Jacqueline

Any girl who says she doesn’t want to be chased and rescued is lying to herself.

That includes me.

I convinced myself after Lex left that I didn’t need anyone. Dating after my divorce felt more like what I should do than what I wanted to do. After several lackluster dates, I chalked up relationships as that thing I’d never again have.

And yet here I am.

Where, you ask?

In a matching pajama set—shorts, gray with little pink hearts, tank top, gray ribbed. My hair is spun into a sloppy bun at the back of my head as I stir a pan of scrambled eggs at the stove.

Vince’s stove.

Speaking of Vince, his lips lower to the space between my neck and shoulder as his hands grip my hips and pull my butt to his front. I giggle because I’m the slightest bit ticklish, but that giggle fades into a hum when I encounter his hard, warm body.

“You’re going to make me burn the eggs.” I tilt my head to give him more access to my bare skin.

“I have more eggs,” he murmurs, kissing behind my ear.

Last night we went back to my apartment, but when I told him I didn’t want to hang out there, he invited me over. “To stay,” he clarified.

When I argued that I couldn’t stay, he argued that I could.

“We’ll be late for work.” The wooden spoon in my hand stills again and Vince groans against my damp skin.

“I hate when you’re right, Butler.” When his hands leave my body, I miss his attention instantly. Vince is someone I’ve long been a big fan of, and now that we’ve crossed oh so many lines, you can bet your booty I’ve graduated to superfan.

“I’ll make toast,” he offers. “Then we’ll head into the office.”

“Together?” Eggs finished, I turn off the gas range. “Isn’t that a bad idea?”

He pushes the lever on the toaster and faces me. He’s all white T-shirt and slouchy gray pants and bare feet. His tattooed muscles flex when he crosses his arms.

“You’re making a lot of sense today, Butler.” He smirks. “I’ll drive you back to your place.”

My eyes stray to the clock. “We may have to eat our breakfast in the car.”

We rose early but not that early.

“We’ll make it. Don’t worry.” He puts another kiss on my shoulder and moves to pull the plates out of one of the tall white cabinets in his massive kitchen. It’s way too much kitchen for a bachelor, and the delicate white dishes with a raised pattern on the edges are definitely Leslie’s style. Vince is caught in between bachelorhood and divorce.

We make quick work of scrambled eggs and buttered toast before I hustle upstairs to get dressed. I brought a change of clothes for work, so I slip on the black pants and a pearl-button silver blouse before sliding my feet into a pair of tasteful heels. Then it’s ten-minute hair and makeup in the main bathroom while Vince changes in the bedroom. He’s done before me, so when I jog down the stairs and find him buttoning his shirtsleeve, it’s my first look at him.

I thought he looked good in his slouchy morning attire, but in his designer jeans and oxford shirt, a vest over it, and a shiny gold watch gleaming on his wrist, he looks good enough to eat.

“Ready?” he asks, grinning when I pause one step from the bottom. He wraps his arms around my waist and we linger there, kissing long enough that I’m tempted to drag him back upstairs.

“If we must.” Arms linked around his neck, I lean forward and steal one final kiss.

It’s going to be a long, long workday.

That afternoon I’m glaring at my inbox, trying to decide how to respond to Maude in accounting without using the word “inept,” when a pair of legs carrying the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen appears in my doorway. Kayla peeks around them and grins, her face partially hidden by pink and cream and yellow and…nearly every color of the rainbow.

“Look what just came for you!” Kayla sings as she waddles into my office and plunks the crystal vase on an empty portion of my desk.

“Wow.” I don’t know what to think.

“Read the card! Read the card!” Kayla is now clapping.

I reach for it and she’s over my shoulder like a pet parrot as we read it together.

“Had a great time last night. Let’s do it again.” I don’t read the signature, but Kayla does.

“Jaundice?” She frowns at me in confusion. I feel my cheeks getting warm and I’ll bet I’m pink approaching beet red.

“Jaundice?” a deep voice repeats. I peer over the pile of flowers at Vince to find him smiling conspicuously. “Is that from your runner?”

“The runner?” Kayla asks.

Vince shakes his head. “Odd choice for a pet name, but what you do in your spare time is none of my beeswax.”

“The runner!” Kayla’s eyes go round and she grips my shoulder. “You had sex with the demigod that runs outside of this building?”

“Um…we just…we’re…” I’m so flummoxed I can hardly speak. Obviously, the flowers are from Vince, and obviously (to him and me) he’s the one I had sex with last night.

“Kayla, have some respect. Butler is a lady. She wouldn’t sleep with that thick-neck after only a few dates. She has scruples.” His eyes twinkle.

“Ignore him.” Kayla throws a hand and focuses on me. “The point is, a very attractive man who you like very, very much has sent you a beautiful bouquet of flowers because he wants to see you again. Bask in that. You deserve it.”

I can’t help smiling as Kayla mutters to Vince how he should “behave” on her way out.

Over the bouquet, I catch a wink from Vince before he’s gone too. My focus returns to the flowers—a whole bunch of pretty blossoms I couldn’t begin to know the names of—and my smile grows wider as I notice the two types notably missing.

No daisies.

No roses.

Vince

Immature? I thought it was nice.

And yeah, a little bit me staking a claim.

Unfortunately, my bouquet of nongeneric flowers had a downside.

Everyone in the office thinks that Jackie is screwing the runner. And no one cares about the signature “Jaundice” as much as they should. I mean, what kind of weirdo puts that on a bouquet of flowers?

Yes, I did, but it’s because that’s the only way to treat Jackie the way I want to treat her and keep the office chatter about us to a minimum.

The problem is the office chatter is alive and well and, much to my chagrin, focused on the wrong guy.

Whatever. Jackie is dating me. And Running Man is a jackass loser windbag.

It’s Friday and Jackie and I are forgoing our typical pizza and movie night for a new kind of pizza and movie night. We’re doing it ourselves. DIY in the kitchen isn’t either of our specialties. She can scramble eggs and I can not burn toast, but beyond that we’re pretty hopeless.

Case in point as we attempt to stretch sticky pizza dough into a pair of pie pans. My idea was individual pizzas we top with our choice of ingredients. Mine: pepperoni and mushrooms. Hers: pepperoni and mushrooms. We bought identical ingredients. Even the brand of shredded mozzarella is the same. But I’m committed to my idea, so we persist.

“This isn’t working out the way I imagined,” Jackie says, pressing the gluelike dough into her oiled pie pan. “Why didn’t we make one big pizza, since we bought the same toppings?”

My kitchen is big enough that we can stand at the island together. I’m on one side; she’s on the other. I’m sitting on a stool and she’s in a wide stance so as to leverage her strength into smashing the dough into submission.

“This way you can have exactly the amount of cheese you want, and I can have three layers of pepperoni and only four mushroom slices.”

She gives me a “come on” look that makes me want to kiss her. If we were standing closer, I would.

“Four mushroom slices,” she repeats.

“I can’t tolerate any more than that.” I point to myself with a dough-covered finger. “I’m sensitive to fungi.” Since I can’t help myself, I add, “Probably why I have such an aversion to Jaundice.”

She tries to flick dough at me but can’t. It sticks to her finger like setting cement.

I abandon my pie pan and go to her, and she backs up, hands up like a pair of sticky stop signs. “Don’t do whatever you’re thinking of doing,” she requests through a giggle.

I wrap my arms around her, careful to keep pizza dough out of her ponytail. Kissing her refreshes every part of me—like I was dying for a drink and only she could quench the thirst.

The kiss turns greedy and deep and she keeps her arms at her sides to avoid covering me in sticky goo.

Then the oven beeps, alerting us that it’s preheated, and shatters the moment. I pull back and drop my forehead onto hers. “What am I going to do with you, Butler?”

I’m asking both of us, because I’m not sure. Her answer makes me smile.

“I think you should clean me up first, and then you can do whatever you want.”

“Deal.” I’m still grinning.

“After we eat, I promise. I’m starving. We’ll make out on the couch or on the counter or something.”

Or something.

“Killing me,” I tell her. But it’s the sweetest way to die.

I spin and point her toward the sink, walking bowlegged behind her. When the water is warm and full blast, I plunge our hands into the stream and soap us up. I clean the mess off her hands and mine while nibbling on her earlobe.

She moans and hums her approval and soon a part of me is nudging her ass expectantly. When she whispers my name, it’s the permission I’m looking for. I snatch a dish towel and turn off the faucet, drying us in quick order. Then I scoop her up and carry her to the kitchen table.

“I’m starving,” she sort of protests.

“So am I,” I sort of lie. I’m mostly hungry for her. Kissing her neck brings those moans back full force, and I slip my hands beneath her top and pull down the cups of her bra. When I’m rolling her nipples gently, her mouth slams into mine and then I know—we’re totally going to have sex on my kitchen table.

That’s a first. Leslie wasn’t a sex-on-the-kitchen-table type. And any experiences I’ve had since Leslie have faded into a glob of fuzzy, unappetizing memories. Now that I have Jackie in my arms, her mouth devouring mine, no one else matters.

The thought electrocutes the back of my brain with a sharp ZAP! but the zap fades to a pleasant buzz when Jackie palms my insistent hard-on.

Clothes fly.

Shoes are kicked off.

The table is pushed, squeaking, across the floor in our hurry to prop her on it and me against it.

I fumble, shaking, too turned on to do anything but sink into her sweet warmth as she whispers my name.

“Vince.” Hot breath tickles my ear. She has one arm wrapped around my neck, the other bracing the tabletop. Whatever was on it—a stack of fast-food napkins and this week’s mail—has fluttered to the ground.

I support my weight on the table, clasping her back as I drive deep. That’s when my eyes hit hers. She watches me, her face contorted into pleats of pleasure, her breath truncated.

Her satisfaction is the goal, so I move and tilt until she cries out softly and her eyes close. My satisfaction is imminent. As soon as Jackie goes off, I’ll tumble directly behind her.

It doesn’t take long. A swell of pride on my part accompanies an orgasm on hers. As she’s writhing against me, I let go, coming hard. I squeeze my eyes closed and a kaleidoscope of colors blitzes across my lids.

Then I’m catching my breath and kissing her neck as a sated moment of bliss stretches out between us. There’s nothing like the bit between the moment of release and the relaxation aftermath. Especially with Jackie.

Her fingers ruffle my hair and I give her a lazy smile that matches hers. But when I lift my eyes to meet her caramel browns, they assault me.

Here, under the bright dining room light, the smell of pizza sauce in the air, I realize that the electric zap from before has returned, numbing my cortex.

Then I know.

I’m about to freak the fuck out.