by Shandi Boyes
“What is it with our reunions always ending up with me being naked?” I ask, my tone cheeky.
The happiness on Ava’s face vanishes in an instant, replaced with a look of a woman who is ready to castrate me. I swallow harshly as she storms around the bed, reaching me in two heart-thrashing seconds. She places her open palms on the middle of my back and pushes with all her might.
“Get out!” she grunts, her words coming out in a strain.
“It’s three AM,” I plead.
“I don’t care,” she retaliates, increasing the strength in her pushes. “You're not staying here!”
My feet skim across the carpet from her determination. “Come on, Ava. It’s late. I already checked every motel in town. They’re either full or closed.”
I could dig my feet in the carpet and refuse to budge, but I’m not going to. At the end of the day, I'm an intruder in her home, and I don’t want her to feel like she can’t protect herself in her own house.
I crank my neck to the side and peer at her. A grin forms on my lips when I'm met with her crazy ringlet curls wildly bouncing from her heavy stomps and her raspy grunts.
“Just one night. I’ll be gone first thing in the morning,” I beg, returning my eyes front and center.
Ava’s brisk pace across the living room eases, as do her windless pants. Sensing her resolve slipping, I continue with my plea.
“Before you’ve even woken. Please, Ava,” I shamefully beg. “I’ll get down on my hands and knees if I have to.” I use the same voice I regularly used when begging for her to make me blueberry pancakes for dinner when we were younger.
A cool breeze zaps down my spine when Ava drops her hands from my back. When tiny feet padding along the wooden floor of the living room resonate through my ears, I spin around. Not wanting to give her any more incentive to kick me out, I cover my half-masted cock with my hands.
Ava moves swiftly through the house, gathering a sheet and blanket from the hallway cupboard and a spare pillow from her bed. Keeping her narrowed eyes firmly rooted on me, she walks into the living room, only stopping when she reaches the side of a two-seater sofa. With a sly smirk etched on her face, she gestures her head to the couch. I cringe. A man of my size won’t fit half of my body on that tiny couch.
Ava cocks her brow. “The sofa or the patio. The choice is yours.”
“I’ll take the sofa,” I mumble, ambling toward her.
Ava slants her head to the side and peers into my eyes, pretending she isn’t affected by my nakedness. I’m not buying it. I can see her internal battle in her readable eyes. She’s not the only one struggling. My eyes are fighting the same tortuous battle, but not wanting to risk the chance of sleeping in below freezing temperatures on her front patio, I keep my eyes planted on her face instead of her cock-twitching body.
It is fucking hard feat.
“Why are you staying here anyway? What happened to your apartment?” I ask with curiosity in my tone.
A winded grunt parts my lips when Ava shoves the bedding into my chest with force. Snarling, she storms into her room, slamming the door behind her.
Nine
Hugo
An inaudible groan rumbles up my chest as I reluctantly flutter my eyes open. The furious migraine pounding behind them worsens from the blindingly bright rays of the early morning sunshine beaming through the fully-opened living room drapes. I run the back of my hand over my tired eyes before sitting up. My back is kinked and screaming in protest about sleeping on a couch harder than a rock.
My eyes drift around the room, seeking the grandfather clock I heard ticking all night long. What the hell. It’s not even 7 AM.
I know I told Ava I'd be out of her hair before she woke up, but she failed to mention she gets up before the birds. She’s been bashing and crashing in the kitchen for the past forty-five minutes. I did my best to ignore the noise, yearning for a few more hours of sleep, but the longer I’ve stayed sprawled on the couch, the louder the noises emerging from the kitchen become.
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I stagger toward the kitchen. My stomach grumbles when a delicious aroma fills my senses. I’ve only smelled one thing sweeter in my life: Ava. My eyes bug out of my head when an even more ravishing visual greets me. The heaviness weighing down my eyelids is a forgotten memory as my eyes absorb every scandalous inch of Ava’s body.
She's wearing an old faded Columbus State University shirt, and her hair has been pulled up, sitting in a messy bun on top of her head, exposing her long, delicate neck. I angle my head to the side and dip it down low. My brow cocks. She's wearing pants – barely! But you wouldn’t know it. Her teeny tiny pair of denim shorts would be best described as panties.
I prop my shoulder on the doorjamb and let my eyes drink her in. It’s been years since they’ve been enticed by such a stimulating visual. “How Does It Feel” by D’Angelo is playing out of a little speaker sitting on the two-seater table at the side of the room. Ava has her back to me, facing the upright oven. She has a spatula in one hand and a tea towel in the other.
When the song hits the chorus, her hips swing, naturally seducing me without even trying. My cock jumps when she grips the edge of the counter before slowly bobbing down and doing a seductive twerk. Only Ava could make twerking look sexy. Even spotting a massive pile of pancakes resting on the counter, I can’t tear my eyes away from the sexy curves of Ava’s ass peeking out of her tiny pair of short as she dances with such ease and grace. Ava’s always been innately sexy. Nothing’s changed.
Scraping my hand along my unshaven jaw, a shameful groan tears from my throat when the visual becomes too enticing not to spark a reaction from me. Hearing my shameful response to her seductive dance moves, Ava straightens her spine and spins on her heels. A massive grin stretches across her face as her eyes run my covered body. Not wanting another naked incident, I slept in my jeans and long-sleeve shirt, further hindering my ability to sleep.
When Ava’s eyes return to my face, I chew on my lip. Her nipples are budded against her shirt; her eyes are wide and exposed, and there's no denying the spark blazing in her beautiful eyes. Ava is famished and it isn’t a hunger for food.
“How did you sleep?”
“Good.” I spent the entire night dreaming of you. “You?”
She shrugs. “Could’ve been better.”
When she prances toward the fridge, swings open the door and dips her lower half inside, my heart rate kicks up a notch. Ava and I have many fond memories in fridges. I lick my dry lips when she emerges from the fridge holding a can of whipped cream. Keeping her eyes locked on me, she walks to the massive stack of freshly prepared blueberry pancakes on her right.
“Cream or syrup?” Her voice drips with sexiness, like hot lava erupting from a volcano.
“Syrup.”
Ava places the whipped cream onto the counter and opens the cupboard above her head. My cock, now hard, strains against the zipper of my jeans when she stands on her tippy toes, struggling to reach the maple syrup sitting on the top shelf. I push off the counter, walk toward her and arch over her back. I easily reach the syrup, but take my time, pretending I can’t quite reach it so I can relish in her closeness for a few seconds longer. My nostrils flare when her sweet smell engulfs the air surrounding me.
“Thank you,” she says when I hand her the syrup, her voice as sweet as her scent.
She slips under my arm and walks to the other side of the kitchen, taking the stack of pancakes with her. Even with her standing at the other side of the room, the kitchen is so small in size, we are still close enough to feel the sexual energy zapping between us. It is electrifying and has my cock hardening more.
Ava slathers the pancakes with syrup, ensuring every inch is covered in the sugary goodness I love. A provocative moan tumbles out of her lips when she pops her thumb into her mouth and licks a smidgen of syrup off the tip. The hardness of my cock turns lethal.
I’ve never been so hard. Nothing’s changed. Not a single fucki
ng thing.
It wouldn’t matter if a year had passed or a hundred, Ava will always be the only girl who can knock me onto my ass. Although, I'll admit, I'm surprised by the quick change in Ava’s behavior overnight, but I’m loving her new-found playfulness.
“Hungry?” Her tone is laced with sexual undertone.
“Fuck, yes.” For you.
My eyes drift between the stack of pancakes balancing precariously in her hand and her soft pouty lips. I know which one I want to taste first.
My eyes rocket to hers when she asks, “What do you want to taste first?” like she can read my internal dialogue.
“I have a choice?”
She bites her lower lip before she nods.
“You.”
Her eyes spark with fervor as a smile furls her lips . “Who said I was on the menu?”
I run the back of my fingers down her flushed cheeks. “These.”
She always blushes when she's turned on.
The ravenous fire in her eyes dampens, and her throat works hard to swallow. “Well, I’m not… yet, but these are.” Her eyes dart down to the massive stack of mouthwatering goodness in her hands.
Her lips tug high as she outstretches her arm, offering the pancakes to me. My mouth salivates as my eagerness to taste their scrumptious goodness thickens my blood. It’s been years since I’ve tasted anything as good as Ava’s pancakes.
My pupils widen and a dramatic gasp escapes my lips when Ava releases her grip on her end of the plate before I’ve secured my end. Time slows to a snail pace as the pancakes plummet toward the ground. I scramble, trying in vain to save them before they land in the bin I’m standing next to.
I’m too late. The pancakes are history.
“Oh no,” Ava gasps, her hand darting up to cover her gaped mouth.
“It’s okay, we can save a few of them,” I assure.
Although they’ve landed in the bin, the top ten pancakes are sitting straight, not touching anything that resembles rubbish, giving me the all clear to salvage them. “The top few haven’t touched anything gross.”
“Oh.”
With a smile on her face, she grabs a bowl of empty egg shells from the kitchen sink and dumps them onto the pancakes.
Her lips purse. “Can they still be saved?” Her voice no longer has the sugary sweetness it had earlier.
My brows meet my hairline. I’ve never witnessed Ava unleash such cruelty. What did the poor defenseless pancakes ever do to her? My eyes lift from the ruined pancakes covered in eggshell pieces to Ava. Gone is the little sex kitten who was prowling around the kitchen, replaced by a lady whose heart looks like it was carved by an ice sculptor.
Ava’s eyes blaze into mine. “I’m going to take a shower. You better be gone by the time I get out. If not, I’ll call the police.”
Ten
Ava
Oh my god! I can’t believe I did that! I’ve never been so… rude! Jorgie would be so proud I’ve finally grown a backbone. It might have taken me twenty-nine years, but it is better late than never.
I barely slept a wink all night, unable to comprehend that the man who snatched my ability to enjoy a restful night was in my living room, sleeping on my rock-hard couch. I’d dreamed of nights like last night, praying that one day Hugo would suddenly reappear. What I wasn’t expecting was the flood of emotions that would return with him.
At first I was shocked, not believing what my eyes were relaying, thinking it was a cruel, twisted joke. It was only when the fog cleared did the reality of the situation dawn on me. Hugo isn’t dead. He's far from it. So where has he been the past five years? And why did he wait so long before emerging again? He would have had to have known what his mother was going through. He saw firsthand the pain she endured when she lost Jorgie and her grandson. How could he put her through that again? How could he do that to me?
That is when my anger surfaced. It festered and boiled my blood all night, overheating my body with more fury than I’ve ever felt. I’m furious Hugo was so selfish, that he could do that to his own mother. I at least got a goodbye. Mrs. Marshall didn’t even get that. Hugo took the coward’s way out when he left. He left his family. Left me. Left us. It was his choice, so he doesn’t get to waltz back into my life acting like nothing’s changed.
Everything’s changed.
A grin tugs on my lips as I slip out of a pair of the denim shorts I rustled from the back of my walk-in closet this morning. Hugo’s always been a legs man, and even though his physical characteristics have changed from the man I used to know, his insides are the exact same. The shell of an egg can be painted any color you like, but the inside is still a heartless yolk.
Knowing Hugo loves legs nearly as much as he loves blueberry pancakes, I decided on my little ploy. Was it childish? Yes. What is over the top? Yes. Would I do it again? Yes! In a heartbeat. The look on his face when his beloved pancakes toppled in the bin was priceless. Totally worth the hour I slaved over the open-flamed cooktop to make them.
I raise the hem of my shirt, throw it over my head and step into the steam-filled shower. In an effort to regain some of my usual down-to-earth composure, I take my time in the shower, lathering and pampering my exhausted body.
As I run a washcloth over my body, images of my run-in with Hugo last night pop into the forefront of my mind. Although his torso is covered with more tattoos than my eyes could ever absorb, his body was… panty-drenching good. Ripples of hard muscles, smooth planes of colorful skin and his cock, my god, I thought I was letting my imagination get the better of me the past five years. I wasn’t. Jesus. If I was in a cartoon, my eyes would have comically bugged out of my head.
My body. Well… a lot has changed there the past five years. My boobs are no longer sitting where they should be, their perkiness dwindling away with my youth. My thighs are a little larger, and my stomach is anything but smooth. We couldn’t be more opposite if we tried. Hugo is hard, colorful, and accentuated. I’m squidgy, plain, and boring.
Hold on! Why am I even comparing us? Hugo is a nobody. He’s the equivalent of a barfly, buzzing in and out of my life as he saw fit. Not anymore. I’m putting my foot down. This isn’t just about me anymore.
After a long, hot shower, I make my way out of the bathroom. The house is eerily quiet, only the grandfather clock pendulum swinging can be heard. Hugo must have heeded my warning. Good, because my warning wasn’t an idle threat.
I walk into the laundry room and slip out the back door. The rusty-hinged gate separating the land between my house and Mrs. Mable’s gives out a small squeak when I open it. The gate was Mrs. Mable’s idea. She figured it would save me scaling her fence again if I ever felt the need to add some additional fertilizer to her award-winning rose garden. My cheeks flamed as I stumbled out the worst apology of my life. I’d never been more embarrassed.
Even though I was joking about adopting Mrs. Mable as a grandmother at Jorgie’s wedding, she has become exactly that. She's a little bundle of mischief who keeps my life interesting. I would have loved to have introduced her to Patty, but unfortunately Patty’s gigantic heart gave out a few weeks after Hugo disappeared. It really has been a shit couple of years.
Mrs. Mable walks out of the kitchen, drying a china teacup in her hand when she hears me opening the glass sliding door on her back patio. Her lips purse as her rheumy eyes roam over my face. Her gaze is full of suspicion, and it has my curiosity piqued. I arch my brow and return her ardent stare. When I notice the scoundrel look on her face, my jaw drops.
“I’m revoking your key holder privileges,” I say, staring into her rascally eyes. “You told Hugo where the spare key was, didn’t you?” I squeak when I say his name.
Mrs. Mable doesn’t deny my claim. Not a single word seeps from her lips. It wouldn’t matter even if she did refute my allegation; the truth is projected by her wholesome eyes.
Mrs. Mable places the china cup into the display cabinet before shifting her feet to face me. “I thought you could do with a nigh
t of fun. Get your knickers out of the twist they’ve been in the past five years,” she informs me with her pencilled brows raised high into her tight silver ringlet hair.
“Knickers?” I query, glaring into her beaming-with-mischief eyes.
Mrs. Mable rolls her eyes. “I'm British. Can’t you hear my accent?”
My eyes bulge. Mrs. Mable’s tone couldn’t be anymore Southern if she tried. She sounds like Reese Witherspoon… after smoking three packs a day.
Ignoring my wide-mouthed expression, Mrs. Mable continues, “But I’m gathering, from the way you strolled in here looking like you still have that stick stuck up your bottom, my ploy didn’t work? What was it? The tattoos? Or are you not a fan of his shorter hair?”
A snarl forms on my lips as my eyes narrow.
Mrs. Mable pats her translucent, wrinkled-covered hand on my forearm. “Don’t pretend you weren’t interested in what he was hiding under his clothing. That body…oh, he could crank my engine anytime he likes.”
My cheeks get a rush of blood behind them. Although this type of jeering is nothing new for Mrs. Mable, I’ve never been one to air my dirty laundry in public.
“So what was it?” She eyes me with curiosity. “The tattoos or the hair?”
Thankfully, I’m saved from answering her highly inappropriate question when a little pair of arms wraps around my legs. “Hi, Mommy.”
I crouch down to scoop him into my arms. “Hi, baby. I missed you so much.” I plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Were you a good boy for Grandma?”
His expressive eyes enlarge before he nods. “Uh huh. We stayed awake until it was really late watching cartoons.” He turns his eyes to Mrs. Mable. “Well, I stayed up. Grandma fell asleep, again.” Air hits my cheeks when he huffs dramatically.
I snort when Mrs. Mable waves her hand in the air, shooing off Joel’s tease. I’m not worried about their late night adventures. Anything past eight PM is late to Joel. Running my fingers through his thick afro curls, I fix them into place before setting him back onto his feet to put on his jacket. He cranks his head to the side as his eyes roam over my face. He stares at me like he's seeing me for the first time.
