Bad Cruz: A Reverse Grumpy/Sunshine Romance

Being the talk of the town and getting bad press was what I called just another Tuesday, but since Cruz was used to being the golden child, I made an effort to be who I thought he wanted me to be when we arrived at our assigned dinner table.

My back was straight, my face serious, and I only laughed quietly whenever it was appropriate. I was determined not to cause him any reason for embarrassment for the rest of the trip.

More so because I wanted to stay on my family’s good side than wanting to impress Cruz, although it had to be said, the fact that he dropped about two grand and his undivided attention on me today did make me like him considerably more.

“How’s your shima aji?” he asked tightly, stealing a glance at me.

Small as heck, I wanted to reply.

This time we went for the exclusive dinner, not the all-you-can-eat or the complimentary dining room, and the food was miniature. You’d find more on a Jerry & Sons plate after the customer was done with it.

“Exquisite, thank you.” I dabbed the corners of my mouth unnecessarily with a napkin. “And your white quail?”

“Good.” He gave me a cynical once-over, knowing very well I was faking it. “Wanna share the dessert assortment?”

I tried to think what a girl like Gabriella would reply to that. That’s what he liked, right?

That’s the company he willingly chose.

“Thank you, but I don’t eat sugar after six,” I murmured.

“You destroyed a sleeve of Oreos last night. On the bed. Then I caught you munching on the crumbs this morning.”

I felt myself flushing pink. “I’m trying to get better about it. I have to watch my figure.”

“Your figure’s perfect.”

“Is that a medical assessment or a personal one?”

“It’s a goddamn fact I wish wasn’t true because it has been distracting me since my years on the high school football team when you’d come to Rob’s games. What’s gotten into you?”

Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.

That was a lot to unpack, but he delivered the barb with such ease, with an almost mocking smirk, I forced myself not to pry the subject open. I couldn’t afford to argue with him publicly and/or kiss him.

Not tonight.

“I’m trying not to cause you any trouble.”

“By being the most boring woman on planet Earth?”

“By trying to act like someone you’d actually be seen with,” I snapped, my nose and eyes feeling unbearably hot with humiliation.

I wasn’t going to cry, of course, but I was feeling all kinds of weird about trying to pacify a man who wasn’t my father or Bear. It went against my religion or something.

He groaned, flagging down our waitress.

“My only issue with you is that you like to dress the part people in town gave you. The rest of your personality is amusing to me. I can handle crazy. I speak the language fluently.”

The waitress approached, hugging a round black tray to her chest and looking at Cruz like he was her dessert assortment.

“Can you please get my wife that coconut cocktail she likes?”

“Upside-down Christmas margarita?” she beamed.

“With extra marshmallows,” I murmured quietly. Because dang, it was good. “And a whiskey for the gentleman, please. I don’t want to get drunk alone.”

“Any preferences?”

Cruz gave her his preference—of course he had one—and a moment later, I was sucking sweet, alcoholic goodness from a straw.

“You know you can drop the married undercover story. People must know we’re not a real couple by now.”

“I like to keep ’em guessing.” He threw me an enigmatic look. “I have a confession to make.”

“Will it make me want to punch your face?” I asked.

“Very possibly.”

“Then please wait until we go back to the room. I’m trying my hardest not to embarrass you.”

“Drink your cocktail, Tennessee. You’re impossible when you’re sober and eager to please.”

“Why do you call me that?” I dutifully sucked on my straw. “Tennessee. To everyone else, I’m Messy Nessy.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think you’re all that messy. And besides, Nessy reminds me of the Loch Ness monster, and frankly, I think you’re giving it a bad rep.”

I polished off the cocktail quickly and ordered another one with the dessert assortment, which, by the way, I pounced on, not giving Cruz the faintest opportunity to even taste a crumb.

“Where does all this food go?” Cruz finally asked, his eyes big and full of surprise.

I patted my flat stomach. “I have a fast metabolism.”

Oops.

That was just another way of saying I pooped a lot, wasn’t it? I wasn’t as guarded after two drinks in me, but I gave myself a free pass because we were still having a pleasant evening.

“I remember you used to eat a donut every morning and dissect the sprinkles one by one with your index finger and thumb and nibble on them slowly in high school.”

My mother used to take it as a personal offense that I did not gain weight from that habit. My lithe body was a genetic gift from my father’s side.

Trinity had taken after my mother. They were both always falling in and out of diets. Weight Watchers. South Beach. Ketogenic. Mediterranean. The baby food diet.

The clip-your-nose-while-you-eat diet was the worst. They did that so they couldn’t smell the food. Unfortunately, they also couldn’t breathe, which put a real dent in their efforts to survive it.

Anyway, and back to our subject, it surprised me that Cruz had paid any attention to me at all. I grew up thinking he was blissfully oblivious to my existence as more than Rob’s little, annoying girlfriend. If even that.

I curved an eyebrow. “You seem to remember a lot about me in high school.”

“I have a good memory.”

“Or stalking tendencies.”

“Ah, there she is. Soft as barbwire and just as subtle.”

“I’m starting to think you’re enjoying this.” I narrowed my eyes.

“I am. You’re giving me trouble. No one ever gives me trouble.”

“Such a hard life.” I put the back of my hand to my forehead, like an outraged Victorian duchess.

He leaned forward, letting his elbows drop on the table. Such a small gesture, and still, it filled me with unexpected delight to know that even the Almighty Dr. Cruz Costello could use a few table manner tweaks.

“So. What do you want me to teach you first?” he asked.

“How to make an entire town believe you’re the Lord’s gift when it is perfectly obvious you are Mr. Average with a fabulous ’stache?”

“I mean in the casino.”

But his smile widened further, making my knees part involuntarily under the table. I licked my lips when I thought about the dusting of dark blond hair peppered on his chest.

Yesterday at the pool was the first time since I was sixteen that I’d wanted to climb someone like a tree. My sexuality had been so dormant in recent years, I hadn’t realized it was still buried inside me.

“Oh. I don’t know. I think I’ll just go for the fruit machines.”

Translation: I couldn’t afford anything else.

He shook his head. “C’mon, Tennessee. You’re more hardcore than that.”

“I may be hardcore, but I’m also broke.”

“I’ll foot the bill.”

“You’ve done enough of that already.”

“Not nearly. The truth of the matter is, I want to have a good time on this cruise, and if that means spending a few bucks, then I’m all for it. It’s not about you, Tennessee, it’s about me. If you really want to be like Gabriella Holland, you should let me treat you well.”

“I don’t want to be like Gabriella Holland,” I corrected him. “And I don’t want your charity.”

“You call that charity?” He snorted out. “Sweetheart, if I didn’t enjoy you, I’d leave you in the room and find someone else to keep me entertained.”

That was a backhanded compliment if I’d ever been slapped with one.

“You don’t expect me to put out, do you?” I cocked my head sideways.

“Expect? No. Hope? Always.”

I mulled this over.

It was true that I didn’t let men treat me well. In fact, I didn’t let them treat me at all. The very few men in town who had wanted more than a tumble between the sheets with me and actually went through the effort of so-called courting me were met with a cold shoulder.

I threw Tim Trapp’s flowers into the trash in front of his very eyes, donated the gifts Roy McCarthy sent me to charity, and flat-out refused a job with Eamon Levy as a secretary at his workshop, even though it had great benefits and medical insurance, because I knew he was going to ask me out.

But maybe this was the perfect solution. To play make-believe with a man I could never have in real life. To heal myself and practice a little through this little adventure.

“All right. Teach me your ways, Master Costello.”

“Miss Turner, I thought you’d never ask.”

There were a few things that immediately stood out to me the first time I stepped into a casino.

First things first—this was not a place for people suffering from epilepsy.

The bright colors, blinding lights, constant ding-ding-dings echoing in your ears and dark surroundings made the place look like what could have happened to Alice had she stepped into Wonderland under the influence of LSD and way too many tequila shots.

It looked like the grown-up version of an arcade, only slimy instead of fun. With waitresses dressed in uniforms that made my Jerry & Sons outfit look like it belonged in a nunnery, floating between tables and handing drinks to sweaty men and women.

Cruz was right that the slot machines were probably a bad call. The only people occupying them were seventy-five and over, and it looked like you had to rely solely on luck, which, I was aware, was something I was not endowed with.

Plus, obtaining control of a situation—or at least having the illusion of having control—was important to me.

My eyes immediately drifted to the blackjack tables and the roulette. There was something downright sinister about them. Some magnetic force that made people look extra alert and nervous when the dealers slid cards on the tables.

I felt Cruz’s arm brush mine, and a shudder rippled through me again. I had to be careful. My inhibitions around him were already loose.

He stood beside me, glancing in the direction my head was turned.

“I think you’ll enjoy blackjack.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Lax rules, low-house edge, and fast pace. You’re a straight-to-business type of girl. You’ll like it.”

“I don’t know how to play.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

He laced my arm in his and tugged me forward, toward one of the velvet-green tables with the cards and the chips. The croupier gave us a quick smile as he dealt the players their cards, and I followed everyone’s hands carefully as Cruz’s lips skimmed over my ear tenderly.

Desire ripped through my skin, veins, and bones. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was press my body to his and drink him in like fine champagne. He was waking the volcano again.

“Here’s the skinny of it. Each player wants to beat the dealer, meaning you don’t play against one another, you play against that gentleman over there. The way you do that is by getting a count as close as possible to twenty-one, without actually going over the number.”

My nipples puckered to attention at his husky voice, but I was entirely uninterested in the game and fully invested in feeling more of his body pressed against mine.

Yesterday’s brief kisses left me breathless, and now, semi-drunk and fully-horny, I wanted all of Cruz Costello.

“It’s your choice whether your ace will be worth one or eleven. Face cards are ten, and any other card is its pip value. So far so good?”

“Yup.”

I didn’t register anything he just said.

Something about a pimp. The only thing that got to me was the way he smelled, the way his lips moved over the shell of my ear, and his heavy arm against mine.

Cruz went on to explain about the betting, the shuffle and cut, the deal, splitting pairs, doubling down, and the naturals.

I successfully blocked every bit of the information with my piece-of-rock brain, instead focusing on the rhythm of my breaths as I wondered what would happen if I rubbed myself against him.

Note to self: do not drink and think. You are not good at that.

Cruz played a couple rounds, patiently reciting all the things he’d explained to me about blackjack throughout, even though I could tell it was annoying the men around us and entertaining the women draped on their arms.

I nodded vehemently, flagging down the waitresses for more and more cocktails whenever he looked away. I’d never gotten drunk publicly. Actually, I very rarely had more than a couple glasses on my own.

I got knocked up before I had the pleasure of getting trashed, and getting trashed after bearing a kid seemed unwise, if not completely impossible. Even if I’d wanted to, I was no longer attending high school and therefore hadn’t hung out with my former classmates. Drinking alone while breastfeeding? Not even on my worst day.

This meant that now, at the ripe age of twenty-nine, I was finally checking the box on my bucket list and getting completely tanked.

Cruz wasn’t aware of how much I drank.

He was too engrossed in his game and in explaining the game to me. Plus, I did a pretty good job at holding my drink under the table and being sneaky with my straw.

All in all, I still sported the mental age of a preteen.

Awesome.

When it was my turn to play, I proved to be talented in more than just being a fashion criminal and a terrible waitress, and lost him a whooping three-hundred bucks in three consecutive games.

It was swift and painless, seeing as I had no idea what I was doing, and slow to react when the dealer explained my next moves to me. But Cruz had a remarkable poker face and seemed casually amused, as opposed to murderous and upset.

“Wanna try again?”

He leaned way too close to me for me not to take advantage and sniff into his chest. His neck smelled amazing. I was momentarily blind with rage when I thought of how Gabriella must’ve enjoyed all this male goodness in bed for months and months.

“Are you crazy?” I hiccupped. “I’m a national disaster.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. State hazard, maybe. And you’re still learning.”

“At your expense.”

“As I said, that’s my problem, not yours.”

“And what a beautiful problem to have on your hands, eh, Dr. Costello?” A man’s voice drifted from behind my shoulder.

I swiveled around to face a hunky man, muscular as Robocop, with trimmed graying hair, and a button-up shirt that threatened to burst. He reeked of enough cologne to drown a beaver, and next to him was a woman with bleached-blonde hair and a red dress that highlighted all of her enhanced assets.

Her nipples were so prominent through her clothes, I wondered if it was a fashion statement of some kind. I mean, the place was air-conditioned, but it wasn’t that cold.

Suddenly, I saw myself in that woman. The skimpy clothes. The in-your-face sexuality. It was all a front and made me feel uncomfortable.

“Dr. Wootton. It’s been a while.”

The two men shook hands. You could cut the tension in the air with a butter knife.

Two things I knew for sure—Dr. Wootton was the colleague Mrs. Warren had referred to, the person who’d recognized Cruz, and that these two men were not on good terms.

“This is my wife Jocelyn.”

“My pleasure.” Jocelyn extended her hand to Cruz for him to kiss.

He obediently did so, the obnoxious gentleman that he was.

“Honey, this is Dr. Costello, the guy I told you about yesterday after Ramona told us about the…incident.”

Here we go.

“This is Dalton,” Cruz ignored Dr. Wootton’s lukewarm introduction, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We went to med school together. Dalton, Jocelyn, this is my lovely date for the evening Tennessee.”

“Ah, date. Is that what you kids call it these days?” Dr. Wootton guffawed.

“What else would you call having a drink with a friend from town?” Cruz asked nonchalantly.

“Ramona says—”

“Ramona’s looking for a headline,” Cruz said. “Really, Dalton. I thought gossip was beneath you. We’re not in kindergarten anymore.”

Jocelyn suggested we grab a drink together, and both men were too polite to point out it was a terrible idea, so here we were, sipping drinks.

There were no empty seats at the bar, so we opted for a round table with four stools by the roulette tables. Personally, I thought Jocelyn’s nipples deserved a stool of their own. Were they enhanced, too?

I sat opposite her, and Cruz was in front of Dalton.

I guessed that it wasn’t a good time to confess to Cruz that I’d had three more drinks he wasn’t aware of while he was playing blackjack, and that I was tight-roping the line of drunk as a skunk.

Jocelyn couldn’t stop undressing Cruz with her gaze while Dalton seriously eye-plucked me into oblivion.

Were they swingers?

No judgment here, but there was no way I would participate in that kind of thing with this nipple-wielding power couple.

I decided to go for the same wine Jocelyn sipped, while the men stuck to whiskey. It occurred to me that I should probably stop drinking, but this was my first real experience with alcohol. Pathetic, considering I was near thirty, but also true. And this was the trip of new experiences, apparently.

“Where are you working these days?” Cruz asked Dalton, obviously trying to steer the conversation into safer territory.

“I’m a plastic surgeon in Greenville. At the Green View Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery Clinic.”

That could explain why his wife had enough plastic to mold an industrial trash can.

“Nice. That’s what you’ve been gunning for.”

“How ’bout you? Heard you ended up taking your old man’s job after all?” Dalton scooped an ice cube from his whiskey tumbler into his mouth, crushing it with his teeth. “Thought you had second thoughts about that?”

Cruz stiffened next to me. The good-natured smile still played on his lips, but I could tell something had shifted inside him.

“I was on the fence for half a minute. Ultimately, though, I like it in Fairhope.”

Dalton took a swig of his whiskey. “The Gambler” by Kenny Rogers was playing in the background.

“Thought you said it gave you too many dark memories.”

I couldn’t help but snort out an unladylike giggle.

“Dark memories?” I echoed. “Cruz was, and always will be, Fairhope’s guiding light. I think his only unpleasant memory is being born, and that’s only because that’s the moment people began to fawn over him twenty-four seven and he got tired of being admired.”

Dalton turned his gaze toward me, seeing this as a direct invitation to answer my breasts.

“That’s what I heard, too. But he said something about an ex and some stuff going wrong. Last I talked to our boy here, he said he was looking for apprenticeships in Charlottesville. That was before we graduated.”

“Ex?” I whipped my head toward Cruz, frowning. “What ex?”

Cruz had fooled around with a few popular girls in high school, but he was too bright, too untouchable to settle down with one of them. And besides, people in our school had this small-town mentality that ensured almost zero drama where breakups were involved—the dating pool was too small for you to feel weird about dating a friend’s ex…or an ex’s friend…

In fact, I was pretty sure mine and Rob’s was the only messy story from Fairhope High during his graduation year.

Also, on a side note—why was everyone blurry? And how come my legs felt like they were too heavy to move, but also kind of warm and nice? Was this how being hammered felt like? No wonder alcoholics were grumpy people.

And also did this a lot. I laughed once.

Cruz kicked my ankle under the table, signaling me to shut up.

“You don’t know my whole life story, Turner.”

“I know you didn’t have a messy girlfriend back home or dark memories,” I countered, peppering my statement with a hiccup.

Dalton and Jocelyn looked between us, grinning.

“Who wants some shots?” Jocelyn purred.

“Not me,” I was about to say, when Cruz bit out, “Great idea.”

Oh boy.

He was going to be so pissed when I ended up puking on his friend’s wife’s pointy nipples.

A round of tequila arrived, and we all emptied the content of our glasses. Dalton and Cruz switched to beer and started talking about football while Jocelyn ordered “us girls” some bubbly.

“So.” Jocelyn gave me a slow once-over. “What’d you get done?”

Telling her I got nothing done seemed impolite and haughty, even if it was the truth. I pointed to my chin, nose, and a few more areas in my body.

“Everywhere, pretty much. The only thing that’s real about me is my heart. And I’ve been told it’s not the best. How ’bout you?”

Cruz’s quaking shoulder, pressed against mine, told me he heard me and was wildly amused by my answer.

My walls were coming down, fast and hard, and I was growing more and more enamored with the idea of fooling around with Cruz Costello. With clothes on.

Because when you think about it—it was the perfect crime.

He didn’t want word to get out.

I didn’t want word to get out.

I was feeling frisky.

He was… a man.

And we both knew this cruise had an end date, and neither of us had any ideas to continue this beyond the here and now.

Plus, I’d learned my lesson from a decade-and-a-half ago. I wouldn’t let him go all the way. I wouldn’t get pregnant again.

So what was the big deal?

Cruz was a gentleman. He’d never kiss and tell.

Tactically, I slipped my foot out of my sandal and used my big toe to brush his inner calf suggestively under the table while nodding at something Jocelyn said.

“…jawline reduction, but I told him, ‘Baby, while you’re there, give my nose a little shave, would you?’ Of course, I didn’t think he’d actually go for it…”

Meanwhile, Cruz nodded and sipped his beer, ignoring my undercover advance.

Fortunately, I was far too drunk to take offense. Or the hint.

Maybe I was being too subtle. There was no way he wasn’t game. The way he’d kissed me yesterday pretty much cemented the attraction was there. Also, he’d admitted I was a hottie at the pool.

I slipped my hand under the table and placed it on his knee.

Dang it, his thighs were as hard as a statue.

“…Chris Wade had 1,794 yards receiving, you don’t have to go ham when you’re running wide open,” Dalton explained to Cruz hotly, while his wife continued droning on, “…dimple creation will be my next procedure. I think I’ll be asking for one for our anniversary. Seven years of marriage counts as a big anniversary, right?”

When Cruz still didn’t get it, I dragged my hand up his knee, my little finger skimming his inner thigh. I hoped the rest of him was as hard as his leg. I chanced a glance at him.

He was frowning at something Dalton said and added, “They also have one of the worst pass protection units in the NFL, so that’s not saying much.”

My little finger almost got to his crotch, and finally—finally—Cruz’s left hand snaked under the table, too. Instead of stopping my hand, he placed his directly on the edge of my dress where the fabric met my skin.

A shot of pleasure ran through my spine at the contact on my sensitive flesh.

He pressed an ice cube on my inner knee.

Whoop.

“Two can play this game,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to be engrossed in Dalton’s football chat.

“Game on,” I uttered through a close-lipped smile directed at Jocelyn, who was now contemplating removing excess labial skin from her vag after she and Dalton had their third and final child, which she was planning on having next year.

I knew depressingly too much about their sex lives.

And shape of their nipples.

“…could be a smokescreen for Roberts. But if he makes this move, I think we’ll be in good shape,” Cruz continued conversing with Dalton, as his hand hiked up my inner thigh with the ice cube, which was literally melting against my sizzling skin.

My pinkie brushed his package through his jeans.

He was hard, fully loaded and ready to go.

Now if I could just figure out how far I wanted to take this.

“Better to stay put than trade down,” Cruz replied to something Dalton said as his cock pushed back on my pinkie.

He pretended to rearrange himself on his seat while giving a little hip-thrust into my touch.

Boy, oh boy.

This was happening.

The ice cube continued its journey between my legs, almost resting on my panties. I let out a soft moan. It was such a nice touch, not to move my panties aside and tease me by pressing it against the fabric.

In other (related) news, I was never going to make eye contact with this man ever again.

“Tennessee? Are you with me?” Jocelyn snapped her fingers in front of my face.

Holy fug, what now? “Huh?” Did she want to know if I needed some of her extra labia skin for my butt enhancement?

“I asked if you know the mysterious ex who made Cruz swear off Fairhope back when he was in med school.”

“Uhm.” I cleared my throat, shifting in my seat to gain more friction against my clit. “Can’t recall. Did he ever describe her?”

“I don’t know. Honey, did he?” Jocelyn elbowed her husband.

Dalton’s eyes shot straight to my girls—I swear, the guy was a first-grade sleazeball—and he shrugged.

“I don’t remember, it was so long ago. And Cruz and I moved in different circles. But lemme see…”

Cruz slipped what remained of the ice cube through the side of my panties, letting it melt against my slit, and holy sh…

“Blonde, I think he said. Brown eyes? No. No. Hazel. Long legs. Said she was a horrible human being. Zero tact when it came to affairs of the heart. She had a weird name,” Dalton recited. “Lessy? Noriana?”

Wait a minute…

Cruz chose that moment to toss my hand away from his crotch, get up, and finish the remainder of his beer.

“All right, buddy, it was good seeing you. I’ll settle the bill at the bar. Send Joyce my regards.”

“She’s right here,” Dalton faltered. “And it’s…”

“Yes. Of course she is.” Cruz began pulling me out of my stool, not even bothering to listen to the rest of it. “Nice meeting you, Joyce. You’re utterly unforgettable.”

Unfortunately, I was both hammered and enjoying the sensation of the tip of an ice cube teasing my clit, which resulted in my stumbling all over my feet like a baby deer, giggling uncontrollably.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go.”

Cruz grabbed my hand and practically raced through the casino toward the exit, throwing a wad of cash at the bartender on his way out.

I tried to keep up with him, panting. So many things went through my head. But the most pressing issue was…

“Why on earth did you tell your friends at med school we were a couple?”

It was me he’d described.

I knew.

And I thought Dalton and Jocelyn knew it, too, because they kept looking at me like a puzzle they had to put together. The woman behind the conundrum.

It hadn’t been about them being swingers. Well, maybe not all about them being swingers—they’d stared at me trying to connect dots, not our genitals.

Maybe both? Pluck no.

And it had only just hit me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’ve been cockteasing me all evening and it’s high time we do something about it. Where’re the elevators?” Cruz muttered. He was lit like a Roman candle, looking left and right frantically while holding onto my hand like I had immediate plans to disappear.

We passed by Brendan and a group of middle-aged guys who cackled on their way into the casino in a uniform of Hawaiian shirts and beer bellies.

“Lookie, here. Today they are lovebirds,” Brendan whistled as he strolled past us. “Tomorrow, who knows?”

“It was me Dalton described. What the heck was that about?” I trailed behind Cruz, trying to keep up.

“You’re not the only blonde in Fairhope.”

“Hazel eyes? Weird name? Questionable personality?”

“I meant Taylor Cunningham.”

“Taylor’s not a weird name.”

She wasn’t a blonde, either, and had a perfectly pleasant temperament, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt since her hair was light.

“You think?” He took a sharp turn to the right, after trying to find the elevators to his left. “I think it’s a guy’s name. Used to be, anyway. It’s all gender fluid these days.”

I wanted him to stop.

I wanted to talk about what it meant.

But…I wanted him in my panties more, so I put a pin on the conversation.

“Where are the damn elevators?” Cruz seethed.

It was the first time I’d seen him even remotely flustered, wanting something instead of having it automatically given to him, and it gave me a lot of pride and joy to know it was me who made him that way.

“Not sure, but there’s a maintenance room about a hundred feet from us.”

“Good enough.” He made an actual beeline toward the door. “I can’t chance you changing your mind on me again. No time.”

A second later, we were huddled in the maintenance room. It was nestled in a corner of the deck, unseen by others, full to the brim with tool bags, brooms, a ladder, toiler paper rolls, and cleaning products.

Cruz locked the door behind us and pinned me against it, his arms resting on either side of my shoulders as he looked down at me. His breath skated down my face, sweet and alcoholic, hitting all my systems, giving me goosebumps.

“I—”

I started to say something to fill the unbearable, tension-filled silence, but his mouth crushed against mine with force before I could take a breath.

“No, Turner. You’re not going to sass your way out of this one.”

This kiss was way different to the one yesterday.

To put it mildly, Cruz Costello went for broke and pulled out all the stops.

It was animalistic, raw, and bruising. An RSVP to the invitation I’d given him earlier that evening, when my pinkie grazed the buttons of his jeans.

My head swam with a heady, raw need.

He pushed me flat against the wooden door, grabbing the backs of my thighs and wrapping my legs around his narrow waist like in the movies. A broomstick crashed beside us, sending a row of cleaning products sitting on a shelf raining down on the floor.

Neither of us seemed to care under the haze of liquor and hormones.

He hissed into my mouth when I opened for him, my tongue dancing with his. He tasted so good, so male, and I wanted more of him. I wanted all of him. I couldn’t remember why I’d ever hated him.

I threaded my fingers through his hair, tugging him to me, twisting my head here and there, to kiss him from different angles, deeper, faster, more passionately.

We kissed like teenagers. Groaning and pulling and biting and sighing. Like the world was about to end, and we had to get our fill before it was all over.

Even when I closed my eyes, his mustache reminded me that it was Cruz Costello I was kissing, and it made me so wet I was pretty sure that mop in the room we were occupying was going to be put to good use by the time we were done.

“Tennessee Lilybeth Turner.” My name fell from his lips in astonishment, like he couldn’t believe what we were doing. “The most beautiful girl alive.”

Okay, that was a stretch, but I wasn’t going to argue.

He dropped his head down at the same time he pushed my breasts up through my dress, French-kissing said breasts through the fabric. It was even more erotic than having him pop them out and going to town.

Because there was anticipation in this.

I watched him working, licking, suckling my swollen and sensitive nipples. They ached for more and for less and for I-wasn’t-sure-what-else. He scraped his teeth over them, rubbing them in a way that felt so delicious, so good, I thought I was going to burst.

“What’s the protocol on women climaxing too fast these days?” I mumbled, forgetting to tuck my drunkenness in, my hands all over his firm butt.

Luckily, Cruz was too busy not busting his own load to notice. He seemed like the kind of bothersome nobleman to stop whatever we were doing if he knew how trashed I was.

I. Needed. This.

He dropped to his knees in front of me, his big strong hands clutching my waist as he kissed his way down my body, skimming past my belly, navel, and continuing south.

“Haven’t you noticed already?” he murmured into the fabric of my dress. “You can do whatever the hell you want and still be golden in my eyes.”

Whoa.

That had to be hands-down the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to me.

Which, granted, didn’t mean much, seeing as the runner-up was “Hey, baby, wanna show me them tits?”

I let Cruz fling one of my legs over his shoulder, pull my panties to the side, and draw a generous, long and deep inhale.

There.

I’d never received or reciprocated when it came to oral sex, never got that far in my sexual repertoire, although I’d watched enough porn to know the technicalities of it.

Though I had to admit, I found it much less embarrassing when some pixel-faced stranger on a porn site in a homemade video was getting her lady bits licked while moaning in a language I was pretty sure belonged to The Sims than it did in real life.

“Uhm. Oh. Kay.” I giggled.

He stopped, about to pull away from me, no doubt to ask if I was okay with what was going on. I was. Not only was I okay, but I was also morbidly curious. I jerked him back into my center, burying his beautiful face between my thighs.

“How do you like it?” He nuzzled his nose into me. Like, straight up into that part of me.

There was a menu?

“Surprise me.”

He used his thumbs to pry me open, then licked me from my butt crack to my clit. I let out a happy sigh, holding onto his head and making sure he didn’t go anywhere.

I watched acutely as he began licking me there, enjoying every drop of my arousal, making noises as he used my desire to coat my clit and suck on it.

That was when I began suspecting I was going to faint. The pleasure was so intense, so heightened, every muscle in my body clenched in expectation of what was about to come (pardon the pun).

“You’re so tight.” Cruz used his index and middle fingers to penetrate me while he worked on my clit.

Well, I practically am a virgin, if you disregard the day Bear was conceived!

Luckily, even though I was drunk, I still had some basic verbal filters in place.

My orgasm felt different to all the ones I gave myself. I knew that before it even hit me.

First, because I couldn’t control my limbs at all. They basically turned to that thing that happens to your Frappuccino after you leave it in the sun for half a day.

Second, because I arched and arrowed like I was ready to shoot myself straight into another continent.

Third, because the wave of shivers rolling over me drowned me to the outside world, and for a moment, it was just me, sailing on a cloud.

Best.

Climax.

Ever.

The cloud popped under me and brought me back to planet Earth when the musky scent of my sex invaded my lips as Cruz kissed me, fumbling with his belt to set his willy free.

That’s when I pushed him away, shaking my head violently.

“No. No way. No way.”

“Why not? Are you okay?”

He stood in front of me, panting, his hand still on his buckle. His chest rose and fell to the rhythm of his heartbeat. His hair was a mess—my doing. I loved that his lips were red and swollen from pleasuring me.

…but not enough to screw up my life and officially become Fairhope’s running joke. “I’m okay…”

“I’m clear.” He pointed at himself. “I make it a point to check every three months.”

“I’m not on the pill.”

“I’ll pull out.”

I gave him a double-gross look, pushing my dress down. It was hard to be taken seriously when my vag was still making eye contact with his erection through his jeans.

“Are you kidding me? That’s the one thing they warned us about in sex ed. And I didn’t listen. Spoiler alert: the pull-out method is not a bulletproof plan!”

“Actually,” Cruz’s mouth pulled into a devilish smirk, “if withdrawal is done correctly, the pull-out method is ninety-six percent effective. Not that I’ve been testing it on anyone else.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t be testing it on me, either.” I gave him another push, feeling sober all of a sudden. “I don’t do sex, mister.”

“You mean, in general or with me?”

“I mean in general. Can’t take any chances.”

A low, gravelly chuckle escaped him. “Never.” His smile was perfect, his straight, white teeth gleaming.

“Never.”

“That’s ridiculous. If that were true, it means you’ve never had sex after having Bear.”

I knotted my arms over my chest, my lips turning downward in a wince.

His eyed widened. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Tennessee, you… you can prevent pregnancy these days.”

“Agreed. And I do so in the most effective way of all. One-hundred percent effectiveness, actually, if you exclude Virgin Mary, and versions vary on what happened to her—I. Don’t. Have. Sex. And I especially—especially”—I unknotted my arms to point a finger to the ceiling as I continued my righteous speech—“am not having sex with a man who has already sexually assaulted me.”

“Sexually assaulted? You?” he spat out, his eyes flaring in alarm. “You played with my dick while I was discussing the Panthers not even an hour ago.”

“I meant the time I throat-punched you. Don’t act like you forgot about that.”

“You thought I was assaulting you?” To be fair, he did look horrified.

I guess it was time I revisited that day.

Buckle up, gang.