could. “‘ Is this it?’ Your mother thinks I’m an ‘it?’ ” He grabbed the note and crumpled it up and stuffed it into his pocket. “Don’t throw that away!” she said. “I’m going to want it for my scrapbook.”
“You’re a scrapbooker? I thought you said you didn’t have much.”
“I don’t, but I might start one.”
He figured after the ride she’d be tired. A glass of wine, a bite of Brie, fall asleep with their clothes on… He figured wrong. She threw her bag on the couch and spent the next five minutes wriggling out of her leathers. She wasn’t trying to be a tease, but the suit did not leave any margin for error… or room for extra pounds for that matter. He sat on the couch watching unashamedly while he popped the cork and filled each glass.
When she finished, he stood and offered her a glass. She took it and ran toward the bathroom, then popped her head out the door. “Shower’s a two-header,” she said. Then she disappeared inside the bathroom.
After Mack heard the shower turn on, he took a long sip of wine and slipped out of the black leather vest and chaps he wore on summertime road trips. He hopped toward the shower trying without success to kick off a steel-toed motorcycle boot. He gave up and sat on a chair to wrestle both boots off. He threw his socks and jeans in a pile on the couch and walked into the bathroom as she walked out with her hair wrapped in a towel.
“Hurry up,” she said as she dripped past.
An hour later, he was lying on top of her back while she white-knuckled the wooden bars of the bedstead. His arms were under hers with his hands clutching the tops of her shoulders. A final thrust flattening her buttocks against his pelvis, a pause, then he rolled onto his back beside her. “Well?” he asked a moment later when he’d recovered enough to speak.
She had been resting her chin on her forearms crossed in front of her. She tilted her head toward him. “Umm… well… it was different than I expected.”
“Different good ?”
“Different like I thought it would hurt.”
His face fell. “You didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
He closed his eyes and slung his arm across his forehead.
“Hey, don’t get sleepy on me, cowboy!” she slapped him several times on his stomach with the flat of her hand. “You owe me big time after that ride!”
* * *
The next morning they awoke to the smell of something spicy coming in through the open window.
“C’mon,” he said, leading her out of the gatehouse down the walkway to the main house. “You don’t want to miss Mom’s breakfast enchiladas.”
“You’re right, I don’t, but I think my leathers think otherwise. I thought your family was Scottish?”
“On dad’s side... distantly. Mom’s from Guadalajara... recently.”
“What’s she like?”
“Hmm… how do you describe your mom to your girlfriend? I dunno, she’s… down to earth… sort of. Well, pretty down to earth for a gal who grew up in a house full of servants and matriculated in Madrid studying art history.”
“Is she going to like me?”
“Depends. You like art?”
“Not any more. He was an asshole.”
He paused, gave her a sideways look. “Dad’s going to love you.”
“But take it easy on Mom?”
“She’s a big girl. Just ask for seconds on the enchiladas and you’ll be fine.”
He held the door for her as they both entered the kitchen where his mother was busy at the stove top. It was a big room with a butcher block island in the middle of the work area and a huge table at one end where everyone took meals family style. At the far wall, a buffet style breakfast line had been set up on the sidebar. Except for formal occasions, everyone ate together in the MacGregor house, family and servants alike.
“Madre de Dios!” his mother said. “You didn’t tell me she was so beautiful!”
“Figured I’d surprise you. Hi, Pop. This is Monica.”
His father feigned rubbing his eyes. “Boy,
“You’re a scrapbooker? I thought you said you didn’t have much.”
“I don’t, but I might start one.”
He figured after the ride she’d be tired. A glass of wine, a bite of Brie, fall asleep with their clothes on… He figured wrong. She threw her bag on the couch and spent the next five minutes wriggling out of her leathers. She wasn’t trying to be a tease, but the suit did not leave any margin for error… or room for extra pounds for that matter. He sat on the couch watching unashamedly while he popped the cork and filled each glass.
When she finished, he stood and offered her a glass. She took it and ran toward the bathroom, then popped her head out the door. “Shower’s a two-header,” she said. Then she disappeared inside the bathroom.
After Mack heard the shower turn on, he took a long sip of wine and slipped out of the black leather vest and chaps he wore on summertime road trips. He hopped toward the shower trying without success to kick off a steel-toed motorcycle boot. He gave up and sat on a chair to wrestle both boots off. He threw his socks and jeans in a pile on the couch and walked into the bathroom as she walked out with her hair wrapped in a towel.
“Hurry up,” she said as she dripped past.
An hour later, he was lying on top of her back while she white-knuckled the wooden bars of the bedstead. His arms were under hers with his hands clutching the tops of her shoulders. A final thrust flattening her buttocks against his pelvis, a pause, then he rolled onto his back beside her. “Well?” he asked a moment later when he’d recovered enough to speak.
She had been resting her chin on her forearms crossed in front of her. She tilted her head toward him. “Umm… well… it was different than I expected.”
“Different good ?”
“Different like I thought it would hurt.”
His face fell. “You didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
He closed his eyes and slung his arm across his forehead.
“Hey, don’t get sleepy on me, cowboy!” she slapped him several times on his stomach with the flat of her hand. “You owe me big time after that ride!”
* * *
The next morning they awoke to the smell of something spicy coming in through the open window.
“C’mon,” he said, leading her out of the gatehouse down the walkway to the main house. “You don’t want to miss Mom’s breakfast enchiladas.”
“You’re right, I don’t, but I think my leathers think otherwise. I thought your family was Scottish?”
“On dad’s side... distantly. Mom’s from Guadalajara... recently.”
“What’s she like?”
“Hmm… how do you describe your mom to your girlfriend? I dunno, she’s… down to earth… sort of. Well, pretty down to earth for a gal who grew up in a house full of servants and matriculated in Madrid studying art history.”
“Is she going to like me?”
“Depends. You like art?”
“Not any more. He was an asshole.”
He paused, gave her a sideways look. “Dad’s going to love you.”
“But take it easy on Mom?”
“She’s a big girl. Just ask for seconds on the enchiladas and you’ll be fine.”
He held the door for her as they both entered the kitchen where his mother was busy at the stove top. It was a big room with a butcher block island in the middle of the work area and a huge table at one end where everyone took meals family style. At the far wall, a buffet style breakfast line had been set up on the sidebar. Except for formal occasions, everyone ate together in the MacGregor house, family and servants alike.
“Madre de Dios!” his mother said. “You didn’t tell me she was so beautiful!”
“Figured I’d surprise you. Hi, Pop. This is Monica.”
His father feigned rubbing his eyes. “Boy,
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