Crossing Lines (6 page)

Here she was, two months later. For the most part, she’d learned her way around Horry County and no longer needed the GPS to guide her every turn. She’d gotten used to their new house and didn’t jerk awake in the middle of the night, trying to figure out where she was. She and Michaela were still adjusting to not having family nearby, but they were doing okay.

At what point, she wondered, would she get used to sleeping alone?

She flipped her eyes open and stared at the bottom dresser drawer—the one holding more toys and lubes and gadgets and gizmos than the world’s best-stocked sex shop. Cheri was an in-home adult toy party consultant, and anytime they came out with a new product, Sam was first in line to buy.

All for the sake of giving Cheri an honest customer review, of course.

The truth was, even though Michael thought she was icy and uninterested in sex, he couldn’t have been more wrong. After Michaela was born, the stress of having a newborn in the house caused things to become strained between them. Just as things were getting back on track, her dad died, and her world collapsed.

She needed to be loved and cuddled, held close and reassured everything would be all right. All he wanted was to rut, have a quick orgasm without regard to her, then roll over and go to sleep.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like sex. She did. A lot. She just no longer wanted to have sex with him.

She slipped out of bed, sank to her knees, and opened the drawer. So many choices… so little enthusiasm. Some nights, she had a strong desire to go through the drawer and experiment with everything. She enjoyed learning her body, figuring out what excited her and what didn’t… which, turns out, there wasn’t much she didn’t enjoy.

Tonight, however, Friday-night fatigue made this more a function of need than playful, experimental fun. She picked up the Waskly Wabbit and studied the thick, vibrating shaft and tiny flicking ears. Normally a crowd favorite, tonight the little fella held no appeal. She tossed him back into the drawer and hesitated as her hand drifted across the spanking strap. She fingered the rough leather before moving on to the wooden paddle.

Sitting up on her knees, she gave herself a few smacks across the ass and hissed as the sting spread down to her thighs. She loved the pleasurable pain that came from being spanked—which had been a complete shock—but playing with the strap and paddle drove home the solitude more than anything else.

She replaced the paddle and picked up the Double Dare—a good time with not one, but two imaginary studs. She’d had serious reservations about ordering the intimidating double vibrator and doubted she’d ever use it. After polishing off a six-pack one night, she decided to take the double dong for a spin. Surprisingly, it became her favorite.

She gave a heartless laugh. Who would’ve thought the Ice Queen would enjoy a pretend threesome? However, she needed to be in an adventurous frame of mind and willing to expend a ton of energy slipping into a deep enough headspace to buy the fantasy. She wasn’t up for that much exertion tonight, so she dropped it back into the drawer and, after another cursory glance through the stash, grabbed the basic, no-frills Long Dong.

She stripped off her nightshirt as she crawled into bed, turned the vibrator on, and closed her eyes. Several moments of strategically placed flicks and rubs barely had her motor running. But after two minutes of thinking about Kevin Mazze’s dark eyes, dark hair, strong jawline, and full lips, she was on fire.

She slid the vibrating tip through the slick folds of her sex, then brushed it over her clit. With her eyes closed and her mind focused on Mazze, she imagined him filling her as she slowly drove it inside.

She arched her back, lifting her breasts toward his waiting mouth… only to find empty space above and hollowness within. With no other option than to take matters into her own hands, she massaged her breast, then clamped down on the nipple. The pinch revved her up, but not nearly like it would’ve coming from his large, work-roughened hand.

She plunged the vibrator deeper, moaning as it rubbed against her G-spot. Would Kevin know where to find the magic button? How long before he had her spinning out of control?

Images of his dark eyes, filled with ravenous heat, swam through her mind as she built the fantasy: his large arms wrapped around her, his weight forcing her into the mattress as he drove deep.

She cranked up the volume and worked the vibrator over her G-spot, then pinched her clit, going for the kill. She arched her back and bucked against the pulsing of the vibrator as the orgasm built momentum and consumed her from the inside out.

As always, the unassisted orgasm ended too soon and left her void of any kind of post-orgasmic bliss.

After allowing her heart rate to settle and her legs to regain their density, she climbed out of bed, used the bathroom, and stashed the cleaned toy away in the safety of the drawer.

The sheets were damp and colder than before.

Just like her soul.

She never wanted another husband, but she needed a sex partner, someone to share her bed, even if only occasionally.

Michael had been wrong about her not liking sex, so maybe he was wrong about her being a real woman, too. Men often looked at her as she walked down the street or beach. There must be something they found attractive. Something about her had attracted Michael in the first place.

She never pursued a man before, but desperate times called for desperate measures. She swept her hand across the bed and found the crushed business card, forgotten in the heat of the moment. Her chances might be those of the proverbial snowball, but she never backed down from a challenge, especially from something she really wanted.

She couldn’t remember ever wanting anything as much as she wanted Kevin Mazze.

* * *

What should’ve been a satisfying ending to a long and arduous day only added another layer of shit to Kevin’s mile-high dung pile.

He’d taken Lizbeth three different times in three different ways, leaving her exhausted but content, sleeping peacefully in his bed, while he sat in the chair, hollow as a straw—with the exception of the five beers he knocked back—searching for something, anything, to fill the void.

Tonight’s fucking had been hard and fast, probably brutal if anyone were unfortunate enough to play witness. No Mr. Nice Guy in this bedroom. He’d carried enough aggression to start a war, but she spurred him on, needing to be taken even harder.

The sex had never been sweet or gentle, but rather edgy, almost angry at times. Over the past few months, the ferocity increased.

Everything about their relationship was destructive. And the worst part? Neither seemed to care.

Erik wanted to know the cause of Kevin’s drinking. This was the root of it all.

After the moaning and groaning and coming was over, he always needed something to wash away the disgust and self-loathing that crept in on the heels of the post-coital exhaustion.

Worse yet was the reason he stuck with Lizbeth in the first place. Watching Kat and Erik build their life together gradually ate him alive from the inside out. Not because he wanted Kat for himself or because of jealousy. He was so damned happy for his friend that lately, aside from Spencer, Erik’s joy was the only bright spot in Kevin’s life.

But Kevin had come to realize he wanted the same thing for himself. The Wildman, who swore to never settle down with one woman, wanted to be tamed.

He’d known all along Lizbeth wouldn’t be a permanent fixture in his life, but having someone temporarily beat being alone. At least that’s what he told himself before Lizbeth went crazy. By the time he reached his breaking point, the wedding had closed in, and he found himself trapped.

His gaze dropped to her high-heeled shoe and, not for the first time, the damned thing morphed into a ratty work boot.

Since crawling out of bed to drink in earnest, Samantha Wallace dominated his thoughts, which only intensified his mental anguish.

She fascinated him on every level, from her rocking body to the history behind her boots to her mysterious eye color—an unknown that was driving him batshit crazy. He didn’t have room for another complication, however. His plate was already loaded with Lizbeth, the wedding, and now the Vanguard problem.

Oh… and apparently, he also had a drinking problem, so throw that shit on top and call it gravy.

The only way to keep from joining Lizbeth on the crazy train would be to avoid women altogether. If he stayed in Myrtle Beach, away from Lizbeth, he wouldn’t have to worry about repeating tonight’s performance. He’d need to deal with Samantha from time to time, but she had no idea how much she attracted him. He could keep things professional until he had the wedding behind him and ended things with Lizbeth. Then, after he got himself under control, he would pursue her and see if anything developed.

Until then… celibacy was the name of the game.

M
yrtle Beach’s Boardwalk, a mishmash of activities and shopping, offered something for everyone. Along with the Ferris wheel, there were several rides available for adrenaline junkies, one being a giant slingshot that launched riders into the stratosphere… Okay, so it only sent the passenger sixty feet in the air… but still.

For the less adventurous, who preferred spectator sports to thrill rides, a jumbotron at the edge of the pavilion played popular afternoon sporting events. And for the truly sluggish, there were lots of bars and cafes scattered about, where one could eat and drink until their little hearts grew merry.

As far as Sam was concerned, the best thing about the Boardwalk was the world-famous, massively messy, awesomely unhealthy but so friggin’ fantastic foot-long chilidog.

The promenade wasn’t nearly as crowded as a few weeks before, but Sam still doubted they’d be able to find one six-year-old boy—assuming he was at the Boardwalk and not wandering around on the beach, or at a different location altogether.

Sitting on a bench in the middle of the pavilion, she handed Michaela her hot dog and drink and spread the fries between them. After making sure Michy was settled, she closed her eyes and bit into the gooey mess. The bread nestled her lips like a fluffy pillow as flavors exploded on her tongue—ketchup, tangy mustard, sweet relish, spicy chili—

Her moment of nirvana came to a crashing halt when Michaela yelled, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. There’s Spencer.” Sam opened her eyes to find her daughter pointing across the crowd to the small seawall separating the pavilion from the sand. “I told you we’d find him. I knew it.” Michy waved her arms like she was trying to take flight and yelled, “Spencer, Spencer!”

Everyone in the area turned to them… everyone except Spencer, apparently, and panic quickly ensued.

When another massive wail failed to catch his attention, Michy scrambled down from her perch, dropped her hot dog and drink onto the bench, and took off. She vaulted over the concrete barricade like a professional hurdler and sprinted down the beach like an escaped convict.

“Shit.” Sam dropped her hot dog onto the paper wrapper, grabbed her bag, and bolted after her.

She jostled around a toddler chasing a sea gull, then hit the sand “sidewalk” in pursuit. In the blink of an eye, she went from running to flying to diving face first into the sand.

Blinding, white-hot pain shot through her ankle and up her leg. “Son of a fucking bitch!” She rolled onto her back, brought her knee to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her leg, gasping for air.

The pain was so intense, she couldn’t pinpoint where it originated, maybe the ankle. Despite the horrendous throbbing, her daughter was still scurrying down the beach, and somehow, someway, she had to get to her feet.

She pushed to her knees, preparing to go vertical, when Michy’s sweet voice rang out. “Mommy!” The concerned cry was the most beautiful sound she ever heard.

Thank you, Jesus.

She didn’t have to run anywhere. She didn’t even have to walk, because her baby bird returned. Sam flopped onto her back, squeezed her eyes closed to stop the sting, and bit down on her lip to squelch the quivering.

“This is going to hurt, but we have to get your shoe off. Your foot is already swelling.”

Her breath left in a whoosh and she forgot to take another as the deep… vaguely familiar voice registered. She cracked her eye open and, for the briefest moment, wondered if she’d died and gone to heaven where all the angels looked like Kevin Mazze.

He shoved his sunglasses onto the top of his head, giving her a good look at his red and watery eyes with dark half moons below and a two day-old shadow coloring his jaw. This was no angel, and wherever he’d been last night, he obviously had a devil of a time.

“I’m sorry,” he said, flinching as he unbuckled her sandal and slipped it off her foot.

Agony ripped through her leg, all the way to her stomach, erasing any fantasy she had of being dead or in the presence of angels. “Ooww… Son of a”—Sam glanced at her daughter—“beach! Sheet, that hurts.”

“Keep breathing. Take long… deep breaths.” His low tone and slow cadence compelled her to do as he said. “Good. Keep going. Deep breath in, slow exhale.”