Dirty Little Midlife Disaster by Lilian Monroe
Trina
“It’s all about angles,”Hamish says for the millionth time when my shot hits the felt just beside the pocket, ricocheting halfway across the pool table. “Focus on the angles.”
“I get that,” I answer, trying hard to keep the frustration out of my voice, “but I’m not understanding what angles I’m supposed to be focusing on.”
A hand lands on my shoulder, and Simone appears at my side. “Can I try?”
“Please.” I give her a smile in thanks, needing a sip of my drink—badly. Between seeing Mac fall flat on his face when he saw me, to the heat in his eyes when I approached, to this surprisingly serious lesson on how to play pool, I’m not exactly feeling like myself.
Not to mention this backless bodysuit requires undergarments that are a combination of Spanx, a girdle, and a full jumpsuit with built-in cups—no way in hell am I ever going braless in public, not after breastfeeding two kids—and all these layers are starting to feel a little too warm. A bit too tight…especially down there.
Simone sights a ball as Hamish directs her, but I have a feeling she doesn’t need his help. She hits it with practiced ease. Not only does she pot the ball she was trying to hit, but the white ball rolls to nudge a second ball into a corner pocket.
“Show-off,” I mumble, but there’s no animosity in it.
Simone grins. “Try thinking less. When you do an eyeliner flick, do you calculate the angles in your head, or do you just go for it and trust your instinct?”
“Instinct,” I answer. “Also, I’ve done it a zillion times, so I know what looks good on my face.”
“So do the same thing here. Look at the ball and line up, then hit through it with a smooth stroke.”
Why did the words “smooth stroke” just make me blush? Is it perhaps because Mac just walked out of the hallway where he disappeared a few minutes ago, and he looks good enough to lick?
Simone titters, then winks at me. She thrusts the pool cue into my hands and gives me an encouraging nod. “Go for the orange.” She points to the solid orange ball lined up perfectly with a pocket.
It should be an easy hit. Even for me.
But I can almost sense Mac approaching. The distance between us shrinking. His eyes on my body, my skin, my hair.
Squeezing my eyes for a moment, I think of eyeliner flicks. Easy. Intuitive. The more confidence, the better the wing.
And I hit the cue ball, smiling at the satisfying thunk of the orange hitting the bottom of the pocket and rolling into the internal mechanism of the table.
“Nice shot,” a deep voice says behind me. I turn to see Mac grinning at me. “You’re a quick study.”
“Thank goodness for eyeliner,” I respond, and laugh at the tiny frown that appears on Mac’s forehead. I shake my head. “Never mind.”
“Boys versus girls?” Simone asks, sipping her drink as her eyes gleam at me. “I’ll rack ‘em up.” She gets to work, accepting the keys that Hamish hands her to unlock the table and allow us to play for free. I watch as she gets the triangle and starts expertly swapping balls around with—in my eyes—no rhyme or reason, trying my best to ignore the heat of Mac’s shoulder as it nudges mine.
“How was your week?” I ask, my voice going up uncontrollably at the end. I clear my throat.
Mac takes a sip of beer. “Long.” His eyes flick to mine, then to my lips, then away.
Lordy.
Is it hot in here, or is it just my shapewear?
“Ladies first,” Hamish says to Simone. “You break.”
Simone shrugs and throws me a wink over her shoulder before turning back to the old Scot. “Your funeral, old man.”
Then, with a flourish and more confidence than I’ve had in all my life, Simone lines up and hits the pack of balls hard enough to make me jump. The satisfying crack of the balls snaps across my skin, and the balls explode outward. Two of them drop into pockets, and Simone blows on her nails.
Mac chuckles, moving his hand to brush the small of my back. His broad, warm palm makes heat pool low in my body, and I do my best not to let my heart run away from me. “Are you always this nervous?” he asks, his thumb making a slow sweep across my spine, his eyes dancing as he glances down at me.
I study the strand of tousled hair that falls down over his temple, a bit of silver gleaming in the low light of the bar, and I shrug. “Only when I’m about to make a fool of myself.”
“It’s a week to try new things,” he replies, and I know he’s talking about pottery and pool, but it really, really sounds like he’s talking about something…else.
His hand stays where it is, thumb making slow, steady movements over and back across my skin. His thumb is near my spine, but his other fingers feel dangerously close to my jeans. To places so private, they haven’t been touched in a long, long time. It’s making my head spin.
I watch Simone miss a shot and whisper a curse under her breath, then Hamish lines up and hits three balls in a row. Then, he leaves me with the white on the opposite end of the table as all our balls, with all my targets hidden behind the boys’ balls.
I bite my lip, not moving from my spot even though both Simone and Hamish look at me expectantly.
“Your turn,” Simone says with an encouraging smile.
Just then, Fiona, Candice, and Jen wander over. Simone gives them a quick recap, and Fiona lifts her glass. “Go Trina! Are you stripes or solids?”
“Solids,” I answer, still not moving from the wall.
Mac hasn’t moved his hand either, and his thumb keeps stroking, slow and steady. It’s erotic, that touch, sending every thought fleeing from my head as heat builds low in my stomach. Back and forth, soft but firm, feeling his big, warm hand pressed against my skin. I think, given enough time, I could probably come from it. From him touching the small of my back. My skin feels tight, prickly. All I can do is throw back a gulp of my drink and tear myself away from him. The space where his hand was a moment ago burns. I want more of it. More of him.
I line up for a shot that Hamish helpfully points out for me, and then promptly miss.
Mac grins. He holds out his hand for the cue, his fingers brushing mine while he takes it from my hands. Then I watch his corded, muscular body lean over the table to expose a little strip of skin on his lower back, the arms in his muscles stark against the green felt beneath them.
And he pots a ball.
“Well, we know who the dud in this round is,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Aren’t you guys supposed to be teaching me?”
Simone just laughs and takes her position when it’s her turn. I find myself at the bar, ordering a round for everyone, then watch Hamish do his thing.
My turn again already. When I stand next to the table, pool cue grasped in my hands, I bite my lip and look at the battlefield. I don’t have high hopes.
“Here,” Mac says as he sets his fresh beer down and approaches. “I’ll help. You’re keeping too much tension in your right arm. Line up for that shot.” He points to one of the balls and waits for me to position myself.
I feel him move behind me, his fingers leaving trails of fire over my hips as he shifts me over slightly, repositioning the pool cue. His hand on my elbows is like a brand, squeezing gently to get my attention.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Relax.”
“Kinda hard in this position,” I say, glancing over my shoulder in frustration.
Oh. Big mistake.
Mac is standing just inches from me, his hips near my ass, one hand on the waistband of my jeans while the other still grips the pool cue. Words fail me. I don’t want to admit to myself how good it feels to have him behind me like this, or how much it turns me on to be bent over this table with him behind me.
Especially when he’s looking at me like he’s thinking the same thing. Hooded eyes, dark gaze. After a beat, he nods to the table. “Take the shot, Trina.”
I turn back around, still so intensely aware of every inch of him so close to me. But I take the shot and to my surprise, I pot a ball.
Simone whoops, and all the girls cheer. I start laughing, standing and leaning back slightly into the warmth and strength of Mac’s chest.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and leans his lips close to my ear. “Nice shot.” A soft squeeze of my upper arms with those sinful hands, and he steps away from me.
I miss my next shot, but that’s less because I suck at pool and more because my brain is scrambled. But still, when I slide onto a barstool next to Fiona, my eyes across the pool table on Mac, I can’t help but smile.
I’m having fun. I can’t remember the last time I had fun. My kids are safe, my new home will be ready soon, and the sexiest man I’ve ever seen looks at me like he might think I’m sexy too.
I met Kevin thirteen years ago, when I was twenty-nine years old, and I wonder if it’s been that long since I had a night out like this. A night that’s just for me.
The boys win,and Jen and Candice take our spots to play them. Unsurprisingly, Jen is even better at pool than Simone. She tries to tell me something about angles, but I’ve had two drinks—not to mention the wine I had at home—and all I can do is nod along and pretend I understand what she’s explaining.
Feeling overheated, happy, and a little buzzed, I end up going to the bathroom before slipping outside for a bit of fresh air. It’s August and the air is warm, so I stand just outside the Grove and let out a happy sigh.
The door opens behind me, and I turn to see Mac exiting the bar. His eyes crinkle when he sees me. “You okay? I saw you slip out on your own and was worried you were running away from me again.”
“Needed some fresh air,” I explain, grateful that the dark is hiding my blushing face. “I’m wearing too many layers.”
Mac’s eyes flash as an eyebrow pops up. “I can think of a few ways to rectify that.”
I laugh, swatting at him. “You’re naughty.”
“Only when I want to be. Now, tell me the truth. You were out here because you just wanted to ogle my bike.”
Laughing again, I tilt my head up to meet his gaze as he approaches. “Maybe,” I admit.
He closes the distance between us and takes a deep breath. “I’m glad you came. Earlier, I was thinking maybe you wouldn’t show.”
“Is that why you had that spectacular fall when I walked in? Pure shock?”
Mac’s lips tilt, but his eyes grow lazy. “No, Trina.” He reaches over and hooks a finger into my belt loop, tugging me closer. “I fell over because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
Heat rises up my neck and over my cheeks. He gives me another tug and I catch myself on his chest, fingers curling into his black tee. “No need for flattery, Mac.”
With one hand still hooked around my belt loop, Mac lifts another to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. He lets his fingers slide down the strand, then shifts his gaze to meet mine. “It’s not flattery if it’s true.”
Suddenly, I realize where I am. Half-drunk with a man I barely know, standing outside a bar his father owns. My two kids are at home in bed, and I’m here. Doing…whatever it is I’m doing.
“Look, Mac, I…” I take a deep breath.
Mac slides his palm over my neck, curling his fingers into the hair at my nape. He leans his forehead against mine, effectively silencing me. “If you’re about to give me some sweet rejection, do me a favor and just…don’t.”
I close my eyes for a moment and try to find the words to say what I need to say. I’ve been divorced for approximately three seconds. I spent thirteen years with Kevin and I don’t know myself anymore. I have kids and school and money and housing to worry about.
And a cat. I can’t forget the cat.
I can’t handle a man! Even if he looks like sex on legs. Especially if he looks like sex on legs. I’m a divorcée with two kids and boobs that are a lot less perky than they were twenty years ago. Why the hell would a sexy, badass, pottery-throwing motorcycle man like him want someone as normal and boring as me?
“Trina,” Mac says softly, lifting his head from mine. I open my eyes to meet his gaze. “Whatever’s going on in your head right now, I’m going to need it to stop.”
Annoyance sparks at his words. “You can’t just tell me to stop thinking what I’m thinking, Mac.”
His lips tilt. “I can, and I did.”
“Listen. I don’t know the type of women that you usually hang around with, but I’m not—”
He shuts me up with a kiss. His mouth takes mine as the pressure on my neck increases, and I tilt my head where he wants it. Then he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue across mine as a low, guttural grunt escapes his throat. The hand on my belt loop slides around my body to rest on my lower back. The heat of his skin, the pressure of his kiss, the way his tongue strokes and teases—it’s too much.
I melt.
Or maybe I implode.
Whatever happens, any thoughts of rejection fly away, and I forget all the reasons I can’t do this, because every part of me can only focus on how much I want it. My hands hook around his neck, fingers tangling into that tousled, dark hair as another groan slips through his lips.
I love those noises. I love that he’s making them with me. I love the way his hand presses against my lower back when I slide my tongue against his, how he tightens his fingers into my hair to bring me nearer.
Then his hand slides lower and he palms my ass to tug me closer. I gasp when I feel the steel in his pants. Mac breaks the kiss, moving his lips to my jaw, my neck, his teeth tugging at my earlobe.
“Mac.”
He pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. “I fucking love the way you say my name.”
My insides turn molten at the intensity of his gaze, his voice. “How do I say it?” I ask, my voice barely more than a rasp.
He closes his eyes for a moment, his nose sliding along the side of mine. When he kisses me again, Mac’s lips are soft, tender. Then he speaks against my mouth, shaping the words as his lips brush mine. “You say my name like it means something.”
My heart thunders. My legs wobble. Mac’s hand stays splayed over my ass, the tips of his fingers just brushing the crease between my inner thighs and the swell of my curves. I’m going to spontaneously combust. His other hand moves from my neck down to my breast, and his thumb starts making slow, deliberate circles over my furling nipple.
Gasping into his kiss, I realize I’m clinging to him, sinking my fingers into his shoulders and grinding my hips against his hardness. His tongue slides over mine, exploring my mouth as that thumb—that thumb—continues its slow torture of my breast.
I want him to use his mouth. I want him to bend his head down and suck my breast through my top, tug my nipple between his teeth and make another one of those guttural noises. I want him to drag me to the side of the building, tear my jeans down and shove inside me. Every filthy, dirty fantasy I’ve ever had is a living thing inside me now, hot and needy and alive.
Then someone opens the bar door, and we scramble apart. The old man with the missing front tooth who had been dancing up a storm with Simone stumbles out, catching himself on the side of the building. He looks up at me, then at Mac, nods, and makes his way toward the road.
I put a hand to my forehead and chance a look at Mac.
His lush, kiss-bruised lips curl up at the corners.
“We should go back inside,” I blurt.
A pause extends between us, and I wonder if Mac might not want to go inside. If he might want to go somewhere else…with me.
But he lets out a breath and slides his hand across my shoulders to pull me close to his side. It’s the perfect place for me, and all I can do is hook my arm around his waist to hold on. Then he places a soft kiss to my temple, and my heart gives a mighty thump. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Let’s go back in.”
