favor of only the knuckle on his middle finger, rubbing persistently until his hand turns to slip that same middle finger inside. With a twist of his wrist, the flat of his palm comes to cup the rest of me. That move, so slow, meets no resistance, not even the faintest bit of tension in my body at the intrusion, because nothing about it is less than exactly what I need.

Intent on all action, evidently, Jake makes only a few thrusts before slipping another finger in. And the slip of his thick, rough-hewn fingers there finds only wet heat begging for more. Then, save me now, he adds another.

Every part of my body turns puddly and heavy, so much that I give up a small sighing moan at the sensation.

“God, Lace, I love it when you make that little noise.”

I stutter out a questioning sound—no words, merely a mumbling inquiry to what he just said. Jake slows his fingers, almost painfully so, to land his thumb just above with a steady thrum and pressure.

“You always do that on the phone right before things get intense. It's like you've finally decided to give in and then you make that little sound. Fucking love it.”

Jake knowing this, listening so closely all those times, then voicing his approval, only forces the note again. Combined with the sound of my own panting and Jake whispering eager urgings for me to feel this and begging me to come for him, I push myself to focus on the need humming under my skin. Then silence from him because his mouth is on me, tongue and lips working over my clit in sync with the steady thrust of all those fingers. That's all it takes, and I'm done for, over the edge and giving him what he asked for.

A heady, sinking, hazy sensation takes over. I want it to last, this feeling, so I move my hips slowly until the very last wave of the orgasm finally eases. When it does, my hips drop and I weakly throw one arm over my eyes because the light of the room entering the small crack of my eyelids seems glaring. My pupils must be the size of saucers right now.

Jake slows his fingers, then removes them gently, dragging along the inside of my thigh, leaving a wet path that turns cold too quickly. Small kisses come to cover the space on my belly from hipbone to hipbone.

“And here you were worried we couldn't get it done under a time constraint,” he whispers. Then his face comes right next to mine, lips grazing my cheek. “You're fucking beautiful when you come.” A small kiss covers my temple. “Thank you.”

Despite the near inability I currently possess to stay upright of my own volition, I still manage to laugh. “I'm pretty sure I should be the one saying ‘thank you.' You should be saying ‘you're welcome'. Or, ‘I told you so.' Maybe something about tips being welcome and encouraged.”

His responding laugh rumbles across my cheeks, but he says nothing, only wraps his arms around my waist and squeezes, hard and intensely, until I throw my own arms around his neck. A heavy sigh follows as his arms slacken.

“As much as this sucks, I have to go, sweetheart.”

My heart bottoms out into my stomach. I knew this. He said so before we started, but it feels harsher now.

“Trust me, if I didn't have a boss and client waiting for me, I wouldn't dream of leaving you right now. But I have to get back to LA, get my plane to the hangar, plus get the private charter jet ready and change from Clark Kent into my Superman pilot costume. All before the snotty little trust funder shows up with her dingbat friends for their flight on daddy's dime to Los Cabos.”

My eyes quirk up. “
Your
plane? As in a plane you own?”

Jake lets out a snort. “Put away your pickax, you little gold digger. Yes, my plane, which I own. But don't go imagining one of those sweet jets I bring Trevor in on. This is a Cessna from the early fifties, with more hours on it than I like to think about.”

“Still.” I raise my eyebrows with a tiny grin. “You have an airplane. Should've mentioned that about twenty minutes ago; I would have finished even quicker.”

Playfully pinching a soft spot on my inner thigh, Jake smiles and then traces his tongue over his lips. “I've got much more satisfying ways to finish you. And none of them involves my plane. Except this one fantasy about you and your mouth, but that one's all about me.”

“You're dirty.”

“And you love it.”

Sliding off the desktop, I stand up and realize I should put my dress right; it feels less sexy and wanton now that he's getting ready to walk away. As I start to do so, Jake drops to his knees in front of me, laying his hands on my still-bare thighs for a moment before pulling the hem of my dress down gently until it is back where it belongs. When I glance down, he is staring at the fabric of my dress. Then he lets his head fall forward to rest against my belly. I run one hand through his hair, but he doesn't linger, standing up to take my face in both of his hands.

“I'm thinking I can get back up here in a couple of weeks. I was going to get with my boss about taking a long weekend just before Christmas.” Jake lets his eyes search across mine, hesitating. “Would you want that? “

My brow crinkles up, first in surprise at what he's offering, then in confusion that he thinks he needs to confirm if I'm even interested. “Um,
yeah.
Now that I know you own a plane, after all.”

A self-satisfied grin covers his beautiful face, the kind that means he isn't holding anything back. “Good thing I mentioned it, then.” Jake takes a quick look at his watch and grumbles. “No joke. I have to go.”

When the front door jingles and closes behind him, a mix of wistfulness and excitement starts to flail around inside my chest. Fluttering its way through the spaces that went untouched for so long I had forgotten how good it could feel.

8

R
uth Ann has always been an extraordinarily patient woman. This afternoon, I've sufficiently put that trait to the test. Instead of focusing on my conversation with her, regaling her with a story about the latest round of ranchers gone wild in the co-op parking lot over somebody who just shacked up with another somebody's not-quite-ex-wife, I keep trailing off midsentence. Even when I try to tell her a simple tale about the new holiday star the town council mounted on the roof of the grange hall, I get impossibly distracted.

All. Jake's. Fault.

My laptop was open when I dialed Ruth Ann's phone number and just a few minutes into our conversation, an email from him popped up. Because my brain has been permanently scrambled since he left me sated and sloppily drooling at his fine form leaving my office ten days ago, I have to check it immediately. I'm like an automaton programmed for his attention. Especially since he confirmed with me last night that he was able to get the upcoming weekend off after all. Turns out that I'm getting the best early Christmas present ever.

Although the subject line of his email, “Things I Want For Christmas—I've Been VERY Good,” should have deterred me by signaling the obviously non-PG-rated contents enclosed. Certainly not safe for work, so a phone call to your elderly boss would certainly fall under this classification. Nevertheless, true to my automaton nature, I click to open it.

Two lines. Two, silly, dirty, mouthwatering lines.

You against the front door. Finishing what we started that morning.

Before I allow myself to imagine the details of those two lines, I reply to his email and tell him I can't play along right now. Because I'm on the phone with my boss. I know she's a little old lady who lives three hours away, but still, technically, she's my boss.

Doesn't help one bit. My email continues to ping. He's obviously doing it on purpose now and each one that comes through is progressively lewder.

Ping.

In the hot springs. For old times' sake.

Ping.

Remember when we went to Idaho? The hand job you gave me on the way home? That. Again. But I want you to finish it with your mouth this time.

Ping.

The front hallway on the floor. Then maybe the staircase. When we finish there, your old bedroom (do you still sleep in that room?). Then back down to the living room couch for a breather, while we pretend to watch a movie until I'm on top of you with my hand up your shirt.

My skin turns tender to the touch, sweat pricking at the back of my neck. I quickly type out a reply to the last one and pray he will let up. I can't take it. Seriously.

STOP! I'M NOT KIDDING! ON THE PHONE WITH RUTH ANN!! KNOCK IT OFF!

If I possessed the superpower of seeing across three states, I'm sure I would find Jake Holt giggling when he gets my plea. Finally, the digital chatter ceases for at least a minute, so it seems I got through to him. Ruth Ann begins to chuckle. Her laugh was once a veritable tinkling sound, now it is mostly a series of coughs strung together with a few sparse sighs in the mix.

“Miss Lacey. Are you listening to me at all?”

“God. I am so sorry, Ruth Ann. I'm listening now. Go ahead.”

“I was asking about your plans for Christmas, dear. Anything interesting on the agenda?”

Jesus. Does having Jake take me on every available surface of my house count as interesting? What about letting him
unwrap
me, a wicked-sounding proposition he so elegantly and lewdly described last night on the phone? Including a million very specific details and use of the word “sugarplum,” more than once.

Indecent thoughts nearly divert my focus again, but I resist their pull. “Not really. Nic's first Christmas, so I'm going to head over to Kate's for brunch and presents. Even if Nic will only be a whopping eight weeks old, I think Trevor still plans to surround his crib with enough gifts that we may never find the little one again. He's not exactly known for keeping things understated.”

Ruth Ann sighs. “Oh, let the man have his fun. He sounds like a gem, so he's entitled to indulging the people he loves. And if I remember Kate well enough, she won't let him get too out of line before she lays down the law.”

“True. She has Trevor bewitched, so when she says enough is enough, that will be the end of it.”

“Speaking of bewitched, any news from your Cary Grant?”

Other than his inappropriately timed Christmas wish list? Can't very well explain all that to Ruth Ann, so I try to answer with something tame enough.

“He's coming to visit this weekend.”

A very youthful, nearly girlish, squeak travels from Ruth Ann's side of the line. I laugh at the sound of it, bursting with honest excitement.

“Well then, that's news. Very good news, right?” I tell her yes, and she clears her throat. “Enjoy every minute with him. But promise me that you'll come see me after the New Year, please. If you can bring him with you, even better. That way I can decide if he's good enough for my Miss Lacey.”

It would be easy to say that Ruth Ann is like a second mother to me, or something else just as trite. But she is so much more. My mother left during that adolescent time when I needed her so often, so deeply, and so desperately, and I've never quite forgiven her for that absence.

But Ruth Ann greeted me every afternoon at The Beauty Barn with a genuine smile and an unhurried inquiry about my day at school, listened when I wanted to talk, and gave me space when it was obvious I didn't. She gave me a place to belong when I came home to nothing but the failure to thrive anywhere beyond the “Welcome to Crowell” sign at the county line. She let me grow up inside the walls of her store. When she trusted me enough to take over the business, the place her husband gifted her and the space she tended to for so long, it was the first individual triumph I had ever known.

I always had a place to escape to when my life turned too small. When my dad died. When Kate was broken in the hospital and I had to be the one who told her that James was gone. Every time Dusty picked a fight over nothing of substance.

As humble as it may be, the success of running an outdated, nearly obsolete store full of barrettes and bobby pins has been my anchor. And Ruth Ann is the gracious voice of what I've always wanted for myself in the end. Smart enough to run a business, no matter how modest, loved enough by a man that she never needed another, and strong enough to survive on her own when that man had to go.

Before the fatigue evident in her voice forces her to end the call, she again makes me promise a visit after the New Year. I say the words and finish it with a cross-my-heart declaration. When she tells me how important it is that I keep my promise this time, the need in her voice reeks of making plans to say good-bye. And I don't care for the idea of that. At all.

Just as I hang up, the familiar ping sounds again. I turn my laptop to see the display.

You tucked in bed next to me all night. Sleeping soundly in those tiny pink shorts and that very small tank top you were wearing when I knocked on your door. Kissing your warm skin and your soft hair and your pretty lips to wake you up. Watching you devour my world-famous (top secret disclosure: they come out of a tube and the brand name rhymes with “smchillsbury”) cinnamon rolls while I make another pot of coffee or burn some bacon. That's what I really want for Christmas. Anything else is a bonus.

While it's common to be a bit unproductive in the week or so up to Christmas, I've taken it to a new extreme. “Worthless” is the best description of me this week. Flat-out pathetically worthless. Doing nearly nothing but twisting my fingers through my hair and mindlessly staring out the front window of the store. That's it. And scolding myself for it, every minute.

Have I finished wrapping my Christmas presents? No. Have I driven into Langston looking to score any last-minute holiday sales? No. Have I done a bank deposit, set up a new window display, or dusted a single shelf? No. No. And no.

Why am I so gloriously unproductive? As is the answer to most things these days, it's simple. Jake.

Today is the worst, waiting for him to finally arrive, and fully allowing my mind to shift straight into la-la land as I do. Every tinkle of the front store bell sends my twitchy little heart into overdrive; every little twinkle of my phone sends my eyes restlessly across it. Even the imagined sound of my phone, the sheer hope for it to ring, is too distracting. By the time I close the store at five and wander home, I'm jumpy and jittery, plus slightly annoyed. Mostly because I shouldn't be so easily consumed by this. Not this way, not at this point in my life. I'm an adult. A woman my age should not be acting like a dim-bulb teenager over a man coming to visit. We've barely started this thing, and where it's headed is blurry at best.

At home, I decide to draw a bath and drink some wine. That's supposedly every woman's recipe for relaxation—just watch television for a few hours, and based on the advertising it's clear that alcohol, hot water, and chocolate are the only things we need to feel better. Tonight, though, I'll take it.

Letting the bath fill, I strip down and pull on a short silk robe, then run downstairs to get the wine. Once I wrestle the cork from a dusty bottle of chardonnay I find in the recesses of my pantry and source a proper glass, I skip back up the stairs and slither into the now-full bath while knotting my hair up on the top of my head.

Surprisingly, the whole thing seems to work. And rather quickly, too. I'm sure the wine and the heat of the water combined are what make for mental oblivion, but when my mind starts to fuzz pleasantly after only five minutes, I'm still a little surprised at its effectiveness. Perhaps my mind just needed a break. It simply couldn't manage one more minute of worrying, fussing, waiting, and wanting for Jake.

I let my body slip a bit deeper into the tub. Once my chin is nearly touching the water, I close my eyes and try to forget. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he got home, went to a bar, and met some beautiful girl who can cook and likes outdoorsy adventure. Maybe he just realized this whole thing is a giant joke. Oh God, maybe something happened with his plane.

All these theories seem plausible because it's almost nine o'clock and he isn't here, and hasn't called or even texted. I'd take one measly word, if that is all he can muster. Maybe even an abbreviation. “OMW.” On my way. Although, knowing Jake, he would probably choose one word. “Coming.” Then chuckle to himself at all his witty dirtiness.

A tapping noise in the distance registers faintly in the back of my brain as I swallow another sip of wine. I sit up out of the water a bit more and tilt my head toward the open doorway.

Once I settle my focus there, it happens again. I want it to sound like a knock on a door, signaling Jake on my stoop, but it doesn't. It's only a single tap, almost the sound of something hitting the side of the house. A few seconds later, it happens again. So faint. The wine may have accentuated my hearing somehow. Then I realize a more likely reason for the strange, faint, unpatternable sound.

Stanley.

Stanley is my raccoon. Well, not
my
raccoon as in one that I own. Rather, he's the raccoon that routinely terrorizes my trash cans, my chimney, and occasionally, my roof shingles. He's been known to rip out sections of wood in order to burrow under my front porch and mangle perfectly good outdoor chair cushions into tidy messes of torn-out filling and fabric. I've put chicken wire over the chimney opening and bungee-corded the trash cans shut, but Stanley is wildly persistent when it comes to getting what he wants. Not much deters him. Short of trapping and ending him for good, I'm plain out of ideas. While I respect his tenacity, I wish he would take his business elsewhere.

Who knows what he's up to now. Perhaps he's fallen in love with the shiny look of the nails holding the siding to the house and is succinctly tearing each one out with his little raccoon-y fingers. Maybe he's just tapping on the window to see if I've lost my mind completely and might let him in this time. That way he could just open the fridge and take whatever he wants out. Despite knowing I probably won't catch him in the act, I trudge out of the water, dry off, and slip into my robe to investigate. At least I might be able to shoo him away, if only for the satisfaction of doing so.