Her Dirty Builders (Men at Work #10) - Mika Lane Page 0,40

my erection. She gasped as I filled her, and once I was all the way inside, she straightened up and threw her head back.

With her hands on my chest for balance, she began to rock. I reached up for her delicious tits, and after smoothing my palms over her hard nipples, I tweaked them between my fingers until she moaned.

“So… fucking… hot…” I groaned, the pressure in my balls building to the point of pain.

“Oh… oh… fuck me, Case,” she cried, her head bucking as she rode me harder and harder.

Her pussy clamped around my dick and she came hard, hair flying, her nails leaving marks on my chest.

With one final thrust upward, I emptied my load in pulsing releases, all my concerns of the day gone while every bit of my energy focused on the beautiful woman straddling me.

I pulled her down on top of me so the crusty drop cloth didn’t scrape her skin, and wished for a split second I could go back to high school and do things differently.

27

ESME

“Francesca, there is no way I could accept this.”

Charli’s mom shook her head and smiled. This was our thing. She offered me something outrageously expensive from To Die For, which I could never afford, and I protested.

And in the end, always accepted.

Charli play slapped me on the arm. “Don’t be ridonculous. Mom’s offering you that kick ass blouse, so freaking accept it. Girl, it’s the only way we’re gonna have expensive stuff like this.”

I threw my arms around Francesca, who’d been, on many occasions, the mom I never had.

“Thank you,” I murmured into her perfectly blown-out hair.

“You’re welcome, honey. Now, Char, what are you choosing as your little gift from me? And don’t say that dress over there. I have a paying customer who has her eye on it. She’s supposed to come in tomorrow and pay for it in cash.”

Charli fingered a pair of palazzo pants. “Cash. Well, I sure can’t compete with that.” She pulled the pants out and held them to her waist in front of a full-length mirror.

When Francesca offered us a gift from To Die For, Charli always chose something she’d never actually wear. It was baffling. I mean, where the hell would she ever get to use palazzo pants? Actually, where the hell did anyone wear palazzo pants?

And yet she had a closet full of floofy stuff like that.

If she ever became some rich man’s wife and turned into a lady of leisure, I suppose she’d have luncheons and the opera and shit like that to attend. But until that happened, she had a fuck ton of expensive clothes in her closet collecting dust.

But that was on her.

I nudged her to move along. We were supposed to spend the day thrifting in a place where we could actually afford to buy things, and I wanted to get on with it without giving Francesca the bum’s rush. Sure, the stuff we picked up during our shopping sprees was all second-hand, but we’d honed our skills and knew where and when to go for the good stuff.

For example, the local Value Village put all their new clothing out on the floor every Saturday morning. You bet your ass we were down there several times a month waiting for them to open. And we weren’t the only ones.

There was a whole subculture of people who lived to thrift. It was almost as much of a hobby as a way to freshen up one’s wardrobe.

We didn’t talk about it much in front of Francesca. She didn’t get the appeal of finding a good deal on something.

But as Charli loaded up and headed to the dressing room, I realized we were not leaving anytime soon. I settled into the sofa where the bored husbands usually hung out and flipped through a magazine on cigars.

Francesca’s idea of what men waiting for their women liked to read.

After she rang up a customer’s purchase and walked the woman to the door, she came over and grabbed a seat next to me.

“So how’re you doing, honey. You know, with all the stuff?”

‘Stuff’ being her euphemism for being stood up at the altar and the fall-out that came with it.

It was funny. I hadn’t actually, really, thought about how I was doing in a couple days. I took that as a good sign. I was no longer vacillating between the sadness of what might have been and the anger of how things turned out. Things were just as they were. Like I’d