I didn’t even bother to stop at the office. I kept telling myself to go home or go grab a beer somewhere, find a woman, any woman other than Clara, that lacked inhibitions and scratch my itch. I told myself that over and over, right up until I pulled in Clara’s driveway and cut my truck off. Even as I climbed the stairs to her porch, I told myself what a horrible idea this was. I begged myself to turn around. But I didn’t. I was never one to listen to the voice of reason. Where’s the fun in that?
I knocked on the door a few times, but there was no answer. Her car was in the driveway though. She was definitely home. I trudged down the steps and rounded the house, making my way to the back yard. If she was here, I was going to see her. It was almost dark, but there was enough light to see where I was walking. The sound of a radio played softly as I turned into the backyard.
And there she was.
Humming with the music, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
Didn’t she know I was hanging by a thread?
She was barefoot, wearing this green cotton dress. The material was worn and faded, making it practically see-through. Her back was to me as she shook out a sheet and began folding it. She line-dried her clothes—that’s where that clean linen scent came from that drove me fucking crazy.
I approached her slowly, but she turned before I reached her. She startled and placed a hand to her chest. “Is your goal in life to scare me into a heart attack, Paul James?”
As she caught her breath, I watched her as she continued to fold the sheet until she stopped and looked up at me. Tilting her head, she eyed me suspiciously. “What’s up with you?”
I couldn’t play coy with her. Not that day. I was too wound up. So I laid it all out on the line.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
She froze.
“I don’t know what this is between us. I go from hating you one minute to wanting to bash my brains in because I can’t stop thinking about you the next.”
Silence. She. Said. Nothing.
“I need . . .” I swallowed hard. She was probably going to punch me in the balls for what I was about to say. Don’t do it, Paul. Just leave. You haven’t damaged anything yet. Just. Leave.
I didn’t listen.
Of course, I didn’t.
“I need to feel you.” It was the politest way I could put it. Hopefully, she got the message.
Her cheeks turned pink as her gaze dropped from mine for a moment as she absorbed my words. Then meeting my eyes again, she said, “I’m not the kind of woman that just hooks up, Paul.”
Still wasn’t listening. I stepped toward her. Stop, Paul! I begged myself.
“I know that.” What the fuck was I saying?
Her chest rose as she sucked in a ragged breath. She was speechless. That was rare.
“If you don’t . . . if you’re not interested . . . I’ll go. No hard feelings.”
A few seconds passed where we just stared at one another. She seemed as if she didn’t know what to say, and, well, I’d said too much. Maybe.
Finally, she pulled her comforter from the clothesline and spread it on the ground. When she stood beside it, her gaze fixed on mine as she pulled the hem of her dress up and over her head.
No bra.
No panties.
Just Clara.
“Take your hair down,” I told her. And she did. No eye rolling or sassing. It was so unlike her. Her hair billowed down before she ran her fingers through it, trying to tame it. I tugged my shirt over my head and let it fall to the ground. As I unbuckled my belt, I toed off my shoes. Once I was naked, I took a few steps so that I was inches in front of her.
“You’re sure?” I questioned.
She nodded.
And so it began. I needed release, and Clara took it gladly. There, in her backyard, we took our time with each other. Even now, like an old song, I can hear it, and see it, too. But most of all, I feel it. The flashes of images against the memory of sounds. Crickets chirping in the background, the sound of the radio playing. Our hot breaths coming out in loud huffs, her moans, my grunts. The way she whispered my name with lust. My teeth biting into her skin, from head to toe. Her lips brushing across my body with tempered discipline.
That night, we clawed at each other, fingers digging into flesh, desperate, hungry for more. I wanted to soak her in, absorb her, take every drop of her. For every bit I gave, she met it with just as much gusto. It was beautiful. I felt like I’d been let in on a secret; I was privileged. This woman in my arms was not Clara Bateman, my business partner. This woman was committed to her pleasure and mine. There was no high-handedness. There was no who’s right or wrong. There was only this. Us. These feelings. This want. Nothing else mattered. When we finally joined our bodies, when I felt her clench around me, and heard her cry out because I’d found the deepest part of her, everything else disappeared.
It was just her and me.
And I knew my life would never be the same.
“He told you about that, huh?” I questioned, my cheeks heating. I can’t believe Paul gave Ashley so much detail about our first time together.
“It wasn’t explicit,” she points out quickly, a hint of disappointment in her tone. “He held back.”
“So should I just pick up from there?”
“Yes. I’m eager to know what happened.”