Baumgartner Hot Shorts

by Selena Kitt

  “Are you cold?” Henry, squeezing her hand.

  “No, baby.” Had she shivered? She smiled over at him. Was it enough reassurance? “I’m okay.”

  Lies. She didn’t lie to Henry, ever. Why was she lying now? She wasn’t that girl—the one who said, “I’m fine!” when someone asked her what was wrong. So why was she doing it now?

  Because you’ve been lied to.

  Had Henry meant to deceive her? She didn’t think so. It was his nature, part of who he was, to keep things close. The man had spent his entire high school career and the first year of college keeping a secret so big it almost scared her. How did you manage to get through an educational environment without knowing how to read?

  But Henry had done it. He’d minimized his severe dyslexia, had skated through—literally, on a hockey scholarship—to secure a spot on the University of Michigan hockey team. It was only when he hit college that the secret had finally come out and Henry had to fully deal with it. He’d come such a long way. Libby smiled at the memory of his freshman—and her sophomore—year. The year than changed her life.

  And here it was, another new year, one she’d been looking forward to. They’d spent New Year’s with Henry’s parents, because they’d gone to hers for Christmas. She’d always liked Carrie and Steve Baumgartner—the latter who insisted she call him “Doc,” because everyone else did. And Libby did. She had also fallen into calling Carrie by the moniker “Mrs. B” because so many others did as well. The Baumgartners came up to Henry’s hockey games on occasion, and seemed to have no problem (like her own parents) when she and Henry moved in together. They were so open and fun. More like friends, really, than parents.

  And now Libby knew why.

  She hadn’t thought twice about Gretchen being there. She’d been Henry’s nanny for years when he was young, and had been a family friend, present at gatherings, for as long as she’d known him. Gretchen was sweet—blonde, bubbly, fun, with a little bit of a sarcastic sense of humor. Libby liked her.

  But apparently not quite as much as Henry’s parents liked her.

  The image of Henry’s mother kissing Gretchen in the kitchen was a memory that just wouldn’t go. It was like it had been burned into her retinas. She saw it every time she closed eyes. Her mind wouldn’t let it die. In fact, it was her stupid brain that kept going over and over it, like a movie playing on repeat.

  Libby had padded downstairs, half-asleep, for coffee, only to find the women in an intense lip lock. This wasn’t just a friendly little peck. I mean, the Baumgartners were affectionate, friendly people. They kissed and hugged all the time. But this wasn’t that. Their bodies had been pressed hard against one another, heads slanted, mouths frantic, and Libby had glimpsed the pink flash of tongue. It was like a private little game of who could turn on whom faster.

  Carrie had Gretchen pinned, one hand pressed flat against the wall, her other buried between Gretchen’s thighs. Libby had gone undetected for just moments, but in that brief amount of time, she’d seen a few of Gretchen’s curly blonde hairs at the top of her cleft, where Carrie’s fingers disappeared between her pussy lips, her robe hanging open.

  She’d seen Doc, who was the one to catch her staring, who heard her gasp, leaning against the pantry door, a few steps away, observing the whole scene. She’d seen Doc’s hand rubbing over his boxers, his cock clearly hard. And the women knew he was there. In fact, when Doc had flagged their attention to stop them, their eyes had gone straight to him, panicked at being discovered. So the women knew they were being watched—they just didn’t know Libby was part of the audience.

  Not that Libby was a prude. Far from it. I mean, she’d once gone undercover as a prostitute to a frat party. That whole thing had even been caught on tape. So she wasn’t a prude. She didn’t turn her nose up at dirty jokes, she didn’t balk at locker room banter. She really didn’t get offended that easily.

  But this was Henry’s mom. And his dad. These were people she hoped, someday, to call Mom and Dad, if Henry ever decided to propose. Libby was careful to watch what she said and did around her possible future in-laws, wanting to leave them with a good impression at all times. They didn’t need to know everything. Like that whole prostitute thing. I mean, it wasn’t like she was a real prostitute or anything, but it was the perception that mattered. She cared what they thought about her.

  But clearly she wasn’t the only one hiding things.

  She remembered Mrs. B turning, dazed, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, to see Libby standing in the doorway. Oh God, that moment. She’d been so embarrassed, but too shocked to move. Realization dawned in Mrs. B’s eyes as she quickly withdrew her fingers from Gretchen’s folds, now wet with her juices.

  Gretchen had fled with just a quick, “Excuse me” as she squeezed by Libby. Mrs. B had tightened her own robe, turning to look at Libby, who stood, even in her own memory, frozen like a deer in headlights, and asked her to join her in Doc’s office. They sat on the small leather sofa, the cold cushions helping bring Libby around from the shock as she faced Mrs. B, waiting for her to speak.

  Even now, she felt her face and chest grow hot at the memory. She’d experienced her own brief moment of shame, knowing her desperate need for coffee had been spurred only by a visit from this woman’s son sneaking into her room the night before to quietly do things to Libby that Mrs. B should never hear about.

  Then Mrs. B had explained. She wasn’t unkind. Mrs. B was pretty matter of fact about most things, and she was about this too, now that they’d been found out. Apparently, the Baumgartners were polyamorous. Mrs. B was bisexual, and their ex-nanny, Gretchen, had been the Baumgartners’ lover for years before she’d moved to New York. Now, the younger woman occasionally came back to their bed—holidays, vacations, or whenever she was in town. Their door was always open, according to Mrs. B.

  When the older woman had asked Libby if she had any questions, it had been hard to speak. Why didn’t Henry tell me? That was the first question that sprang to mind, but she couldn’t ask Mrs. B that. Instead, she’d asked the next question that came to mind, which was how did this happen, exactly? How did a couple decide to open their relationship, their marriage, to other people? But then she’d regretted the question, because Mrs. B was more than willing to share how they’d mutually come to this point in their marriage.

  In great detail.

  And the more she talked, the sicker Libby felt.

  It wasn’t at the idea of being with another woman, or even being in a threesome, that repelled her. In fact, if she had to tell the full truth, it kind of excited her. The thing that bothered her was the thought of sharing her husband. If Henry brought up the idea of sharing—of bringing another woman into their relationship—like Doc had with Mrs. B, what would she say? She couldn’t imagine sharing him. She loved him too much. Maybe that was selfish, but she wanted her man all to herself.

  She wanted Henry all to herself.

  The life Mrs. B described didn’t bother her. For someone else. And while the woman’s intimate history lesson pushed into the realm of too much information, she’d listened, nodding without blinking, until her red, sleep-deprived eyes started to burn. Mrs. B apologized, confessing they’d been careless with company in the house, and Libby had managed to get out, “Don’t worry about it,” before she said she had a headache and needed to lay down.

  It wasn’t Mrs. B and Doc she was worried about. They could make a Gretchen sandwich all they wanted, as far as she was concerned. It was Henry that bothered her. Henry, who hadn’t told her about his parents’ “arrangement.” Henry, who had lied to her. But why?

  “Whatcha thinkin’?” Henry slid his hand up her arm, trailing his fingers over her collarbone.

  She glanced over at him, but didn’t say a word.

  “Oh.” He grimaced. “Well stop thinking about it.”

  “There are some things you just can’t unsee.” Libby made a face. Or unsay. Or unthink.

  Henry had been in his room when she wen
t back upstairs that morning, still sleeping, but he’d come awake quickly when she sat on the edge of the bed and told him what she saw. Libby had seen the look of embarrassment cross his face. And she’d accepted his explanation readily enough. He hadn’t told her at first because he was afraid she’d think it was “too weird.” Then, as time went on, he confessed, he really didn’t know how to bring it up.

  “Can’t you let it go?” Henry sighed, glancing back at the road. The snow was coming down heavier. “It’s just who they are. They’re adults, yeah? I mean, it’s their choice. I get that seeing it was… uh… really uncool.”

  Libby snorted at that, picking at the hem of her skirt.

  “And they shouldn’t have been, you know, doing it in the kitchen.” Henry cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. “But don’t let it bother you so much. They’re still just, you know, people. And people have sex. Even parents. I mean, haven’t we done some crazy things?”

  “Yeah.” Libby shrugged, knowing exactly what he was talking about. “But, aside from the hot tub thing at the frat house, it was just you and me. And not… on the kitchen counter with my kids sleeping upstairs.”

  “Their kids are in college, Libs,” he reminded her with a laugh. “I think they assume we know about sex. And are likely having it. At least, they hope we are. I mean, I told you, my mom said you could sleep in my room, but you—”

  “I care about what she thinks about me!” Libby protested, cutting him off. She didn’t want them thinking she was a slut, really. That’s what it came down to. “What they both think.”

  “They think you’re pretty awesome.” He grinned over at her. “But my mom did ask if our sex life was okay.”

  “She what?” Libby blinked at him in surprise.

  “Well, you wouldn’t sleep in the same room with me, so she thought… maybe… we were having issue.” Henry shrugged. “I told her we were fine.”

  “Oh, for pete’s sake.” Libby crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t win.”

  “I told you before, they’ve always been pretty open with us about sex.”

  “Well, yeah, but…” She frowned out the window. “But I didn’t know you meant that open!”

  “If it had been the other way around, and my mom had walked in on us—”

  “Oh, my God, stop torturing me.” Libby covered her face with her hands, just at the thought.

  “I’m just saying.” Henry laughed. “If she’d seen us trying out some position from the Kama Sutra, she probably would have given us some pointers before she left.”

  “Henry, be serious.” Libby dropped her hands to her lap, frowning over at him in the dark. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “No.” His answer came easily, casually. “But I’m used to it. I can see how it might bother you. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell you.”

  That was the thing that bothered her the most. He hadn’t told her. He claimed it was because he was afraid of her reaction, but was that really it? She didn’t know, and she was honestly afraid to ask. She was afraid of more lies.

  “Are you thinking about the Magic Mountain?” Henry teased. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “I am now.” She couldn’t help the smile that crept over her face.

  “Way better than Disney, amiright?” He snorted a laugh, poking her thigh with his finger, and she laughed, too.

  “Stop.” She pushed his hand away, but she was still smiling, remembering him sneaking into her bedroom the night before.

  The room had been dark, just the sliver of a quarter moon peeking through the curtain he opened. Libby refused to turn on the lamp, too afraid someone might see the light under the door and knock. But she’d welcomed him with open arms, his skin glistening silver in the moonlight as they kissed and rolled together on the little twin bed.

  “What number do you want?” Libby had whispered in his ear, licking the salt off his skin.

  “Seventy-two.” Henry’s teeth had nipped at her throat, making her shiver as she assumed the position to which the number referred.

  The Kama Sutra—the book they’d met over, a chance meeting, a complete accident.

  Henry had transposed the call numbers and the Kama Sutra had been the book Libby, who worked at the university library, had pulled off the shelf for him. They’d shared a laugh, and that’s when it all began.

  Some couples had the first song they ever danced to, or a restaurant they revisited after having their first date there. Henry and Libby had the Kama Sutra and all the positions therein. Henry’s memory—which was amazing, and had saved him more than once with his dyslexia—had made quick work of the book. He’d memorized it. The whole thing. Including the numbers associated with each position. She only knew a handful, but seventy-two was a favorite.

  “You weren’t asking me to stop last night,” he teased, smiling slyly in her direction. “For a girl who didn’t want to get caught, you sure got loud…”

  “Oh, hush.” Libby blushed, still smiling at the memory. It wasn’t her fault. Henry drove her wild—and he knew it.

  Damn him. Her pussy throbbed and she squirmed in her seat. Even when she wanted to be mad at him, she couldn’t. Her gaze wandered to his lap, where she could see the outline of his cock through the denim of his jeans, although she didn’t need to see it. Libby knew it every ridge, every vein, every sweet, glorious inch of it. Even when she couldn’t see it, or even feel it, like she had last night, pillows under her belly, his arms wrapped snuggly around her, body curled over hers, taking her slowly and relentlessly from behind, she was aware of him. It’s like he filled her, all the time now, even when he wasn’t present.

  Her thighs tightened, the heat of the memory overwhelming. They’d perfected number seventy-two. She loved that moment when she closed her thighs for a tighter fit, pressing them together once he’d entered her, hearing his low moan. She wiggled in her seat, feeling the soft squish between her legs, a deep ache to feel him buried inside her. Had they not been going so fast on the interstate on slushy roads, she would have considered sliding over to touch him, maybe even suck him while he drove.

  “

  “Hey.” Henry’s hand moved over her knee, his thumb tracing her kneecap. “Libs, I’m sorry. I really am.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She put her hand over his, lacing their fingers. “It’s me. I’m just… being stupid.”

  “Does it really bother you so much?”

  “Not exactly.” She looked at him in the dimness, the strong line of his jaw with a light stubble growing. “I really don’t care what your parents do in their bedroom. It’s not that.”

  “Well than what is it?”

  “I guess…” Libby sighed, trying to vocalize her feelings. She hadn’t even really formed them into thoughts yet, so that was harder than it sounded. “I just wonder… about us.”

  “What do you mean?” Henry frowned. “What do you wonder?”

  “Well, you grew up around that.” She swallowed. She didn’t want to offend him or make him angry, but now that she was saying it out loud, the idea started to crystallize in her mind. “It had to have an influence on you. I mean, that lifestyle, that was your ‘normal.’ So… I just wonder...”

  “Ah.” Henry nodded, pursing his lips.

  “I mean, is that something you want?” Libby asked, the question out there now, hanging between them. She was suddenly terrified. “Am I keeping you from something you want? Do you want to be with more than one woman?”

  And then, something occurred to her, and she followed her questions up with another, one that bothered her deeply, she discovered.

  “Have you been with more than one girl at a time?”

  “No, Libby.” His fingers squeezed hers. “I mean, there were a couple frat house things that went on… but I’ve never been involved in any way I haven’t told you about already.”

  “Okay.” She let out a pent-up breath. “I just wondered, I mean, because you kept it from me, if there was
more…”

  “I know, I’m sorry.” Henry grimaced. “I was stupid. I should have told you.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “You should have.”

  She knew it had come out more harshly than she wanted it to. And the truth was, she didn’t want to punish him. She even understood his reticence about telling her. At least, she hoped she did. She just prayed it wasn’t anything more.

  “You didn’t answer my other question.” She looked over at him in the dim light, heart in her throat, streetlights flashing by. “Do you want to?”

  “Do I want to what?” Henry braked, frowning out the windshield at the weather.

  “Be with more than one woman.”

  “Libby, come on.” Both of Henry’s hands went to the steering wheel. Outside, the snow fell harder, hitting the window like tiny shards of glass in the lights of the oncoming traffic. “I wouldn’t even bring it up or consider it without talking to you first. Unless it was something you wanted.”

  “It’s getting bad out there,” she said softly, blinking at the weather, but that wasn’t where her mind was. Henry grunted softly in agreement, turning the wipers on high, squinting at the highway.

  Libby snuggled down into her seat, pulling her coat more closely around her, telling herself one more time, I’m not going to let it bother me. Then she leaned her head back and let her lack of sleep and coffee catch up with her as she drifted off to the sway of the vehicle and the sound of Henry singing to the radio.

  * * * *

  It was so cold, Libby’s nipples hardened, even under the weight of her winter coat, a scarf, a pair of mittens, and a knit hat. She wrapped her arms around herself, a fruitless defense mechanism against the bitter cold, smiling in spite of the wind. She was happy to be out of class early, even if she did love her journalism classes, which were mostly just working on the school paper now that she was so nearing graduation. Henry had another year, but they were both nearing the finish line.