I do not own The Hunger Games.
Laundry
This is much better, Madge thought, pushing through the doors of the all-night Laundromat down the street from her apartment. She breathed in the reassuring, warm, clean scent of laundry detergent and fabric softener and surveyed her reflection in the sparkling front-loaders. Just me, my laundry, leftover Halloween candy, and Jamie Fraser. What more could a girl want? She laughed at herself quietly and pushed her glasses up on her nose. She had removed her contacts long before she hastily grabbed her laundry and fled her apartment when her current roommate, Johanna, started making grunting noises that rivaled a Maria Sharapova tennis match. The noises had had come after she introduced Madge to her date and then dragged him to her room. Madge grimaced at the mental image of Johanna and her hapless victim. Her roommate was like a succubus and the poor guy would be lucky to be able to stagger out of their apartment once sunlight hit the next morning.
"Who needs crazy, hot, grunting monkey-sex when you have Outlander? Not me." Madge repeated to herself. She refused to admit that the sentiment might be a tad more wistful than she'd like. After all, it had been awhile since Madge had had crazy, hot monkey sex. If she was totally honest, it had been awhile since she's had any kind of sex.
"I have Jamie. Jamie is better than sex," she vowed as she sorted whites from darks.
An hour later, she almost believed it. Her Kindle was slightly sweaty from gripping it so tightly. She was taut as a bow-string everywhere: in her thighs, that pressed together searching for some sort of friction, and in her heart that quivered as she re-read the words in front of her.
You are safe," he said firmly. "You have my name and my family, my clan, and if necessary, the protection of my body as well. The man willna lay hands on ye again, while I live.
A shaking hand lifted to her lips to wipe the Mike and Ike residue there. How was it possible for a man to be so perfect? She clutched the Kindle to her chest and closed her eyes, needing a quiet moment to herself despite the loud spin-cycle churning her clothes. "That's it," she vowed, "No more blind dates. No more Eharmony profiles or letting Johanna set me up with her leftovers. I'm waiting for my Jamie." Sure, she understood that Jamie Fraser was fiction. But it wasn't like she was having much luck with all those other routes. And she was so, so tired of trying.
She thought of her friend, Katniss, who had finally, finally hooked up with her childhood crush. She and her boyfriend Peeta were over the moon together. If the two of them could go to separate colleges, move to different cities, and still find each other ten years after high school graduation, there had to be hope for her. Right?
Right?
She jolted in surprise at the sound of the bell attached to the door. It had to be one in the morning. "Who else is dumb enough to do their laundry on a Saturday night?" She rolled her eyes and muttered, turning toward the door and craning her neck around the triple loader next to her seat on the battered-but-comfortable faux leather couch.
She blinked, then rubbed her eyes under her glasses for good measure. Nope. Not a figment. The guy paused in front of a washing machine had no basket, no detergent. He did, however, hve amazing good looks that rivaled anything in Hollywood. Hell. She thought he might even give Jamie Fraser a run for his money in a darker, leaner way. She let her eyes linger on the navy polo shirt with the undiscernible logo over the left breast pocket and black jeans that hugged his ass nicely as he walked toward the detergent vending machine.
God. That ass. Never mind that the elastic of the shirt sleeves gripped his biceps like a lover, or that she swore she could make out the shadow of a tattoo under the edge of his left sleeve. Those jeans were criminal. They cupped his crotch in a way that highlighted, more than hid, what was underneath and encased his long, lean thighs. She could imagine running her hands up them until she hit the waistband, popping the button, and unfastening the zipper like each tooth was the crank on her libido-generator.
She had never leered at another human being like this. Never.
It felt good.
But what the hell was he doing here without laundry?
While he checked out the detergent selections, she finished her once-over. The guy was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with that scruffy growth that a lot of younger guys wore these days to give them a rakish air. On him, it totally worked. He looked either just-fucked or just-about-to-fuck. Madge just wished he were about to fuck her.
Madge, maybe you should lay off the Outlander.
She squeaked when coins clinked in the bowl of the dollar bill changer. She couldn't help it, but the sound that came out of her mouth was something she had only ever heard in the rodent section of pet stores. She hoped he didn't take it as the hysterical laughter of a crazy person. With luck, maybe he'd think she was drunk?
His eyes—were his eyes gray?—cut to her with an intensity that she swore melted straight through her panties like a laser. She squirmed on the seat, wrestling with her Kindle, Mike and Ike, and Milky Way Dark wrappers until she could stand without falling over, although one foot seemed to have gone to sleep at the worst time. "If you need detergent, I have some." She motioned to her bright pink basket where Tide Free rested next to Snuggle Lavender Joy fabric softener. "You could borrow it." Her courage petered out as he raised a sardonic brow and crossed to stand in front of her.
"Really? How does someone borrow laundry detergent?" His voice was neither too low nor too high. He spoke quietly, although she could hear him clearly over the pounding of her heart and the end of the spin cycle.
She swallowed under that steely gaze. Was it her imagination, or did he smell like beer and French fries? "Have. I meant have. Take it." She stared at him, proud that she hadn't added take me to her outburst. What was wrong with her? Definitely too much Outlander. She thought she saw the Snuggle bear wink. Or exhaustion. She spared a glance his way and reconsidered. Or heat stroke.
He gave her a quick once-over with those disconcerting eyes, taking in her threadbare jeans, college sweatshirt that bore old pizza grease stains and probably some new chocolate ones as well, and messy ponytail and glasses. She wore no makeup, not even lip gloss. He raised his amused eyes to her determined ones. "Okay, princess. Thanks."
Madge nodded. She would have sunk back into the couch if she could, but her foot was just now hitting the pins-and-needles stage of waking up, so she stood her ground.
He grabbed the Tide as he walked to the one machine in her row she hadn't used: unlucky thirteen. She just had time to wonder where his laundry was when he took off his shirt and dumped it into the washer.
Madge swore she heard a popping noise that corresponded to the death of her last brain cell.
Shirt.
Off.
Oh. My. Lanta.
His washboard abs rippled—rippled—when hepoured a capful of her detergent on top of the single item in the tub. In a flash, he shut the lid. With a twist of his lats that highlighted the Magic V pointed straight into his boxer briefs, he turned to face her. She confirmed the there was, indeed, a tattoo on his left biceps that expanded out over his shoulder and pecs. It was especially noticeable when he put his hands behind him to rest on the top of the washing machine, and she swore that she could see the outline of every single quarter in the front pocket of his jeans.
Was it hot in here? Because she was pretty sure her cheeks were the color of the cinnamon gummy bears she had finished off twenty minutes ago. By the time her eyes reached his face, she knew she deserved the sardonic lift of his lips.
"See anything you like?"
Madge blinked at him blankly, like an owl. What exactly did one say to that? Yes? Whip me into a frothy lather and ride me hard like the jockey your underwear claims you to be? Leave me in a quivering puddle of libidinous jelly on the floor? She elected for silence. Her mama always said that silence covered a whole host of sins.
She may have been silent, but he wasn't. "I think your spin cycle's done."
"What?"
He quirked those supple lips again and jerked a thumb at one of the washers. "Your clothes. They're done."
She nodded, dropping her eyes. She could do this. All she needed to do was walk over to where he was standing, empty two washers and move to the dryers on the other side of the room. Piece of cake. Easy as pie.
She shuffled over to the first washer, thanks to a foot that was still not quite awake, and tried to stay as far from him as possible. Why didn't he move over? When she stood next to him, she could absolutely confirm that he smelled of beer and French fries. And maybe, just a little, like hot male. She rolled her eyes as she haphazardly pulled her whites from the washer. Underwear, bras, camisoles and socks all went into the pink basket.
Just as she was congratulating herself for not jumping the walking underwear commercial standing next to her, and gathering her nerve to cross directly in front of the dark Adonis while limping like Quasimodo, he drawled, "Excuse me. You dropped these."
Madge hefted the basket on her hip, gathered her nerve, and lifted her eyes to his raised hand. The same hand holding the waistband of a lace thong. Her lace thong. She closed her eyes briefly, saying a silent prayer to the patron saint of good Southern girls everywhere to save her from herself. When no lightning struck her thong-toting nemesis to dispatch him immediately, her eyes snapped open to meet his wry gaze.
"Wouldn't have thought these were your style, princess."
Maybe her patron saint had hear her after all. She was saved from a response by the loudest stomach growl she had ever heard, except maybe from her friend Katniss. Finally, it was her turn to raise an eyebrow.
He colored, which somehow made him even hotter, but his eyes didn't drop from hers. "I didn't have a chance to eat dinner tonight. Or lunch." He paused, "Come to think of it, I'm not sure if I had break—"
"I have some snacks over there." Madge offered as a reflex, damn her polite upbringing. She pointed at the seat strewn with her Kindle and candy wrappers. "They're not really healthy," she eyed his washboard abs surreptitiously, "But it will take the edge off."
He eyed her for a long moment, gray eyes searching her face. "That's really nice of you. Thanks."
"Just—promise me—you're not going to launder your pants, too."
Part 2.
Madge woke with a gasp. Pushing her sweaty hair back from her forehead, she fought to get her breathing under control as she squeezed her trembling thighs together. They still quaked from the aftershocks of her orgasm. If she traced her hand between them, she knew she would be very, very wet. She also knew that it wouldn't take much for another orgasm to rip through her. For the first time in her life, she was multiply orgasmic over a fantasy. Who knew a Laundromat could be so clean and so gloriously dirty at the same time?
Rolling onto her stomach, she closed her eyes and conjured the dark-haired mystery man from the week prior. He had helped her move her clothes to the dryer. They had moved to the seating area where Madge had shared her snacks. He divulged that he had worked a double shift and had another the next day, but only owned one uniform shirt, hence the need for laundry. Then, he had taken one look at the book cover visible on her Kindle, winked in her direction, and told her his mom was reading the same book. Normally being compared to someone's mother would have made Madge self-conscious. But the way he said it, with dark hair tousled over his forehead and his brows drawn low and waggling had made her think that he had flipped open the book once or twice to look around for porn-y passages as a joke. And found them. He'd smiled when he'd introduced himself as Gale, and marveled that he'd never bumped into her before because—and this Madge remembered verbatim—he'd have remembered her anywhere.
Her.
The teacher everyone else forgot. The girl whose name whenever they went out everyone confused with Midge, or Meg, or Maddy, to the point where Madge had actually started answering to almost anything.
The night had fallen into polite small talk until his spin cycle was done and they felt it prudent to check on her dryer items. That, in turn, evolved into her offering for him to throw his shirt in with her stuff rather than just start a fresh dryer for one measly item. Hers was already warmed-up, so to speak. But she couldn't forget how he had called her princess.
Which is where her fantasies for the past week started.
In them, he told her that he'd have remembered her anywhere in a husky tone while he leaned forward in slow-motion until their lips met and he slipped his tongue—that tasted sweet, like Mike and Ike's and Guinness—into her eager mouth. Fantasy!Madge sucked on it like a lollipop until Gale pulled her unresisting and quivering body against his naked chest. There were variations after this: sometimes Madge went wild, biting his shoulder and clawing at his biceps while he slid his hands into the waistband of her jeans, then further, until he was pumping two long fingers into her wet tightness. Another variation had him pulling her astride him, riding his somehow-protected-cock to orgasm after orgasm with wild abandon while he sucked her nipples like gumdrops. Tonight's was a third variation. Gale had propped her up on the washer after divesting her of her clothes, spread her legs with his broad, manly hands, and dropped to his knees. His tongue had plundered her like a pirate desperate to find gold and she had come, again and again, screaming his name while Milky Way Dark fun-sized candy bars rained down around them.
Madge sighed. She hated this. Waking afterward was always bad, what with her body throbbing with want and still high from of Gale-the-Gorgeous's tongue, fingers, or other appendages. But it didn't compare to how bad it felt when Madge realized that the odds of her ever seeing him again were slim to none. The best, most random night of her life, and it was over. She wasn't even thirty yet. What was she supposed to do with the rest of her life? Lay down and die? Wait for Johanna's flavor-of-the-night to pound a hole through the wall that separated their bedrooms? Sit idly by while her friends Katniss and Peeta got married and had a posse of Peeta-ettes? Because no way was she just going to sit idly by and watch life from the outside until she saw a former student with his own family thirty years from now in a Walmart while she was buying Depends.
She threw off the covers. She had been agonizing over what to do for a week: go to the Laundromat and hope he made a repeat appearance? Or stay home and wallow with her friends Ben and Jerry? She had sixteen hours to plan what to wear and what to bring. Dealing with the crushing despondence if he didn't show would have to wait until tomorrow.
Fifteen hours later, her room looked like a bomb had exploded. But Madge rose victorious from the flames, in a clingy, soft pink sweater dress that buttoned up the front, and thigh high socks in a coordinating gray. A little make-up, some lip gloss, a flick of a hair brush, and Madge looked like she was casually ready to do her laundry.
Not.
There was no time to change. And really, did she want to meet the blazing-hot Adonis who was giving her virtual orgasm after virtual orgasm wearing ratty velour sweatpants and a My Little Pony t-shirt? No. Madge figured she would take a couple of shots of liquid courage, throw on her adorable-yet-comfortable-flats, and be on her way.
She was topping her third shot of cinnamon whisky with a few drops of Tabasco when she heard the key in the lock.
"Hey, Johanna. Long night?" Madge asked, shooting the Fireball. It burned nicely all the way down her throat and warmed her empty tummy like a hug from a flamethrower.
"Madge, this is my friend, Cato." Johanna swayed on her four inch heels. "What's with the shots?"
Madge wondered if Johanna was going to be able to get out of her jeggings. Especially since Cato couldn't shake her hand without staggering into the wall. Still, he was leering at Johanna, so maybe she'd get what she wanted out of the night. "I'm getting ready to go out for a bit, so you guys will have the place to yourself."
Johanna was drunk, but not so drunk that she didn't narrow her eyes and take in the outfit, the shots, and the laundry basket chock-full of a week's worth of dirty clothes. "You're deep throating beer bravery like a virgin at her first frat party to get psyched for laundry night?"
"Yep." Madge popped the "p" loudly. "I'll be back later. Feel free to really get in a work out, or give him a pop quiz, or do whatever's on the agenda for the night. I'd tell you not to hurt him, but I don't think he'd feel it if you did."
Johanna snorted at where Cato had slid down the wall and was struggling to untie his own shoes. "I'll be lucky if he can find it, let alone ride it."
Madge patted her arm, then hefted her laundry basket. "I have faith in you, Jo. You haven't lost a date yet. Lock up behind me?" She turned over her shoulder to Cato. "Nice to meet you. You kids have fun."
Johanna snickered. "We will. Don't pull a muscle doing all that laundry."
She let the door slam behind her.
-o—
Madge went about her normal routine: whites in washer twelve, darks in washer fourteen. Add detergent in both. Pour Snuggle in the Downy balls and toss them in, then add two dollars in quarters to the empty coin slots. Push in. Pull out. Wait for the rushing water noise to confirm that the washer was working before taking a seat. Open a book. This time, though, instead of really losing herself in the hotness that was James Alexander Malcolm McKenzie Fraser, Madge was restless. She chided herself for watching the clock when she checked the time twice in five minutes.
Calm down, Madge. So what if he's not here yet?
The fourth time she looked at the door, then the clock, she closed the lid of her Kindle and sighed. Reading wasn't going to work and the faux-leather couch that had been so comfortable last week was chilly on the naked skin of her thighs. She rose and paced the length of the couch, eying the Terra Blue chips and chocolate covered cherries she had brought. Exactly how long should she wait before she called fair game on the snacks? After all, it was cruel and unusual punishment to be denied both the hot guy and the chocolate covered cherries.
"Sugar snap, that's the rinse cycle filling," She muttered, refusing to admit that each passing minute meant it was less likely that her jean gigolo would show. "Maybe just one cherry isn't a bad idea. Just one, Madge. To tide you over." The cello wrapper crinkled loudly in the empty Laundromat as she opened the end with a nail. "Just one."
"There goes the spin cycle," Madge said morosely from where she lay sprawled across the couch a little later. "I should have brought some drinks to go along with the cherries." She bit into the dark chocolate coating, enjoying the burst of cherry filling that flooded her mouth. She had one more cherry left in her box of ten and she was suddenly grateful he hadn't shown late. One cherry to share wasn't nearly enough. She shrugged mentally. "More for me. Might as well enjoy it. I wonder why they call them cherry cordials?" she asked no one in particular, before flopping back and taking a bite.
Which promptly spurted everywhere but in her mouth.
"Son of a biscuit!" Madge bolted upright, dabbing at sticky, red-and-pink goo that had sprayed the front of her favorite dress like arterial spray from Candy Crush's Tiffi. "This had better come out." She made her way to the small bathroom at the back of the Laundromat, muttering about her lousy luck the entire way.
"Look at you, Madge. You're a mess." She eyed her reflection, which showed her smudged make-up around weepy eyes and a giant wet spot on the front of her angora blend dress. "And you're also an idiot. I can't believe you thought he'd come tonight just because he was nice to you. Of course he was nice to you! You gave him detergent and fed him! Now, you're going to go out there, throw away those wrappers as if the cherry incident never happened, and read about a guy who would absolutely appreciate a good scrubbing and a shared meal." Madge stuck her tongue out at herself, grabbed a paper towel, flung open the door, and stalked back to the couch.
Except there was someone in front of washer thirteen.
Madge stopped dead. She wanted to rub her eyes, but her mascara was holding on by a thin prayer as it was. Instead, she blinked once. Twice.
He smiled slowly, like warm molasses, his shirt already off and presumably in the washer behind him. She could make out every ridge of his abs above sinfully black jeans, every nuance of the tattoo that covered his shoulder and pecs. "Hi, princess. I'm sorry I'm a little late; my shift ran over at the bar. But I brought us dinner." He looked hopeful, like the prince in a Disney movie when faced with the gorgeous heroine.
Her thighs clenched unintentionally. Damn him.
Madge shrugged in the casual "I don't care" reflex known the world over, then added coolly for emphasis, "I've already eaten, but thanks." Her mama didn't raise her to be a fool: it was going to take a lot more than whatever he had in the paper bag to get back in her good graces.
His face fell. "Well, that's too bad. Sae's known for her wings and I thought you might be up for something spicy."
Spicy? Where was he ten minutes ago when she was gorging herself on something sweet to get the thought of spicy out of her system? Madge closed her eyes for a moment to compose herself.
"Your washers are done, by the way," he drawled, breaking her concentration and forcing her to focus on the half-clothed body less than a dozen feet away.
Madge's eyes snapped open. She nodded and crossed to the couch to throw out her garbage, then made her way to washer twelve. The skin over his ribs shifted in her peripheral vision as he took a breath. Did he have to stand so close?
"Why don't I hold the basket while you get the clothes out?" He offered generously.
She handed him the basket, then got to work fishing her stuff out of the washer and ignoring him. She refused to look above his sternum. And she absolutely refused to think about the constellation of freckles that looked as if it were pointing straight at his left nipple and again down to that magic "V", like an erogenous zone Big Dipper.
"That's a great dress." His voice broke her out of her hypnotic study of his navel.
"Thank you."
He cleared his throat and hiked the basket to one lean hip. "You've, uh, got a button undone."
"What?" Madge tore her gaze away from his chest for a minute. What was he rambling about? Couldn't he tell she was mad at him?
In a patient voice, Gale repeated as he waggled his fingers in her direction, "A button. Actually, a couple." And then, because he was trying to be helpful, he touched her in exactly the spot where two buttons now gaped open, exposing skin, cleavage, and a little bit of her pearly-pink bra.
Madge froze.
He lightly traced a warm finger over the revealed skin and added thoughtfully, "I bet it happened when you were giving yourself this wet spot."
Sugar Snap! Madge's breathing went into overdrive and her thighs quivered at hearing those words come out of his mouth. His callused finger brushed the lace of her bra, catching slightly with each of her inward breaths, then grazing the upper swell on each exhale. Their skin touched in only that one spot and already Madge was going up in flames. She was surprised her voice still worked, "It was the cherries."
"What?" Gale's eyes lingered on her lips like he was trying to discern her uttered words.
Madge caught her breath as his knuckles grazed her throat. "I brought some chocolate covered cherries for us. One of them exploded."
He urged her closer, pulling her into his side. "I like cherries."
"You do?" She said breathily, just before he covered her lips with his.
His lips were as warm as his hand on her nape, a little chapped in a way that bespoke of a lot of time outdoors. But that lush lower lip insinuated itself between hers, and his tongue slid inside her mouth at the exact moment her laundry basket hit the floor with a thud.
That's the only cue Madge needed: immediately, her greedy hands slid to his waist and then around his back as she pushed him up against washer thirteen. Her nails dug into his spine as she rose on her tip-toes to capture the sweet bow of his upper lip with her teeth. He tasted like Sriracha—spicy with a hint of something else—and she couldn't get enough as she slanted her mouth against his again and again. She moaned when he slid a leg in between hers, her dress dragging upward with the motion until her panties and his jeans were the only fabric separating them.
Gale tore his mouth from hers and rested his hands on her shoulders. "Madge…God…Madge…"
"Say that again," she demanded, streaking her mouth along his jaw to the hollow of his throat. He tasted of beer,with the sweetness of whiskey and a little smoke and sweat underneath it all. When she ground down on what she hoped wasn't a roll of quarters in his front pocket, he swallowed convulsively.
He groaned her name again as he reached for her nape to tug her mouth to his. Cradling her weight tightly against him, he switched their positions. Suddenly, he was the one plundering her mouth while he hoisted her higher on his thigh and rotated his hips into hers.
Sweet tea, the man could kiss. Madge focused on his mouth and the feel of his warm skin under her hands. She wasn't sure what was more erotic, the friction of him between her legs, his sinful mouth coaxing her to respond with lips and tongue, or each individual vertebrae arching under her grip to bring their bodies closer. Just the way he had her pinned against the washing machine had her throbbing. But add in the rest of it, and the night far surpassed any of her dreams of him thus far. She hiked her thigh higher on the outside of his hip at the exact moment he tried to do the same thing. Suddenly, the hand that had been holding her ass was all the way under her sweater dress. Under it and against bare skin.
Madge froze in shock.
So did Gale.
She watched his Adam's apple as he swallowed. "Are you naked under there?"
Perversely, she wanted to say yes just to see his reaction. Instead, she carefully watched his gray eyes. "No."
He blew out a slow breath. Even more slowly, he moved a seeking finger or two until he brushed the lace and cotton just barely covering where she was wettest. His lids dropped over his eyes as his tongue ran over his bottom lip.
Madge wanted to bite the damp plumpness.
"You're wearing the thong from last week, aren't you?" He finally ground out.
Madge beamed, elated that he hadn't forgotten everything about her, though her voice stayed quiet. "You remembered."
His eyes snapped open and he searched her face for…something. "How could I forget?" he finally answered, as his questing fingers purposefully slid under the fabric and into her. Madge arched into him. Those fingers, as long and lean as the rest of him, moved carefully. In. Circle. Out. Slowly. He kissed her with the same long, slow strokes of lips and tongue until she was panting against his mouth, spreading her thighs wider in an effort to take him deeper. Faster.
More. She hadn't realized she had moaned the word against his lips until he kissed her lightly, forcing her heavy lids to lift.
"No. Nice and slow the first time. I want to watch you."
She was so close already, and his words heightened every sensation radiating out from between her legs. Her hands were useless, clutching at arms that were at no risk for dropping their precious cargo. She wanted to drop her head to his chest, maybe breathe in his scent. Or find a spot to bite down on whenever he swiped his thumb over her, pausing for just a moment when she clenched as he touched her most sensitive spot before torturously sliding free. She ached. Couldn't he tell? Evidently, he could, because he changed pressure or torque or something. She hovered on the brink for one agonizing second of clarity before her world exploded.
She came down to earth from her mind-blowing "o", cuddled up against Gale's still-naked chest. Suddenly, the washer behind her clunked, signaling the end of its spin cycle. Well, that makes two of us that are done, Madge thought. She wanted to laugh, or give Gale a hard kiss that she assumed was the post-coital equivalent of a high-five. Or cry.
He rubbed a hand up and down her back gently while she caught her breath. Finally, he said quietly, "We should finish up the laundry. Can you stand?"
I don't know, can I? Madge almost giggled. She looked at him shyly from under her lashes and then down at their hips. Gale took the hint and stepped backward, though never too far away to catch her if she fell. Madge slid down the washer and stood on shaky legs. While she straightened her dress, Gale adjusted himself, retrieved the fallen basket, and added his shirt to her pile of damp clothes. By the time Madge had finished tugging her clothes into place, he was halfway to the dryers.
They unloaded clothes in silence for a minute or two, until Madge bent over to grab a handful of clothes and came face to face with his erection. Her face heated as she stood. With much more confidence than she actually felt, she motioned to his jeans and said, "You know, I could help you take care of that." She stepped forward, reaching for him.
Before she could actually touch him, Gale had her hand in his strong grip. "I didn't bring a condom with me."
Madge searched his flashing gray eyes, where she thought she saw vulnerability hidden under the fire. She said slowly, "I did. They're in my purse."
He exhaled, a frustrated puff of air. "I'm trying to do the right thing here by letting you off the hook. What I really want is to turn you around, bend you over that laundry cart, grab your soft skin so hard it leaves bruises, and pump into you until you scream."
Madge's pulse jumped like a thoroughbred's at the gate. "That sounds pretty good to me."
Gale let go of her hand, laughing harshly. "What do you do for a living, Princess? Because I work in a bar. That's who I am: a guy who works in a bar. Not a lot of prospects there. Not a big future. Do you want to re-think your generous offer?"
"I'm a teacher. And no. For your information, I do not want to re-think it. Just the fact that you're arguing with me tells me that you're a good guy. One who's probably got a better future than he believes right now." She stepped closer to him, brushing her palm deliberately against him. She smiled at him sweetly when she felt him twitch. "I want to have crazy, hot, smells-like-dryer-sheets sex with you in this Laundromat until one or both of us can't stand upright."
He shook his head as his gray eyes clashed with her blue. The vulnerability was back, mostly hidden under a goodly amount of anger. "You're crazy."
"Maybe." She cocked a shoulder, then pivoted so she was facing away from him. Grabbing onto the sides of the laundry cart, she leaned forward enough so her dress rode up her bare thighs. She let him look for a moment as she stood poised there. Then, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder, she looked back at him. Meeting his eyes, she arched a brow and, in a voice that she hoped sounded nothing like her normal one, she said, "Coming?"
Gale swore under his breath while Madge's heart thundered in her chest. It had taken all her confidence to offer herself to him. She didn't know what she would do if he rejected her again. So she did the only thing she could do: she faced forward, bowed her head, and waited for him to decide.
It didn't take long for him to slide a hand up the front of her thigh and pull her back to grind against his erection. She was arching against him when his words hit her like a wet, cold smack in the face. "I'm flattered and all. But should you really be slumming it like this? It seems a little out of character for a girl like you." She heard the squeak of his shoes on the linoleum as he stalked into the bathroom. The sound echoed in her head as she quickly shoved wet clothes in her hamper, grabbed her stuff, and high-tailed it out of there.
Part 3.
I am an idiot. A fucking idiot. Gale discretely tailgated a tenant through the door of yet another apartment building. It was the fifth one since Madge hadn't shown up last Friday, and it wasn't the first time he had cursed himself. How could he have let her leave like that? Especially without having a way to contact her or some way to explain himself. He could tell how hard his rejection had hit her: her face had gone pale and her eyes had filled with tears. Well, that and the fact that she was gone when he'd come out of the bathroom. He had felt like a dick for doing it. But he knew, deep down, that he would have felt like a bigger dick for fucking her. He was a lot of things, but the kind of guy who took advantage of nice girls was not one of them.
Not even when he dreamed about said nice girl. Her skin. The softness of her lips and the skin of her thighs. Her voice catching on his name as she panted…
Get yourself together, Hawthorne. You're here to apologize. Maybe ask her out. He tried to ignore the little voice inside his head that sneered, Ask her where? You're going nowhere. Is it fair to drag her down with you? He silenced the voice by remembering how horrible it had felt when she didn't show up at the Laundromat the week after he forced her to walk out. All week, he had been thinking of ways to apologize. To tell her that this was all new to him. At least since his dad was alive, before he started taking care of Vick, Rory, and Posy and picking up the slack for his mom. That he wanted to take it slow. That he wasn't ready for someone to barge into his life like she had, making him feel like he deserved things he hadn't realized he wanted in…forever.
Yeah, he had it bad. If he were brutally honest, he'd wanted something more from her since that first night, when she'd offered him snacks and detergent and fabric softener and he'd first seen their clothes tumbling together. He'd wanted to take a tumble, too.
But he had to find her first.
He focused on the task at hand, hoping that this one had a 12C with an M. Undersee listed on the mailbox. All the others either didn't have the right apartment number and letter combination at all, or had someone else's name on the mailbox. He tried not to think about the odds that the label on her laundry basket was out of date, or that she lived with a roommate. Or, worse, a guy. That didn't seem like his Madge, though. She was feisty and smart, giving, and totally without guile. He was willing to bet that the odds were good she wouldn't live with one guy and share herself with him at the same time.
Shit. His stomach plummeted. The name on the mailbox was printed in large, black block print. Mason. Clearly, Cinderella didn't live here. Where the fuck was she? He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and rocked on his heels. What the hell was he going to do now? He was back to square one. He'd have to lay out all the apartment buildings he's visited on a map. Maybe he'd missing one with the right proximity to the Laundromat and the right number of floors. Or maybe he could try searching for her last name on the computers at the library. Maybe he'd get better results than when he had tried it in the browser of his older model smartphone.
He was thinking through all of his options when the elevator door opened. A small woman exited, talking loudly on her cell phone before ending the call with a rude and emphatic hand gesture. She looked like a goth version of a pixie: too much black eyeliner, spiky, brown hair around a heart-shaped, gamin face, black mini-dress over thigh high, plum tights. Crossing purposefully to the mailboxes, she opened the one marked 12C and swore so vehemently that Gale was caught between being embarrassed and impressed when she accidently dumped her mail all over the floor. He took her spill as the heaven-sent opportunity it was. Rushing to help gather the various envelopes and circulars, he checked the names as covertly as possible.
The pixie checked him out, eyes lingering on his arms, chest and crotch. "Well, look-ee here. You must be new to the building. And such a Good Samaritan. We haven't met before: I'm Johanna." She paused for a moment, once more dropping her eyes to his chest. "Want to fuck?"
He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I think I misheard you. What did you just ask?"
She held out her hand for the piece of mail that dangled from his hand. He looked at the address one last time to confirm that it did, indeed, list Margaret Undersee as the addressee before handing it over. Tucking it with the packet of mail in her bag, she crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her the toe of ankle-boot-clad foot. "You heard me. Want to hit the sheets? Play mattress-Twister? Field-test some condoms?"
Color heated his cheeks at her directness. "Um…no. No thank you."
Johanna sighed dramatically. "That's too bad. For a second, I was hopeful that there was fresh, available meat in the building. You have a girlfriend? Because if she ever dumps you, look me up. You're hot enough that I'm willing to take a number and wait for that six inch, double-meat snack." She gathered her things, shoved her mail into the Kate Spade satchel slung over her shoulder, and made for the door. One hand on the glass, she paused and looked back, jerking her head at the insignia on his shirt. "You work at Sae's? They have great wings. My roommate can't stop eating them these past couple of weeks, but they must be pretty spicy because they make her cry. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?" She tilted her head to the side and eyed him shrewdly.
He started guiltily. "How did you—"
"Relax. It's pretty easy to put together that you're the guy she kept meeting at Laundromat. Tall, dark, handsome, totally fuckable, but brooding like you're kicking your own ass over giving up the best thing that ever happened to you. Which is true, by the way. Plus, you smell like her brand of fabric softener, you're hanging out in our building like you're looking for someone, and I'm willing to bet you checked out the mailboxes before I came downstairs. Plus, you turned me down, so you've got it as bad as she does. I wonder if you're tall enough to ride that ride?" She paused, tapping a black fingernail against her chin. She seemed to come to sort of decision, though, because she pointed that same finger at him. "You be gentle with her, you hear? She was a locked door on a candy store until you showed up. I'd hate to have to rough up your pretty face because you hurt her when she's been through enough. But I'll be out at least until the clock chimes midnight if you want to go up and talk to her. I have it on good authority that she's in for the night with her friends Ben and Jerry."
"Thanks, Johanna."
She waved a hand at him. "Oh, call me Jo. And you owe me two dozen hot wings next time I see you for helping out. I like 'em extra-spicy." She winked. With a wave over her shoulder, she pushed through the door like a tornado.
Gale watched her go for a second. Then, he squared his shoulders and strode toward the elevator and 12C.
-o—
Madge flopped onto the sofa. She couldn't wait to take off her boots. No matter how cute they were, they always killed her toes after eleven hours of chasing kids around the classroom. She'd gone right from school to dinner with her friend, Katniss without a chance to change into flats. Sometimes it sucks being a slave to fashion. In the midst of an internal debate about whether she was too tired to hobble to her room and take them off, she barely heard the knock on the door until it came a second time. Louder.
"Jeez, Jo. Forget your keys much?" she grumbled as she struggled to her feet and tugged her navy wrap dress into place. She took her time crossing to the door. "I swear, you keep forgetting your keys and we're going to chip you like a do—"
"Hi, Princess." Gale grinned ruefully, dimple winking. "Great boots. Can I come in?"
She gaped at him for a full ten seconds. Was she imagining the nervous set of his shoulders? Finally, good manners won out. She held the door open wider and ushered him in, still in shock. "Can I get your something to drink? Iced tea? Water?"
"No, thanks."
She shut the door, thinking fast. "What are you doing here?"
"I, uh, I was looking for you. Since last week, actually. To apologize for the way I…for the things I said. I was out of line."
Madge raised an eyebrow. "You couldn't have just told me later tonight?"
He shook his head. "You didn't show last week and I couldn't take a chance that you wouldn't be there. So I switched shifts with someone and managed to bump into your roommate…"
"Oh, God. You met Johanna? I'm so sorry." Madge chuckled, hiding her face behind a palm. "She's kind of an acquired taste."
"I wouldn't have pegged her as the sort of roommate you'd have, that's for sure. Honestly, I wouldn't have thought you'd need a roommate at all. But she seems to really care about you, in her own way."
"She does. I apologize if she threatened you. I keep trying to get her to take anger management classes…"she quipped. When the joke fell flat, she crossed her arms across her chest.
They stared at each other.
Gale looked around the room in the uncomfortable quiet. "This is a nice place. Quiet. I'm surprised you walk to the Laundromat. You probably have washers in the building, right?"
Madge looked away. "I had a problem in our laundry room with a fellow resident. We had been seeing each other, but broke up. I kept bumping into him at weird times. And this one time I was doing laundry…it got uncomfortable," she shrugged. "I don't mind the walk. It helps me think."
Gale frowned and took a step closer. "Then I'm doubly sorry for being an ass. Did he hurt you?"
"No, not really. It was a long time ago." Her smile was tight, clearly communicating that the subject was closed. "Thanks for coming by—"
"Were you going to come tonight? Because I've missed you." He ran a hand though his dark hair, spiking it. "I don't want to sound like a total stalker, but I can't stop thinking about you. Can we start over? I know I told you that I'm a loser who works in a bar. And that's true. And you deserve better, that's true, too. But I'm going to school when I can get the classes I need to finish my engineering degree. And I've got brothers and a sister that I take care of. That won't be forever. I just...maybe it's selfish, but I was hoping we could go out, get to know each other, maybe take it slow and see how things develop."
Madge searched his eyes before shaking her head. "I don't think so."
A muscle in Gale's jaw clenched. His hands fisted. His eyes dropped to the floor. "I see."
It was her turn to take a step closer. "I don't think you do. You keep trying to warn me off, telling me I'm so much better than you are. And, maybe even five years ago, I would have believed you. But a lot can change in five years, Gale. I'm no better than you are: I work to pay my bills. I live with a roommate who's less of a friend and more of a necessity. I've been the patient, good girl my whole life, with the exception of meeting you. That was probably the most forward, risky thing I've ever done."
"I'm glad you did."
"Me too. I've been thinking a lot about what I want lately, especially after I threw myself at you. And what I want is to not be on the sidelines any more. I like who I'm becoming: that I saw something I wanted and went for it. I stopped coming because it seemed dumb to keep pushing myself at you when you didn't want it. I didn't want to do to you what my neighbor did to me. As for you—if the situation were reversed, and I had hurt your feelings, I don't know that I would have had the resourcefulness or the integrity to find you and apologize. But there's one thing I absolutely, positively know for sure," she took another step so they were toe to toe, tall heels making it easier for her to meet his eyes. "I've thought about you, too, these past two weeks. I think I've proven that I'm a lot greedier than you are. Because I do not want to take this slowly."
His heart leaped into this throat as his pupils dilated. "Still? Even after what happened? I was such an ass."
"Yeah. You were." She shrugged. "But I'm willing to overlook it as long as your swear that you won't lie to me again. I deal with twenty-five third graders all day, so I can handle most stuff. But lying…that's a deal-breaker." She sent him a sly look underneath her lashes. "If you can agree to that, then I want all of you. As much as I can get, as fast as I can get it." Vulnerability shone in her eyes for a moment, along with dawning horror. "That's too forward, isn't it? I think Johanna's finally rubbing off on me."
Gale smiled his slow, molasses smile, the one that made her thighs clench. "I like it. Forward looks good on you. Although it almost killed me to walk away that last time when you bent over in that thong…" he closed his eyes and exhaled heavily.
"I didn't think you'd noticed that." Madge felt the blush rise to her cheeks.
Gale leaned forward to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. "I'd have to be dead not to notice that. It's like those boots. They're…inspiring."
Madge cocked an eyebrow before backing up slightly and pointing a toe of one black boot toward him. "These old things? If I'm honest, they hurt my feet. But I love the way they look."
"So do I. Want me to rub your feet?" At her look of shock, he shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. "It seems like the least I can do. Madge, I don't think you understand how much I like you. I pushed you away because I thought that was what was best for you. That's sort of my fatal flaw: I think I know what's best for people. Honestly, if you asked, I'd bark like a dog for you."
Madge didn't know what to say to that. The fact that the hottest guy she'd ever laid eyes on was in her living room had been throwing her off for the past half hour. And now, for him to say something so sweet…that was all the encouragement she needed. She crossed to him, took his hand and tugged him to the couch before pushing him down onto it. Her hands rested on the belt of her wrap dress. "I don't need you to bark like a dog. But if you don't want me, you'd better tell me to stop right now."
Gale swallowed visibly. "I told you, I won't lie to you again."
"Well then. I hope this is as inspiring as the boots." Madge slowly untied her dress and shrugged out of it.
"Holy Mother of God." Gale exhaled slowly, suddenly very warm at the sight of Madge in a black lace bra, thong, and garter set. His hands dug into the nubby tweed of the brown plaid couch. "That is one lucky set of third graders."
"I don't wear this for them. I wear it for me." She straddled his lap, took his hand, and spread his fingers over the black lace covering her breast.
Gale could feel her heart galloping under his palm. It was the first thing he registered, but others followed quickly: the heat of her skin through the soft lace, the faint scent of vanilla that clung to her, the enticing weight of her across his hips, the pale allure of her thighs against black stockings.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. She was like unwrapping the best Christmas present he'd ever received, and he wanted it to last.
"And now, you're wearing it for me." He growled as he leaned in. Paying attention to each gasp, he took his sweet time kissing her, running his hands along her breasts, down her arms, and across her back. Her bra clasp gave way with a click and he slid it down her arms, never once taking his mouth from hers. She tugged at his shirt, so he took the hint and pulled it over his head. When they were skin to skin, he groaned. "Madge, God, you feel so good."
She made a noise in the back of throat as she nuzzled his jaw and caressed down his chest to his zipper.
Gale grabbed her hand. In a move he'd never actually tried, he levered her up and over, onto her back. ""Not yet, Princess." One hand found her breast while the other stretched her boot-clad leg along the top of the couch so he could settle himself between her thighs. She half-whimpered, half-giggled when he kissed her bellybutton, so he did it a few more times just for the joy of hearing that sound. Finally, he moved lower, loving how her breath caught and she arched against him when his open mouth found her.
He drew her pleasure from her slowly; nibbling and licking before withdrawing to let his fingers dance against and inside her. Her hands found his hair and grasped tightly, but still he urged and coaxed with his tongue. Even when she pleaded, his name a gasp on his lips while she trembled, he refused to rush. He took his time sliding one, then two fingers just inside her, then deeper, while he sucked gently. Hips writhing, she came with breathless gasps.
He was in the midst giving her time to recover when he realized that it wasn't her nails biting into his shoulder. The hand clutching his shoulder held a small foil packet. After giving a silent prayer of thanks heavenward, he asked, "Where did that come from?"
Madge laughed quietly. "Johanna has them hidden in the couch cushions for emergencies. I think this qualifies, don't you?"
"Don't move," he ordered as he grabbed the packet. He made quick work of shucking his jeans and donning protection while Madge watched through heavily lidded eyes.
When he joined her on the couch, aligning their hips, she pouted for a second. "What if I wanted to be on top?"
"Next time," he groaned as he held her thong to the side and slid inside her. She gasped and hooked one heel around his hip when he drove deep. He grasped her booted calf in one hand and rucked her ass lower so it was at just the right angle with the other. Then, moving with a power that shouldn't have been possible on such a narrow couch, he gave up his tenuous control and lost himself in her welcoming wetness.
Later, after he had ditched the condom, they lay cuddling, naked, on the couch. "I love those boots."
Madge laughed quietly. "Good to know." She was quiet for a moment before she lifted herself to her elbow and looked down at him. Her eyes twinkled mischievously when she asked, "Are we going to need to do laundry tonight? Maybe I'll keep them on."