Page 8 of Misadventures in Blue
I pace around the house, turn on some modern cello music, and pour myself a large glass of white wine. It’s been three years since I’ve screwed someone, and even that barely counted because it was the tentative and too-sweet fuck of a successful first date. The man treated me like a china doll—like I’d crack at the first sign of rough handling—and I didn’t come. It was rather embarrassing for both of us afterward.
I found excuses to avoid dates after that.
So for three years it’s just been me and a small collection of carefully curated toys, and the idea of letting a man back inside my body has me more excited—and more terrified—than I thought possible. What if I’ve forgotten how to be good at it? What if it’s as disappointing as the last time I invited someone into bed? What if—oh, this is a big one—what if this young man doesn’t like my definitely-a-woman-in-her-thirties body?
Worried, I drink more wine and wander back to the front door, debating on whether or not to leave it locked.
Maybe I should. Maybe I should call this entire impulsive, preposterous thing off. I’ll leave a note on the door telling him as much and spare us both our pride.
But dammit, I don’t want to.
Every time I conjure up an image of Jace Sutton—gray eyes and that young, vigorous body—my own body sizzles with unmet need. And as nervous as I a
m, I’m certain that if I don’t do this, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
No, I want this. I’m doing it. No matter how embarrassed I’ll be in the morning.
I unlock the door.
I’m still dressed, though, and as I finish my wine and set the glass down on the counter, I wonder if I should change that—if I should strip down or don something a bit more overtly sexy. Hell, I’m still in my heels even, still Detective Dry Clean Only.
With a sigh, I decide to change, but as I walk out of my kitchen, I feel it. The distinctive prickle at the back of my neck telling me I’m not alone.
I look up into the window across the breakfast nook and see Jace in the reflection, standing at a careful distance behind me. I’m impressed with how silently he entered my house; I’m not easy to sneak up on.
Even in the reflection—and superimposed over my dark, private backyard—he looks painfully well-built, with the curves of his shoulders and arms pushing at his T-shirt and his jeans showing off his narrow, perfect hips. His chiseled features are still set in that stern, ultraserious expression that I found so compelling earlier, but now there’s something else behind that solemnity. Something darker. More primal.
Neither of us says a word, as if we both know that speaking will somehow dilute whatever this is. This assignation. This mystifying attraction between us.
So instead, I give him a steady, almost regal nod, like a queen to her young knight, and he understands immediately, a slow ripple of dangerous lust coursing visibly though him.
He strides forward like a conqueror, and before I can turn to meet him, he has his hand flat between my shoulder blades and he’s bending me over the table.
I bend, all the blood in my body pooling in my cunt.
“Jace,” I say.
He says nothing in reply but yanks my pencil skirt up to my hips and lets the cool air of the room caress my panty-covered ass. Still silent, his hands find the tops of my stockings and then move to stroke along the lines of my garters. I can’t help the moan that escapes me once his fingertips trace up the curve of my ass. Or the second moan when he slides a finger under the edge of my panties and explores the needy kiss of my pussy. He removes the finger and gives me a hard cup, letting me feel the unraveling threads of his control.
Letting me feel how rough he wants to be.
And the ensuing shove and grind of his denim-covered erection against my ass almost feels like an indictment, like he’s accusing me of something. I roll my face into the wood surface of the table and shudder.
I like it all way too much.
Have I ever felt like this before? Like a present being unwrapped? Like being both the best and worst thing to happen to a man?
And how does someone so young know to fuck like this?
My panties are torn off—just torn right off my hips without so much as a by-your-leave—and Jace gives my high-heeled foot a vicious kick with his own. It spreads my legs apart, like he’s searching me, frisking me, and the thought of that is so wrong and dirty that I whimper into the table.
A long finger makes an approving circle of my now-exposed cunt and then penetrates me in an unhurried but persistent slide. I arch, which earns me another finger and a pleased grunt from him. He gives me a few lazy pumps, paying special attention to the textured spot inside that sends frissons of electric sensation everywhere through my body, but just when I’m starting to get really wet, truly squirmy, he withdraws his hand.
When I look up at the window, I see him staring back at me with darkened, unknowable eyes. He has his fingers in his mouth, and he’s sucking my taste right off them.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Oh God.”
What have I gotten myself into with him?
