Well Suited (Red Lipstick Coalition #4)(25)
A shudder of pleasure rolled down my back as I crawled toward him.
“Organized by safety ratings.” He stood, slipping his hand into my hair. “Categorized by price.” His lips inched closer, setting fire to every nerve in my body. “Lowest to highest,” he whispered, the words bouncing off my lips before covering my mouth with his.
I was a superabundance of sensation, a seismograph charting an eight-point-nine. I was hot and cold all over, but the vast majority of feeling concentrated in two places—the seam of our lips and the aching point where my thighs met.
It was wrong, being in the library like this. And we couldn’t be together, shouldn’t be together. The danger of it all—not only for getting caught, but to myself, to my heart—zinged between us, the desperation in our kiss hot and thick.
We were instantly naked, my back warming the hard table, his body heavy on mine. His hand brushed my sex without knowledge of how it was possible with his hips flush against mine. My legs wound around his narrow waist, his skin hot and soft over the hard mass of his muscles.
He broke the kiss and looked down into my face. And as he slipped into me, filled me up, he breathed the word, “Come.”
My eyes shot open with my lungs, the gasp noisy and desperate in the quiet of my bedroom. I groaned into my pillow, my lids fluttering, hips grinding into my mattress as I did just as he’d commanded, my orgasm shuddering through me, body clenching around nothing.
A sigh as it ebbed, my heart slowing. And my brain had only one question.
What the fuck was that?
The answer was, of course, simple. I’d had my first wet dream.
I’d read a lot about increased libido in pregnant women but assumed that was constrained to actual physical acts, not lucid dreams that ended in a real, actual orgasm.
I flipped onto my back, flushed and disoriented and sated. Well, other than that my poor vagina had been empty when I came. I decided there was little so unsatisfying. Even a measly finger would have been better than nothing.
The sense of loss that Theo wasn’t actually there overwhelmed me. My mind echoed what he’d said to me weeks ago.
Say the word.
All I had to do was say the word, and he would be in my bed, giving me real, super-full, super-hot orgasms. The temptation was alluring, especially with the memory of his dream-kiss and his dream-body and his dream-peen fresh and real in my mind.
I huffed, flinging my covers off and slipping out of bed with a mighty pout on my face.
I couldn’t say the word. Because it wouldn’t be so simple as hot beef and exchange of bodily fluids. Especially not if he came bearing spreadsheets.
With sharp snaps, I made my stupid bed. Brushed my stupid teeth and my stupid hair. Stood in front of my stupid closet and picked out a stupid outfit, telling myself as I zipped up my pencil skirt and slipped my feet into heels that I only wanted to look professional at work for the sake of my promotion. No, I didn’t pick up my tube of red lipstick with the moniker Hot Mama printed on the bottom because Theo was coming to meet me for lunch. I just felt like a little self-care in the way of looking pretty.
It had nothing to do with Theo or the hope that he’d be wearing a suit or the dream I’d had where he nailed me on a library table.
Because saying the word wasn’t an option. Saying the word would mean complicating an already complicated situation. It would mean giving up, giving in. Stepping into something that would inevitably blow up in my face. Because if I knew one thing, it was that I had no idea how to date Theo.
No matter how badly dream-me wanted it to be true, real-me’s job was to be smarter than that.
Spreadsheets or not.
?
Theo
I trotted up the library steps, passing between twin lions standing sentinel to guard the knowledge inside.
My smile was immovable.
A week had passed since the doctor’s appointment, and we hadn’t seen each other, per her rules, damn them. But we’d texted. Quite a bit actually. What had begun as a request for our next meeting started a string of conversation that occupied far more time than either of us had intended and both seemed to enjoy. I’d started to look forward to texts with random pregnancy facts at unexpected intervals and updates on her day. Like the realization that folic acid made her more nauseated and the subsequent discovery that Flintstones vitamins would work in their stead. Or that rice had become a staple of every meal she consumed.
Even breakfast. She’d taken to eating a bowl topped with canned diced tomatoes.
I shuddered at the thought.
It was why I’d gone out of my way to make a lunch today that would appease Katherine’s digestive gods.
I’d discovered my joy of cooking gradually and against my will. Once we moved to the Village with Ma, it became my responsibility to feed us. Tommy was busy writing and being social, and Ma couldn’t quite manage it anymore. So I started planning meals. Following cooking blogs. Downloading apps to help me find recipes. And a couple of years in, I’d realized I loved it, looked forward to it.
There was something supremely satisfying about literally putting dinner on the table. I enjoyed making a meal out of a pile of ingredients. I found the assembly and care it took to complete a meal the most tangibly productive part of my day.
When presented with the problem of Katherine’s particular tastes, I accepted the challenge with all the determination of Tom Brady at the Super Bowl, less the whiny crybaby entitlement and bad wardrobe.