“I have wanted you for so long, Jamie,” he said, thrusting into her, his admission making her grab harder on his shoulders and pull him closer. “I’m so into you. Have been for so long.”
“I’ve wanted you too,” she whispered against his neck, all her truths so easy to say with her body awash in magnificent sensations.
“So.” Another thrust. “Fucking.” A hard drive that sent her spinning. “Long.”
And then, like a switch flipped in her cells, she started to tremble as she felt all the tension release and there was nothing else in the world right now but this wild abandonment as her orgasm took over. She could no longer focus, no longer keep her eyes open. She held his shoulders, digging her nails in, and felt him pump his hips into her. Then his stilted breaths, his moans, his mouth on her neck, his strong hands on her ass, as he came inside her.
Soon, when the orgasm started to fade away, she opened her eyes, and scanned the cramped room with its paper towels, and stepladder, and boxes full of supplies for The Panting Dog.
The sight of them was a gut check, and reality slammed into her. She’d gone and had sex in the storage closet of the bar she managed. During her party.
Her head felt cloudy, her body dizzy. But not from the pleasure. From the stark realization of what she’d done. She’d had sex with Smith to get him out of her system, and in doing so she’d broken a cardinal rule. She didn’t sleep with her friends, and she sure as hell didn’t get physical with men she could never be serious with.
Smith zipped his jeans, looking sexy and dreamy and precisely like the kind of man she’d hate herself for falling for.
“Come back to my house,” he said in that voice that threatened to lure her yet again. From his delicious accent to his filthy words, he was some kind of drug. If she took another hit, she’d be addicted. He absolutely, positively had to be a one-time-only occasion.
She grabbed her panties from the floor, balled them up in her hand, and scrambled for an excuse, neurons now tripping over themselves as she plotted the fastest course out of her embarrassment. Her mind raced through plausible reasons to get the hell out of there. Headache? No, too typical. Forgot a morning appointment? No, that required too much explanation. She wanted to curse herself for not having a dog. Dogs were a perfect excuse because they needed to be walked.
Wait. She did know someone who had a dog.
“I can’t. I’m dog sitting for Diane. I need to go walk Henrietta. Thanks for a fun night,” she said.
She gave him a peck on the cheek, because that would make her seem cool and unflustered, surely. She didn’t look back when she opened the door to the storage room, grabbed her purse from the shelf where she’d left it earlier, stuffed her underwear inside, and hightailed it out the back door.
Once outside, she pressed her palm against the brick wall, needing to root herself to the real world again, not a fantasy one fueled by foolish lust. The warm night air rushed over her and the stars twinkled overhead, as she breathed in and out, each breath recalibrating and reminding her that she wasn’t that kind of woman. She didn’t do that kind of thing.
At least, she didn’t plan to again.
She raced home, the whole time running through her to-do list for tomorrow, the next day, the rest of the week, the rest of her life. Anything to get tonight out of her mind.
Chapter Four
Jamie dropped her ereader in her purse, then added her migraine pills. She stopped at a framed photo she kept on her bureau. It was a picture of the dog and cat she’d had when she was younger. A handsome German shepherd her parents had named Tennyson, alongside their Siamese cat, Lord. Tennyson had been the best dog ever, loyal and devoted, and a complete sweetheart, especially considering how well he’d played with Lord.
If only she could find another German shepherd. But the breed was hard to come by at animal shelters. She’d tracked down a young puppy in a San Jose shelter last week, but was on a waiting list for him. She hadn’t heard back, so she figured the puppy had gone to another home. She’d just keep checking with more local rescues until another puppy arrived.
A dog would surely take her mind off a certain someone.
She repositioned the photo. Then moved it to the other end of the bureau. Or maybe it would look better in the middle. She’d already dusted, swept her floors, and scrubbed clean her kitchen counters. Her whole house was spotless, but her brain kept returning to last night.
“Crud,” she muttered. She was stalling, and she knew it. She had to go to work in thirty minutes, and Smith would likely be there, working on the construction of the same back room where they’d danced. She’d avoided him today, his calls and his texts wanting to know if she was okay. But she’d have to man up in a few minutes, and what was she supposed to say?
Hey, you’re a swell pal, and you screw like a rock star, but let’s just pretend last night never happened, shall we?
Ugh.
The person she really wanted to avoid, though, was herself.
She couldn’t believe she’d had sex with Smith, let alone liked that filthy mouth of his. She was a romantic. She had a soft spot for poems and wine and the finer things in life, so how the hell did she get off on a man who liked it down and dirty? He’d sent her into such a heated state, she was barely herself last night. She’d been pulsing, alive and trembling with want. She was supposed to fall for someone classy, who courted her with odes and stanzas, not hot, bossy words as he pinned her to the wall.