I circled my hips, moaning into Heath’s mouth.  He was still pushing in, but not fast enough.

His free hand gripped my hip hard and thrusting his tongue in my mouth, he shoved home.

I had one leg hooked high over his hip, but it wasn’t enough.  He pulled out, ignoring my loud protests.

I didn’t protest for long.  He turned me, pressing my palms against the door.  He spread my legs, grabbed my hips in both hands, lifted me to just the right angle, and started drilling me from behind.

His rough breaths panted into my ear with every thrust.

Neither of us lasted long.

He hit every perfect nerve going in and out, in and out.

My orgasm built like it had its own pulsing life, beating into me with each rough thrust, growing with each hard slam of his dick into my pussy.

My nails scraped against the door as I came.

He shoved home, to the root, and held himself there.  After a few beats, still twitching inside me, his hands went from my hips to the front buttons of my shirt, tugging it open, sending buttons flying with a few impatient tugs.  He unclasped my bra, not breaking it, at least, and palmed my tits.

He kept thrusting, in smaller movements, still milking himself into me, still coming in perceivable spurts.

I wanted to sob in pleasure, it felt so good, barely stifled the sob-like noises that were coming out of me.

He kneaded my breasts, leaning close at my back to speak into my ear.  “I need to go,” he rasped, nuzzling into my neck.  “Now.”

What the fuck? I thought.  He was the one that came to my house.  He couldn’t spend more than a few minutes here before he ran off?

And on the tail of that . . . Was I so spoiled from the last time that I just assumed he’d stay for more than one round?

“Okay,” I responded with what little breath I had.  What else could I say?  I wasn’t going to beg him to stay.

And still, he didn’t pull out, still making those delicious little movements inside of me, still breathing on my neck, his body against my back, my sensitive breasts still in his hands.

At least I was sure he didn’t want to leave.  It was something.

With a curse, he pulled away.

I went immediately for my discarded pants, not looking at him as he went into my nearby half-bath and started straightening his clothes.  He was fast, I noted, listening to his every move.

He didn’t even say goodbye, the asshole.

While I was turned around, still fumbling to re-clasp my bra, he walked out the door.

I didn’t move to the front window to watch him go, though it was tempting.

Instead, I moved into the half-bath, eyes on the discarded condom in the wastebasket that I’d need to take out right away, like right away.  I’d be mortified if either of my boys stopped by out of the blue and caught sight of that.

Geez, I thought, staring at it.  It was just so sordid, one big used condom in my spotless, feminine half bath.  The room was painted apricot, and there were flowers on the rug, for Christ’s sake.

I gave myself a good talking to, eyes on the condom.  I nearly had myself convinced, body still thrumming in a strange combo of desire, disgust, and a delicious sort of soreness that made me think of Heath every time I shifted my body.

This wasn’t me.

I couldn’t change myself, the things I wanted, what I thought was right and wrong, just for one man.  One too young man who apparently couldn’t spare more than a few minutes out of his too busy schedule to fuck my brains out.

The pep talk/self-lecture was good for me, or so I thought.  This sort of thing wasn’t my cup of tea.  It was too casual.  The man hadn’t even asked me how my day was going before he shoved his cock into me.

And I hadn’t gotten to look at his eyes as he came, when they did that extraordinary thing I loved.

It occurred to me then that this made a huge difference to me.  Physical relief, no matter how powerful, was not enough for me.  Watching what I did to him, how I made his eyes change from cold to that elusive something else was required, as well, for me to feel that this passing fling was worth my peace of mind.

All of the productive work I had planned for the afternoon seemed to fly out the window.  There was nothing to do for it but open a bottle of wine and call one of my girlfriends to talk it out.  It was one of the biggest perks of being self-employed.

“He didn’t even say goodbye after?  Just walked out?” Danika’s voice over the phone was clearly appalled.

“Just walked out,” I affirmed.

“What an asshole,” she muttered.  “I’m coming over.  Tristan is working, and I’m only a few minutes away from you.  Should I bring more wine?”

“I’m well stocked,” I said wryly.  I liked my wine.

She showed up not five minutes later, still dressed for work.  I must have caught her just as she got home.  I knew she was like me, and changed into something comfortable the second she got into her own home.

I poured her a glass, and we went out onto my back porch to sip wine and talk it out.

“What an asshole,” she repeated, for maybe the third time.

I nodded, taking another drink.

“Is he an asshole in bed, too?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that.  He was bossy, sure, but he ate pussy like a champ.

“No,” I finally settled on.  “He’s very aggressive, very forceful, but he’s definitely adamant about getting me off first.”

“Well, that’s something.  I’m convinced that men who are assholes in bed are basically hopeless.

I laughed because it was true.

“Asshole in bed—impossible to rehabilitate.  Asshole in general, hell, who knows—there’s probably some hope.”

I laughed harder.  This is why I’d called her.  Girl always told it like it was.

Danika was fluent in sarcasm.  It was one of my favorite languages.  I found I always trusted a person more once I discovered they had the sarcasm gene.

She was the perfect balance of practical levity that I’d known was needed to improve my mood.

CHAPTER

NINE

He showed up at my door about a week later.  It was a Tuesday and eleven o’clock at night.

When the doorbell rang, I didn’t know who it could be, but I still didn’t even suspect that it was him.

I had the brief urge, after looking through the peephole, not to even answer the door, but other, stronger urges won out.

At least I kept the chain on, talking through the small opening that left.

And the first thing I said when I did open it was, “I don’t think I should let you in.”

His brows shot up like he had no notion where this was coming from.  “What?” he clipped out.

As I gathered my reply, my eyes ran over him.  He wore jeans and a tight gray T-shirt.  He looked edible, and I still wasn’t accustomed to my reaction to him.

“You didn’t even bother to say goodbye the last time,” I told him, making my voice as cold as it would go, which was still about ten times warmer than his normal tone.  “Hell, I don’t think you even said hello.”

He just looked at me like he had no clue what I was going on about.

Infuriating man.

“No woman has ever made you work for it, huh?” I asked wryly.

I didn’t even want to think about that.  But, of course, I did.

God, the girls his age.  I knew what was up.  I had two sons that weren’t much younger than he was.  I’d talked to their girlfriends over the years, talked to them, to the parents of other people in their generation.  Girls his age were down for just about any damn thing, and guys did not have to work hard to get it.

Who the hell could compete with that?  Who the hell wanted to?