by A. C. Bextor
Mason responds, ripping the neck of my shirt down. He takes my already pebbled nipple into his mouth, sucking the sensitive flesh as fast and furious as his hips are grinding into mine. Brutal. Unforgiving.
“Fuck, I love this pussy,” he utters, finding my lips and sucking the bottom.
Reaching under me, Mason uses both hands to grasp my ass. His entire body covers mine, the warmth of his skin and the smell of sex threatening to consume us both.
“Fuck me, Mason,” I encourage. “I’m close.”
So close.
“Not yet,” he degrees. “Turn around.”
When I start to do as ordered, Mason shifts my hips until my back is to his chest, my front against the back of the couch. I catch our vague reflection in the bay window across the room.
I’m not looking at myself. My focus is Mason’s hand as it roams my chest, cupping it gently before disappearing from view to settle between my legs. The muscles of his arm work as his finger rolls over my sensitive clit.
“Hands to either side of the couch,” he demands first before adding, “Ass up for me and brace.”
As soon as I do as he’s said, Mason lifts the shirt up and over my ass. He looks down toward the small of my back and emits a low growl. This isn’t the same cheap, half-assed design he saw so long ago.
The shape has been molded and the details have been embellished. The butterfly I had there before has been transformed—bigger in size, broader in wingspan, and more vibrant in color. The artist who did this swore he was an expert in his craft. He wasn’t lying.
Pushing on the small of my back, Mason’s focus trains to the words set within the wings. To the naked eye, they’re supposed to be hidden and difficult to find.
But there’s no mistake about it—he’s already made out each word clearly
Looking up at him in the reflection of the window, Mason’s gaze pierces my own.
Judging by the aggression while removing the rest of his clothes, I’m guessing he approves.
“Keep Happy?” he hisses with accusation, dropping his jeans to the floor. “You inked the skin on your back with Keep Happy?”
My face and neck warm, no doubt flushing. The tips of my fingers are white against the edge of the couch. I brace, jutting my hips toward him, anxiously waiting for what’s to come.
Leaning forward, Mason’s breath fans my ear. He grabs my hand, places it between my legs where he forces my finger to my clit. Using his finger, he shows me what he wants done.
Then he gruffly orders, “Work yourself.”
My stomach flutters.
“How many times, Katie?” he then demands, his voice low and raspy, his cock rubbing, pushing against my lower back.
Confused but working myself with vigor, I ask, “What?”
“How many times have you thought about me in your bed since I was in it the last time?”
“Mason,” I call, my voice low and soft at countless images I’ve had of him there.
“How many times have you thought about me pushing inside you?”
As Mason grasps my hips, my breathing becomes uneven. He enters in one long, smooth thrust.
When I stop my ministrations, Mason barks, “No one told you to stop touching yourself.”
Trying to focus, I sweep my finger across my clit. The other slides against Mason’s cock as it enters and retreats.
“Did you think about my hands on you when you were laying next to your husband at night?”
His eyes close, giving me open opportunity to admire his chest as the muscles work in tandem to each furious drive. Along with the image of my hand disappearing behind the couch to work us both.
“Fuck yes,” he grinds out. “You thought about me, Katie. Again and again.”
“Mason, I’m close,” I relay, shoving myself back for more.
My legs tremble and I’m forced to take my eyes from him. I rest my forehead to the couch and close my eyes.
I’m so close.
“Don’t look away,” he demands. “I’m marking this,” he says next, rubbing his hand over the tattoo, reveling on his words forever etched.
Mason’s hand travels up my back, resting at my neck.
Pressing down carefully, he urges, “Together?”
“Yes,” I manage, my body being jolted with another powerful thrust.
“Say when,” he urges.
He hits his mark with precision, and my toes start to curl. My chest burns from being pushed into the material of the couch. I position both hands to the back of couch and brace for what’s coming.
Mason’s drives continue.
He hits the spot.
My stomach stirs.
My insides clench.
A loud and carnal roar breaks from his throat and I’m lost. My body reacts, releasing around him in a violent hold.
Mason holds my hip in position; he does just as he proudly proclaimed what he intended to do. Mason pulls out. The warmth of his release spreading across my back as his hand covers the tattoo.
“Marked,” he utters, looking down.
In the reflection of the window, I smile at his satisfaction. He smiles back and finally lets me go.
“MY LITTLE SISTER WON’T LEAVE the fucking house,” Pryor berates, sitting at my desk. “Doesn’t matter if we’re with her. Me and my dad, we promise to keep her safe. But she won’t fucking leave the house!”
Penny Blake’s brother is broken. Shattered to the point of tears. More so than the day Penny had in court as she testified to all that Marcos had done.
By the time trial testimony began, the violent bruises on her face had healed. Her tiny limbs were free of casts. Her body appeared healthy.
Inside, she was still the little girl held captive in that trailer, one who should’ve been lost to this world but wasn’t. Though she may be small in size, Penny Kaye Blake stood up to the man who hurt her because she’s mighty and fierce at heart.
“Marcos won’t hurt her again,” I promise.
Pryor shifts in his chair. His posture rigid. “She won’t talk to any of us. She’s back to livin’ in her head.”
“She still gettin’ help?”
“Yeah,” Pryor replies. “Doc Severns started comin’ to the house again since we heard the fuck got loose.”
“We’re close to endin’ this, brother,” I vow.
“Mrs. Thompson agree to that?” he hisses. “Saw the news. Everyone did. That fuckin’ lunatic killed her husband.”
“Pryor,” I warn.
“The old farmer was lucky. Probably spent all of fifteen minutes with the man.”
“He won’t get near her.”
“My little sister spent fuckin’ hours with him.”
“I know.”
Pryor shakes his head, studying the paperweight on the desk in front of him.
“The nightmares…” He trails off and takes a deep breath. “Penny cut all her hair off. All her beautiful hair, man. Gone. Said at night she feels him pullin’ on it when he’s rapin’ her.”
“Fuck,” I seethe.
“Tells me she can’t get clean anymore. She was doing better; I swear she was. Now we’re here again.”
“Keep your shit together.”
Sitting up, pointing his index finger to my desk, he insists, “I’m done keepin’ my shit together, Cole. Either you find him and do what you gotta do, or I find him and do what I should’ve done years ago.”
“Pryor,” I warn.
“Decade, Cole. But she feels like this happened yesterday. I’m gonna kill him.”
“You can’t do that.”
“And I’m gonna do it slow.”
Truth told, if this were my sister, I’d do exactly as Pryor plans. But justice here needs to prevail. Pryor is all Penny has.
“We need you to watch over your sister. We need you to do that because her family is all she has. What we don’t need is for you to go off the rails and land your ass in prison.”
“I’d serve a life if it meant Penny could br
eathe free,” Pryor states, shaking his head.
“She may never do that again,” I give him truth. After all she endured, I’m not sure she ever could.
“Then I’ll serve a lifetime of givin’ her room to try.”
“FUCK ME, I HAVEN’T DRY fucked a girl in thirty years,” I clip, worked up, irritated, while thrusting my hips into Katie’s.
“Good to know you’ve still got this,” she goads in return, running her hands over my chest beneath my shirt.
Katie’s thighs are spread, my waist secured in between. I’ve got one hand up her shirt over her bra, the other clenched tightly between her legs, which are covered in jeans. This all while I’ve been left to contemplate the degree of embarrassment if I were to come undone still dressed.
If Katie and I were teenagers, making out on her father’s couch, I’d be elated to have gotten to second base.
But we are fucking not teenagers. And I am not fucking elated.
Katie stops kissing my jaw to observe, “You’re forty years old, Mason.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you saying you were feeling up ten-year-old girls when you were ten?”
“Babe,” I address as answer. “All my girlfriends were older. Eleven, twelve at least.”
Her nose scrunches as if in pain.
Adding to my point, I include, “Dry fuckin’ is a rite of passage.”
“Making out is a rite of passage…for teenagers, Mason.”
“No difference,” I reply, and she scowls.
“Still. You were ten?”
In my defense, I inform, “I didn’t lose my virginity until I was twelve.”
Her mouth falls open and she pushes against my chest. “I didn’t need to know that.”
“Mary Ellis Meyer doesn’t hold a candle to you,” I return, managing a straight face. “She’s good, really good actually, but still, she doesn’t come close.”
“I really didn’t need to know that!” Katie shrieks, twisting in place in attempt to escape.
She goes about this all wrong, considering she’s pinned beneath me. I’ve got my hands on her pussy and when I remind her of this, she gasps. I keep adding pressure until she stills.
I’d stopped over this afternoon because she told me the girls would be at school. Four days have passed since I saw Katie’s face. I’ve tried to give them room, tried not to interfere as they went through the process of the man in their lives moving out.
But this morning, I woke to my cock at full attention, until finally he and I deemed we had had enough.
“I’ll be quick,” I propose, kissing her cheek and jaw before making my way to her neck.
Katie squirms, tilting her hips and running her hands through my hair, while uttering, “The girls will be home soon.”
“Soon,” I repeat, twisting her nipple through the lace of her bra. “Ten minutes is enough time.”
“Mason, you can’t be here when they get home from school. And you certainly can’t be naked.”
“I don’t have to be naked to fuck you,” I point out.
“Anticipation is motivation,” she absurdly suggests.
Sitting up, bracing my arm at the side of her head, I look down to find she’s serious.
Too fucking serious.
“Woman, I’ve waited four years for this. To be in your house, not hiding out in hotel rooms, or stealing glances across restaurants or bars. Waited twenty years if you count all our shit in between.”
“You make us sound so old and tragic,” she comments back.
“Tragic is the amount of time I spent fist fuckin’ my cock thinkin’ of you.”
Katie giggles.
“I’m not a man who comes all over his stomach. But I wiped that bitch clean more times than I can count.”
“So you missed me?”
“I’m not answering that question.”
“Why not?”
“Because what you ask is stupid.”
She knows I missed her. For-fucking-years I missed everything about her. Not just the sex: moving inside her and forcing her to cry out. But all of this. All we used to have and will have again since she stepped foot in my cabin.
The passing glances.
The playful banter.
The heated exchange.
The tastes, touches, licks.
Everything we gave up for each other—to keep each other happy.
Running her finger along my jaw, our faces inches apart, Katie whispers, “The girls don’t know we’re together.”
“They’re smart,” I reply. “If they didn’t know before, trust me they’ve figured it out by now.”
“They’re still adjusting,” she mildly insists.
“They aren’t adjusting, Katie. They’ve adjusted.”
Averie especially. The kid doesn’t leave my side anytime I’m around. This started the day I met her on the playground. Averie Dyer is not adjusting. She’s welcomed me with open arms.
Amelia’s nowhere close to as comfortable as Averie, but she’ll come around. Eventually, after the pain and loss of her parents’ infidelity and divorce passes. She’ll appreciate her dad being in a better place, wherever the fuck that may be. Just the same, she’ll come to recognize her mom’s happier than she ever remembers her being.
“Those girls were never clueless to your marriage,” I refer.
“They were,” she denies. “Thomas and I made them believe we were—”
Cutting her off before she lies to herself, I ask, “Amelia still pissed at Thomas for fuckin’ Grace?”
Shaking her head, she concedes. “No. Not really.”
“Averie ever once cry out for her dad to come home?”
“You know she didn’t,” Katie gives.
A flash of dawning realization comes. For now, I’ll let this go.
Katie lifts her head, bringing her lips to my neck. She maneuvers her hand between us, sliding it into my jeans until she has a firm grasp of my throbbing cock.
“I’ll do you quick,” she promises, changing subject.
Slamming my eyes shut, I thrust my hips into her palm as her fingers explore the length. My back and chest strain, my hands burn as I grasp the couch over our heads in attempt to keep somewhat still.
“Fuck, you feel good,” I hiss, burying my face in her neck.
“I bet I do,” she replies then goads, “So good, I’ll do myself later.”
At that, I take her mouth. As punishment, my tongue pushes inside as my hand grasps her hair to hold her in place. Drive after drive, Katie keeps her hand steady—up and down, meeting the tip with her thumb.
Christ. Torture.
My balls tighten, my back burns. My gut aches.
So fucking close.
Tearing my mouth from hers, I narrow my eyes to find she’s smiling.
“You’re fuckin’ fixin’ this,” I promise, sitting up and lifting her beneath the arms.
Once she’s settled at her feet, I lie with my back on the couch and quickly unbutton my jeans. Katie watches with studious fascination as I draw them down to free myself.
Gripping my cock tightly in my fist, I work myself using her words, “You’ll do me quick.”
Katie stills, eyes wide and mouth open. Her lips are swollen from my aggression. She hesitates but not for long.
After scanning to look outside the living room window, she turns toward where I lie and she drops to her knees.
Her hands position where she wants me before her mouth takes every inch in.
Fuck adjusting. Fuck anticipation.
I have no time or patience for either.
Three weeks later…
I WASN’T SURE WE COULD do this. But we did. And we did it as a family. My beautiful girls and me.
Weeks have passed and Mason and I have been forced to sneak around. Making out in cars, quick sex at his place or mine, long kisses in dark corners of impromptu meetings. Though all of this has been fun, it’s time to move forward.
So I had made the decision to do wh
at the girls wouldn’t expect.
I tested them on how they’d feel about him coming to dinner.
Last night, the three of us all talked. Together, we made their favorite: spaghetti with homemade meat sauce. Averie helped with the garlic bread. Amelia put together the salad.
They knew something was on my mind. So rather than delay their inquisition, I asked what I’d been putting off—much to Mason’s impatience.
“Mason Cole?” Averie questioned. “As in the hot cop also known as McButterpants?”
“Yes,” I answered, trying hard to keep a straight face.
“Works for me,” Averie readily agreed. “Just make sure he tells Jason at Zinn’s to add extra cheese on my pineapple pizza.”
And that was all from her. As if Mason delivered pizza to our home so many times before.
As I cast a glance to Amelia, she was still. Her glare aimed to the floor, her nostrils flaming in unvoiced irritation.
“Amelia,” I had called. “Honey, any thoughts? This is your house too. You can say no. If you’re not ready.”
“It’s not that I’m not ready,” she returned. “I just…”
Moments passed and she didn’t continue, so I prodded, “Let’s have him wait. Maybe next month.”
“What gives?” Averie punished, her fork of spaghetti midair.
Shaking her head, and calling up a feigned smile, Amelia looked to her sister, then to me and said, “She’s right. It’s fine, Mom. But tell him pepperoni and mushroom for my half.”
I was nervous, hesitant to push my oldest daughter. Amelia has always been levelheaded and strong. I relied on this to get her through the first dinner with the man I love.
So far, other than Averie’s insistence to rattle on end about whatever comes to mind, this evening has been good—great even.
“Honey, again. Go brush your teeth and put your pajama’s on,” I order Averie, who is still loitering around living room. “You have a big day of shopping tomorrow.”
Averie didn’t take her eyes off Mason and me as we sat next to each other on the couch all night. She sat on the floor near his feet, but far enough away the two weren’t touching.
She’s tried to be clever, looking away quickly before being caught. Each time he’s moved, to grab my hand or adjust us in our seats, she’s studied us together.
