This, back in the day, was when I would start considering having sex.
And this, right then, might be when Mickey thought we should start having sex.
I had not had a lot of partners before Conrad, but I also wasn’t a virgin. And Conrad and I had had a healthy sex life. One I enjoyed. One I thought we’d both enjoyed. One that continued not only from start to finish but didn’t wane when I was pregnant or even after my pregnancies when I carried baby weight. And although during those times Conrad encouraged me to lose it and “get healthy,” that didn’t seem to affect his attraction to me.
And it was safe to say I wanted to have sex with Mickey.
But I was terrified because not only might he not find me a good conversationalist, worse, it had been a long time for me. I couldn’t imagine you could forget how to do it but I was concerned I’d get tense or worry too much I was giving him what he needed and he might find me a terrible lover.
Then where would we be?
I just stopped myself from wringing my hands and wondering hysterically if I should have slept with Bradley just to get back in the saddle when Mickey called, “Amy.”
“Yeah,” I answered the windshield.
God, even my voice sounded tight!
“Ash is with some girlfriends. She’ll be home by ten.”
“Okay,” I mumbled.
“And on our way back from the restaurant, we gotta pick up Cill, who’s hanging with some buds.”
“All right,” I kept mumbling.
My head twitched and I looked down when I felt Mickey’s hand at my elbow. I watched and experienced the tingles when it trailed down, at the same time tugging until he folded his big hand around mine.
“What I’m sayin’ is, you need to relax,” he went on gently. “My kids’ll be home tonight so, seein’ as when I have you, I intend to take my time doin’ that and not fuck you on your couch and do it quick so I can get back to my kids, this is just dinner, baby. You and me and some alone time. When I can concentrate on just you, that’s when we’ll take this there. Until then, just sit back and enjoy.”
How did he know what I was thinking?
Likely because he was thinking of having sex with me.
Just not tonight.
That was one relief.
Though, it didn’t help, his comment about “taking his time,” which made me want to start having sex with him immediately.
Unfortunately, that new urge was added to the other things I continued to worry about.
“You hear me?” he asked on a hand squeeze when I didn’t answer.
“I heard you.”
“You gonna relax?” he pushed.
“We’re not fighting,” I blurted, looking to him to see his eyes aimed at where we were going.
“No,” he agreed.
I stared at his handsome profile.
No five o’clock shadow, he’d shaved for me.
I liked the whiskers.
I liked it more he made an effort for me.
The rest was him. Faded jeans, a lightweight cotton shirt with sleeves rolled up.
But the jeans were less faded and the shirt was an attractive plaid in beige and light blue against white that was a tad bit nicer than what he usually wore around me.
Yes, he’d made an effort for me.
This meant something.
So I decided to put it out there.
Tightening my fingers around his, I turned my body his way. “What if, no kids, no fighting, you find I’m not interesting?”
His hand convulsed in mine, nearly causing pain his strength was so formidable, and he did this bursting out laughing.
My comment was hardly funny.
“Mickey,” I snapped.
I could tell he was forcing his laughter to chuckles when he said incredulously, “You, the Calway heiress who’s busier than me, and I essentially got two jobs and am the only parent to my two kids, in that fuckin’ dress, sittin’ across from me with a million stories about old folks and what they get up to, not to mention what you get up to with Alyssa and Josie…not interesting?”
He made it sound like that was impossible.
“You’ve heard a lot of my old folks stories, Mickey,” I reminded him.
“They all kick the bucket since you last told ’em?” he asked me.
My heart clenched at the thought as I forced out, “Of course not.”
“Then don’t worry,” he muttered, slowing the truck and letting me go to keep a hand on the wheel and flip on his turn signal.
“I can’t regale you all night with stories of the residents of Dove House.”
“You can crack my shit up by using words like regale,” he returned.
I found that surprising.
“Regale is funny?” I asked.
“Amy,” he said as answer and said no more, but my name on his lips was uttered with a smile.
So I queried, “That’s it? Amy?”
He looked both ways and made his turn, saying, “I’ll confirm. Regale is funny.”
“How?”
“How is anything funny? It just is,” he replied.
“I find that strange,” I murmured, not knowing if that stung or if it didn’t.
He heard that too.
I knew it when he said, “I’m not makin’ fun of you, babe. It’s just cute. Like you can be when you’re not being bull-headed and a pain in the ass.”
God.
Really?