Rusty Nailed (Cocktail 2)

“Ah-ah-ah, keep those legs open,” he said, and I felt his hands on my knees, just barely on the inside of my thighs. “How else can I see you make yourself come?”

I cried out, my hand now exploring my sex with abandon. Behind closed eyes, I felt Simon’s fingers swirling through and plunging inside, making those perfect circles exactly where I needed him, pressing and slipping and sliding.

I was going to come, and I was going to come hard. I told him so.

I opened my eyes to see Simon staring down at me, his eyes heavy lidded and drunk with lust, his fist moving over his own excitement. I came in a rush, one hand on my breasts, my fingers buried deep inside, and his name falling from my lips. I’d barely recovered when he moved his hands underneath me.

“Turn over—get on your hands and knees for me.” His voice was throaty and full, making me shudder once more. I did as directed and turned back to look at him. One strong hand shot out to grasp my shoulder, the other smoothed over my bottom. Angled just so, he thrust into me in one hard surge, burying his considerable length all at once. I groaned as he pushed me farther down onto the bed before his hands settled on my hips.

He plowed into me, hard and thick, impaling me with every pump of his hips. Unrelenting. Unforgiving. Unbelievable.

He took me hard, sexy, and wild. I cried out as I came all around him, my swollen flesh tender and responsive to his every move, his every plunge. Sparks burst behind my eyes, my entire body caught up as he thrust into me.

“You can’t imagine, how it feels,” he said, his voice low in my ear as he leaned over me, “to have you come on my cock.”

I exploded once more as he drove himself into me a final time, his hands digging into my skin as he rode out his orgasm deep within me.

We fell onto the bed into a heap of sweaty skin and heavy breathing. After I regained use of my limbs, I struggled to roll us both over, pushing the mass of my hair out of my face as I rested my chin on his chest. “If I get a cheerleading uniform, can we play Homecoming King again sometime?”

“As long as you wear the boots, babe,” he replied, kissing me thoroughly.

We didn’t play Homecoming King again that night, but we did play Reverse Cowgirl meets the Student Council President.

chapter thirteen

Once we flew back to the West Coast, holiday planning was in full swing. I was as busy as ever, trying to get as much done as I could before work crews began taking breaks for Christmas. We worked on Christmas decorating at a few key homes and hotels around town, and the Sausalito project kept trucking along. We were ahead of schedule, and Mr. Camden seemed very pleased with not only the construction but the interest that was being generated around town.

Mimi and Ryan were planning their holiday party for a week before Christmas and it promised to be a fabulous evening. Hosting in their new apartment, they’d invited friends and work colleagues on both sides. And Sophia and Neil would both be attendance. Of course they were both bringing dates. I was hoping the lack of Pictionary would keep them a little more in line. Wishful Thinking: Party of One.

And Simon? Well, I don’t know how to describe what Simon was. He was . . . around. I can’t explain it any better than that. He just seemed to always be—around. He’d canceled a trip he’d planned to Vancouver; he’d canceled a trip he’d had planned to Honduras. He was supposed to be gone almost the entire month of December, but now the only thing on his books was our trip to Rio. He hadn’t had downtime like this in, well, I don’t know when. Not since I’d known him. He biked most mornings, then spent most afternoons poring over old disks of his pictures, cataloging and dating them.

He was . . . around.

The thing was, I wasn’t. I thought I should feel bad for working so much, but the thing was, I wasn’t. I mean, this was my busy season, and if he was traveling like he usually did, he wouldn’t be around so much to notice it. Should I feel bad?

He said he understood. He brought me lunch most days, tried once again coaxing me back into bed in the morning with promises of dirty things..

And my God, I loved him, but I’d almost be glad when . . .

Okay, I’m going to say the thing you’re not supposed to say.

I’d be glad when I had the bed to myself again.

I hate to say it, but sometimes I slept better when he was on the road. But you’re not supposed to say that, right? You’re supposed to curl up each and every night for eight solid hours of spooning and cuddling . . . But the truth? I needed my own bed occasionally. I liked some alone time. Is that bad?

But he knew I had work to get done. There was no way I’d be able to get away for our Christmas trip unless I got all my work done now. And there was no way I was missing that: This girl was going to Ipanema.

The morning of Mimi’s Christmas party, I had planned on a little quality alone time with my KitchenAid. Mimi had asked me to bake some cookies for her party and I’d jumped at the chance, even though I was stupid busy.

Every woman needed a little self-love once in a while. Am I right? And my self-love machine was stainless steel, powerful, and came with an optional sausage attachment. Ahem.

I was almost finished for the day when Jillian called. When I answered, I almost didn’t hear her at first with all the sneezing and nose blowing.

“What the hell, Jillian. Is the bubonic plague making a comeback?”

“Ugh, don’t ever get sick in Europe; you’ll spend hours just trying to explain your symptoms. But never mind that—what have you got for me?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, flipping through my planner. I needed to have Monica run over to a client’s house in Pacific Heights and drop off a wreath, and there were two more deliveries after that, and—

“Caroline. Hey, Caroline, did you hear what I said?”

“Sorry, just a busy day. What’s up?”

“I asked what you had for me—your list? Don’t you have any questions? Any fires to put out? I’m all ears; whatcha got?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Um, let’s see. Actually, things are pretty well under control. I’m taking off soon; Mimi and Ryan are hosting a holiday party tonight, and that should be fun,” I said, looking at my watch under the desk. I really needed to get Monica going on her errands so she could leave on time. “Things are running pretty smoothly.”

“Oh. Oh, well that’s good. I just thought I’d check in and see if you needed anything, but it sounds like—”

“Sorry, Jillian,” I interrupted as Monica walked by the door. “Hey, Monica, can you run this by the Nelson’s on your way to drop off the place settings? Thanks!” I waved a good-bye. “Okay, where were we?”

“You’re having an intern drop setup Christmas decorations to one of our most important clients?”

“No, I’m having Monica drop off a wreath. She helped me to design their entire living and dining room this year, and they love her. Mrs. Nelson practically adopted her last time we were over there. Why, is there a problem?” I asked, confused. She’d put me in charge, right?

“No, no problem; just surprised you’ve got an intern doing that. But I suppose everyone has their way of doing things, right?”

I squeezed my fists under the table. We were both silent. I breathed in, hating this tension. “Anyway, how’s the world tour? Where are you spending Christmas?”

“Benjamin has some friends in Munich who wanted us to spend the holidays with them, so we’re heading there tomorrow.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Yes, it should be. So sorry to hear about Rio—maybe you guys can go next year.”

“Yes, me too—wait. What?”

“Rio. Benjamin said it fell through, that you guys were spending Christmas in San Francisco? That’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it? Way to go, Simon! That’s a first for him.”

“Whuh?”

Monica appeared at the door again, and I whispered to her that I’d just be a minute.

Jillian caught it. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full, so I’ll let you go. Have fun at your party tonight!”

She hung up. I hung up. You could have knocked me over with an Ipanema.

• • •

I headed back to my apartment as soon as I was done with work, the conversation playing over and over in my head. I really needed the quiet time now. I’d texted Simon and told him to meet me at my apartment right before the party. I didn’t mention anything about Rio; I wanted to see his face when I brought it up. I didn’t understand what in the world was going on.

I let myself into my apartment with a big sigh of relief, the sound escaping me before I realized it. The air was a little stuffy; it’d been a while since I was here. I cracked a few windows, running my hand along the deep windowsills as I did. Clive loved a deep windowsill. I looked around at the thoughtfully chosen knicks and knacks, remembering how I delighted in selecting all the pieces, the first apartment I’d ever had on my own. Through the kitchen doorway I caught sight of gleaming metal, all curves and heaven. My KitchenAid mixer.

I cracked my back, rolled my neck, and thought about all the cookies I was about to bake. I took off my heels; they’d been pinching my feet all day. And while I was at it, I took off my snug pencil skirt too.

I baked better when I was comfortable.

I had literally worked through every lunch hour and stayed late almost every day, just so I could knock off a few hours early and bake the cookies I’d promised Mimi. I’d tried mixing up a few batches of dough at Jillian’s the night before, but it wasn’t the same. Off-brand mixer. Subpar paddle. Eh.

Tuning my stereo to an all-Christmas station, I wrapped my apron on, pulled my hair into a bun on top of my head, and got to work. I stroked my KitchenAid, feeling the cool metal soothe my frayed nerves.

While Bing serenaded me, I scooped balls of chocolate chip and plopped them onto a parchment paper–lined cookie sheet. While Frank told me I’d better watch out and I’d better not cry, I mixed up a batch of snickerdoodles, rolled in extra cinnamon sugar. While Judy sang to me of having a merry little Christmas, I doused pecan sandies in powdered sugar, gently setting them to cool on wire racks that covered the dining room table. And when Elvis was blue, I was frosting red and green sugar cookies, cut into snowmen, angels, and evergreen tree shapes.

As I rolled and dipped, sugared and iced, my mind kept playing over the conversation with Jillian. Why in the world would Simon have canceled the trip without asking me? Maybe she’d gotten it wrong. Maybe she hadn’t heard Benjamin correctly. But why would Benjamin have gotten the idea that we were spending Christmas here?

I was irritated. More than irritated. If this was true, I was downright pissed. While there was no place like home for the holidays (thank you, Perry Como), and I wanted nothing in the world than to bring my boyfriend home for said holidays, this holiday I wanted Rio!

As I baked, I got more and more irritated. Adult Caroline said things like, “Just talk to Simon; find out what’s really going on.” Pissed Off Caroline was saying things like, “I already bought a new bikini, dammit, and I want to wear it!”

Guess which one was winning? By the time Simon came waltzing in, I squeezed a poor gingerbread man right where his gingerbread nuts would have been.

“Do you think this is what heaven looks like?” he asked happily. Simon, not the nutless gingerbread man.

“Cookie heaven?”

“No, my heaven: cookies and you in panties,” he replied, picking up a snickerdoodle and inhaling deeply.

I blushed. I’d forgotten about the panties. I turned around to grab the last round of gingerbread men from out of the oven. “So I talked to Jillian today. She said the funniest thing about—”

“You’re killing me, bent over like that, and with cookies! Dreaming, I’m dreaming,” he joked, coming up behind me and unexpectedly grabbing my hips.

Startled, I dropped the pan, gingerbread men spilling all over the floor and shattering. It looked like a disaster scene; legs broken, arms severed, even a few decapitations.

“Dammit!” I set the pan down a little louder than was necessary, then turned to face Simon with my hands on my hips, eyebrows arched.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Caroline. I didn’t mean—wow. They’re kind of scary like that, aren’t they?” he said, looking around at my feet.

I took a breath, held it, counted to thirteen, then let it out.

“Did you cancel our trip to Brazil?”

“Brazil?” he asked, looking guilty.

“Yes, Brazil. When I talked to Jillian today, she told me about a conversation you had with Benjamin—that you’d canceled our trip. Did you?”

He was quiet for a minute, his eyes unreadable.

“Yes.”

He had. He really had.

“You want to tell me why?”

“I was going to surprise you,” he started, walking over to me, dodging ginger parts.

“Most guys surprise their girlfriends with trips, Simon—not the opposite,” I snapped, throwing the cookie sheets into the sink and squeezing soap all over them. I scrubbed at them furiously, splashing suds everywhere. “Why in the world would you do that?”

“I wanted to—”

“Do you have any idea how hard I’ve been working? How much I was looking forward to that trip?”

“I know; I just thought that—”

“You can’t just up and cancel something like that without talking to me! I literally can’t believe that you—”

“Would you just listen to me for a second? Jesus!” he exploded, slamming his hand down on the counter, crushing more gingerbread men. “I wanted to spend Christmas with your folks, Caroline. I invited them here.”