Just My Type

by Tara Sivec

  As he devours my mouth like it’s his fucking job, one of my legs wraps around the back of his, and I tighten my thigh muscles to bring his hips closer to mine, just as he bends his knees and pushes up between my legs.

  The rumors are true. He does indeed have a very large, very impressive dick.

  The force of his thrust pushes my back even farther up the door, until I wrap my other leg around Baker’s hip, giving him plenty of room to nestle in between my legs.

  His hand smacks against the door by my head and his arm tightens even more around my waist, holding me tightly to him as he kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before.

  I whimper loudly into his mouth, each torturous drag of his tongue against mine matching the current slow drag of his jean-covered hard-on between my thighs.

  I think about every first kiss I’ve ever had with a man, and none of them even come close to comparing to this. Probably because I’ve been wanting it for weeks and weeks, and the build-up makes it that much better. Or maybe it’s just Baker. With the way his mouth claims mine with every deep plunge of his tongue, like he’s kissed me a thousand times before and knows exactly what to do to drive me crazy, and the way his hips just lazily slide between my legs, the friction only making me hotter and wetter instead of putting out the fire he started the first time I heard his voice.

  I’m claiming him right back with this kiss, thrusting my hips up to meet him, wrapping my arms fully around his shoulders so I can bring him closer, even though our bodies are so tightly pressed together from our mouths to our groins that air can’t even penetrate.

  Our heads change directions, and we’re kissing and kissing, and dry humping like mad against the door in his small bathroom, with a birthday party happening on the other side, and I’m so close to having a screaming, earth-shattering orgasm as Baker jerks his hips a little rougher between my thighs, hitting just the right spot until I let out a loud moan around his tongue, that I don’t even give a shit.

  This motherfucker can burn to the ground, as long as I come first.

  I hear nothing but white noise in my head and the loud, thumping of my heart as Baker’s hardness in those jeans, and his powerful hips, and the way he sucks my tongue into his mouth, and the sounds of the groans of pleasure he makes whenever I rock my hips against him, all push me closer and closer to the edge of one amazing release that is a long fucking time coming. Pun intended.

  “Hello! Can you let me in? I need to go poop!”

  All of a sudden, I realize the loud pounding I heard wasn’t my heart, but a child. On the other side of the door that I am currently pressed against, seconds away from combusting.

  Baker suddenly pulls his mouth away from mine, and I am most certainly going to hell, because I let out a whimper of protest when I lose the heat of his lips on mine.

  “Hey, Anderson!” Baker shouts through the door happily, like he wasn’t just seconds away from making me combust with that weapon he’s packing in his pants, and that masterful tongue he’s been verbally teasing me with for weeks. “There’s another bathroom over in my bedroom. Go ask Miss Blake where it is.”

  My legs are still tightly wrapped around Baker’s hips, my arms are still draped over his shoulders, and our chests that are still pressed together move quickly up and down as we both try to catch our breaths.

  When we hear the pounding of footsteps moving away from the other side of the door, Baker chuckles as he pulls his head back slightly to look at me.

  He’s definitely not a sucky kisser. And goddammit, fine. Maybe we are dating. Baker looks at me expectantly with a little smirk on his smug face, and I know he’s just waiting for me to confirm these facts. So, I open my mouth and give him exactly what he’s been saying he likes. The real me.

  “You motherfucker,” I mutter, shaking my head at him.

  CHAPTER 20

  Ember

  Let Him Carry Your Fucking Baggage

  My doorbell rings, and I jump at the sound. My cell phone clamors to the coffee table when it slips from my grasp, where I’d been staring at the text Baker sent me this morning.

  Baker: We’re going out tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7.

  We’ve been texting back and forth since I left his loft Wednesday night after the party, but never about anything important, like say, the fact that he almost made me have an orgasm in his bathroom during a child’s birthday party. Which is fine. It’s not like we had time to have any kind of discussion about whether or not we really are dating after the almost-orgasm, because… child’s birthday party. There were presents to open, and songs to sing, and games to play. Games where Baker put a blindfold on me, and Baker spun me around with his hands on my hips, and Baker whispered something in my ear about how he wanted to pin something to my ass, and I was so distracted and turned on that I pinned my donkey’s tail on a bookshelf twenty-five feet away from the goddamn donkey poster. He has a big place, and it could have happened to anyone. Whatever.

  This text, it feels important. He doesn’t mention an interview at all. He’s completely removing work from this equation. It’s not his normal, “Here’s where we’ll meet for our next interview.” He’s just full-on telling me we’re going out.

  This is it. This is a date. And a real one this time, not one I didn’t know about. I know all about it. I know there are expectations now, and I know there are nerves now, and I know I’ve spent the last few weeks being more comfortable with Baker than I’ve been with anyone else in my life before, and what if it’s different now? What if it all goes to shit as soon as it’s official? I don’t want awkward conversation, and nervous apologies when we both reach for the breadbasket at the same time.

  And what if he’s taking me to dinner for this first official date, and he doesn’t even realize the importance of a free, fresh-from-the-oven breadbasket? Flipping a table on a first official date doesn’t sound like a surefire way to get a second official date.

  When my doorbell rings again and I realize I’m still sitting here, contemplating life, and how much I really, really want bread, I quickly get up from the couch and race over to answer the door.

  “It’s about time, loser,” Blake greets me as soon as I open the door, walking right into my house like she’s been here a hundred times before. “If you were busy diddling yourself, I don’t want to know.”

  I’m smiling and shaking my head at the same time I close the door and turn around to face Baker’s sister. She reminds me so much of Brooklyn that it makes me happy and homesick all at the same time.

  “Our first time hanging out together doesn’t need to start with me puking because you were thinking about my brother while having a ménage à moi,” she adds.

  “Oh my God, I got distracted by a text. That’s all.” I laugh at her, only blushing a little.

  I might not have been doing any diddling this time, but I sure as hell dabbled in some diddling about a hundred times since I got home from the birthday party three nights ago, all thanks to your brother and his tongue.

  “All right, show me to this evil motherfucker that hates you and Baker won’t stop buying little outfits for,” Blake orders, as I lead her through the kitchen, to the small laundry room off the back of it.

  “He doesn’t hate me anymore,” I tell her, flipping on the light just inside the laundry room, Ron Jeremy letting out a long, slow hiss as soon as he sees me in the doorway.

  “That sounds like hatred to me.” Blake laughs, moving around me and into the small room that is just big enough for an apartment-sized washer and dryer combo. “Lord Jesus, is that thing wearing a hand-knitted sweater with a mustache on it?”

  “Yes, yes he is,” I confirm with a nod. “Your brother ordered that off of Etsy, because he said the mustache reminded him of the pornstache on this little guy’s namesake. Baker is ridiculous.”

  Blake squats down to get a better look at Ron Jeremy in his cage that is currently sitting on top of the dryer. Lincoln was completely devastated when Ron Jeremy couldn’t stay i
n his cage in his room at night, but after two nights of Lincoln not getting even one second of sleep due to Ron Jeremy wanting to play, and scratch, and run on his squeaky wheel that Baker had to buy him, I made an executive decision to put R.J. in the laundry room while we slept.

  “Oh, you should have heard him the day we got him,” I tell Blake as she slowly moves closer to the cage, Ron Jeremy quieting down the closer she gets to him.

  Of course he likes her too. She’s got the same annoyingly perfect and loveable DNA as Baker.

  “There was also a mildly satanic clicking sound he’d make along with the hiss whenever I got near him that was equally as horrifying,” I finish explaining, shaking my head in annoyance as Ron Jeremy sticks his nose through the cage bars and starts licking Blake’s outstretched fingers.

  As fearful as I was that Ron Jeremy’s black, beady eyes would turn blood red and he would lunge at my throat and rip it out with his teeth if I tried to hold him, I still did it every time Lincoln would let me. I was going to make that little bastard like me, whether he wanted to or not. Little by little, R.J. has started coming around. He still hisses at me the entire time I hold him, but like I told Blake, the devil clicking is gone, and he’s stopped clenching his entire body and curling up into a defensive ball when I touch him. We’re not at the cuddling up and taking a nap on my chest level yet, but I’ve stopped wearing a scarf every time I hold him, so… progress.

  After Blake spends a few minutes baby-talking to Ron Jeremy, we head back out into the kitchen and take a seat at the small breakfast nook table in the corner of my kitchen.

  “All right, so congratulations on finally realizing you were dating my brother,” Blake states with a huge smile before I’ve even pulled my chair closer to the table.

  Jesus, she doesn’t beat around the bush.

  “He’s still not forgiven for that,” I mutter.

  No matter how good he kisses, or how expertly he uses those muscular thighs between my legs.

  “I assumed you finally got a clue when the two of you disappeared into the bathroom for a small length of time during the party.”

  My cheeks get warm and my chest gets itchy, and I just know a damn flush is spreading up my chest and neck when Blake smirks at me with that same dimple in her cheek that her brother has.

  “Don’t worry; I’m pretty sure no one else noticed. When little Anderson O’Krane came running up to me and told me, ‘Mister Baker said you should take me to the bathroom in his bedroom to poop, because him and that pretty blonde lady are in the other one, and they’re moaning a lot, so they must be sick,’ I kind of put two and two together.” Blake chuckles.

  Fucking Anderson O’Krane.

  “You’ll be happy to know Blake’s been walking around like a Disney princess with hearts in her eyes since you left the party,” she adds. “He won’t shut up about you. Keeps asking me if where he’s taking you tonight is a good idea, asks me about kid-friendly things you guys could do together with Lincoln, brags about how good you are at your job, tells me every fucking funny thing you say. I’m sure he’ll kick my ass if he knows I told you these things, but I just want to make sure you know that he’s in it. He’s not fucking around.”

  She’s not coming right out and saying it, but I can tell by the pause and the serious look on her face across the table from me that she wants to make sure I’m not fucking around.

  “Has he even thought this through? Does he really want to be with a single mom with a shit-ton of baggage?” I ask, crossing my arms and jamming my fingers under my armpits, my knee bouncing up and down under the table.

  The fear that rushes through me as soon as I vocalize those words out loud tells me that Blake doesn’t have to worry. I don’t think I’m fucking around either. I’m worried Baker will realize that me trying to warn him away about being a mom wasn’t necessarily a waste of time. I’ve got baggage. I’m still angry at my situation. I spend a lot of time making sure my son still has two feet on the ground, when his father likes to keep him up in the clouds by spoiling him with stuff. It’s a full-time job, even though I’m only with him fifty-percent of the time. Even more so lately, since Brandon has been flaking more and more when it comes to his son. Showing up late, forgetting to show up, not showing up at all. Dating me means dating me and my baggage.

  “Did my brother tell you about our Uncle Butch?” Blake asks, leaning back in her chair and mirroring my pose by crossing her arms in front of her.

  “He told me about how he came out to visit after Baker came home from overseas, and took him to his first boxing gym, which gave him the idea for The Barracks,” I tell her, Baker and I never getting a chance to discuss him more at the birthday party, since after that kiss, work clearly wasn’t on either of our minds.

  “He’s our mother’s brother. And the only family member who didn’t disown me when I told them I was gay,” Blake explains, my throat getting tight and my eyes welling up when I think of how painful that would have been for her. “Uncle Butch was career military. Devoted to his job, never got married, never had kids of his own. Baker and I were his kids. Uncle Butch isn’t a hugger; he doesn’t talk about feelings or how much he loves you. Every time you complain about something, his response is always, ‘Back in my day…’, and he flat-out calls you a pussy for bitching about anything being hard.

  “When Baker got hurt, he came and he stayed until we didn’t need him anymore. That’s just the kind of person he is. Old, crotchety, retired Marine, who doesn’t have time for anyone’s bullshit, but when we needed him, he dropped everything and he came. My dad hung up on me when I called to tell him what happened to his son. Uncle Butch knew I couldn’t take care of Baker on my own, knew I wouldn’t understand what kind of personal hell Baker was going through, and knew I wouldn’t know how to give him the kind of take-no-bullshit, kick in the ass he needed to help him recover and move on.”

  Blake pauses, and I quickly get up from the table, grabbing two bottles of water out of the fridge, handing one to her as I sit back down. I wait for her to take a drink before she continues, too distracted by the things she’s telling me to do anything with my own water bottle but pick at the label.

  “Uncle Butch invested in The Barracks, because he believed in what Baker was doing. And Baker doesn’t take that lightly. My brother eats, sleeps, and breathes that gym,” Blake tells me, spinning the cap to her water bottle on the table. “Uncle Butch made Baker pull his head out of his ass after he came home. Made him stop feeling sorry for himself, made him want to be better and do better, and do something to show he was grateful for the second chance he’d been given. When I tell you my brother had no life before he met you, I’m telling you, he had no life. From the minute the idea for The Barracks started turning into a definite possibility, that gym was his life. And as great as what he’s doing is, it’s also stressful, and depressing. Months could go by without getting so much as even an amused smirk from him. He definitely never laughed.”

  I know what’s coming before she even says it, some kind of intuition making my heart beat faster and my palms start to sweat.

  “Until the day I caught him in his office, chuckling out loud like a jolly fucking elf, grinning like a fool. Which I later found out was because he was reading an email from you,” Blake finishes, my heart stopping its erratic beating to melt into a puddle of goo.

  “Baker is the strongest guy I’ve ever met. Bubble baths, and love affairs with porn star hedgehogs aside,” she adds with a small laugh. “He needs a life outside the gym. A life that makes him forget his job can get a little frustrating and depressing, and makes him chuckle like a creepy elf and smile like an idiot. But that job, it helps him forget he has a shitty knee. That’s the whole purpose of that gym—for everyone to forget their shitty parts. He needs the same thing in his personal life. He needs to feel just as strong and just as powerful as someone without a shitty knee, which means he can be a little bossy.”

  “I’m sending a car for you. You are not riding
the goddamn train.”

  “Cancel the fucking pinky swear.”

  “We’re going out tonight. I’ll pick you up at 7.”

  I smile to myself, thinking about things Bakers has said to me, and how right Blake is.

  “He knows you have baggage. And he doesn’t give two shits about it, because he knows he’s strong enough to help you carry that baggage wherever you need it to go, for however long you need to lug it around,” Blake continues, my chin starting to quiver as I try to hold back my tears. “Let him carry your fucking baggage, Ember. He’s a strong guy. He can lift it. Plus, it will give him a chance to show off his guns, like he always wants to do.”

  I smile through the tears pooling in my eyes, the residual anger I’d been trying to hold onto so tightly, melting away even more.

  He’s been carrying my baggage since the day we started emailing, knowing I wouldn’t jump head-first into dating someone I just met. He took his time, and he waited for me to… turn the fucking page. Because it had to be my choice. I had to be sure. I was with the same man for almost ten years. I’d been alone since him, which I word-vomited to Baker the second time we were together. He wouldn’t really cross that line with me, no matter how much he flirted, until I cancelled that pinky swear and I made my choice.

  Why am I even hesitating right now? It’s just as ridiculous as trying to keep things professional between us. It’s making me cranky and uptight.

  “Fine. He can carry that shit if he wants. Whatever.” I shrug, studying my nails like it’s no big deal.

  Oh, God, this is such a big deal.

  “Mom! Dad wants to talk to you!”

  Lincoln’s shout from out by the front door makes me look at the alarm clock on my nightstand, not even realizing it was time for him to be home from school already. On the Fridays of Brandon’s weekends, Brandon picks Lincoln up from school, they stop by here so Lincoln can pack a bag, and then Lincoln stays at his place. Brandon has been cancelling or switching nights so much recently that I’m surprised they’re actually on time and Brandon did what he was supposed to.