All the Waters of the Earth (Giving You ... Book 3) Read online

  Pathetic.

  It just hadn’t worked out. Either the guy was wrong or I was wrong and I wanted Mr. Right.

  Explanation? Romance writer.

  I didn’t know if Jake was Mr. Right. He seemed kind of not. But there was something about him, something complicated to him, that made me trust him.

  He’d opened up to me. Given his fancy import car, I couldn’t believe he’d ever been poor. But we all have pasts and we all have things we aren’t proud of.

  I did pay attention to how he treated me, however. While he was clearly a workaholic, he was clearly into me and I felt a connection with him that I’d never felt with another person. Everything felt right when he was around.

  The way he talked, I think it was the same way for him. Otherwise, why would he even bother stopping by my house when he got home from work so late? Even though his body wanted to do nothing more than crash, he still made sure to stop by and check in on me. I loved that.

  As we drank our drinks, we watched the sun go down into the horizon over the ocean. The sunset turned the sky a brilliant shade of pink, fading to purple, fading to gray, the water gray-blue and dark. When we finished, we went to a heated outdoor patio and had dinner at their Italian restaurant.

  “So I have to ask this,” he said.

  “Anything.”

  “Were you ever married?”

  “No. My ex-boyfriend Carlos dumped me after he got me pregnant. Actually before we found out.”

  Jake looked pissed. “Fucker. That’s no way to treat you.”

  I shook my head. “You? Have you ever been married?”

  He looked amused. “No. Again, not a good first date topic, but I’ve never dated anyone long enough for that.”

  “Big guy like you probably has no problems getting a date.”

  He looked sheepish. “The problem has been me, not them. My work life is untenable. It runs over my whole life.” He sighed. “Always so much to do in the office.”

  “So tell me what you like to paint.”

  Raising an eyebrow, he said, “You, for starters.”

  “Aww, that’s sweet,” I said, touched. “What else?”

  “Anything, really. There’s no shortage of inspiration if you really pay attention. I like photography, too. There’s an amazing exhibit right now at the Getty, I saw it online. I’d love to go . . .”

  As I listened to him talk, I realized how much I loved hearing his ideas. What a loss it would be if this creative man couldn’t draw, and I was so glad that even though he was a workaholic he took the classes to tend his passion. Animated, lovely, he wasn’t so slick. There was something almost sad and wistful underneath. Someone who had been missing out on life. Someone who needed care and attention.

  And I kept watching him. Watching his athletic frame move in his chair and the graceful way he held his silverware. Then in return, feeling his eyes on me, studying me. Enjoying him asking me questions—about Rob, about the people in our complex, about my childhood—and listening to the answers. I studied the way his neck moved, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The little glimpses of his chest that I got from the unbuttoned neck of his shirt.

  Oh, yes, desire had been stirring in me for a long time. And now I had it bad.

  He’d been hands-off of me, other than giving me his arm.

  But now, as we finished the last bite of tiramisu, he reached over and touched my hand and I loved it and he looked at me in a way I could feel between my legs.

  “Let’s go back.”

  Yes.

  We didn’t even make it out to the Biltmore parking lot before we were joined at the lip.

  Holding hands, we’d walked through the chic lobby of the hotel to the patio entranceway, lit with fairy lights wrapped around the palm tree trunks, making it look magical. We’d been serenaded by the crash of the ocean right beside us in the dark and the clink and murmur of dinner guests in the restaurant patio.

  Leaving me by a lush, bright purple bougainvillea vibrant in the low light, Jake had strolled to the valet booth, handed the ticket to the attendant, and now came back to me, eyes on mine, intent. He bent down and kissed me hard. His scorching mouth, chocolatey from the tiramisu, invaded mine, our noses smushing together. I kissed him back with fervor, loving the crush into his body, loving the way his arms wrapped around me and held me to his firm body, loving the way he smelled and the way he tasted.

  He didn’t kiss like a distracted, workaholic businessman. He kissed like he’d never heard of a cell phone. Like this was his way of creating art and he didn’t care who saw. It felt like there was nothing around us, nothing in existence except him pressing his body to me, his lips and tongue to mine. I was completely in his world and he was in mine and it was a heart-stoppingly romantic place to be. All of creation existed in that moment. At least until he bit my lower lip gently, and he pulled back and looked at me, heat in his eyes.

  The young, pimpled valet standing next to us cleared his throat.

  I stifled a giggle. Who knew how long he was standing there watching us make out? Jake looked at me conspiratorially, kissed my nose, then took my hand and walked me over to his car. He opened my door and I slid in.

  When he took off back home, he drove faster than he did on the way to the hotel. In no time at all, I was out of the car. I fumbled with my keys. Then my door was open and Jake followed me inside my home. I turned and closed my door. He boxed me into the back of the door, arms on both sides of me. His mouth came down on mine again, and this time it was even more frenzied because we didn’t have any chance of an audience.

  Teeth knocked, tongues touched, he even growled against my throat. I moaned when he started nibbling his way down my neck, sucking and caressing.

  I pressed his jacket off of his shoulders, struggling with it, and finally getting it off. Then I started unbuttoning his shirt, crazed to touch him, wanting to feel his athletic body. As he leaned over to kiss me, he helped, and his shirt came off and fell to the floor. Shoes kicked off. I kissed his broad, muscular chest, licking his nipples, sucking my way up to his neck.

  “I want you right now,” I said against his soft skin, and he groaned and then picked me up, carrying me down the hall while I squealed and kicked in his arms. I was finally going to get some. From the guy of my dreams. God, I loved it.

  “Where’s your room?”

  I laughed. I was loving this being carried thing, which surprised me since normally when you made me feel small I got fierce. But with Jake, I delighted in his arms, feeling protected, dominated, cared for. And thrilled. This beautiful man would be mine.

  “No, this one, there.” I pointed at my door when he almost went into Rob’s room.

  Then he stepped inside and looked around.

  My room looked like the day after Christmas at Macy’s.

  His eyes widened as he took in my room.

  “I kind of didn’t know what to wear.” I winced in embarrassment.

  Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Lucy. You are wonderful.”

  He set me down. With a swoosh of my arms, I swept all of the clothes strewn across my bed onto the floor and pulled Jake on top of me. But as he headed down, he slipped on a silky dress on the floor and grabbed me, twisting. We both fell to the floor, me on top of him, laughing.

  “Get this off of you,” he said, tugging at my skirt hem, feeling my booty, “I can’t wait to touch you. After that class today? Fuck me.”

  “That’s what I want to do.” I giggled. God, yes please. Finally. A man not thrown off by my son.

  “Up,” he commanded. “Take it off.”

  I got up and pulled off my sequined top, exposing my lacy black bra.

  I may have chosen my underwear specifically with the knowledge that it would be viewed. Lying on the floor, shirtless, shoeless, propped up on his elbows, his eyes were on me, focused.

  So I took my time, enjoying the tease. I reached behind me, unzipped my pencil skirt, and wiggled it off of my hips, leaving my strappy five
minute only shoes on.

  He seemed to like the way I looked in lingerie and stilettos, judging by the way he didn’t look anywhere else. With athletic grace, he stood up, pants tented, which distracted me. I leaned down as he got up and we knocked foreheads.

  “Sorry,” we both said at the same time. He gently kissed my forehead, and then I kissed his.

  He started walking me backwards to my bed, kissing my neck, insistently, running his fingers down my side. The back of my knees hit the bed, and I fell back. He fell on me, his hot, athletic body feeling so, so good on mine, settling between my legs.

  He traced his fingers down my arms. “I drew this curve today.” He moved to my fingers. “And this one.” Back up the underside of my arms. “And this one.” Then his fingers traced down my side. “I drew this curve.” And over my hip. “And this one is especially beautiful.”

  Even though I was comfortable with my body, I felt shy with the attention that he gave me. No one had ever touched me this way. He affectionately caressed the curves of my upper thighs, my hip bones, and my belly button. I grabbed his ass, pressing his erection into me, feeling the hard muscle against me, making me wet.

  I reached down to unzip his pants and he stood up, slipping again on the pile of clothes on the floor. He unbuttoned and unzipped, exposing classic chambray boxer shorts that made him look like a hot model in a catalogue.

  “I have a confession,” he said, standing, staring at me, his hard cock at attention, barely constrained by his boxers.

  “What?”

  “It’s been a long while for me. I don’t think I’ll last.”

  My heart melted. “The workaholic hasn’t gotten some in a while?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That’s closer to the truth than I care to admit.”

  Since he was brave, so was I. “Me neither.”

  Now he looked surprised. “The romance novelist hasn’t gotten some in a while?” I shook my head.

  “A really long while,” I whispered.

  Then he said, “So. Your turn first.”

  And then my heart stopped.

  I’d previously written lines about a heroine almost coming from words alone and it was bullshit, right? But I almost came from his words alone.

  He leaned over and unbuckled one of my shoes and then the other. Gently, sensuously, he traced his fingers up my legs, which was not a far journey, and hooked his index fingers into my lacy panties, tugging them off, exposing my neatly waxed landing strip. And his eyes got even bigger, which was adorable. I reached behind me and unhooked my bra and he pulled the straps off of my shoulders.

  So, I reflected, he was the hottest guy that I had ever had in my bed. And, almost the only guy I’d ever had in my bed. He was definitely the hottest guy that I’d ever seen in real life. And here he was, nestling between my legs now, his neck bent, head down, sucking my neck, kissing my collarbone, playing with my nipples, running his tongue over first one then the other.

  He looked up at me, a glint in his blue eyes, and he trailed his nose down the middle of my torso. “I want to draw you, again, Lucy, I want to paint you, but this time, with my tongue.” And he dipped his tongue in my belly button and then ran it down to my pussy, where he took a lick and I moaned.

  Jake flattened his tongue and ran it along the whole area, and I could feel myself swelling, reacting to his touch. It felt so fucking good to have him down there, hot, giving. “You gotta tell me where, honey, where do you like it?” His tongue darted and licked, sucked and explored. “Here? Here? I can’t read your mind, tell me. Tell me what you really think.”

  I writhed on the bed, thinking that it all felt pretty damn wonderful, and he held me firmly by my hips. “How about here?” He took one hand off of my hip and put two fingers into me, licking my clit at the same time. Rubbing and stroking, everything wet, looking down at his shoulders between my knees, I came quickly, quicker than I’d ever made myself come before, and I came hard, my body clenching and shuddering, satisfying the hunger.

  “You ready?” he asked after I came down and back to life, and the next thing I knew, his boxers were off and he was holding a condom.

  I nodded, unable to think properly, but whispering, “I can’t wait anymore, come here, guapo.”

  After a moment to adjust, condom on, he climbed up and nestled between my legs. Jake hovered over me, broad shoulders over my shoulders, his large, pretty cock between my legs. He scooted back and slid into me, and my body received him gratefully. Time expanded. We looked at each other, him hovering over me, connected at the root, me relaxed from an orgasm and wildly turned on for the prospect of another.

  I wrapped my legs around his hips, although they barely made it around, and he began to move, very slowly and carefully. He would pull out almost the entire way, then ease in. A blessing.

  He was being gentle.

  He was taking his time.

  He was making love to me.

  Over and over again, he thrust into me, slowly, but with a rhythm that was all him. Focused, devoted to me, his eyes on mine. And then I could see his eyes twitch and I could feel his cock swell. He was going to come, I just knew it. I could tell that he was holding it back, trying not to.

  I was so close to another orgasm, but maybe not.

  “It’s okay, nene, come,” I whispered, and with a gorgeous shuddering over me, he released and collapsed on me, breathing hard.

  I’ll admit that I felt disappointed and slightly greedy. The first orgasm was so good. I wanted to come again.

  After a moment, he asked, “Did I leave you hanging?”

  I nodded.

  “I was afraid of that. Sorry. Here, I’ll finish you off. Let’s try this.” And he pulled out of me, then gently grasped my hips and flipped me over. “Hang on a second.”

  He stood up, got a Kleenex, discarded the condom, and came back. Then he traced his finger down my spine. “This curve, Lucy. This curve.” He ran his finger down my ass to my pussy, and pulled my hips back so that my ass was in the air and I was on all fours. With his artist’s hands that I’d admired from the start, he massaged my ass, made his way down, and went between my legs. Like I’d wanted him to do when we first met.

  “Head down, honey. Ass up.” So, face down, on my knees, with my head in my pillow, he proceeded to finger fuck me to another orgasm.

  And this one was glorious. It built and built, and I tensed—all of the muscles in my pelvic floor and my hips and my ass and my shoulders and my arms all clenched, Jake chasing my orgasm with his fingers, rolling and making me shake until I came, hard, and collapsed my hips to the bed.

  Okay, that was much better.

  After a moment, he slapped my ass, just a little sting, then flopped down next to me and I curled up next to him, thinking that it was wonderful to be with a guy who talked and who communicated. He wasn’t my perfect romance hero. He didn’t do everything exactly right.

  But it was really, really fantastic anyway.

  “What made you start writing novels?”

  Later that night, Jake, chambray boxer-clad, no shirt, enveloped me in his arms. I couldn’t get enough of him, enough of feeling his skin, enough of smelling his clean, spicy scent, of feeling his stubble against my cheek, my shoulder, my back. I’d slipped on a cami and pajama pants, and spooned against his big body, my face clean and makeup-free.

  A little scared of letting him see me without makeup, I nonetheless allowed him to follow me into the bathroom and watch me take it off. This felt very intimate, letting him see me as I washed my face. He leaned against the counter, and chatted with me. After I toweled off, he lifted my chin with a finger. “I didn’t think you could be more beautiful, but here it is. The evidence.” And he leaned in and kissed my bare lips, running his finger along my cheek. “I love the way you look, Lucy, but without makeup? You are stunning. You are truly a natural beauty.”

  Praise was difficult to take, because like many of us, I was conditioned by society to be modest, to deflect, to not cele
brate myself. I’d fought those thoughts before—to accept my curvy body, my short stature, my skin color, my hair. But I’d always had to try, too. I mean that’s why I was so high maintenance, with makeup, hair, and clothes just right. To some degree I’d beaten the bad thoughts that said that because I didn’t look like the girls in the magazines I didn’t have value. I did have value. But still, I’d had a layer of defense—dressing up to show off so you couldn’t see what was under. Now I was letting him in, and I tried to allow in the compliment, to let myself accept that he thought I looked good, even without makeup, fancy clothes, or hair done just right. It made me glow from the inside.

  Without talking about it, we’d decided that he was spending the night. There was no reason for him to go back next door. I’d ache for him. Now that I knew what he was like in bed, how generous and how honest, I didn’t want to get more than a few inches away from him at any given time. I wanted to touch him constantly.

  But for now, curled up with him in my bed, warm and comfortable, I answered his question.

  “I don’t remember when it started because I always wanted to be a writer. Stories touched me when I was a kid. It’s funny. By reading, I felt listened to. I realize that doesn’t sound quite right, but I mean it. I felt like by reading and understanding the people in the story and the author, I was understood, especially when they reflected something that I was thinking. There was someone who got me, who thought things that I thought, and who wasn’t scared to put them down for other people to read. So it was like the author heard me and put my thoughts down for me. Or gave me new thoughts to think about.

  “I love losing myself in books. I love connecting with the characters or the situations in the stories. And I love telling the stories, coming up with a different, but honest, way of saying something that I think or feel and hoping that it resonates with a reader.

  “And I think the creative process is amazing. Something from nothing. Without me, my fifteen novels would not exist. And there is something to be said about allowing the creation to come into existence. Kind of like having a kid.”