Back outside the office, instead of handing her back the flyer, I ease the boards down, lean them against the building and reach for her. My hand is big, my tan dark against the pale flesh of her freckled arm. She looks at my hand on her the same way I do, licks her lips. This could be so good. I slide my other hand up her shoulder, behind her neck. I lift her hair off her neck.
“I think you should come in and cool off for a minute,” I say. “It’s not good for you to stand out in the sun too long.”
“And I bet you got this tan sitting inside reading the Bible?” she says archly. I give her a half smile and she steps nearer to me. The heat between us is like the sparks off a firecracker when you light it and hold it in your hand as long as you can before you’d get burned. It is fascinating, dangerous.
I unlock the office, the cool air blasting over sweaty skin. I take the papers from her and put them on a chair.
“Wouldn’t want those getting messed up,” I say. “This is going to get dirty.”
“I’m not afraid of a little dirt,” she says.
I reach for the shoulder buckle of her overalls, unhitch it and sling the strap backward. When I unfasten the other strap, I am surprised for a moment that they don’t slide to the floor. But of course they catch on the flare of her hips. For an instant I’m focused on the hard points of her nipples poking through her t-shirt. My heart pulses in my throat, a wash of heat scalding my body even as cold air fills the room. It’s powerless to cool me down. She locks eyes with me as I cover her breast with my hand, feeling the poke of her nipple on my palm that makes me roll my shoulders back like I’ve taken a punch and need to recover. I massage her breast, fondle her nipple, rubbing it and pinching it lightly. She sucks her full lower lip between her teeth at the sensation. I feel the corner of my mouth hitch up in satisfaction
I lean in and suck the side of her neck, drawing a moan from her.
“Never hold back those sounds,” I say.
She answers by grabbing my shoulders, squeezing them, running her hands through my hair. I keep meaning to get it cut. I was used to wearing it military short, but it got away from me. Now it seems essential because she’s gripping it, and the slight sting of her tugging on my hair is sharp and sweet, I can’t say a word. I gasp. Her mouth is on mine, kissing me, as hungry for it as I am. That smart mouth has the passion to back it up. I turn her and back her up against the door. I flip the lock and grab her hips. I let my hands roam the swell of her hips and her round ass. Her cheeks are flushed and so is her chest. I can’t stop kissing her. My tongue is in her mouth even when I push down her overalls and feel her legs brush mine as she steps out of them. I spread my fingers and run my hand down the back of her thigh, lifting it to my hip. I pick her up, slide her up the door. She grabs my faces and arches so I have a great angle to suck her throat. I fumble with my zipper, then reach between her legs. Her panties are drenched. She wants me so bad.
“Yes,” she pants as I finger her, spreading her and rubbing my thumb up and down the length of her slit. I move up, find her clit and her head rolls back against the door. I’m working her, making her moan every time I graze the underside of her clit with my work-roughened thumb. I taste the salt of her skin as I kiss her collarbone, the mist of sweat on her just making it more urgent.
I tease her, make sure she’s ready. I’m sure as hell ready. I have to press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, suck in my breath as I guide my throbbing cock to her slit. She’s so wet, her juices coat the sensitive head of my dick, and I grit my teeth to control myself. I want to plunge and take and rut in her. I breach her sex with one thrust, long and slow, going deep. She’s so slick, so hot as she grips me. I sheath myself in her with an otherworldly groan. It feels like relief, like the cut of a thousand fine blades and then sinking into hot water, riding the knife’s edge of pleasure and pain. She wraps her other leg around me, arches her back, takes all of me in. I’m going slow, going hard, and she’s taking it, every bit of it. And wanting more.
She slams her palm on my shoulder, twists her hips trying to get the friction she needs as I thrust inside her. She grips my hair, takes my mouth, sucks my tongue. I shove my hand between us and finger her, rubbing her ruthlessly right above where we’re joined until I feel her flex and tighten around me. Her inner muscles clamp down on my cock as she comes, and there’s nothing I can do but roar a guttural cry and throw back my head as climax takes me.
She shouts my name, “Tyler, Tyler, yes,” and she’s shaking in my arms.
I let go of her thigh, set her on her shaky legs, but I hold her up, my arm around her waist. I wouldn’t let her fall. I never stop kissing her. It’s somehow the fact of kissing her that pulls it from me, deep and low until finally I buck into my own hand and finish.
I slept hard that night, and the only dream I had was of Layla Mayberry and the sweet sway of her hips as she walked away.
When I woke up, the alarm was going off. I never slept until the alarm. But this time, I rolled out of bed, cleaned up, and found the flyer I’d wadded up on the nightstand.
PTSD group counseling for trauma survivors, it said, and listed different types of trauma—abuse, neglect, domestic violence, sexual assault, survivor of a violent crime, or devastating accident. I studied it, made myself really think about it. I knew Jeremiah was right. I needed to get back in counseling. But I wasn’t ready to go one on one with Layla Mayberry unless it was up against a wall. I’d get more benefit from counseling if there were witnesses, if I couldn’t put my hands on her. I wondered if I should give it a shot. The therapy, not shooting my shot with the counselor. That was off-limits, and I knew it.
4
Layla
“They’re gorgeous. Thank you,” I said, taking the cookie box from Connie at Macy’s Treats.
It was the best bakery in town, and the owner was married to Sarah Jo’s brother Ryan, aka Ryan the Reformed, formerly known as That Prick Brother of Yours. He had turned himself around better than the hokey pokey and had a fabulous wife and family to prove it. Macy waved from back in the kitchen.
“I did a sugared pansy on each one,” she said, “I was out of violets.”
“They’re beautiful as always. Thank you! How are you doing?” I said.
“Oh, I’m good. I just started the babies on solids. Daniel loves avocado, like to the point we have to limit him to one a day. Charlie doesn’t like anything but bananas. I’m literally mashing banana into other stuff to try and get him to eat it.”
“Sounds cute,” I said.
Well, thank you for the cookies. I’ll put them to good use. I’m doing a PTSD group, and this is the welcome snack.”
“Good luck,” she said.
When I got back to the health department, I let Caroline peek in the box.
“So pretty. But so delicious. I hate going to Macy’s because everything is so yummy but then it’s too pretty to eat and I feel bad about destroying it. It’s a love-hate relationship,” she said.
“Nothing could keep me from eating her cookies. I don’t feel guilty about it because they exist to be eaten. And guilt is a waste of energy.”