More, Please
Authors: Kate Aster
More, Please
By Kate Aster
© 2015, Kate Aster
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously and are not to be interpreted as real. Any similarity to real
events, locales, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not
intended by the author.
Cover design: The Killion Group, Inc.
To every reader who wrote me asking for
“More, please!”
My heartfelt thanks for your enthusiasm
and support.
Seven
months ago
- LOGAN -
Maeve traces her manicured hand up the
length of my tandem kayak and the movement is enough to make any man drool.
She turns sharply toward me, her face
incredulous. “
Ohio
? What the hell are you moving to Ohio for?”
I crack a smile, her harsh tone pulling
my gaze away from her French-tipped fingernails and over to her eyes—the
eyes of a very happily married woman and a good friend these past months. And
even though I might have easily fallen in love with her had I been given the
chance, I’m not unlike any other man who has met her. She’s just one of those
women who would be easy to love.
Her husband is one lucky Lieutenant.
“That’s where I’m from, Maeve.” I’m not
surprised I never told her, and doubt she or Jack ever asked. In the Navy, the
question is usually
Where have you been stationed?
rather than
Where
are you from?
I’m guessing people look at a Navy
uniform and assume the guy in it must have been raised someplace near the water
to appreciate this way of life. But my childhood memories center around
farmhouses and grassland, not ocean waves and sailboats.
She tsk-tsks quietly. “Is that why you’re
parting with this? There’s no water where you’re headed?”
Her eyes drift back to the kayak I’ve got
leaning against a stately oak on the northeast side of the campus of the U.S.
Naval Academy. The tree’s leaves are golden yellow now, as bright as a dandelion,
and it pains me to think I won’t be here to see them fall to the ground.
I knew this would be my last tour. I was
supposed to have left this summer, but separating from the Navy comes with a
mountain of paperwork and bureaucratic red tape, and I haven’t fought it
because Annapolis is a great place to be stuck for a while.
I shrug, moving the kayak to lay flat on
the ground as an autumn wind threatens to topple it. “Not where I’ll be, anyway.
There’s a creek, but not deep enough to kayak in for more than a quarter mile
without crashing into rocks.” I frown at the sight of the kayak, unmarred and
unused. “Besides, it’s a tandem kayak.”
“So your girlfriend isn’t following you.”
She says it like a statement rather than a question, and I suddenly can imagine
her snuggled up in bed with Jack as they shake their heads, lamenting what poor
taste I have in girlfriends.
And I’d be the first to agree with them.
“No,” I answer, making sure to keep my
tone level and unemotional.
She shakes her head, as I predicted she
would. “Jack and I didn’t like her anyway.”
They’d like her even less if they knew
why she left me.
Her back straightens and lightly tanned
arms fold across her chest, looking again at the kayak. “You sure you want to
part with her? She’s a beauty.”
I’m assuming she’s talking about the
kayak. Not my ex-girlfriend.
“Yep. You’ll be doing me a favor, taking
it off my hands. And I figured with the way Jack likes to kayak, maybe a tandem
would be in your future sometime soon.”
Jack doesn’t wear the SEAL Trident on his
uniform like I do. But he’s stationed right now as an augmentee for one of the
Teams down in Little Creek, Virginia, even though he and Maeve spend any moment
they can up here in Annapolis.
Her brow furrows in thought. “How much
are you asking for it?”
“For you? Nothing.”
Cocking her head, her knuckles move to
rest on her trim waistline, a classic Maeve pose. “No way. This is practically new,
Logan.”
Brand new, I want to say, but I won’t.
“Seriously, just take it. I owe you big time for the decorating you did on my
house when I got here.”
Her eyes roll lavishly. “Oh, please. You
would have been happy to live in a bachelor pad with a picture of dogs playing
poker on the wall. You only let me decorate as a favor to Jack and me.”
She’s actually right. She was starting
her own interior design company and needed to build up her portfolio. And how
could any man say no to a woman like Maeve? “Maybe. Just take the kayak, Maeve.
Consider it a wedding gift.”
“You already gave us a wedding gift.”
“A second wedding gift then. You can send
me photos of all the places you go in it and make me cry while I’m landlocked
in the Midwest.”
Wincing from the image she likely had of
me in the middle of a cornfield, she touches my arm sympathetically—a
friendly gesture that would have stirred me up a while back. But now I only see
her as the big sister I always wished I had.
“You’re sure you belong in Ohio? I
thought you’d head back to San Diego when you were done here.”
Uncomfortable suddenly, I stoop to lay
the paddle on the inside of the vessel as my heart rate climbs. “My family
needs me now. You know the deal.”
It has nothing to do with the way my
hands are suddenly clammy, and I feel like I’m suffocating.
“Well, don’t dig those roots too deep,
okay? We’re still hoping you’ll come back to us,” she says, her innocent words unintentionally
having a double meaning because I really do feel far away sometimes, 7,000
miles from everyone else.
My eyes drift to the water as she climbs
into the kayak to get a feel for it. The brackish water here flows into the
Chesapeake Bay and then intermingles with the waters from every ocean on the
planet.
And the thought calms me. This time, just
like always.
Today
~ ALLIE ~
“So… what do the rooms look like here?”
I’m actually stunned that the words slipped from my mouth. They’re so unlike me
that I nearly glance over my shoulder to see who said them.
My mother would be ashamed, but my
friends would probably rise to their feet applauding. It had been that long.
It’s not that I’m a prude when it comes
to sex. I can tell a room full of half-sloshed women how to effectively play
with a guy’s balls while they give a blowjob. Or, without even blushing, I’m
able to stoically discuss the best angle to find your G spot.
After all, that’s what helps pay the
bills.
But I am all talk, no action. I mean,
no
action. Not for over a year, closing in quickly on two. And after what the last
guy did to me, it’s no wonder. Especially now that my world has been expanded
by sex toys and I’ve discovered that I can give myself a much better orgasm
than my last boyfriend ever did.
The man sitting across the table from me is
different, though.
I’m okay-looking and on a good day I’m a
solid 7. But I’m not really the social butterfly type. If I try something like
the hair-flip-while-giggling move that I see executed by other women at this
bar, it usually looks like I have an acute neck spasm.
So the guys I attract seem to fall into
the average range—not the “drop your panties” kind of men like the guy I am
sitting across from right now. He has Hollywood A-lister looks. Chiseled
features, piercing eyes, and a wide jaw that makes him look a bit like a
football star. I’m not sure why he’s even sitting here with me, and certainly
clueless as to why he bought me dinner after sharing a drink at the bar. Yep, actually
bought
me dinner, picking up the bill without the slightest hesitation
the way men do in those old movies I watch on cable at 2 a.m.
And when he told me he was a SEAL—
a
freakin’ Navy SEAL?—
my mouth went dry and my heart did its own version
of
Riverdance
.
“Nothing too special,” he answers me. “But
I hear the room service is good. Maybe we could order dessert in the room?”
The timbre of his voice is like liquid
gold, warm and smooth. The kind of voice that flows through the air casting a
warm sensation across my breasts.
Dessert? The only dessert my starved
libido wants to devour is him.
“Sounds perfect.” I try to sound like the
confident woman I’m not. I have never picked up a man in a bar, and certainly
hadn’t intended to tonight. I’m here only because I was supposed to meet one of
my sales reps, who stood me up via a text message forty minutes after we were
supposed to meet.
Logan—yes, a guy who looks like
this could never have an ordinary name like Mark or John—bought me a
drink while I waited. A drink that led to dinner, that led to a tantalizing
conversation that made me want to lick his entire body like a lollipop.
As I stand, he pulls my chair out for me,
a gesture I’m not even sure what to do with. The last time a guy pulled a chair
out for me, I was trying to sit down, which resulted in me crashing to the ground
with the cackles of my third grade classmates in the background.
This time is different. Instead of
feeling like a humiliated eight-year-old, I’m feeling like the horny,
sex-deprived 24-year-old I am. This man has all the moves, the moves that are
making my knees give way and my lips want to meld themselves to his.
His hand touches the small of my back as
he guides me toward the mirrored elevator doors in the hotel’s lobby, sending
tiny shivers down my spine. I’ve had drinks here a few times before, but I’ve never
actually seen one of the hotel rooms. Here in the far, far-reaching suburbs of
Dayton, Ohio, this hotel and conference center is the only option for happy
hour drinks outside of meeting at Applebee’s.
He reaches for the “up” button and I can’t
help noticing his hands. I’ve always had a thing for guys’ hands. Logan’s are
rough and imperfect, the way I like them, with long, sensual fingers. I imagine
they are calloused in all the right places.
So as one of those long, rough fingers
presses the button, it is then that hesitation grips me. No, not quite
hesitation exactly. More like sheer terror. I see my reflection standing next
to an impossibly hot man. Me, in my sensible skirt and lightweight blouse,
teetering on heels that I only wear under duress.
This is not something I do. This guy is just
passing through town. He said his home is in San Diego. He’s probably leaving
tomorrow or the next day.
This is destined to be a one-night-stand.
My
first
one-night-stand… which
anyone would figure out if they learned I’d had one solitary sex partner in my
entire life, my college boyfriend who dumped me for being “no fun anymore” after
my dad died unexpectedly.
A one-night-stand is not in my playbook.
But I need this. I need to feel this
man’s hands on me, to remind me that sex is not intended to be a solo sport.
We step into the elevator and I immediately
wish for another drink. I am sober as a judge, so tomorrow morning when I slink
out of his room to do my walk of shame, I won’t even be able to blame alcohol.
I am ready to bolt, till he stands next
to me in the otherwise empty elevator and the doors shut. His arm gently wraps
around my waist, and his warmth seeps through the clinging fabric of my skirt. Lightly,
his finger traces the tiny cleft in my chin as he says, “You’re sure you
wouldn’t rather have dessert in the restaurant?”
Arrgh. I curse my own transparency.
Don’t
you dare pull a “nice guy” routine on me
, I think.
I need a Bad Boy
tonight. Not a nice guy.
I know this for a fact because I hear
plenty of sordid tales of nights with Bad Boys while I’m peddling my sex toys
for the multi-level marketing company I work for. You have no idea how women
talk at these parties as they are drinking their Chardonnays and filling out
sales forms for overpriced vibrators and candy-scented lubricants. I listen to
more post-coital confessions than a psychiatrist specializing in sex addicts.
I hear these stories of hot, creative men,
and wonder what the hell my selfish-in-bed last boyfriend was thinking with his
usual missionary-style sex that lasted just long enough for him to get off,
while I usually had to finish myself off after he dozed next to me.
I’ve been missing out. Big time. And
while I might be able to talk a good game when it comes to sex, I’m pretty much
sticking to the script that the company gives me. And yes, they really do
provide a script.
So I do what any hot-blooded female other
than me would do at that moment: I push him against the mirrored wall and say,
“They’re not serving what I want for dessert in that restaurant.”
Then, just as a smile touches his lips, I
press my mouth against his and taste him for the first time, swirling my tongue
across his teeth and entwining it with his. My hands are pressed against the
mirrored wall on both sides of his head and his fingers channel into my hair. He
consumes me, kissing me in a way that makes my pelvis arch against him
unconsciously.
My, my. He is a big boy, isn’t he? I can
feel his erection pressing against me and it sends my entire mind into a
whirlwind like one of those carnival rides that whip you around in circles upon
circles until you can’t even remember your own name. He is bigger than the new
UltraMag vibrator model that just came in last week complete with a clitoral
stimulator, retailing at $199.95 (but $100 off if you host a party for me in
the month of June).
Spinning me 180 degrees so that my back is
now against the wall, his rock-hard chest is pressed against mine, entrapping
me. I feel his hands grip mine, lifting them above my head as he plunges his
tongue into my mouth in a needy, suggestive rhythm. His kiss is addictive, and
had he broken it off right then, I would have grabbed his face and demanded,
“More, please.”
The heat between us is searing. I can
feel the steam rising from my skin. His body is hard and big and broad and makes
me feel tiny.
I like this feeling. I like it a lot.
Releasing me from his possessive grip, his
hands travel along my body, down my sides, the pads of his thumbs lightly
brushing against the curves of my breasts. I ache to strip this silk blouse off
me and feel him against me with nothing in between us.
As the elevator gives a final ding, and
the doors open to an empty hallway, my knees nearly buckle. He must have felt
me start to go limp because, giving a quick glance over his shoulder, he lifts
me off my feet and carries me out of the elevator. The last time I was lifted
by a man, I was nine years old and had twisted my ankle during gymnastics class,
and the guy was my dad.
My dad, who would be shaking his head at
me right now.
Guilt threatens to extinguish the glorious
feelings that are shooting off like fireworks throughout my torso. I fight my
good-girl conscience, my hands moving to the sides of his face as I kiss him
while he walks down the hall with me in his arms.
He’s surprisingly adept at being able to
walk down this hall, somewhat blindly with his face firmly attached to mine. It
makes me wonder how many women he has carried down this hall.
Maybe this is his shtick—picking up
women in the bar downstairs and taking them to his room. Maybe I am one of a
long string of women during his visit to Ohio.
No, no, no.
I’m battling my sensible, paranoid mind as
it lectures me with every step he takes down the hall. I focus on the taste of
him, a mix of the beer and steak that he had for dinner, as I dip my tongue
further into his warm, inviting mouth. And the smell of him. I inhale it deeply—a
simple, soapy scent that intoxicates me. He sets me down gently to fumble for a
key card in his pocket and I glance at his door.
His
door. That leads to
his
room. That has
his
bed. That I am going to have crazy,
mindless, hot monkey sex in.
Holy shit.
Trying to banish the hesitation that is building
in my conscience, I nudge him against his door before he is even able to slip
the card into its slot. I splay my hands against his chest, the thin fabric of
his shirt warm to my touch.
And I feel them.
Oh, yowza
, I feel them: real, honest-to-God six-pack
abs that are so firm I could bounce a penny off them.
Right there in the vacant hallway, I can’t
resist pulling his shirt out just a little so I can slip my fingers underneath
the bottom and touch them.
I purr in response. I’ve never touched
anything so fine in my life, except maybe that time my college roommate wore a
mink coat (even though morally I find fur coats reprehensible, I’ll admit it
was soft as sin).
My hands seem to sizzle against his skin,
sending a shimmering sensation from my fingertips all the way to my core.
I touch my mouth to his and tentatively trace
his perfectly formed lips with my tongue. I feel him moan, low and mildly
menacing, and he drops the key card to the floor, digging his fingers into my hair
again. His hands then move to my back, pulling me closer so that I can feel
just how much he wants me right now. And I can’t help but wonder if he’s
visually impaired because I’m not nearly as smokin’ hot as he is.
But who cares? I’m not caring
what
he sees in me as he does something completely incredible with his tongue, titillating
me in a way that simply cannot be replicated by any of the toys in our most
expensive line.
My body is thrumming in a rhythm that
seems almost primal in reaction, and I’m wondering what other parts of me he
could spark to life with that gifted tongue.
He pulls his mouth from mine and bends
over to retrieve the key, just long enough for me to check out a truly
remarkable ass. From behind him, I wrap my arms around to his front to feel
those abs again. I wonder if he has any tattoos on that shredded bod of his. Or
maybe a bad-ass body piercing, though he doesn’t quite seem the type. I wonder if
he’ll let me trace my tongue along the hills and valleys of those sculpted muscles.
I wonder… if I can do that without having
to take off my own clothes in the process.
Oh, no
, I suddenly think as he slips in the key and the tiny green
light on the door lights up. I am going to have to get naked with this man.
Me, in my sensible undies and legs that I
skipped shaving this morning.
Do I have any stubble in my armpits? That
would really suck.
Maybe he’s the type that likes it with the
lights off?
Truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know anything
about him. And I sure don’t know how men like to fuck women they pick up in
bars. Because technically, this will be just a fuck.
I’ve never had just-a-fuck in my life.
Just as he starts to nudge the door open,
I panic. I panic like any God-fearing cafeteria-Catholic would panic in this
situation. This is out of my realm. Beyond my comfort zone. This is a huge mistake.
