The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Sabrina

“ O h yes, right there, don’t stop.” Michael’s hands were magic. I dropped my chin toward my chest to give him better access to the tight muscles in my neck.

“Deep breath in, slowly out. This knot’s a big one.” His thumb dug into a sore spot on my right shoulder that made my toes curl in both ecstasy and anguish.

“Damn.” I groaned the word in a long slow gasp. My eyes rolled up and the view of my living room went out of focus as I concentrated on releasing the built-up tension. It had been a long, shitty day.

“That feels better.” He smoothed his thumb over the spot a few more times. He’d offered the massage after watching me try to stretch out my shoulders on my own. We’d just finished gorging on the takeout we’d picked up from my favorite greasy Chinese food place. We’d both been exhausted and starving after the first day of clean-up at Viande.

I rolled my neck and shoulders, checking in with my abused body. Better, but not one hundred percent.

“I’m in decent shape. I work on my feet all the time. This is ridiculous.”

“Midlife is a bitch. All kinds of body parts start to give out. Plus, that push broom is a far cry from a chef’s knife.” With a groan, he eased down onto the couch next to me.

“It’s not only the broom.” I sighed and picked my beer up off the table littered with takeout boxes.

“Stress?” His question was rhetorical.

“A metric fuck ton of it. No one wants to work this week. Christmas paralysis came early this year. And I’m calling bullshit. Do you know how many holidays I’ve worked in my life?” I barely paused for him to answer. I’d been ranting about this all day. And Michael, like some kind of saint, had listened. “All of them. Christmas, I’m in the kitchen. At Easter, I’m manning the brunch omelet station. Fourth of July, I’m grilling wings and dogs for a beach party.”

“How did that work with your daughter?” He draped an arm over the back of the couch. His fingertips found the nape of my neck, stroking the sensitive skin there.

“We moved holidays around my schedule. Celebrating early or late. The only holiday I never worked was Hailey’s birthday.” A smile spread over my face despite the bone-deep exhaustion and the layer of plaster dust coating my skin.

“You’re opening the restaurant in her honor, right?”

“I don’t think she’d want me to say it that way. The closer to the end of her life she got, the more accepting of death she became. It was unreal. My willful, hormonal, stubborn teenager turned into the Dalai Lama. Her goal was to give all of us a purpose for after. Her friends from school she asked to fundraise for a scholarship in her name. Minerva, she asked her to rejoin the Silver Palms social scene that she’d given up for hospital vigils. I was harder.”

I leaned my head back and let my eyes close as he cradled my skull in his hand. Talking about Hailey was the recharge for my willpower battery I didn’t know I needed. More restorative than the fresh air in my face riding home on his motorcycle or a belly full of sweet and sour chicken.

“You give up a lot for your kids. More when you are raising them alone, I think. And while I never said it to Hailey, she knew. Saw that I took jobs that put her life and schedule before my ambitions. So at the end, she made me promise to go for it.”

I sat up and twisted to look Michael in the eyes. I took his hand in mine and squeezed it. “She actually said ‘take it from me; you only live once.’ Then we had a good cry and started planning my culinary domination of Miami. The food truck was her idea. She would have loved the TV show.” I dashed away a bothersome tear.

He said nothing, just folded me into his arms and hugged me. He’d reminded me how pure and wonderful a hug could be. Another person’s arms folding around you. The shelter from the storm. A welcome home. A safe place to relax. Ever since the first night when I fell apart in front of the Smiths, I’d instinctively sought his embrace.

“You are very good at hugs,” I whispered into his chest.

“Glad I’m at least good at that. I should have done more today to help.” He rubbed my back and kissed my cheek before letting go. The parts of my back he’d stroked tingled in a deliciously distracting way.

“You did plenty. But if you’re looking for more manual labor, I have plaster dust everywhere and need a good scrub.” I mushed my lips into a pout and batted my eyelashes. It was fun to flirt with him. Last night I’d missed Michael. My bed had been cold and lonely. There was no reason to end up staring at the ceiling fan for another night when he was right here, waiting to be enticed into staying.

He chuckled.

I winked and stood, pulling him up behind me. “We both need to get clean. We’ll be conserving water this way.”

“Well, let no one say I didn’t do my part for the environment.” He yanked his shirt off and dropped it in the middle of my living room.

“Exactly.” I walked my fingertips up his chest, loving the hot skin and the sprinkle of chest hair. I tugged his head down to mine for a kiss. Our lips touched and the same heat we’d shared in Cuba flared to life. It was intoxicating to be utterly physically compatible with another person.

On the walk to my bathroom, our clothes fell away, dropped in a trail of naughty breadcrumbs punctuated with hungry kisses across my house. Being naked in my 1960s era bathroom with a man hadn’t happened in years. I turned the shower on and soon steam filled the room. The small space seemed to amplify the sounds of us kissing and gasping each other’s names.

His hands were everywhere, making my pulse pound beneath the skin. Between my thighs. Cupping my breasts. Kneading my ass. I arched into every touch like it had been months since my last orgasm, not a couple of days. I glanced at the lightly fogged mirror. In the reflection, I looked small and pale against his broad, colorfully tattooed chest.

My shower was average sized. Michael wasn’t. I was about to ask how we both would fit when he took matters into his own hands—literally. He scooped me up, hands under my ass. On instinct, I twined my legs around his hips, my aching center pressed to his flat stomach.

We were both under the spray a moment later. I tossed my head back, letting the water cascade over me. The hot spray burned pleasantly against my painfully hard nipples. Michael stepped forward to dunk his head, and I found my back up against the cold tile wall. I gasped in shock at the icy contact.

“I’m not waiting any longer. It’s been forever.” In a show of strength and agility, he positioned me and, in a single relentless stroke, shoved deep, bottoming out on a groan of incandescent pleasure.

Words, air, common sense all fled my body as he filled me to the edge of madness. My head pressed against the cold tile. I twined my arms around his neck, seeking leverage in our slippery situation. My nails dug into his muscles. He pressed me flat to the wall, his hips working between my slick thighs.

“So fucking good,” I told him as he rocked into me.

“You are what I dream about,” he growled in my ear before his teeth nipped the arched column of my neck.

The moans and gasped pleas to every deity I knew that tumbled from my lips were pure nonsense. Michael had driven reality so far into the background all I could do was feel. It was him and me clasped together, hurtling toward pleasure. The edge of bliss was just over the horizon.

The harder he thrusted the more I begged. We were spiraling over the edge too fast; surely, we’d crash. I clutched his shoulders tightly and wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles.

“No worries, Siren, I won’t let you fall.” He squeezed my ass to punctuate his vow.

He was right; I didn’t fall. I exploded in a flash of white-hot release. My screams echoed off the tiled walls and washed back over us, mixing with his primal grunts as he came deep inside me.

Slowly, sanity returned, and my feet touched the floor. He held me close, water pounding over us. If not for another of his life affirming hugs, I’d have melted to the floor and slipped down the drain.

“Now, about that manual labor. Do I start with shampoo or body wash?” He nuzzled along my jawline. The sensation of pin picks from his scruffy cheek raised a new crop of goosebumps on my skin.

“Your choice. I’m not sure I have the strength to lift my arms.”

With little fanfare and much jostling, we managed to both get clean and dry. My shower was not built for two.

The combination of a couple of beers, a load of takeout, and one delicious orgasm was better than any prescription sleeping pill. We tumbled into my bed tangled together.

I couldn’t guess the last time I’d gone to bed so early. I was a night owl, up until well after midnight, even if I wasn’t working. It was a strange luxury to drift off to sleep with Michael at an hour when most people were still awake.

Too bad it didn’t last.

At two, I gave up. I extracted myself from his arms, pulled on a robe, and headed for my laptop on the kitchen island. There were a million thoughts running through my head and I needed to act on them before I lost focus.

Barefoot, I tiptoed across the house. I had to smother a laugh at the trail of clothing from the couch to the bedroom. That clean-up job would wait for tomorrow. Ditto on the takeout containers that littered the coffee table.

I filled a glass with water and placed it on the kitchen counter. Pulling my robe tight, I perched on the barstool in front of the soft glow of my laptop. Some of my best ideas came during stolen hours late at night or actually early in the morning. An entrepreneur never sleeps on a good idea.

I sent out emails to event planners I’d worked for in the past hoping to pick up a last-minute catering job for New Year's Eve. There had to be a pseudo celebrity somewhere in Miami with money to burn and no forethought who needed a TV chef for their party. The extra cash would be a great addition to my war chest.

Next, I drafted a press release to send to the local media about the “vandalism” at Viande. In Miami, if it bleeds it leads was the mantra of most newsrooms, and I hoped arson, automatic weapons, and my broken heart would be gruesome enough to garner attention.

The last of my midnight ideas made me slightly nauseous: using my misfortune to beg for money. George, my general contractor, had given me a few preliminary numbers on repairs yesterday. The figures were staggering, and after our meeting later this morning, I was sure the figure would only grow.

I hated the idea of leveraging my social media accounts this way. My online presence was carefully curated. I’d built a large, loyal, and engaged base of fans that I nurtured with regular posts. Asking for money might damage my online reputation, but it could be my salvation.

I scrolled the feed from the last few months. Posts showed tantalizing glimpses into the build-out at Viande, food I’d made for events, and of course the fan favorite pictures of me doing everything in Miami from shopping at the farmers' market to walking the beach or making dinner.

These people were my fans. They’d been on this journey with me for years. Many since the first episodes of Food Truck Fabulous. It would be disingenuous to keep this from them. So, with a sigh and a few misgivings lingering in my gut, I got to work setting up a crowdfunding campaign and the social media posts to promote it.

When I finished, my eyes felt crusty with sleep and my backache had returned. I snapped my laptop closed and, as quietly as I left my bed, I crawled back in. Michael wrapped his arms around me and dropped a sleepy kiss on the nape of my neck as we spooned like I had never been gone.