Afternoon Delight (7 page)

He had no doubt she'd perfect that recipe, and in a matter of weeks, too.

“You're on.”

Her eyes lit up. Her fingers curved around his hip and her thumb stroked his hipbone.

“You're a fucking tease.”

“In this situation, the line between ‘tease' and ‘horrible winner' is a thin one,” she said, but she didn't stop stroking. Didn't push him away. Didn't make any move to close herself off to him or acknowledge her vulnerable position.

Her confidence took his breath away. There was an inherent trust in him, in the moment, in time itself. Like it wouldn't bring sadness or pain.

He pushed back onto his heels. “Fuck,” he muttered as he rubbed his hand across his face. “Fuck. I am fucking out of my fucking mind.”

She sat up, demurely tucking her knees to one side, found her T-shirt in the sheets and pulled it over her head. The thin, faded gray fabric didn't hide the shape of her nipples, and all she put on from her clothes discarded on the floor were her panties. He stopped watching the soft jiggle and sway of her body to focus on buttoning his shirt.

“Do you want to take home some of the dessert? They're baked. All you have to do is pop them in the microwave for a few seconds.” His expression must have been a prize, because she burst out laughing. “Sorry,” she said. “Cook's habit. You'd really be helping me out. If they stay here, I'll eat them all.”

“I'm not seeing a problem,” he said gruffly.

Her eyebrows lifted. “No? Well, I'll owe you one if you take half of them.”

“How many is half?”

“Five.”

“Jesus,” he said as the thought of coming home to takeout and those desserts flashed in his mind.

She correctly read his tone. “I'll pack them in a cooler tote for you,” she said, and hurried through the door.

He left his shirt loose to hide the monstrous erection that wouldn't be fading between now and the subway, and followed her into the kitchen. She'd extracted a soft-sided cooler from somewhere and stacked five ramekins in it, with an additional container of raspberries and another of whipped cream tucked down the side. She tossed an ice pack on top and zipped it closed. “Your dessert, kind sir,” she said, and offered it to him with a flourish.

He ignored the cooler and backed her into the counter, hoisted her up, and shoved both hands through her hair. A muffled squeak escaped her lips before he kissed her, hard and hungry and impatient. She met him kiss for kiss, wrapping her legs around his hips. The cooler bumped against his back when she fisted her hands in his shirt. He ground against her, made her cling to him for support.

“What was that for?” she asked when he let her up for air.

“You owed me one for eating your desserts.”

“I certainly did,” she murmured.

***

He texted her from the subway.
First time in my life I've left a date with a hard-on and a cooler full of dessert.

Think of the dessert as a displacement activity. Like chewing gum to keep from smoking. :)

The next day he gave it a shot. He wasn't used to delaying gratification at all, much less with something almost as luscious as sex, but rather than getting off in the shower, he waited. After a bolted dinner of a gyro and fries, he reheated one of ramekins Sarah sent home with him. The scent of chocolate quickly filled his small apartment, or maybe that was the smell of desire, deferred. He tapped the hot, melting dessert onto a plate and added a dollop of whipped cream and a few raspberries, then sat down at his tiny table and took the first bite. The scent of warm chocolate filled his nose as the taste spread over his tongue. He consciously slowed his pace, spacing out each bite, memories of Sarah melding with the rich flavor, settling into his body and his brain.

He had to win at least one of their bets before he could call this off. Pride demanded it, not to mention a primitive desire to call the shots with Sarah for once. So he rinsed out the ramekin and the plate, then changed into his basketball clothes. A good, clean, hard pickup game was exactly what he needed right now, and would let him ignore the truth: slowing down and focusing on the rich dessert satisfied just enough of the desire to give him the strength to hold out. But now he could go back to business as usual. Continuing his deceleration into the slow lane would mean feeling what he wasn't ready to feel, not for Sarah, not for anyone.

***

Taking their texts from simple date-and-time setups to sexting was a mistake. One dirty text opened the door for others, arriving at the most inopportune times: when he was eating, finishing paperwork after a shift. His phone, resting on the desk beside him, buzzed innocuously enough. He lifted it and saw a text fading from his notifications screen.

Can't stop thinking about that kiss. I hope you win next time. You can be as rough as you like. I dish it out. I can take it.

His eyes closed, because the possibilities would blind him if he didn't.
Is this you helping me?

The response came almost immediately.
Maybe.

Not. Helping.

Sorry. :(

Hot as hell. Not helpful. But definitely hot as hell.

Would you be rough? Just curious.

The woman took no prisoners and showed no mercy. He was composing a reply when another bubble appeared in his text stream.

I've wanted to take care of myself so badly, but I haven't. You?

“LT?”

The voice was still down the hall, not in the shift lieutenant's office, so he ignored it for more pressing matters.
I've got a life-threatening case of blue balls, and you're going to pay for it.

Looking forward to it. Assuming you hold out.

The strangled sound in his throat cut off abruptly when knuckles rapped on the door frame to the duty office.

“LT, got a minute? I was reviewing protocol for . . . You okay?”

He exhaled slowly, carefully typed
I'm at work
into his phone, reread it to make sure he hadn't typed
I'm going to fuck you until you beg for mercy
, sent the text, then put the phone facedown on the desk. “I'm fine. What's up, Casey?”

After Casey left, he looked at his phone again.

I'm sorry. I'll stop.

With a red-faced smiley.

Followed by a picture of the bowl of whipped cream. He couldn't help himself. He laughed out loud. Win or lose, this was the purest fun he'd had in a long, long time.

***

Tim hadn't expected Sarah to make the challenge fun, a little lighthearted, a little sweet teasing to go with the heated chemistry between them. At some level this wasn't about beating her anymore. He wanted to prove to himself that there was nothing wrong with the way he lived his life, that he could jump in and out of the fast lane and slow down long enough to savor the build of desire and anticipation. So he went through his day, going from call to call, coaching Casey in the moments in between, all the while aware of the heated rush of blood in his groin. Until the moments when the job went from routine to borderline out of control, when he snapped back into the present.

“Shawn. Shawn!”

A woman bordering on hysterical hauled her hand back and slapped her inert boyfriend across the face. Tim didn't need a Breathalyzer to diagnose drunk to the point of alcohol poisoning, going by the stench of beer and vomit, empties scattered around the room, and pupils all but unresponsive to light; it was time to get control of this scene. So far Casey had kept his breakfast down.

“Ma'am.”

“Shawn!”
Another slap.

“Ma'am!” Tim barked. Casey jumped, and the woman turned to look at him. He saw, plain as day, the fear in her eyes, the fear of her boyfriend's future lost to alcohol poisoning. A shadow of her anguish speared through him. He was human. He could sympathize, but he shook it off.

“Smacking him isn't going to help. Go sit on the couch,” he said, and gave Casey a look. Casey guided the woman onto the sofa. She sat there, arms folded across her abdomen, rocking, while he and Casey hoisted the inert man onto the body board to transport him down the stairs.

The thing was, she'd forced him out of autopilot and into his body, which necessarily landed him smack in the middle of his life. Everywhere he looked he saw something that reminded him of Sarah. A woman laughing on the street brought back the life in her eyes. The flit of a skirt hem above a toned, curvy set of calves reminded him of her walk. The flash of loneliness he saw in the eyes of random New Yorkers as he passed them on the sidewalk, trotting alongside a gurney. The disorientation in a tourist's face, not sure where they were, let alone how to get where they were going.

He was semihard most of the day, his heart rate slightly elevated, breaking into a sweat at more than the day's promise of sunshine and heat. Fighting it only trapped him in sensations he normally ignored or dispatched. Thinking about his next encounter with Sarah was more of a future than he usually anticipated, and it wasn't just the sex. He wondered what she'd say, how she'd make him laugh, what would capture her interest and make her eyes sparkle with delight.

In a haze, he braced his foot against the dashboard and watched the city flow by, until Casey slammed the driver's door.

“LT?”

He looked at his watch. The thing was, his shift was over.

***

He walked to his apartment in the same erotic haze, the spring sunshine a tangible weight on his skin. The city's air still smelled fresh, not yet tainted with summer's heat of exhaust, rubber, asphalt, garbage, and eight million people. He inhaled. Warm buns from the bakery on the corner. The trees, stressed as they were by not enough light and polluted air, were bursting from bud to leaf. He could smell that, too. Not even the cabbage and onions simmering on his downstairs neighbor's stove could eradicate the promise of sunshine and life.

He carried around plenty, the weight of responsibility for his patients the heaviest burden, the weight of training Casey additional and necessary. He was happy to carry it; passing on knowledge was a critical part of the job. But just like good stress was still stress, any responsibility he shouldered added weight. But the sunshine, like Sarah, somehow lightened the burden.

“Get a grip, Cannon,” he muttered. “Next you'll be composing poetry to the birds.”

His phone buzzed. He pulled it from his cargo pants pocket and looked at it.

I'll be there by four.

Finally, the end was in sight. He was so hard, so ready, so
desperate
for her. He wanted her to know what to expect, so he sent her a quick response, just to set the mood.
Be ready to pay up.

Sarah set the market board advertising the day's menu in the rack on the inside of Symbowl's back door, then sat on the steps and sighed with the pleasure of sitting down.

“Want to watch a movie tonight?” Trish asked as she sprayed bleach solution on the stainless steel worktops and wiped them.

“I've actually got plans after work,” Sarah said. “I'm not sure when I'll be back.”

Things with Tim could be over in a matter of minutes, or it could take all night. She was looking forward to the challenge of putting herself at the mercy of six feet, five inches of frustrated, bottled-up man.

“Meeting Tim for another afternoon quickie?”

Sarah nodded and secured the lid on the last of the leftovers. “It's perfect for a spring fling,” she said. “We've got crazy hot chemistry, he likes to eat and I like to cook, and we both understand exactly what we're getting into.”

“I don't usually do repeats with the guys from the bar,” Trish said quietly.

“It's just . . . After Aunt Joan died, I promised her I'd get back to the way I was before she got sick. I loved a challenge. Footloose and fancy-free, that was me.”

“I know,” Trish said, “But are you the same person you were back then? Two years is a long time in someone's life, even if you aren't taking care of someone with cancer.”

She was the logical person to be Aunt Joan's caretaker. Her parents both worked, and Joan didn't have children. Without a career to manage or a job where a two-year absence could derail her professional life, she could take the time and take care of her aunt. Cooking wouldn't change in the time it took a woman to die of ovarian cancer. But had she changed instead?

“I guess I'm going to find out,” Sarah said.

Trish rolled down the shutters over the service window. “I've been thinking about doing another tasting party. You're right. Let's try some more recipes.”

“No problem,” Sarah said as she skimmed the lists. “But I really think the key is in the sauces, not in widening the menu. That just adds complexity to the equation you really don't need at this stage. You can't create from a position of trying to slot yourself into whatever space is left in the market. You have to create demand, and you do that by giving people something uniquely yours. Your philosophy, your combination of ingredients. You provide authentic.”

Trish stared at her. “What if people don't like it?”

“They're going to like it. Trust me. If they don't, life is one opportunity after another. It'll be fine,” Sarah said. She folded the papers and tucked them in her messenger bag. “I'm not sure if I'll be home tonight. I might be. I might not be.”

“Just text me either way so I know whether to call the cops. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“Which would be . . . ?”

“Hush, you. I'll handle prep,” Trish said. “You can meet me at the park tomorrow. Text me if you need clean clothes.”

Sarah flashed her a thumbs-up and scooted off the back step. She set off along Canal Street, walking quickly, not yet tired from the day. The sun glinted off shop windows and parked cars. She was learning the Lower East Side fairly well, but still needed to make time to get out more and explore the city. With the food truck's basic routine established, she'd have more time to do exactly that.

She turned the corner and headed toward Tim's building. Her heart was pounding by the time she reached his door, and not just from the brisk walk in the spring sunshine. He'd won this challenge. She was 90 percent sure of it, and it was a double-or-nothing, so the only upside to her holding out was that she wanted him so badly, she'd been slick thinking about it all day.

She pressed the doorbell next to his apartment number in the gray panel by his door.

“Yeah?”

“It's Sarah.”

No response, just the snick of the door unlatching and the buzzer going off to let her know she could come through. She hauled open the door and took the stairs, steadying her watery knees with her hand on the rail.

His door was open. She walked through it, saw the Murphy bed open into the room and Tim behind the door. She opened her mouth to say hello, but it turned into a gasp when he powered her into the back of the door.

Then he kissed her. Hot, hard, demanding, the rasp of his short beard scraping against her lips and chin while his hands skimmed her breasts, then went right for her skirt, hiking it up to get at her panties. Reciprocating, she dropped her messenger bag to the floor and attacked his belt and fly. When she worked his pants and boxers to the tops of his thighs, his cock dropped free.

She groaned and wrapped her hand around the hard, thick length. One slow stroke and swipe of her thumb over the tip and he grimaced, gripped her wrist, and pulled her hand free. “Put this on me,” he said, and slapped a condom into her palm.

One of her absolute favorite things to do was put a condom on a man who was about to fuck her against a wall. She tore open the packet and positioned it. Tim clasped her jaw. “No teasing this time.”

Wide-eyed, she shook her head. He braced one forearm beside her head, mouthing at her ear, her cheekbone, and explored her hips and buttocks and thighs with the other hand as he rolled his hips into her hands. “Fuck, yes,” he hissed, and urged her thighs wider. “Come on.”

“I can't . . . you're . . .” His arms and mouth and motions impeded her vision, but she somehow got it in place and used one of his greedy, seeking thrusts to work the latex down his shaft. “There.”

She went up on tiptoes to get closer, then gasped again when he lifted her right out of her shoes. They thumped to the floor. She wrapped her legs around his waist, spreading herself for him. He wedged his arm under her hips and hoisted her again without any effort. His face was hard as he stared down at her.

“I've been waiting so fucking long for this,” he growled into her ear. Then he bit down, just the other side of gentle. She arched and shuddered in his arms as electric heat zinged through her nerves to her nipples and clit. “All those times you said no . . . You're going to say yes.”

Face-to-face with him, she stared, wide-eyed, into his slumberous blue eyes. He'd been waiting for her, for
her
; this big, tough, competent man cared enough to make this really good for her, too. “Yes,” she said.

He fucked into her, rolling and seeking, the blunt head of his cock nudging her clit and folds until he found the soft, slick opening and slid deep on the first thrust. She banged her head against the door throwing it back as pleasure spiraled out from her sex, then arched against him as he set a relentless, hard rhythm.

He used his chest to keep her pinned, holding her hard right where he wanted her, fucking her harder. Trapped in the onslaught, she writhed in his arms just to feel him restrain her as she sobbed,
“Yes, yes, yes.”
Each thrust smacked her clit just right, stroked over the shocked bundle of nerves inside her. She clenched tighter and tighter around him, until her orgasm tore fragments of cries from her throat.

“Oh, God,” she said. Everything was quaking, her thighs, her arms, her voice. Aftershocks rippled through her major muscle groups, leaving her increasingly limp, supported by the door at her back and his body at her front.

His still hard body. Unlike her, Tim wasn't going slack in the aftermath. “You didn't . . . ?”

“That was me being magnanimous. I'm not wasting this build on a quick one-and-done.”

She gave a low, pleased purr of sound and shimmied in his arms. “That sounds promising.”

One arm under her bottom, he pushed away from the wall, turned, and took two strides to the bed. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held on as he kneeled on the mattress, then sat back on his heels. The movement pushed him a little bit deeper inside her and rubbed her sensitive walls in ways she didn't expect. All with him still inside her. Superhero indeed.

“Take off your clothes.”

He steadied her hips while she stripped her T-shirt over her head and unfastened her bra. The dirty thrill of undressing with a man embedded deep in her body changed the tenor of the pleasure trickling along her nerves. A note of want, like a bit of cayenne pepper in an otherwise unremarkable soup or stew, added heat to make you want more, and more, and more.

“What about my skirt?” she asked.

“Leave it on,” he said absently.

There was a distinct submissive pleasure in being undressed solely for his convenience. She went with it, steadying herself with her arms around his neck, freeing him up to touch her as he pleased. His gaze flicked over her while his hands smoothed her hair back from her face and over her shoulders. Then his palms skimmed her shoulders, switching to fingertips as they trailed down the tops of her arms to her wrists, where he dipped under and drew the top of his index finger along the more sensitive skin under her wrist, her triceps. Her nipples peaked in anticipation. He cupped her breasts and stroked the soft undersides with his thumbs. “I've wanted to touch you for so long.”

His touch was tantalizingly near her nipples. She shimmied. “Go on, then.”

“Not yet,” he said. “See, this woman I just met convinced me some things are worth waiting for.”

His voice was low, rough, teasing. She clamped her lips together and arched her hips; feeling his hard shaft awaken satiated nerves inside her. “She sounds crazy.”

“I think she's onto something.”

“Because this is—” She gasped as his thumbs brushed her distended nipples, then retreated again. “Because this is working for you?”

“Watching you get more and more desperate is really working for me.”

She arched back, lifting hips and breasts into his body, whimpering when he merely laughed and held her right where she was. “Nice pout,” he said. “I'm curious how it will look stretched around my cock.”

Lightning bolt straight to her clit. She met his gaze, then leaned forward and licked his lower lip, feeling smooth skin and his close-trimmed beard against her tongue. He opened his mouth and let her play harem girl, offering her talents. “It's one of my favorite things to do,” she murmured.

“Is anything not your favorite?” he asked, amusement lightening his rough voice.

“I want it all,” she confessed, eyes closed, wallowing in the scent of sweat and heat rising from his skin. “I want to feel everything. It's been so, so long.”

Silence. Her eyes flew open to find his eyebrows raised. Oh God. Did she actually say that?

“I'll keep that in mind,” he said. “But not this time. Off.”

She braced her hands on his broad shoulders and lifted herself off him, then awaited her next command.

“Turn around. Against the wall.”

She did, bracing her forearms on the wall while she peered over her shoulder. He stripped off his uniform shirt and T-shirt, leaving his cargo pants low on his hips. His erection, thick and slick with her juices, jutted from his open fly as he knee-walked into her wide stance.

Using both palms he caressed her bottom to the small of her back, gathering her skirt as he did. “That's really hot,” he said.

Her head dropped between her arms and she inhaled sharply as he aligned himself and slid into her. Then his hand spread possessively over her mound, the tip of his index finger gently opening her folds. He circled her clit. She quivered at the touch. He grunted in satisfaction.

“Let's see how well you play your own game,” he said, and lifted his finger. “Ride me.”

It didn't take her long to figure out what he meant. When she raised herself, her clit rubbed against his waiting finger. Sliding down meant taking him deep. He wouldn't give her both at the same time. The touches on her clit teased rather than satisfied, and his hand at the base of her spine kept her undulating motion to a slow burn.

“Fuck, that's good,” he said.

Her clit swelled even more under the tantalizing touches, awakened into anticipation. Her interior walls grew slick and hypersensitive as she pleasured him.

“You were right. There's definitely something to this.”

“Tim, please. Let me go faster.”

“No,” he said. The palm resting peremptorily at the base of her spine slid down, where his thumb stroked over the cleft in her buttocks, then up to gather her hair into his fist, exposing her heated cheek. “You love the slow burn,” he said. “You love it just as much right now as you did when you had me at your mercy.”

She did. Every nerve in her body vibrated, stretching and seeking any additional stimulation, bringing her senses into crystal clarity. She felt the rough cotton of his cargo pants against her inner thighs, the buttons dimpling her bottom each time she sank down on his cock. The scent of sex and male sweat and her arousal suffused the air around them. His breath puffed warm against her back, and the traffic swooping past on the street outside seemed to ebb and flow with the pleasure building inside her.

Her right hand dipped down to rest on his. “Harder,” she said. “Please, Tim. Just a little harder.”

“Hands back on the wall,” he replied, and stopped moving until she complied.

Her forearms flat on the wall, she grabbed two fistfuls of her own hair and surrendered. If this was what he wanted, she would give it to him. Her bones turned to heated metal, rigid enough to hold her up but glowing with desire. Dimly aware of the sound of voices in the stairwell, she tipped her hips back and focused on the slow press of his erection against her sensitive walls, the burst of pleasure each time his finger brushed her clit.

“There you go,” he said.

The promise of another orgasm began to coalesce, tightening like knots in wet silk. She spread her legs and was rewarded by an involuntary jerk of his hips he quickly stifled.

Glide. Stroke. Glide. Stroke. Her clit was on fire, burning in the soles of her feet, her palms, her scalp. Every nerve inside her clamored for more, but she stayed with the pace he set, sank into it. Her thighs trembled. In the back of her mind she knew she'd feel the strain for days, but she didn't care. This was going to make her come so, so hard. She rolled her head on her neck to dissipate some of the tension, and moaned when his fist in her hair held her head back.