by JA Huss
OK, I sigh. I get it. I left and everyone else moved on. I’ve been alone for a year, I can manage a few more weeks as they try to figure out how I fit into their new lives.
Eventually I drag myself up out of the chair and we head out into the cold windy day to shop. I used to enjoy shopping, but that was then. Back when shopping meant thrift stores and whole afternoons wandering the long aisles of antique stores.
Now, it’s a chore. But I manage to find me some nice things in shops where they will box everything up with pretty bows and have them delivered to you. And I find some cute clothes for Adley too, but I take those pretty bags with me onto the bus as we finally make our way home in the late afternoon.
But when I get to the lobby on the ground floor of the loft building, and call the elevator by punching in my code, it doesn’t come. I can hear people inside. Loud people. Laughing people. So I know it’s working. But someone must be moving in, because I also hear a lot of swearing, and grunting, and banging.
So I unlatch Adley’s baby seat, fold the stroller, and lug everything up the stairs. Someone peeks out on the fourth floor, a man about my age, who sees me struggling and says, “Need some help?”
Normally I’d say no. But… “Yes, thank you,” I say through my heavy breathing. “Someone has the elevator for moving, I guess.”
He takes the stroller and the packages, which leaves me with just Adley’s carrier, and we trudge up the stairs to my loft.
That’s when I realize, with blushing cheeks, that the person who is hogging the elevator is me.
Well, not me.
But Bric.
Chapter Fifteen - Bric
The alarm beeps as the door leading to the stairs opens and Rochelle appears with a man.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
I could ask her the same thing. “The furniture came in,” I say, eyeing the man. “What’s going on with you?” It comes out… challenging. Which surprises me. Almost… jealous. Even more surprising.
“Oh.” Rochelle laughs and turns towards the guy. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” the guy says, and then disappears back into the stairwell.
“I was coming…” She stops, then starts again. “I went shopping. Got some new clothes.” She holds up some pretty bags as her proof.
Was she going to say, I was coming home? And then felt conflicted on whether or not this place was home?
“The shops are going to deliver the rest of my stuff on Monday. This is just Adley’s things. What furniture?” she asks.
I look over my shoulder at the team of people—all busy inside Adley’s bedroom. “The crib, remember? There was just the floor model left. Well, it came in yesterday afternoon so I hired people to pick it up and put it together. So she can stop sleeping in that travel thing.”
Rochelle leaves all her things in the front sitting area and brings Adley’s baby carrier over to the couches and sets it on the coffee table so she can unbuckle her. “She likes the travel thing, Bric. You shouldn’t overspend on a crib.”
“How do you know I overspent?” I ask, sitting on the couch across from her. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”
Rochelle is making a silly face at smiling Adley, but she pauses to shoot me a look. “Because I know you well, Elias Bricman. Subtle isn’t in your DNA.”
I consider this. She does know me. I know her. We know each other. Three years—even three years of two-days-a-week game playing—is a long time in the relationship world. If Rochelle was an illegal immigrant looking for a green-card marriage, we could pass that investigation thing they do. That one where they ask you your partner’s favorite color and stuff. Their favorite movie. Do they cry at weddings? Do they like burgers with onions?
Purple. The Blues Brothers. Yes. And no.
In fact, I might know more about Rochelle Bastille than any other woman on this planet, including my mother and Marcella Walcott.
“You like antique stores and old things that smell weird,” I say.
Rochelle bursts out laughing as she slips a pink sock off Adley’s foot. “What?”
“I know what you like,” I say. “Velvet and lace. Especially if the lace has that little yellowing edge to it. And long flowing skirts that someone found in their grandma’s closet after she passed away and decided to donate to the unfortunate. You really shouldn’t take clothes from the unfortunate, Rochelle.”
Adley is laughing at her mommy, who is laughing at me. I stand up and walk around the large square coffee table and sit down next to them, reaching for Adley at the same time.
She comes to me happily, her wide blue eyes staring up into my dark ones. “I read somewhere that all babies have blue eyes,” I say.
“I don’t think that’s true. Not entirely, anyway. But I asked her doctor if she thinks her eyes will change color. She said she didn’t know.”
“Whose eyes will you have, baby?” I ask Adley. I hold her up in front of me like a prize. Trying to see her future. Wondering if she has anything of me inside her. She sticks her chubby little foot in my mouth in response.
“Well, you like five-thousand-dollar suits, Mr. Bricman. And that’s an excessive use of money if ever there was one. You could feed an entire village in India for that kind of money.”
“Not true,” I say, setting Adley down on my knee. “Smith and I actually support an entire village in India and that shit is expensive.”
Rochelle chuckles as she leans back into the couch arm, resting her feet right up next to my leg. “I forgot, you’re a habitual do-gooder. Never mind. Wear your damn suits if you want. Now tell me—what’s really going on in that bedroom?”
I look over at the bedroom. There’s a lot going on in there. But right now, I’m distracted by this woman and her baby. The surprise I planned is not even in the top ten things on my mind. Plus, Rochelle has kicked off her shoes and is pressing her socked toes into my thigh. I look over at her with… well, a look.
She smiles and shakes her head at me. As if to say, Sorry, you horny man. I have a tired baby and you have half a dozen workers in our house.
Our house. Is this our house?
“Jesus Christ,” Rochelle says. “What are you thinking so hard about? You have smoke coming out your ears.”
Adley laughs and slaps my face with her little fist.
“I know a lot about you,” I say.
“Do you?” Rochelle says. And when I look at her, her face has gone serious.
“I think so,” I say.
“Aside from where I like to shop—and I’d just like to say I spent a fortune on brand-new clothes down on the mall this afternoon, so your assessment is no longer valid—what do you know?”
“I know you like holidays. You even put up an Easter tree one year and decorated with pastel pictures you cut out of vintage magazines.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“And I know you’re kind. You don’t like to argue. And you will avoid a fight at all costs.”
“Does that make me meek?” she asks.
“Meek?” I laugh. “No. It makes you sweet.”
“Aww. Elias has a soft side.”
I shrug. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Holy shit, you’re like—serious right now, aren’t you?”
I nod and look at Adley. “Yeah,” I say. “I am. I didn’t realize how much I missed you until this week.”
“Do you love me, Elias?”
“Yes,” I say. “I love you, Rochelle. Probably not the same way that Quin loves you, but in my Bricman way, I do.”
“Loved me, you mean. You heard what he said the other night. Doesn’t even know me.”
“Well, he knows all the things about you that I do. So you have to internalize it in a different context. He doesn’t trust you because you hurt him when you left.”
“But I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
I shake my head and lean back into the cushions. Adley leans over towards Rochelle and I hand her b
ack. She crawls her way up her mom’s chest and rests her head on her breast, closing her eyes as Rochelle pets her hair and kisses her cheek.
“Nah,” I say. “I wasn’t hurt. I was… a little relieved. Secretly happy.”
“God.” Rochelle huffs. “Way to make a girl feel special.”
I’m not sure if that’s a real scoff or just a fake one. Probably something in between.
“I knew you liked Quin better,” I say. “And Chella… well. Chella was a whole bunch of new fun, you know?”
“Is that what Quin thought of her? A whole bunch of fun?”
“No. He was mad at first. Smith and I kinda tricked him into it just to get his mind off you.”
“And it worked?” Rochelle asks.
I nod. “Yeah. It worked. They’re like… best friends now.”
“I’m getting that.”
“Are you jealous?” I ask, giving her a sideways glance.
“Maybe a little.”
“Well, don’t be. Chella is in love with Smith. If Quin was ever invited into that little arrangement, he’d say yes in a second. But he won’t be. Ever. Smith doesn’t give two shits that they spend so much time together alone. But he knows better than to be with Chella and Quin at the same time.”
“Because Quin wants the game,” Rochelle says in a mocking voice. “I don’t know if this is going to work, Bric. He wants the game with us too, but the problem is still the same. He doesn’t want me all to himself.”
“It’s only been a few days, Rochelle. Give the guy some time.”
“He says he’s not coming over tomorrow night. Says he’s got breakfast with Smith on Monday morning. He chose Smith over me. God, I want to die of humiliation.”
“Like I said, give it time.”
Just as that last word leaves my mouth, the woman in charge walks up to us. “Excuse me, Elias. Sorry to interrupt, but we’re finished. All the linens and clothes have been laundered and put away. Everything is perfect. Would you like to inspect it?”
I stand up and shake her hand. “Not necessary, Abbey. I trust you. And thanks a bunch for coming over on a Saturday.” I lean in and kiss her cheek, then walk her and the other men to the elevator. They are lugging out trash and large cardboard boxes.
When I get back to Rochelle, she’s got her eyes closed. “Perfect, huh?”
“My command is law around these parts,” I say.
“Do I get to see it now?” she asks, not bothering to look at me.
“For sure.”
Adley is fast asleep in her arms, so Rochelle maneuvers her body carefully, holding the baby to her chest as we walk slowly down the hallway.
“Oh, Bric,” Rochelle says as we step in front of the wide doors. “It’s gorgeous.” She walks in, looking around with surprise and happiness.
And even though I really, really like the dark side down in the basement of the Club, this kind of stuff feels just as good.
“That crib.” Rochelle sighs. “It’s beautiful. How did you find something to match the decor in this loft?”
“It’s a limited-edition piece by the same artist who did the metalwork.” And she’s right. The crib perfectly matches the old reclaimed wood look of the loft ceiling beams. And the metal bars are a sleek pewter color that look a little industrial, but work with the rest of the theme.
“This color,” Rochelle says, walking up to the deep purple velvet drapes and feeling the fabric between her fingers. “God, I love it.”
“Much nicer than the thrift-store version you had hanging in your old apartment.”
“Yeah.” She laughs softly, so not to wake Adley. “I’ll admit it. They are stunning. I love the yellow accents. The bedding. Oh, my God. Who knew you had an eye for design?” She goes over to the crib, peeks in, and then places Adley inside. I walk over and watch, fascinated with the idea that she will sleep in here tonight. Now. She’s sleeping in something I gave her.
“Oh, that’s all Abbey,” I say. “She has a design studio that specializes in children’s rooms.”
“Is she a Club member?”
“Well… her husband is. Women can’t be members, you know that.”
Rochelle scowls at me, but only for a second. I wait for the inevitable next question. Did you ever fuck her? And my truthful answer would be yes, dozens of times. Just last weekend, in fact. But thankfully Rochelle never asks.
“Look, she loves it.” Adley never wakes up as Rochelle covers her with a light blanket.
“Either that or all that shopping tired her out.”
“No,” Rochelle says, turning to put her arms around me. I hug her back and enjoy the thanks. “She loves it. I can tell.”
“How long does she usually sleep?” I ask, trying not to sound like a sex-craved pig.
“Long enough to get your reward, Mr. Bricman.” Rochelle pushes off me, grabs my tie, and then crooks her finger in a come-with-me gesture as she leads me out of the room.
I close the sliding barn doors as quietly as I possibly can, and then pick Rochelle up, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her to our bedroom. This time I slide the doors closed with less care, and then I throw her down on the bed.
“I’ve missed you too, Elias,” Rochelle says, already unbuttoning her jeans.
I slide my tie over my head, fingers flying down the buttons of my shirt, and whip it off. Rochelle has her pants off and is crawling over to the edge of the mattress, her long, blonde hair dragging across the white linen duvet cover.
I stand still and let her deal with my belt. The buckle clinks as it falls aside, and her small, nimble fingertips open the button of my slacks and unzip my fly. She reaches in and presses her palm flat against my growing cock, then steps off the bed and sinks to her knees in front of me.
Those wide hazel eyes are trained on mine. She has been properly schooled in all the ways Elias Bricman loves to be sucked over the last few years, and I can’t wait.
Her mouth opens, just a little. Just enough to taunt me as I watch her lick her lips. Her hands are sliding up and down my shaft, pumping me with an experienced rhythm. She is a woman who knows me. Every sexual thing that turns me on is inside her head. All she has to do is reach in there, pluck it from her memory, and take it out.
“Fuck,” I moan. She took them out.
Her tongue swirls along my tip, tasting me. Teasing me. And then her lips open and her warm, wet mouth covers my head. I close my eyes and reach for her hair. Bunch it up in my fists, like it’s a length of rope and I need it to hold me steady.
I don’t need to push her down on my dick. She swallows me eagerly. But I push anyway, reaching down with my hand to cup my balls. And then I push those up into her chin as she takes me all the way down her throat.
I hold her there, choking and gasping, until she presses both hands on my thighs and pushes me back. She looks up at me, sucking in air. Eyes trained on mine. Drool running down her chin.
She grabs the drool in her palm and slaps it around my cock, pumping me in long up-and-down twisting strokes. And then she leans forward, presses her mouth to the tip of my cock, and kisses it, spitting out more lubrication at the same time.
That is a move I have dreamed about dozens of times over the past year. Dozens of times. She is the only woman who kisses my cock that way.
I pick her up, twirl her around, and then bounce her on the mattress so her head is hanging over the edge.
“Ready?” I ask her.
“So ready,” she says.
I ease forward towards her wide-open mouth. I can’t see her eyes, and that’s the only thing I hate about fucking her throat this way. But I can almost see her goddamned tonsils. So, good enough.
Her tongue flattens against my shaft as I enter her mouth. Her lips seal against my skin. I hold her face with both hands and… I fuck her. I fuck her until she is gagging on her own spit. I fuck her until her hands are pressing so hard against my thighs, I can’t ignore her plea for release.
I come down her throat as she gags, the
n swallows. Once, twice. Three times her throat muscles caress my cock.
When I’m done, I pull out, grab her legs, spin her around, and sink my face down into her pussy.
She writhes beneath me. Her back arches and bends. Her whole body contorts as I lick and suck her until she, too, has no choice but to let go.
She comes in my mouth. Her orgasm is wave after wave of spasms and creamy liquid. And once I have it all, once I’m drunk and intoxicated on her climax, I crawl up her body, my cock slipping between her legs.
And then we truly begin to fuck.
Chapter Sixteen - Quin
Friday night, everything’s cool. I do the usual club and drinks thing with Robert. He goes home with some girl he’s never met before and will probably never see again. I pretend like this is fun and go home alone.
There’s about ten minutes at the end of my day where I wish things were different.
Saturday, I start wondering where she is and what’s she’s doing.
Thinking about Rochelle has been forbidden for the past year, so it’s weird to allow myself this luxury. Before last week thinking about Rochelle was something to avoid. It would inevitably lead to that familiar dull ache in my chest that would turn into sadness and despair if I let it fester too long.
But now she’s back. I have her back. I still can’t believe how quick life changes. So I do think about her. And Adley. What did they have for breakfast? What did they do all day?
I hardly ever see Smith and Chella on the weekends and I’ve gotten used to no Club and no Bric, even though that Club was my life for more than a decade.
I don’t call him. I don’t call her, either. And I get through Saturday by going into the office and working on a proposal for a new client who came in last week. And then I hit the gym for a few hours and go home with take-out Chinese.
But by Sunday morning, I’m hopeless. The entire time I run steps over at Coors Field, they’re on my mind. Adley and her big blue eyes and little chubby face. Rochelle and her curvier new sexy body. How much she’s changed. Her hair is longer, her tits bigger, her hips wider. And by the time eight AM rolls around I’m sweaty as fuck, my legs are aching, and I’ve imagined a million ways this can go wrong and only one way this can go right.
