Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“Is sex on or off the table? I mean, I’ll do it on or off. I have no problems with table sex,” I tease. Visions of her round ass in the air, my hands gripping each globe as I slide into her warm pussy send a shot of heat straight to my balls.

“Not what I meant.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We both know sex is on the table. It’s really a question of whether you’ll allow me to participate or if you’re just going to keep using your fingers and pretending they’re mine.”

She leans closer. “Stop it.”

I think she likes the proximity, so I back away. The corners of her lips drop just enough to be noticeable and enough to tell me I’m right.

If I back away and it makes her come around, how can I be blamed for that? Answer: I can’t. At least not in a way I could feel guilt over. God knows I’m avoiding that fucker.

“You know what?” I say, getting to my feet. “You’re right. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable and you’ve been very clear you want me to stop.”

She’s not sure whether to buy this line of bullshit or not. But as I scoot her phone across the table and it hits the side of her purse with a thud, she slumps.

This is a go-for-broke kind of thing and I don’t want to be broke. I swipe my wallet from my pocket and hope I’m a good shot.

“Did you have anything? I’ll pay,” I say, forcing myself to ignore the look on her face. I pull a twenty that’s sticking out and toss it on the table. “Want me to walk you out?”

She pulls her brows together. We both know she’s waiting on the rest of it, the very Lance-like addition to every sentence I can get away with. I surprise us both with my willpower and don’t give it to her.

But damn if I don’t want to give it to her.

“Okay.” Her possessions get compiled together as if they’re the most interesting things in the world. She stands and heads to the door. This time, I make it a point not to touch her.

Thirteen

Mariah

Each step leads me closer to the door. Each fall of my foot has me holding my breath and waiting for the moment his palm touches the small of my back. By the time I’m halfway to the door, I itch to turn around and find him. He’s there. The ripple of whatever moves between us when we’re near each other is roaring, almost knocking me on my ass.

On its own, that’s enough. But coupled with the newfound knowledge that Lance is also History Hunk, is like going from a Category One storm to a Six in a second flat. Here I am, in a little tattered sailboat, trying to navigate this hellacious situation. The only thing that might help me stay afloat is him reaching out for me.

“Let me get the door for you,” he offers. More than enough room is taken to walk around me. “Here you go.”

I look at the floor all the way out, not sure what to think of all this distance. I hate it. But something about it feels almost normal in a really sad way. It reminds me of Eric and his lack of physical attention. “Thanks.”

The sun is bright, making me squint, as I step outside. The door snaps closed but I plow forward. It’s more than embarrassment now. It’s a fear of rejection. It’s knowing who I’m dealing with and wondering how I’m going to internalize it when he’s in my office on Monday making plans to bed some other woman. What do I do? Grin and bear it? Because there’s no doubt that’s what he’s going to do. He’s unapologetically Lance.

My pace quickens and I spy my car at the end of the row. I don’t notice the custom pearly-purple paint job on the SUV on my left until it’s too late.

“Good morning, honey.” My mother removes her oversized sunglasses, her keys dangling in her hand. “What are you doing here?”

“Just had lunch.”

I’m ten, maybe twelve steps from my car. Shuffling that way, I can cut it down to eight. Possibly six.

I can’t do this today.

“I really need to go, Mom.” A dull throb begins in my temple. “I’ll call you later.”

“You can’t even make time to say hello in a parking lot?”

Her voice is too loud, too demanding, to be ignored. We’ve done this before. If I walk away, she will just increase the volume and half of Merom will know our business. Or, by her version of it, will think I’m a complete asshole of a daughter, in a best case scenario.

“Mom …”

Her attention is diverted behind me. My hips pivot to turn but I stop. There’s no need to look. It’s Lance.