After Care Read online

  Our mouths moved together, and he tipped my head for better access. We were making out like teenagers—lips exploring, hands slowly groping, an energy building around us that took my breath and shook it like glitter in a glass jar. Then his palm came to the side of my breast, and I halted, releasing his lips so quickly, a soft pop echoed between us.

  “I can’t…” My voice trailed off. Oh, God, this was embarrassing. This was the worst thing. I didn’t know how to say it. “I can’t…”

  His thumb caressed the side of my breast, rubbing harder, pressing firmer.

  “You don’t think I’ve felt a fake tit before, darlin’?” The query stopped me. I hadn’t realized I’d curled up on my toes to reach his height. My feet fell as flat as my heels would allow at the question. My hands slipped from his shoulders, drifting over the hills of his biceps and skipping to his chest. I palmed the firmness of his pecs. Solid. Strong. Real.

  “How did you know?” The question was stupid. Of course, he’d touched other women, most of whom, I assumed, were younger than me. Of course he had. Groupies surely had implants. Some women had them for funzies, enlarging what wasn’t there or enhancing what God already gave them. Either way, my situation was different. “Don’t answer that. Never mind.”

  “Jealousy just shifted to a different shade. Still like you wearing it, beautiful.” The words brought tears to my eyes, and I rapidly blinked. I couldn’t be jealous. Of course, he’d been with other women. Look at him, I screamed to myself. Although, I was more upset over the fact he called me beautiful, and I didn’t feel that way.

  “I think I should go,” I whispered, lowering my head and almost resting it on his chest, but I held back. The thick pad of his finger tipped up my chin.

  “Tell me what just happened here.”

  “You kissed me.” I giggled without humor. In fact, my whole body shook with the after effect of what we’d just done.

  “When I touched you,” he clarified. My face shot up to look at his. His dark eyes beamed down at me, but there was a softness to the edgy black. His eyes shimmered like ink instead of granite.

  “I can’t…I just can’t let you touch me there.”

  “Why not?”

  I sighed, taking a step back. Two large hands caught me on my shoulder blades and brought me back to him. He massaged along my bra strap, thumbs circling in a way that would make a normal woman relax. Instead, I tensed.

  “I have breast cancer. Had.” The doctor’s words echoed in my head. “I have no sensation in my...” I choked on the word. Nipples. I didn’t have any. Masie had convinced me to get nipples tattooed just to make myself feel better, but they were two dimensional. It wasn’t the same thing.

  He didn’t respond, but his hands slipped to my hips.

  This is it, I thought. He’s going to thank me for the night. Or worse, not thank me at all, just step back and walk away. My head lowered in shame. Cancer wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t even embarrassed I had it. It wasn’t contagious. It wasn’t that kind of disease. But I also didn’t want it to be a crutch. The last thing I needed was his sympathy.

  Preparing myself mentally for the blow to my ego, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and…

  The sides of my dress rose up my thighs. The thick, tight cotton swept upward, revealing more skin to the air conditioning and the roughness of his jeans. My knees already brushed denim, but my upper thighs were feeling the softened fabric as well.

  “What are you doing?” My voice was so low, it struggled with the words. My brain fought to comprehend what was happening. The pulse between my thighs beat faster than my heart, speeding toward a finish line without knowing when the race started. Dampness pooled on my cotton underwear, and the faint scent of my sex filled the sliver of space between us.

  “You have other areas that are sensitive,” he offered. “I’m sensing they have uncorked needs as well.”

  The sound of his gravelly voice nearly undid me. I clenched, suppressing the tremble in my knees and the urge to lift a leg and wrap around him like a tree. My core sought friction. He was what I needed. His thick leg would be perfect. Better yet would be the mass straining against his jeans.

  His fingers climbed—up, up, up—scrunching the material of my dress to my hips until…

  Shit.

  “What the fuck?” His finger found the high-cut band at the leg of my underwear. Since it had clearly never, ever crossed my mind that anyone other than me would see these panties, I’d forgotten about them. High-cut and high-waisted, they covered my lower abdomen, landing at my true waist to flatten the loose baggage of my lower belly. I suspected he was more familiar with thin lace and racy strings, and I had on the grandmother of all underwear in hopes of keeping a few things tucked into place.

  “Oh my God,” I muttered, pushing at his wrists to lower my dress and cover myself. Could things get any more embarrassing?

  Yes, actually.

  He had slipped two thick fingers under the elastic band at my hip and trapped me by my underwear. Fingers clenched in the fabric, pinning me against him. I couldn’t budge his strength, and he wasn’t releasing me despite my protest.

  “This is embarrassing,” I murmured.

  “You think I care about your underwear? I’m more interested in what’s under there,” he growled. Literally, it was a groan of an epic man-bear.

  I felt like a rag doll, jostled by the tug of my underwear, as I pressed at his chest to free myself. Then it happened. Two thick fingers crossed over my sensitive skin, so slick, so achy, so repressed. We both stopped struggling, and he repeated the motion before entering me. My breath hitched. Had he violated me? No, this was more like visceral pleasure to the nth-degree. My core clenched tighter than it ever had. I was so turned on, I couldn’t think. My surprised eyes found his just as shocked by my response. Was this really happening? Wasn’t this every woman’s fantasy? A random, sexy man in a dark ballroom during a vacation, who you’ll never see again?

  Not mine. Not here. Not like this.

  His fingers stopped moving, his arm frozen in a position that pinned me to the wall and connected me to him. My hand returned to his wrist, wrapping around the thick trunk and clutching at it to remove his fingers from me.

  “I’m not going to lie. I want you…but I can’t do this,” I choked out, sounding weak, desperate, and lame. Why couldn’t I just let him finger me? Why couldn’t I be carefree and open to experimentation? To one-night stands? To a fling? God, maybe I should have cats.

  One hand on the wall near my head steadied him as our breaths mixed, twirling over each other’s like our tongues had moments before. He pushed off the wall and stood taller, a paw of a hand rubbing at the heavy strain in his jeans, pressing seductively up and down with the heel of his hand.

  “Don’t tease me, darlin’. I’m too old for this shit.”

  No teasing. I wouldn’t even know how to tease. I’d been married, divorced, and alone for three years. Teasing was the last thing I knew how to do.

  “I…” My voice faded as his fingers slipped down my channel, tiptoeing to my entrance for an exit, and that’s when I did the unthinkable. My traitorous body betrayed me.

  I clenched.

  My thighs slapped together, and our eyes snapped to one another.

  “Oh, you’re definitely teasing me, beautiful, and that buys me a free sample.” His fingers plunged upward, retracing their retreat, and filling me enough I had to tip up on my toes. An animalistic groan settled between us, and I realized too late the sound came from me. My lids closed, and my forehead lowered to his shoulder. It was as if I was drugged. His fingers danced to the edge again, then leapt upward into my depths. I was too far gone, too wet, too wanting of his touch Because. You. Want. This, my body screamed. My hips curled, and my teeth bit into his shoulder.

  “That’s what I thought, darlin’. You were ready to breathe.” He sniffed at my ear before pressing his lips to my neck. I squirmed at the sensation and danced over his fingers as they increas
ed their pattern, thrusting deeper, harder, thrilling me in a way I couldn’t remember being thrilled. He was right. I wanted to breathe, and I was taking my first breath in a long time. The air was thin, the fragrance thickening. I heard the slick sound of my sex being touched, tender yet tantalizing, and I rocked with each stroke, silently begging to reach the tipping point. I gritted my teeth. I concentrated on the pleasure of his fingers. I fantasized a little that he said something dirty to me.

  I want to fuck you, whispered in my head, and I detonated. Champagne uncorking had nothing on the release that escaped me. I overflowed with foamy bubbles and crisp crackles and sticky moisture that smelled sweet, tasted divine, and made me drunk on Tommy Carrigan. My head lulled back and tapped lightly on the wall behind me. Stars of silver light flittered behind my closed lids.

  “That was something, darlin’,” he muttered to my neck. You can say that again, I thought. And then panic struck. Oh, my God. What had I done? The sound of his fingers slipping out of me made me cringe. I…I just let someone finger-f… me. I couldn’t even think the word, although the thought triggered me over the edge mere seconds ago. A trickle of dampness slid down my thigh, and I reached for it without thinking. Swiping my wet fingers on the wall, I used my other hand to straighten my dress and maneuver my underwear back in place. I couldn’t look at him.

  “Now,” he whispered, his voice gravelly and strained. “Uncork me.” His belt clinked, and a zipper unzipped. I was suddenly in over my head and rolled mine against the plaster behind me. Sensing something from eyes avoiding his, his thumb and forefinger tenderly gripped my jaw.

  “Just touch me,” he said, and I was reminded once again of pebbles plunking into a puddle. Smooth, plopping splats. I’d never been spoken to like that, in a voice like that. Hesitantly, I reached for the open seam of his jeans. The tips of my fingers tickled over the smooth head, rounding the mushroom shape to discover a mass so thick, so firm, so hard that my mouth watered. I closed my eyes and let sensation guide me, plunging forward as he had, to fit my hand within his jeans and encircle his stiff shaft. Coarse hairs tickled my knuckles, and I drew upward, caressing the trail leading to his belly button while stroking his length.

  “Fuck, darlin’. Slow is good, but fast is better.” I repeated the motion, and he swallowed. “Okay, slow is good, too,” he muttered, lowering his mouth to my neck.

  “Might need you to sample me. Give it a taste,” he murmured as I continued to tug him, increasing the pressure as I squeezed. His hand covered mine, guiding me. I knew one thing. I couldn’t taste him. That was too much. Wild thoughts threatened to ruin it. Where had his…been? Who had he been with lately? How many? How often?

  “Stop thinking,” he murmured as his lips parted, and he sucked at my skin—the same skin that had ripples and folds, a testament to my age. My head tilted, allowing him more access. I was ridiculously drunk on this man, letting him intoxicate me with gruff words, a scruffy jaw, and wicked fingers. His hand palmed my backside and squeezed, pressing me toward him as my palm increased in speed.

  “Mouth, now,” he demanded.

  “No,” I said, my voice weak. I might have misunderstood, because his lips crushed mine, commanding I open for him. I faltered in surprise as I stroked, but he squeezed my smaller fingers within his large ones, forcing me to continue jerking him. My thumb caressed the slit on his tip, and moisture seeped outward, lubricating the pad of my finger. I used it to increase the beating, the stroking, the rhythm. All the while, his mouth moved over mine, a haphazard pattern of kissing and nipping.

  I worried I was doing it wrong, taking too long, but pressed on his chest, guiding him to turn and lean on the wall. His stance relaxed, and his legs spread. His back held him upward as his head fell to the plaster behind him. His hand continued to work with mine, and I snuck a peek at what we were collectively doing. That unfamiliar flutter rekindled, filling my lower belly as I stared at what I considered a scandalously delicious vision. I was helping him get off while he was working on himself. Oh my.

  My heart beat as rapidly as my arm moved.

  “Right there, beautiful,” he hissed. “So close.”

  With strength I didn’t know I had, I increased the pressure, the speed, the dexterity of my grip, and warm liquid spurted from his tip. My fist was covered in hot stickiness, slipping through my fingers and coating our collective palms.

  “Enough,” he whispered, stilling my fingers. His eyes closed, and he tapped his head against the wall. His clean hand pressed against his face and rubbed downward. Something was wrong. Shaking my hand free of any residue, I stepped back from him.

  “Darlin’?” he questioned, his eyes suddenly on mine. My heart plummeted to my stomach. I didn’t understand what I was feeling. I couldn’t believe what I’d just done. I…I had to get out of there. So, I did what any self-respecting women who just fulfilled a fantasy with a sexy strange man in an empty ballroom on a long-overdue vacation did—I ran. Wayward thoughts raced through my mind as the click of my own heels matched the thudding in my chest.

  When leaving the hospital, aftercare was always part of the experience. What you did after—the procedure, the treatment, the incision that cut deep. However, nothing could have prepared me for how I’d take care of myself after Tommy Carrigan. There was no list, no instruction manual online at patient dot com for matters of the heart. No checklist. Nope, the aftercare sheet was a blank page. How did you treat tingling lips, skin rough from scruff-burn, and an ache so fierce your heart felt like it might burst?

  3

  Morning Delight

  Shame washed over me at how I ran from Tommy Carrigan, a man ridiculously sexy for over forty. It wasn’t fair. And neither was how I treated him. Running had never been my thing. I was committed to the core—to my children, to my marriage, to my job. Then my marriage failed, and I got breast cancer. It put things in perspective for me. Life was short, and I was only forty-three.

  This led me to a yoga class the next morning with Ivy and Masie. I still didn’t understand the young rock star wife’s obsession with me, but she was sweet, and she’d included my eighteen-year old, Masie, in the invitation.

  “A girls’ morning,” she cheerfully said as she texted me. “Breakfast afterward.”

  I allowed myself another torturous indulgence. Seeing Ivy would remind me of my previous night’s escapade in a vacant ballroom with the band manager of Collision. His life was rock stars. Mine was pearls and cardigans. We were polar opposites, and yet, for a few heated moments, we lived on the same planet.

  “Isn’t Ivy da bomb, Mom?” Masie asked as we walked to the north side of the resort. A grassy area was shadowed by the towering building and provided a serene space for morning yoga.

  “Yes, da bomb,” I replied, wondering what that meant. I chuckled to myself. Kids and their euphemisms, I couldn’t keep up.

  “Her life seems so awesome. Gage Everly as a husband, and her two girls are so sweet.” Masie couldn’t stop sharing humorous stories of her babysitting adventure the night before. At one point, the fourth band member visited the Everlys’ penthouse condo, and Masie had more misadventures to share with me. I was worried she was a little star-struck by the whole aura of Collision, particularly their youngest member, Weston Reid. I didn’t need her having a vacation fling with someone she’d never see again.

  The thought stopped me.

  Wasn’t that exactly what I’d done? Although allowing someone to finger me couldn’t actually be labelled a fling. It was more like a one-night stand, of sorts, kind of, maybe…Actually, it hadn’t been any of those things. It had been mind-blowing, and my thighs still hummed from the heat. A pulse beat at my core with the memory. Of course, I couldn’t sleep after I returned to my small rented condo. Thank goodness, the kids had their own room. I tossed and turned, my thighs clenching, my fingers twitching, yearning for a repeat of what Tommy had done to me. But I cursed those thoughts repeatedly, putting myself in my place with reminders that he was affiliat
ed with a famous band, and I was just…me.

  Mother of two. Breast cancer survivor. Professional assistant.

  “Edie.” Ivy’s voice echoed across the lawn as people gathered for yoga. A walking path was at the edge of the property, connecting resorts and allowing visitors access to the ocean side scenery. My boss had covered part of this vacation to Hawaii, calling it a bonus. Despite the previous days off for medical leave, he told me I deserved a break with my family, and as the Christmas holiday was a slow time, ten days of vacation were allotted to me.

  A scarf covered my hair again, although admittedly it was warm in the early heat of the day. I didn’t have the typical skinny girl yoga pants, or a cute work-out shirt, but wore a spandex skort and a tank top, possibly a size too small as it was Masie’s. Ivy’s eyes fell to my chest before smiling and lifting to mine.

  “You look sexy for a workout,” she teased, and I blushed, glancing down at the swell of cleavage peeking over the red shirt.

  “She always looks good,” Masie added, a touch of support in her proud daughter voice. She’d been so reassuring when my hair fell out in clumps and my body bloated. You’re still you, Mom, she told me over and over again. It was too much for a teenage girl to witness. It wasn’t fair, I often screamed, as she was my sole supporter when it should have been David, my ex.

  “Ready for this?” Ivy teased, spreading out the mandatory beach towel over the grass.

  “Ready as I’m going to be.” I’d never done yoga, but I had started working out regularly. It was a way to combat the swelling of my body and improve my mindset. I had to do something. The routine stuck long after the treatments ended. I reminded myself that no one was looking specifically at me. Women come in all shapes and sizes, and despite the public place, this was nothing.

  We sat as instructed, legs crossed and minds emptied, only mine refused to go blank. I continued to see Tommy’s dark eyes, inky and concerned as he spoke to me. I had to chuckle when I thought of his surprise at seeing my underwear and the ridiculous struggle that took place before the shock of him entering me with his fingers. The mere thought made me wet, and my core clenched. Sitting cross-legged was not a good position for the images in my brain.