by LK Farlow
My boys are already seated, patiently waiting.
I place the fullest bowl in front of Colton and the smallest in front of Cruz, saving the medium-filled bowl for myself—glob, we sound like the three bears.
“What makes my sandwich grown up?” Colton asks, poised and ready to take a bite.
“The fillings. Red pepper, garlic, sharp white cheddar, tomato slices, spinach, and bacon.”
Colton eyes his grilled cheese with a new appreciation. “Hell. Yes,” is all he says before digging in.
Cruz watches his dad for a few seconds before chomping into his sandwich the same way. They eat like barbarians, leaving breadcrumbs all over their plates and the table.
Since I’m not a heathen, I dip my sandwich into my soup, enjoying it in dainty—kidding, I devour mine, too.
“You gonna try your soup?” I ask Cruz, knowing he is apprehensive about all of the vegetables inside.
“It’s really red.”
“Yeah, it is. That’s from the tomatoes.”
“You like ketchup, right?” Colton asks.
Cruz nods. “A whole lot.”
“Same thing. Think of this like warm ketchup soup.”
The thought repulses me, but Cruz seems intrigued. We both watch as he swirls the red liquid with his spoon before dipping it in and scooping some up. He sucks the tiniest amount into his mouth before going back and eating with the same gusto he did his sandwich.
“Guess you like it?” his dad asks.
“It’s my new favorite thing!”
My heart warms at his sweet praise. “You wanna show your dad the picture you drew?”
Without a word, Cruz pushes back his chair and darts off in search of his artwork. Not even a minute later, he flies back into the room with his paper clutched to his chest. He proudly hands it to Colton, waiting for his praise.
“Is that me?” he asks his son.
His blond head bobs as he nods.
“And is that you?”
Another nod.
“And that’s…Ashley?” His voice sounds odd, kind of foggy, as he asks his son about the purple-haired woman in the drawing.
“Yeah, Daddy. That’s Agent Purple. She’s our family, too, right?”
Tears fill my and Colton’s eyes, though he hides his far better. Cruz has never called him daddy to his face.
A myriad of emotions plays across Colton’s face like it’s a movie screen. Sadness dances with delight as he wrangles back his tears. In the time it takes him to get them under control, Cruz’s face drops.
“Bud,” I say, but he’s already gone, running toward the living room.
“Damn it!” Colton whisper-yells.
“Hey, you didn’t do anything.”
“He thinks I hate it.”
“But you don’t, and once you explain it to him, he will be okay.”
“You think?”
“I know. You’re such a good dad, and that little boy loves you.” I stand from the table and extend a hand toward Colton. He stands as well. “C’mon, let’s go find your son.”
We find Cruz curled up in a ball in the corner of the room next to my television cabinet. His little shoulders shake with sobs, but he never makes a sound.
Colton and I both sit down on the floor, close enough for him to know we’re there, but far enough away to not crowd him. “Hey, bud, can we talk?” Colton asks. “Please?”
Cruz discreetly wipes his eyes, but his still-damp cheeks and red nose give him away.
“Why’d you run away? Did you think I was mad at you?”
He sniffles and nods.
“I’m not. Not at all, not even a little.”
Cruz looks from his dad to me. “Will you come out and talk to us, Agent 005?” I ask him, patting the floor in front of us.
“O-o-okay.” He crawls forward and sits up. “I-I’m s-s-sorry.”
“Cruz, bud, no. You didn’t do anything wrong. You…you called me ‘daddy’ for the very first time, and I got a little choked up. I wasn’t mad, I was—am—I’m so, so happy. And you’re right, Ashley is our family, too.”
“You’re happy?” Cruz scoots forward a smidge. “With m-me, you’re happy?”
Tears cloud my vision as Colton nods his head. “Happier than I’ve ever been. I love you, bud.”
Cruz shocks us both when he launches himself into his father’s arms, nearly tackling him to the floor with the force of his hug. “I love you, too, Daddy.”
23
Colton
I sit with my son on my lap, holding him tightly to me as I rock us back and forth, murmuring in his ear all the while about how much I love him and how much better my life is with him in it. I don’t have a clue of how much time passes as I reassure my boy that he’s safe and wanted and so fucking loved.
At some point, Ashley joins us, rubbing Cruz’s back as his tears—happy ones now—ebb. On every down pass, her fingers brush mine, and with every brush, a sense of rightness fills me. Cruz was spot on when he said she was our family—the question now is—in what capacity?
The three of us stay on the floor until Cruz’s tears give way to sleep. Poor dude tired himself out with all those big emotions.
“Do you want me to carry his stuff down or…” Ashley trails off.
“Or what?” The words come out as a challenge, but I’m genuinely curious as to what she may offer.
“Or you could stay?” She says the words slowly, before rushing to add, “for dessert. Cruz and I made brownies!”
I lick my lips. “Mmm. You’ll never hear me turn down brownies. Where do you want me to put him?”
“You can put him in my bed if you want? That way we can watch a movie or—was that presumptuous, for me to think you’d want to stay that long?”
I’d love to tell her nothing’s presumptuous when it comes to her, but that would be inappropriate. Instead, I smirk and say, “A movie sounds fine.”
“Second door on the right,” she calls over her shoulder on her way to the kitchen.
I stand carefully, as to not wake Cruz, and head back to Ashley’s bedroom. Stepping into her bedroom is overwhelming—it’s like having Ashley on every side of me, the space is so intrinsically her.
From her scent hanging in the air to the deep teal accent wall, this space is all Ashley. Her bed, a massive golden, canopy-style bed—minus the actual canopy—sits centered on the accent wall. It’s topped with the thickest comforter I’ve ever seen, cream in color and feather soft.
With one hand, I knock a few of the five-hundred decorative pillows to the floor before laying Cruz down onto the bed. He hums contentedly in his sleep, immediately rolling to his side as his little body sinks down into the mattress. A charcoal throw blanket is artfully arranged at the foot of her bed; I use it cover Cruz, tucking him in before pressing a kiss to his forehead.
I know I should head back out to the living room, but the urge to explore has me rooted to the floor. My feet propel me toward the small coral-colored dresser in the corner.
“What am I doing?” I mutter to myself. Even as I question my own sanity, my hands tug on the pull of the top drawer, sliding it open, revealing to me a pile of tangled lace and silk. In all my life, I’ve never rifled through a woman’s things, much less have I ever had the urge. But Ashley…in her room, with her mouthwatering scent surrounding me, I feel helpless to resist.
I know it’s wrong and perverse, and yet the knowledge doesn’t diminish my need…my want. I want to rub each piece between my fingers so I can remember how they feel; I want to catalog every item so I can imagine her taking it off for me when I’m in my bed alone. Some sick, hidden part of me wants to pocket a pair so I can fuck the soft silk as I pretend it’s her.
Footsteps sound down the hall. Shit! I slide the drawer closed just in time for Ashley to step into the room. “Is everything okay—what are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I say, sounding as shady as I look. She may as well have caught me red-handed. Even as a lawyer, I’m struggli
ng to come up with other probable causes that land me facing her dresser in the corner of the room with a tent in the front of my slacks.
“Nothing, huh?” She tilts her head to the side and taps her index finger against her chin. “Turn around then.”
“Sure thing. Just”—I reach down to adjust myself—“give me a minute.” Certain she won’t see the evidence of my arousal, I pivot around to face her.
Her green eyes rove over my body, pausing at my fly before sweeping down and back up to meet my gaze. “What were you doing?”
“Admiring the paint color.”
“Of my lingerie chest?”
I very nearly choke on my tongue—or maybe it’s my desire for her—when the word lingerie leaves her glossy lips. Thoughts of what might be in the other three drawers plague me. “The contents are irrelevant,” I say. The words sound like bullshit even to my own ears.
My entire body locks up as she crosses the room to stand toe-to-toe with me. “Really? You don’t care? You’re not even the least bit curious?”
I force a scoff. “Hardly.”
She leans in, bringing her sugary scent close enough to taste, and reaches past me with her right hand. “Then why are my panties sticking out?”
I whip around to check with my own two eyes, a denial on the tip of my tongue.
“Gotcha!” She sounds so proud of herself for catching me in my lie.
Infuriating little temptress—I ought to take her over my goddamn knee.
My face is screwed up in a scowl to hide the embarrassment surely staining my cheeks. But Ashley pays me no mind. Instead, she wraps the tail of my tie around her fist and tugs. “C’mon, perv, let’s go eat some chocolate.”
After eating the most decadent brownies of my life and checking in on Cruz, Ashley and I settle down on the couch to watch a movie. Her couch is more of a loveseat, with only two cushions. She’s on my right and close enough that our shoulders brush. It’s an intimate arrangement, yet it feels right. Even if it is a little awkward at first.
“I, uh, can take the chair, if you want?” she asks.
I stretch my arms above my head, arching my back to relieve my stiff muscles before laying my right arm along the back of the couch. “No. Stay.”
She glances to where my fingertips are grazing her exposed shoulder and then stares straight ahead. “What are we watching then?”
“Anything’s fine with me,” I say, far more concerned with my proximity to a certain little temptress than what’s playing on the television.
A few clicks of the remote later and the screen goes dark as “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked” by Cage the Elephant fills the room. Words begin filling the screen, telling us how the angel Lucifer was cast out of Heaven and condemned to rule Hell—that is, until he decided he was due for a vacation. What the what?
“What is this?”
“Lucifer,” Ashley says, shifting toward me ever so slightly. “I’ve been wanting to watch it. Is that okay?”
“Perfectly.” Except every time Lucifer mentions punishing people, I picture myself punishing Ashley. In my mind, I take her over my knee and spank her ass red before rubbing and kissing away the sting.
And when he soothes the officer, telling him how it’s fun to get away with things, I’m struck with a dangerous thought, an illicit desire—I could get away with fucking Ashley. No one has to know.
The show, coupled with the sexpot of a woman next to me, has all of my deep, dark desire rising to the surface; rising right along with my cock, which lays against my leg like a steel pipe.
With every small shift and adjustment, her lean, toned, warm body brushes mine. I’m burning up with longing, to the point my shirt and tie feel stifling. I yank at the knot with shaking fingers, and pop the top two buttons.
“Are you okay?” Ashley asks.
“Fine,” I say, while my terse tone tells her I’m anything but.
Concern clouds her features as she turns to face me. “You look a little flushed.” She presses the back of her hand to my cheek and then my forehead. “Feverish, even.”
Jesus Christ, I want this woman so bad I’m feverish and flushed. Too bad the only cure for what ails me is her sweet, tight pussy milking my dick for all it’s worth.
“I’m a little hot, that’s all.”
Ashley studies my face, searching for the truth. She won’t find a hint of deception there, my mask is well practiced. If she were to look down at my lap though…
“You’ve got an undershirt on. Just ditch the button down.” She says it so nonchalantly, like me stripping out of my shirt while sitting next to her watching a show about sin is the most normal thing ever.
I wrestle with the ethics of it, rationalizing all the while. On one hand, I am wearing a shirt underneath—even if it is sleeveless. On the other, the thought of stripping off the overshirt in front of her feels wrong—gateway sexy, if you will.
Fuck it.
I loosen my tie a little more and slip it over my head, tossing it to the coffee table as I stand. Ashley’s chest rises and falls with each labored breath, her eyes laser-focused on my fingers as they pop the buttons one at a time.
The shirt slides down my shoulders, and I drape it over the coffee table. Her hungry gaze burns over me as I reclaim my seat next to her. Now, our bare shoulders touch, my heated skin sticking to hers.
How is it that I’m hotter now, with less clothing on? Oh, yeah…probably because I’m imagining the little temptress next to me with less clothes on, too.
We’re both only pretending to pay attention to the show, stealing glances at one another while subtly shifting closer together. It’s a well-practiced dance we’re engaged in.
I lean back into the couch, draping my arm around her; she leans slightly into me. I spread my knees further apart; she tucks her legs up and to the right, bringing her closer still.
A shift of my hips and we now have three points of bodily contact—shoulders, hips, and legs.
Shoulders, hips, and legs. The three words run through my mind like a chant as a vision unfolds within my mind’s eye.
Her legs spread on either side of mine as she rides me, her hips pressing into mine while she holds tightly to my shoulders for balance.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. This desperate need I feel for her is about to boil over.
In a boss move, she stretches out her left leg, propping it on my lap. Two things happen all at once. She brushes my straining erection with her ankle while my eyes zero in on the space between her now split legs.
Her shorts are loose and flowy, the fabric falling just right to reveal a peek of her white lacy panties. Saliva pools in my mouth as I imagine how she feels there, how she tastes. I bet she’s as sweet as the sugar she smells like.
My eyes flit to hers, only to find her staring straight at me. She knows where I was looking, and she’s damn sure about to chew me out. I deserve it. Only, the words never come. Instead, she shifts her right leg from beneath her and props her foot on the coffee table, giving me an unfettered view.
I pinch my eyes shut and curl my fingers into fists. The need to touch, to taste, to ravage her, is overwhelming me.
She rubs her foot over my dick, and my eyes fly open. “Ashley,” I growl. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing.”
“We—we’re playing. I know you want me every bit as bad as I do you.”
“I’m pretty sure the Rolling Stones nailed it when they said ‘you can’t always get what you want.’ As I’ve said, you’re my client. Any kind of relationship, physical or otherwise is inappropriate.”
“But you do…want me?”
I groan as her foot strokes over my dick again. “Clearly.”
“Then show me.”
Frustration mingles with my lust. “Didn’t you just hear me? Touching you is wrong.”
She grins wickedly. “I’m not asking you to touch me—I’m asking you to touch you. I want you to slip your big, hard dick out of those pants and fuck your hand like it was me. I wa
nt you to show me how much you want me.”
“It’s still wrong,” I say, but my words lack conviction.
“I’d be happy to help.” I go to rebuke her yet again, but the sight of her hand pushing her shorts and panties to the side has my words dying in my throat. “A little…visual aid, if you will.”
She runs her index finger through her slick folds, gathering moisture before rubbing her clit. It’s too much. I’m helpless to stop myself. A man, a mere mortal, can only take so much.
I free myself from the confines of my pants. I know we agreed not to touch each other, but I can’t stop myself as I lean over and steal some of her cream for lubrication.
Her movements falter as my fingers skim over her, but my hand is wrapped firmly around my aching dick before she can fully react.
“Show me,” she moans, “show me how you like to be touched. Pretend it’s me.”
I squeeze my cock tighter and work my hand up and down, giving a little twist every time I reach the head. My free hand cups my balls, massaging and tugging.
She keeps working her clit with her right hand, while her left explores. She dips her middle finger inside, fucking herself with it, then she brings it to her lips, smearing her juices over them before licking it off.
“Fuck, Ash.” I grunt her name, thrusting up into my hand with enough force to shake the couch.
“I’m so close, Colton.” Her voice is wanton and reedy, full of need.
She needs this release as badly as I do.
“Come for me, Ash. Come all over your fingers.”
She doubles down her efforts, her hips chasing her fingers as she rubs herself to completion. “Yes, Colt—yesss!”
Rope after rope of hot release lands on my chest as she climaxes with my name on her lips.
As the lustful fog of the moment clears, clarity comes rushing in, along with a heaping dose of shame.
Leaning forward, I snatch my shirt off the table and clean up the mess on my stomach. I ball up my now-soiled shirt and stand, tucking myself back into my slacks as I do.
It’s like she emits pheromones designed exactly for me. She’s a temptation like no other. And definitely a witch—one who has absolutely ensnared me with her spell.
