Chapter 16

[Mavis]

I’m anxious. Nervous about leaving Dutton at Ford’s home. Nervous about returning to the Harvest Festival. Nervous to see Clay after that kiss.

Still, I talk myself into accepting that Dutton needs a friend his own age and I do deserve at least one night that’s kid-free for a little while.

Wearing a denim dress and cowboy boots, I walk amid the people gathered around the wooden dance floor, now lit by strings of Edison bulb lights and a few spotlights on a new band.

Clay sent me a text earlier, telling me where to find him, and I slowly approach where he’s standing with his brother, Knox, and the woman I recognize as my old neighbor, Halle. My anxiety creeps up another notch. I might not know these people, but they know about me.

“Hi.” My voice cracks as I near and Clay turns.

His eyes light up underneath the warm bulbs overhanging the dance floor, and he smiles wide.

“You made it.” Relief washes through his words. He didn’t think I’d come. I wasn’t certain I would either, but here I am. And he’s looking at me like I hung the stars.

Quickly, he steps up to me, rubs my arm and leans in to kiss my cheek. I’m startled by the sudden rush of affection, but I don’t flinch away. Clay is a physical man and holding back his desire to touch must be difficult for him. I appreciate that earlier he wanted to understand and respect my boundaries. He wanted to know what he could do to make me comfortable.

Embarrassment lingers over the way I asked him to kiss me. Still, that kiss. I felt it from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes. And for a few blissful minutes, I forgot everything. Wesley. My parents. Florida. The past didn’t matter.

Clay’s hand slides down my arm, distracting me, until he wraps his fingers around mine. Then, he seems to think better of the connection and releases my hand. With the warmth of his touch missing, I shiver under the fall, mountain air.

“Mavis, you met Knox earlier.” Clay points to his brother. “And this is his wife, Halle.”

Surprise hits me. If I recall correctly, her mother, Mrs. Reynolds, was praising Halle’s apparently now-ex shortly before she passed away over a year ago. It’s a reminder that a lot can change in twelve months.

“Nice to officially meet you.” I hold out a hand for Halle but Halle steps forward to hug me.

My, they are a friendly bunch .

“So great to finally meet you,” she says, pressing me back by the shoulders. “I’m sorry we were never properly introduced before.” When I lived across the street from her.

“Clay tells me you’ll be coming to our party next weekend.”

“I . . . I haven’t decided yet.” But I catch Knox watching me, and he winks like he already knows I’ll be there.

Love floats around this couple in a thick cloud, and my heart flutters. Could this happen for me one day? Would it be better than my previously misguided relationship?

“Shall we dance?” Clay asks, and I’m grateful for the distraction from my thoughts. He takes my hand again and tugs me toward the dance floor.

“How do you feel about two-stepping?”

I laugh. “I don’t exactly know how to do that kind of dancing.” I’d grown up on hard rock and heavy metal.

“Just follow my lead,” he prompts before spinning me to face him. Our hands are clasped together at waist height, and he keeps some space between us. Then, he’s guiding me to twirl away from him before tugging me back to his chest. He’s a fine teacher and I’m laughing my head off when I step on his foot a time or two. Clay isn’t fazed as he dips me left and right before pressing me away and pulling me back as the band covers Brad Paisley’s song “Wrapped Around”.

Breathless, I continue to giggle when the song ends, and another begins at a slower pace. Clay pulls me back to his chest, wrapping one arm around my lower back, keeping me close.

“Having fun?” The smile on his face fills his voice.

“I can’t remember the last time I did anything like this.” My returning smile conveys every emotion. I can’t recall the last time I was without Dutton, didn’t feel like a mom, and acted like a woman.

As Clay draws me closer to him, my heart gallops. I’m certain he can feel the rhythm pounding beneath my chest. He holds me in a way we fit, like we’ve been together for longer than a few weeks, and I don’t want to get caught up in how good it feels. To be held. To feel cherished. To want more.

He leans forward, dipping his nose near my ear. “You smell pretty.”

Such a simple statement, and yet I giggle like a schoolgirl. I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me.

“Honeysuckle?” He pauses. “Violets?”

“A combination of the two, I guess.” A floral concoction my grandmother once made and shared the recipe with me. Wearing it reminds me of her, with fond memories of being young and happy.

Clay inhales deeper along my neck and my skin pebbles.

“Ticklish?”

I hadn’t ever thought so but the way he runs the tip of his nose against the column of my throat, I suddenly am. And I want him to do it again. I want him to sniff and nibble at me everywhere.

The thought surprises me, but also doesn’t. Two years without tenderness has been a long drought and I yearn deep inside for the connection. The sensual touch of another. The intimacy of two bodies coming together.

Thankfully, the song about a girl not knowing what she does for the man singing ends, and the band breaks into “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” by Brooks & Dunn. The crowd goes crazy and those who exited the dance floor due to the slower beat return in large groups of giddy women and men with moves.

Clay is among those men who can dance as the line begins. He points out how he moves his feet so I can follow half a beat behind, but I’m a fast study and within seconds, I’m dancing like a pro. Clay tips his head back, laughing at the sky with a gleam in his eye as we rock forward and back, hopping here and there, and lasso the air. When the song eventually ends, we fall into one another, laughing once more.

“Thirsty?” Clay asks with his arm around me.

“I’d love a drink.”

Clay leads me toward the bar, then continues past it.

“Where are we going?” I chuckle as he gently tugs me behind him.

“My office is where I keep the good stuff. Plus, it’s free up there.” He winks at me over his shoulder. “At the bar, I’d only be paying myself.”

The reasoning makes sense. I’m not ready to leave the fresh air, but inside Sylver Seed & Soil, the main store is quiet, the lights dim. A man working security nods at Clay as he leads me deeper into the store and then to the door leading to the stairs to his office.

Once inside his private space, blinds closed on the window block out the party down below. Clay turns on a small desk lamp, the illumination low in such a large space. Beneath the desk is a set of drawers, and Clay pulls out a bottle of Tennessee’s finest.

“I’m not much of a drinker,” I state.

Clay sets the bottle down, stares at it a moment, and then rounds the desk again. Leaning against it with his backside, his hands clasp the edge of the surface. “Sorry about that.” He tips his head in the direction of the alcohol behind him. “I’m not much of one either, knowing what it did to my father.”

“What did it do to him?”

Clay shakes his head. “Not tonight, butterfly.” The look in his eye ends the discussion.

Watching me, the air around us shifts. The tension builds, like the charge before a storm.

“I want to kiss you again,” Clay blurts. “But I’m keeping my promise to let you lead. You tell me when you’re ready.”

I nod once, lick my lower lip, and then chew at it. “What if I want more?”

“More than a kiss?” His brows rise. His voice deepens. His knuckles tighten against the desk.

I nod again.

“Like what?”

My gaze drops to the desk behind him. The surface flat and clear. Clay shifts, twisting his upper body just the slightest to follow my stare.

Turning back to me, his voice roughens, ragged and raw. “Tell me exactly what you want, butterfly. Be specific.”

I shake my head. I can’t do it. I can’t—

“Say it,” he commands, the sound almost pleading, begging me to tell him.

“I want you to kiss me.”

His eyes roam down my body. “Where?”

“Clay,” I whisper.

“Tell me.”

“Everywhere.”

Clay lowers to his knees, surprising me with the slow folding of his body to the floor. On his knees with his thighs spread, he gazes up at me. “Be specific,” he repeats, locking on my eyes.

With boldness I don’t recognize in myself, I tug at the first few snaps on my denim dress, popping them open to reveal a little more cleavage.

Clay swallows hard, peering up at me. “Let me.”

I still my hands and Clay crawls toward me, actually crawls the short distance on all fours, before kneeling at my feet. Then, he rises up on his knees and tugs at my dress, popping several more snaps open at once.

He hums while I moan a sigh of relief. Like I’ve been buttoned up tight and now I can breathe.

His hands come to my belly and travel upward, digging into my skin before he reaches my breasts. He cups the heavy swells and squeezes.

“Oh God,” I whimper, my nipples instantly erect. My breasts ache for more from him. Clay doesn’t disappoint. He tugs down my bra, trussing up my cleavage. His gaze fixes on my breasts, exposed for his pleasure. For my pleasure.

“So pretty,” he murmurs before massaging them once more. “Tell me more of what you want.”

My gaze travels to the desk once more before dropping to him, on his knees in front of me, working my breasts in his large, strong hands.

“Suck one,” I quietly order, surprising myself at how easily I give the command.

Clay stills, glancing up at me. Then holding my gaze with his, he leans forward, and takes one swell into the warmth of his mouth, sucking hard until his lips circle the taut peak. His teeth graze along my nipple, the sting causing me to flinch.

But I also like it.

I cup the back of his head, stroking his thick hair as he moves to the other breast repeating the sweet torture. With my nipples erect and breasts damp, he pulls back and admires them once more.

“Perfection.”

He lowers to kiss my belly and work his way down until my dress restricts him from lowering.

“Open the rest of my dress,” I demand.

Clay rips at the edges so fast the snaps pop with a collective gasp. Brushing the material to the side, Clay leans back on his haunches and stares at my skin. His hands move over my belly once more, coasting lower to cover my hips, but his eyes don’t leave the apex of my legs.

“Kiss me,” I say quietly.

Clay obliges like a starving man. Quickly, his face is between my thighs, spreading my legs wide and kissing me over my panties. Then he pushes the silky, damp material aside and kisses me like that first kiss. A brush of his lips like a whisper of air. I whimper with need for more, and he latches on, startling me once more. I grip his head for balance.

“Holy . . .” The invasion of his tongue has me seeing stars and I cling to him as his lips suck and his teeth nip before his tongue swirls once more. His hands clasp on the back of my thighs, inside my open dress. The warmth of his palms heats my skin, and he hangs onto me like I’m holding onto him. With his desperate mouth against me, in places that haven’t been devoured in so long, I rock against him and moan.

“That feels so good,” I encourage, needing more, reaching for that special edge. As he swipes his tongue forward, he hits my clit, and I jolt. Knowing he’s hit the spot, Clay concentrates on the sensitive nub until I’m out of control.

My hips move like I’m choreographing a new kind of two-step, one private between me and this man. I’ll never be the same again, and with a quick strum against tender folds, I crack.

“Clay.” I cry out his name, grip the back of his head, and curl forward as if I can draw him into me. The release washes out of me, coasting along with the call of his name, and rushing to one central place on my body.

My pulse thumps. I’m free. I’m free. I’m free . My mind floats with the mantra as I flutter against Clay’s mouth while he draws out every drop of my essence.

“Oh, my God,” I mutter, eventually pressing at the sides of his head, needing him to give me a moment.

Clay pulls back but tips his forehead against my lower belly and inhales again. “Your scent is intoxicating.”

He rights my underwear and leans back, looking up at me with innocent eyes, but also ones full of mischief. Like he knows what he’s just done to me, and he’s damn proud of himself.

“What else?” he demands, wanting more of me. More of me telling him what to do.

My gaze flits to the desk once more. I imagine Clay and me, joined as one on the surface. The two of us moving in unison together, connected together. I want to feel all of him. The weight of his body on mine. The feel of him inside me. Not his fingers. Not his tongue, but the clearly impressive-sized cock straining at the front of his jeans. I want to take pleasure from him, as well as give it in return. To relish in this newfound power of sexual expression. To explore this exciting strength within me. The freedom to ask for what I want and receive it.

“You want it there, don’t you? Say it and I’ll do it.” He’s almost taunting me, goading me into admission.

“I want to have sex with you on the desk.”

His brows lift, perhaps surprised I confessed so easily. Maybe too easily. I step back, fixing my bra, ready to concede that what he did was enough. I don’t want to appear selfish or desperate, eager for more of him.

Slowly, Clay rises, like a stalk unfurling toward the rising sun. He stands tall but not imposing before me.

“To be clear, you want me to bend you over my desk and fuck you.”

I glance around him once more, staring at the surface because I’m not certain I can look him in the eye when I speak.

“To be clear, I want you to lay back on the desk and let me fuck you.”

“Hot damn, Mavis,” he groans, swiping his hand around his mouth and choking. Then he steps back, and back again, until he hits the edge of his desk.

“Do I undress myself or do you take over?”

Goading me once more, I stiffen my spine and close the distance between us, popping the button on his jeans before lowering the zipper. Clay leans back, letting me take control in lowering his jeans over his hips. Then I tug at his shirt, pushing the flannel down his arms. He’s got too many articles of clothing on him, and I decide to skip ahead. I push at his shoulders and Clay hops up on the desk, leaning back to his elbows and watching me as I tug at his denims and his boxer briefs, removing them only enough to free him from the confines.

I stare at the heavy length, erect and protruding from his lower belly.

“Butterfly,” he chokes again, and I wrap my hand around the stiff shaft, tug once and then lower for a lick.

“Jesus,” Clay hisses as I take him to the back of my throat before pulling up the length and circling the tip with my tongue. He falls to his back, slings an arm over his face. His exhale is shaky. “You do that again and we aren’t going to get to you riding me.”

I release him and Clay moves his arm, lifting only his head to watch me tug down my underwear and step out of it. I leave my boots on, my dress open.

“Whatcha doin’ to me, beautiful?” He groans, not suggesting I stop, not concerned for himself, just questioning the Universe.

Then, as if sensing I’m not certain how to climb up and over him, he holds out his hand. With his assistance, I set my knee on one side of him and then swing my other knee over his other hip. Straddling him, I stare down at where he’s big, and thick, and I’m suddenly nervous.

“I don’t have a condom on me,” he warns, his tone suddenly anxious. “Don’t keep them in my office.” The admission suggests he’s never done this here before. “But I’m clean.”

“Me too.” Pregnancy won’t be an issue either. I should tell him the truth about me, but I don’t. Now isn’t the time.

I hitch his lengthy dick upright and tease the tip through my sensitive folds. Clay watches every motion, enraptured by the torment until I still, and my body opens for him.

“Mavis.” His deep voice cracks as he glides easily into me, filling me until he can’t go any further.

Sitting on top of him, I lean forward, hands on his desk on either side of his biceps and take a deep breath.

“I’ve never been so full,” I admit, wheezing out the words.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Clay grunts, dropping back his head and staring up at the ceiling.

Then, I move, drawing up his thick dick and watching Clay’s abs flinch. His upper body moves the slightest bit, like a jolt of electricity shocked him. When he falls back, his hands cup my hips, squeezing at my flesh, but letting me lead.

And I begin the slow ride up and down, and circling round and round, until my clit hits him in such a way, I’m losing control once again.

“Clay,” I whimper.

“Take it, baby. Take everything.”

I’m slipping up and down his length, and riding back and forth, the friction building, teasing, taunting me.

“I never . . .” I gasp, surprised at how quickly another orgasm is going to shatter me.

“Yes,” Clay demands, his fingertips tightening into my skin.

“Clay.” I groan. “Honey.” The word contains my shock. The sheer incredulity that this could happen to me. That I could come a second time. That I am riding this man. That he let me take what I wanted from him.

I’m in control. The thought has me crashing once again. I slam down on his dick, my channel clenching around him, milking him, as wave after wave crests and falls. I tip my head back then drop it forward, spellbound by the release.

Instantly, Clay takes over, moving me up and down his length, once, twice, . . . “I’m going to come,” he warns.

“Yes,” I cry out before he abruptly tugs me off him. I whimper with disappointment, immediately missing the connection with him.

He pulls me down so tender folds cover his thick balls and slicked length, still wet from entering me. He pulses beneath me, and I clench in response, glancing down at where he spills on his lower abdomen, washing himself in ropey, white substance. His head tips back. A vein stands along his neck. His fingers grind into my hips, and he holds still.

I collapse forward, catching myself on my hands on either side of his shoulders, bracing myself upright with shaky arms when all I want is to fall over him, lay on his chest and hear his heartbeat, wondering if it matches the chaotic rhythm of mine.

When the lids of his eyes pop open, he stares up at me. With ragged breaths, he says, “I didn’t want to go off inside you without your permission.” An anxious chuckle fills his throat next. “But you felt so good, baby. That was close.”

I bite my inner cheek to prevent from spilling any confessions. The truth doesn’t matter. “It’s okay,” I say, fighting my disappointment again that he hadn’t released within me, but admiring him all the more for respecting me.

We remain like this—me straddling him, him awash in the sticky substance—for several seconds as our heart rates settle and our breathing regulates.

Pressing myself upright, I peer down at him again. “Should I get you something?”

Clay easily chuckles, the motion jostling me over him, and I feel an aftershock jolt from him against a swollen, sensitive area. “I think that’s my line.”

Hesitantly, I laugh as reality catches up to me. I asked him to touch me. I told him to suck me. I begged him to kiss me down low, and then I admitted I wanted to have sex with him on his desk.

Who am I?

I scramble to remove myself from Clay, moving gingerly in an attempt to gracefully climb off both him and his desk. Clay easily sits upright and reaches for me, but I step out of his grasp.

“Butterfly?”

With shaky hands, I try to reattach each snap on my dress. Clay hops off his desk, tugs up his pants, but leaves them loose around his hips as he stands before me. Uncertainty is etched in his brows and the stillness of his jaw.

“Mavis.”

My name is strongly stated, and I glance up at him, my own concerns written on my face.

Without more words, Clay tugs me to him and holds me tightly against him. “I enjoyed every second of what just happened, and I’ll never be able to look at my desk again without thinking about it. About you. About us.” He squeezes me. “No regrets, beautiful.”

His words ease me. “No regrets,” I whisper, then struggle to pull back, causing him to release me. “But I should really pick up Dutton.”

His name is like a thunderclap between us. A reminder that I’m a mother and have responsibilities. I shouldn’t have done what we just did but I meant what I said. I won’t regret it. I’ll hold onto this moment like a treasured gift. Like I kept my grandmother’s butterfly shawl and the recipe for her homemade perfume.

Clay’s brows pinch but he doesn’t argue with me as I scoop up my underwear and ball it in my hand.

“I’ll see you later. At your house.” A reminder that his place isn’t my home.

“If I leave my bedroom door open, will you come in?” He already knows the answer.

I can’t spend the night with him. This needs to be a one-time thing. A fantasy acted upon. A dream fulfilled but nothing more.

“Clay,” I whisper, the answer in his name. I can’t . And it’s one more reason to move on. I’ve made things awkward between us.

He looks away from me, the side of his jaw clenching. “Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

Slinking away from him, my shoulders are heavy. My heart hurts while my body still pulses with what we just did. However, my retreat is for the best. I can’t involve Clay in the mess of my life. He’s already done so much for me.

More than he’ll ever know.

Especially tonight.