Mayday (11 page)

“Good,” he said. “Then grab your vibrator.”

When she gave a weak groan, he laughed. In just a few short minutes, he'd be able to put a mental check next to Step Two in his Make Up for Previous Sucky Bedtime Performance Plan. And Step Three waited for both of them in only—he checked the clock—thirteen or so hours.

“Turn it on,” he said. “A low speed for now. And put it against your clit.” At her whimper, he squeezed the head of his cock hard and whimpered a little himself.

Twenty minutes later, he had his check mark. Not to mention a worn-out girlfriend, a dirty towel, noodly bones, and a smile on his face that wouldn't die.

Perfection
, he thought again.
For the first time in my adult life, I've rediscovered perfection. And it feels fucking great.

H
elen woke the next morning to a chime from her cell phone. Unearthing one arm from underneath the covers, she reached for it blindly and nearly knocked it from her nightstand. A text at six in the morning? Offhand, she couldn't think of anyone likely to send her a message so early in the day. Her parents would simply call in an emergency, and everyone knew she liked to sleep as late as possible.

She took a bleary glance at the display. Everyone except Wes, apparently. The man who'd kept her on the phone until almost midnight believed in rising at dawn, or so it seemed. It wasn't a point in his favor, despite the truly excellent phone sex.

At the word
baby
, she wiggled a little bit in bed. Who knew she'd like that term of endearment so much? And who knew her irritation at being awakened so early would disappear as soon as she saw those four letters?

Another message from him appeared on her screen.
Wear a dress today. No leggings.

At that, she frowned and typed:
You have a problem with my clothes, Mayor? Because if so, you can suck it
.

His response came quickly.
Of course not. I love your clothes.
But . . .
no leggings today.

A long pause before he wrote back.
I have plans for lunch. First we talk. Then we eat. Then . . . I eat you
.

Her breath left her lungs in a rush, and her wiggle this time stemmed less from happy surprise and more from a bolt of sheer lust.

And I'm more than happy to suck it however you want
, he added.

Holy Jesus. The man was going to make her ovaries detonate via text message.

Gotta go
, he wrote.
See you in a few hours. Okay?

With shaking fingers, she responded.
Okay. See you then. Sans leggings.

He sent her a smiley face.

With a dazed grin and a shake of her head, she set her phone back on the nightstand and pulled the covers aside. If she wanted to get anything done today other than helpless lusting, she needed to get her mind off of Wes. No more foolish texting with him. In fact, no more thinking about those messages until he actually met her for lunch.
Or . . .
whatever he had planned. As long as she was awake and up so early, she might as well read the paper over a leisurely breakfast and do last-minute prep for her library presentation about May Day traditions.

A few minutes later, she sat down at the kitchen table with orange juice, cereal, and the
Niceville Daily News
. The first few pages looked typical: some welcome publicity for the May Day events starting that night and continuing throughout the day tomorrow; complaints about the smells emanating from a local pig farm; and the obits she'd likely have to read for Mr. Breward at some point during her next shift on the Adult Reference desk.

Then she saw the title of the first column in the Opinions section of the paper. P
ENIS
-F
OCUSED
M
AY
D
AY
C
ELEBRATION
R
EFLECTS
P
ENIS
-F
OCUSED
M
AYOR
. What. The. Unholy. Fuck?

She immediately recognized the photo of the author, if for no other reason than his clothing. He was wearing jeans and a down vest hanging open over a flannel shirt, just as he had during that first May Day meeting at City Hall. Apparently, his name was Frank Skagway, and—again, just as he had during that meeting—he wanted to express his concerns. Those concerns, as it so happened, all seemed to relate to male genitalia. Specifically, penises.

Although she searched her memory, she couldn't recall ever having seen “penis” repeated quite so many times so quickly. The word was beginning to lose all meaning to her at this point.

“Oh, boy,” she muttered.

She went back to the bedroom and snatched her cell phone from her nightstand.

Wes
, she texted,
we have a problem
.

 

Two hours later, she was sitting on a bench outside Wes's office when he arrived for the day. He was holding his briefcase in one hand and a copy of the paper in the other. His stride was brisk, his gaze focused on something only he could see.

She stood, and his eyes met hers. He attempted a smile, but it faded immediately.

His face . . . the sight of it made her heart ache.

As soon as he'd watched her come through the door at the pool two days ago, that face had changed. Relaxed in a way she'd never seen before. The lines of worry between his eyebrows had instantly smoothed. The tension in his jaw had disappeared. And his voice last night on the phone had sounded boyish, filled with playful energy and optimism. Not to mention a large dose of horniness.

To her dismay, all evidence of pleasure and happiness had now vanished. His swimmer's shoulders appeared stiff, and concern once again creased his face. The eyes that met hers were troubled. She could only hope the tension revealed in every line of his body would ease when they talked out the problem and came up with a plan to tackle it.

After all, he wasn't alone anymore. They were a team. They could handle this together.

As he drew up next to her, he unlocked the door. Placing a broad hand at the small of her back, he guided her into his office ahead of him. The door closed with a decided click, and they faced one another.

He sighed and gripped the back of his neck with one hand. “I'm sorry, Helen. You warned me about the sex shop sponsorship issue, but I didn't listen. And I know you need this weekend to go well for your job. I didn't think—”

“Shut up,” she said. And without another word, she stepped forward, slid her arms around his waist, and squeezed him tight. Burying her face against his shoulder, she ran her hands in soothing strokes up and down his back.

He returned the embrace stiffly at first. After a minute, though, she could feel his muscles relaxing. He dropped his head to her shoulder. His body began to mold to hers, and his breathing slowed, becoming deep and easy.

“We have things to discuss,” he finally said against her hair.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Things like how to contact the Guinness folks to report a new world record.”

He raised his head. “Huh?”

“Most uses of the word penis and its variants in one short article.”

This time, his smile came more naturally and lasted longer.

“I think they'll be impressed,” she said. “Maybe they'll take a picture of Mr. Skagway standing next to the Washington Monument. Or the Empire State Building. Or the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Though that may not stand erect enough for him.”

His large frame vibrated with a laugh, and she smiled at the feel of it. After one last squeeze and a soft brush of his mouth against hers, he let her go and dropped onto the chair behind his desk. She settled into the one in front, leaning forward to rest her elbows against his desk and cup her chin in her hands.

Craning his neck to look around the desk, he aimed an exaggeratedly long look at her bare legs. “No leggings,” he observed, a tiny twinkle returning to his eyes.

“I had strict orders from my pervy boyfriend.”

“Not pervy. Hungry to taste you. Eager to feel you come against my mouth,” he corrected softly.

She sucked in a sharp breath, and he smiled again.

“Okay,” she said, “I know what's going on here. You're trying to distract me.”

“Am I succeeding?”

“No.” At his dubious look, she revised her answer. “Well, kind of. But not anymore. Wes, please explain to me why this article is upsetting you so much. I know the May Day celebration is important to you, and you want it to showcase what the investment of time and money into our downtown can accomplish.”

“It's kind of my baby,” he admitted.

“
However
,” she emphasized, “I also know that one letter in the newspaper written by one cock-obsessed citizen can't derail all our work over the past two months. And I know this can't be the first time you've run into someone with unreasonable complaints. So what gives?”

Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back to rest against the leather support of his chair. “I'm worried,” he said quietly.

“Tell me.” She kept her gaze glued to his face, not wanting to miss a single nuance of his expression as he explained himself to her.

“Well, there's the issue of you and your job,” he said, opening his eyes with a sigh. “This weekend was supposed to showcase your ability to pull off a successful community event as a library representative. If things go down in flames, I don't want to endanger your chances of getting the Community Outreach position.”

She tilted her head, considering the point. “I want that job badly. I won't deny it. But I'll be honest, Wes. If everything falls apart this weekend, I don't think the library or anyone else will blame me. I think they'll blame you.”

He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Maybe. But that raises another concern. The May Day celebration is my first real demonstration of what I want for our downtown. If people boycott the events this weekend, if locals and tourists don't return to our downtown, then our businesses won't make money. The funds the city invested in the celebration will go to waste. And our City Council won't bother voting to increase funding for our downtown ever again.”

“You'd feel like your mayoral agenda failed,” she said quietly. “And you wouldn't have time to fix that failure before you left office.”

She watched him flinch at her words, his broad shoulders hunching slightly in his dark jacket.

Reaching across his desk, she took his hand in both of hers. “I didn't say it was true, sweetheart. Only that you'd feel that way.”

“If I can't make this work, Niceville will die from the inside out. And it'll be my fault, Helen,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Her hands gave his a stern squeeze. “Bullshit. Bullshit, Wes.”

He gripped the back of his neck with his free hand. “I'm the one who—”

“No,” she said. “Unless you single-handedly killed our manufacturing jobs, built malls and shopping centers outside our downtown area, and ordered our wealthier citizens out of the city center and into suburban neighborhoods, you can't blame yourself if our downtown collapses. You're the only mayor in recent memory who gave enough of a shit about it to fight City Council. If Niceville dies, it'll be in spite of you, not because of you.”

Weary lines radiated from the corners of his tiger's-eyes. “But that column used my personal history to discredit what I'm trying to do now. If I'd made better choices in my past, no one could use those decisions as a weapon against my agenda.”

“So you slept with a few women.” She shrugged. “Most guys with your level of extraordinary hotness do. Unless they're gay. Or monks. Or living in a burrow underground amongst the Mole People.”

He mouthed the words “Mole People” to himself as he squinted at her under furrowed brows. The good news: He no longer looked as worried. Now he just looked nonplussed.

She flicked a dismissive hand. “Forget about a race of mole-human hybrids living deep underneath the surface of the Earth. My point is that your sexual past doesn't come across as especially lurid to someone who's not obsessed with penises.”

“He brought up other things about my history, though,” he said, his voice so low she almost didn't hear it.

“Ah.” She let her fingers trail over his palm, trying to soothe the tension there. “The not-graduating-from-college bit got to you, I take it.”

He yanked his hand away from hers and sat upright in his chair. “You don't seem surprised. Did you know?”

Trying not to let his withdrawal upset her, she rolled her eyes at the question.

“Really, Wes,” she chided. “I had a desperate crush on you. Do you really think I never Googled you at any point in the last fifteen years? If I hadn't, I'd have been ashamed to call myself a reference librarian.”