Rock Bottom Girl(83)

Oh, God. Yes! YES! HELL YES!

“Yep.”

He pulled out of me, but before I could complain, Jake shoved two fingers back inside me. He grunted, and on one long, sinful groan, I felt him come across my back. Hot ropes hit my skin, branding me.

“Fuuuuuuck,” he rasped. I squeezed his fingers with my muscles and was rewarded with more of his orgasm. He kept coming, kept fucking me with his fingers. I don’t know if it was the same climax or a surprise second one, but it rolled through me, and I pushed and jerked my way to Heaven against his hand, covered in his release.





49





Marley





“I feel like I should apologize.” Jake’s voice was muffled by my hair. His face was pressed into my neck. I hadn’t moved except to collapse onto my belly. He’d gotten a warm, damp towel from the bathroom and cleaned us both up while I languished like a limp piece of lettuce on his sweaty, tangled sheets.

“Apologize for what?” I said to the mattress.

“I feel like that’s kind of a big no-no, making an ask like that the first time you have sex,” he said.

“An ask like what?” I smiled to myself, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“Uh, you know. The, uh, coming on you thing.”

“Technically it was the second time,” I said, holding up two fingers and nearly blinding him.

He kissed my fingers and rolled me onto my back.

“I’m serious. Did I fuck up?”

I gave him a lazy smile. Every muscle in my body was loose and happy.

“I think you clued in on our compatibility and went with it.”

“Marley,” he said. “Manspeak, please.”

“Me liked.”

“You sure? I didn’t want to take the gift of sex and piss all over it.”

“Gross. That wasn’t piss, was it?” I joked.

“As long as you’re sure I didn’t take it too far. I got a little carried away,” he confessed.

I cupped my hand to his face, delighted by the stubble I found there. “I’m sure,” I promised.

“Good.” He dropped a kiss on my bare shoulder. “You hungry?”

Those truck tacos were long gone, lost to the calorie furnace of sex. “Starving,” I admitted.

He slapped me on the ass. “Meet me downstairs. I’ll whip up something for us. And by whip up something, don’t get your hopes up too high. I mostly microwave and dump things out of a can.”

“Good enough,” I told him.

Whistling, he pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants—hallelujah, Lord—and disappeared with a wink.

I lay there, still lettuce-limp, enjoying the way my body felt after a thorough round of sex. Downstairs, I heard Jake open the back door and the scrabble of doggy toenails on the floor. They had their own conversation while Jake made a ruckus opening and closing cabinet doors and drawers.

I took my time looking around his room. High ceilings in here like the first floor. The same fancy wood trim. Same hardwood floors. He could do with a rug in here, I thought. Oh, hell. And drapes. I hoped there weren’t any peeping eyes beyond the windows because if there were, they’d gotten one hell of a show.

The window bowed out and was framed in by a dusty window seat. Its bench could use a thick cushion.

The room looked as though he’d plopped furniture into it and decided to worry about the rest of it later. There was a dresser pulled slightly away from the wall on one end as if something had rolled behind it and been retrieved.

Where the giant pile of dirty laundry resided in the corner, I pictured a deep chair and side table. A quiet place to read or nap on winter days.

The only other thing in the room was a very large picture of a crucified Jesus hanging on the wall next to the door. I had a feeling that had come with the house.

I got up and stretched. Before beginning my quest for the bathroom. One door led to a walk-in closet. There was more clothing on the floor than hanging up. I found a bathroom through the other door and cleaned myself up. The toilet had a pull chain flusher. The vanity, a coating of dust.

Grinning, I combed my hair with my fingers, trying to reform Wilma’s shape and style. Jake Weston wasn’t so perfect after all. He really was a slob.

I gave up on my hair and went in search of clothing. I didn’t want to put Mom’s sweater back on my recently sexed body. I mean, I was already going to have to buy the woman a new one to make up for debauching the old one. So I helped myself to a floor t-shirt that passed the smell test.

I padded downstairs and headed into the kitchen.

Jake was still shirtless and stirring something on the stove. Homer was snarfing down his dinner. He paused to grumble and wag his tail at me before diving back into the kibble. A domestic scene that caused my lady heart to pitter-pat.

“What’s cooking, Chef Weston?”

He looked up and skimmed me from head to toe. “Now, that’s a pretty picture,” Jake said.

The man was good with flattery. I had to give him that.

I pulled out a barstool and sat across from him, resting my chin in my hands.

“I hope you like SpaghettiOs,” Jake said, pulling the sauce pan off the stove and dividing its contents between two bowls.

“SpaghettiOs?” I asked in wonder. “I don’t think I’ve had a can of SpaghettiOs since college.”