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One
Emery
I worked on catching my breath as I tugged up my pants in the back seat of a pickup that wasn’t mine. My orgasm-numbed brain logged back into my good sense.
What had I done?
My elbow poked a hard rib. Jeez, was there anything on this guy that wasn’t chiseled from granite? “Sorry.”
“No problem.” Holden leaned back in his seat to button his pants.
At least I knew his name.
I mimicked Holden’s movements, trying to suck my gut in so I could get my leggings up all the way. The struggle of getting dressed in the back seat of a pickup dimmed the postcoital glow I’d probably be too panicked to enjoy anyway.
Could I even call this a one-night stand? I was in my thirties. I thought I was long past my back-seat-sex days.
I straightened my bra and rolled my shirt down. Some of my hair had fallen out of my topknot. I puffed it out of the way and caught Holden’s eye.
He’d righted his clothing and was reclining against the door, his arm slung across the headrest. His satisfied expression resonated down to my toes as if he hadn’t just had my entire body throbbing.
The darkness of the cab covered the flush warming its way up my neck to my face. Whatthe hellhad I done?
Other than have some amazing sex with a guy I’d just met. In the back seat of his really nice pickup, no less.
I didn’t know what he’d done with the condom. I didn’t—God, I didn’t know anything about this. I didn’t go to bars. I didn’t do one-night stands or hookups. Even worse, I had no clue how to extract myself from this moment.
And I had no idea if it was bad that I didn’t want to.
He didn’t appear to be in a rush to leave. The way he was sitting was like an invitation. I could curl up next to him. We could stick to safe topics like we had in the bar. Where we’d gone to college. What we’d majored in. College sports teams.
Maybe we could have sex again.
Whatever impulsive streak possessed me to leave the little bar with him and hook up in the darkness of his pickup cab had vanished. I was the responsible one in my life. I had to be.
Stricken with self-consciousness and unsure what to do next, I said, “So…”
His laugh was good natured. “You were serious when you said you don’t do this.”
I didn’t have sex, period. Not since long before my divorce when I learned my cheating husband was banging the young nurse I’d been training. I wasn’t spared from the stereotype. My husband hadn’t been an arrogant surgeon when I met him. He’d saved that for after I had worked to support him while he was going through medical school and his residency. He’d waited until I carried his ass to a stellar paycheck—then he’d fucked someone younger, perkier, and more clueless.
My temper flared and there it was, that impulsive streak. I had the urge to strip Holden down and lick the muscles that had flexed behind me when he’d been thrusting us to a simultaneous climax.
Like…I didn’t know that was possible.
My ex hadn’t been horrible in the bedroom. He’d gotten me off. I’d gotten him off. But we’d reached a place where the spontaneity and excitement were rare and other obligations were numerous.
Still, I’d been happy. Mostly. In the overstressed way that a couple can be happy when doing demanding shift work and trying to keep the magic in our relationship.
“No, I really don’t do this,” I admitted. “What comes next?”
I didn’t have to go. Tonight was my night. The one night I gave myself to go out and have a little pity party. My plan had been to have a couple drinks and get pissed at life.
But before I had finished my first beer, Holden had entered the bar. I didn’t think a guy like him would acknowledge me. It wasn’t like I’d dressed up. Technically, I lived in a neighboring town. I had just moved to Coal Haven and hadn’t wanted my pity party to be witnessed by people I might see the next week in the clinic. So I’d come to Crocus Valley in my leggings, a T-shirt, and a jacket, and found a quiet bar.
“We could stay here.” His lopsided grin sent tingles through my body. Did he take a bath in sex appeal every morning? Or was I in that much of a dry spell? “If we go back in the bar, the other two customers would guess what we’ve been up to.”
“Are you saying I can’t be chill?” I gave him a playful scowl. Was I flirting? When had I last flirted? Maybe that was why I was divorced. The thought sobered me.
