Page 57 of Midlife Crisis

“Midge?” My name draws my attention, and I blink up from the desk at Hank. “I’ve called your name like three times, lady.” Concern fills his expression, eyes puzzled, and I laugh.

“Sorry. I need to finalize this design and then practice my pitch.” I wave dismissively. “I need someone to bounce the last idea off of.”

“Try me,” Hank says, and I snicker. He’s sweet, but he doesn’t understand too much about what I say regarding my sketches. Then again, he’s a rather attentive listener.

“I’m going for something masculine. Updated. Pendelton is a traditional housewares company, and they are looking to step it up. I’ve been thinking of contrasts, like chrome edges on china and leather straps on recycled products.” Hank stares at me, and I sense he’s watching my lips instead of listening to my words. “Maybe I should see your place. Might help me get some inspiration.”

I’m thinking if I scope out a man’s pad, I might get some ideas of what men need and the types of textures they like. Not to mention, it’s a little curious Hank hasn’t invited me to his place.

“I don’t have a home.” My head snaps upward at the brusque words. Something on my face must concern Hank, because he explains, “I’m not homeless. I just don’t have my own home.”

I blankly stare at him, waiting for an explanation.

“I used to…I just don’t anymore. I have a room at Brut’s place.” He swipes a hand back and forth over his head, his hair standing up as a result. I don’t really know how to respond. There’s a story here that Hank isn’t telling me. Saved by the ring of the phone, he steps away as I take the call.

Later in the evening, I’m still struggling when Hank’s hands cover my shoulders.

“Why you still here, little lady? It’s late.” He massages gently, and my eyes want to close, but my mind won’t shut down. I’ve been thinking all day about him not having a home and the secretive date on Sunday. He’s being so mysterious, but I don’t have time to decode him. I need to finish this design.

“The boys are with Paul for dinner. I need to practice my pitch. Guess I didn’t realize how late it was. It’s been busy here today, and I don’t want Brut to think I’m taking advantage of this opportunity.”

I’ve had to call some suppliers, hound a few others for the parts Brut has been waiting on, and handle Mrs. Prescott, a woman my age who is hot for the garage owner. She’s looking for a bad boy to rev her engine. Although, I’m sensing Brut isn’t into someone who is already married. Her husband’s latest gift is a Mercedes convertible. It doesn’t exactly fit the classic repair and body shop’s normal models, but what do I know about cars.

“Practice with me. I’ll listen.” Without waiting for a response, he picks up my images and my laptop. I’ve been bringing it here so I don’t clutter up their system, which is permanently pulled up to their server. I follow Hank into Brut’s office, a little leery of his rough handling of my design board. He sets the laptop on the desk and sets the board next to it. Sweeping out a hand, he steps back and takes a seat on the couch.

I begin.

Twenty minutes later, I end. Hank stares at me, an arm casually slung along the back of the couch.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he says, and I gasp. I’m wearing ripped jeans, another cardigan, and my glasses.

“Hank, were you listening?”

“I’m sold. I have no idea what you said, but your voice is music to me, and watching your lips move…hmm…mmm…mmm.” I break into laughter, and he waves me toward him.

He grips behind my knees, and I comb my fingers through his hair.

“You just need to relax,” he says, tipping forward so I keep stroking over his head. “You look uptight but sexy when you’re serious. You got this,” he says, speaking to my lower belly.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, and his head shoots up. He gently presses on the back of my knees, and I collapse, falling forward to straddle him. It’s a little awkward, balancing on his thighs.

“What don’t you know?”

I toy with the button on his shirt. He’s changed from his work overalls and wears a clean shirt, open and exposing a white t-shirt underneath. The name etched into a patch reads Hank, and I trace over the design.

“What I’m doing. This is one of the craziest things I’ve ever done—quit my job and demand an interview from someone. Someone big like Pendelton. What if I bomb this?”

Hank kisses my neck before sliding me off his lap to the couch and shifting to kneel on the floor between my knees. He rests his elbows on the edge of the cushions, surrounding my legs with his forearms.

“Lady, listen to me. You are beautiful and intelligent, and you got this. Pendelton is going to eat up those designs because they’re modern and masculine, like you said, and even a guy like me would want them in my house.” He pauses, the idea of him not owning one lingers between us. “Hell, I’d buy the whole collection. He’s going to love them.” Taking my hands, he kisses each one.

“You know what you need? You need to relax, and then you need a cupcake.”

“Maybe I need a cupcake to relax.” The suggestion isn’t lost on him. In fact, I think the word relax was code for something else. My jeans are unzipped and tugged down my thighs, all while Hank keeps his eyes pinned to mine. It’s like he’s speaking to me, willing me to understand him as he struggles with my skinny jeans. He remains between my spread knees, dragging me forward so my backside balances on the edge of the cushions.

“Cupcake it is,” he says, lowering his head and exhaling over my underwear. I’m already wet, the aroma of sex swirling between us. He removes my panties next, taking his time as he gives open-mouth kisses from my thighs to my knees. Once the stretched cotton traps my ankles, his mouth finds my center, and with one forceful lap, I melt into the leather underneath me. Hank’s tongue curls, and my fingers comb into his hair once again. I take calming breaths, releasing the tension of the presentation and falling into the presence of this man. His attention is similar to his mouth on my upper lips, languid and lazy and memorizing every bit of me. I drip with anticipation, slipping deeper and deeper into the euphoria of connecting with him.

“Better than icing,” he mutters, and I recall the first time his mouth was on me in this very office.