by Tara Sivec
Before I left to go back to my dad’s last night, after Clint and I snuck into the downstairs guest bathroom for a little making out and some heavy petting that didn’t last nearly as long as I would have liked because the girls were still awake, he told me the celebration was a little larger than it used to be. All of the workers stayed late to set everything up, and when I told Clint I wanted to stay and help, he shoved me off and told me he wanted it to be a surprise.
The property that I’ve always loved, and the celebration I looked forward to every year, has been turned into my worst nightmare, right in front of my eyes.
There are bounce houses of every size and shape littered all over the property, with hundreds of dirty, sticky kids screaming and jumping up and down in them. I’m pretty sure I saw a pile of puke in the middle of the one shaped like a pumpkin, and all those little bastards were just jumping around it, puke flying up into the air and splattering back down on the plastic.
There’s a tent set up just for face-painting, filled with screaming and crying kids, getting all sorts of shit painted on their dirty, sticky little cheeks.
There’s a pumpkin pie eating contest for kids happening under another tent, and I’m pretty sure any minute now, they’re all going to reenact that scene from the movie Stand by Me, and instead of blueberry pie hurling out of all their mouths, it will be orange pumpkin pie chunks projectile vomiting out of them. Everywhere I turn, there are kids of every age, running, and screaming, and crying, and throwing temper tantrums.
Okay, fine. They aren’t all throwing fits, because this is obviously like a fall-themed amusement park and they are having the time of their lives, but I can’t concentrate on anything except the ones acting like little assholes.
“God, I hate kids,” I mutter, staring around in horror.
“Um, we’re kids,” Grace points out next to me, with Mia standing on her other side, pouting because I wouldn’t let her go anywhere near the puke-covered pumpkin bounce house.
“Yeah, but I’ve gotten to know you guys, and you aren’t complete assholes. I don’t know any of these monsters. And where the hell are their parents?”
“Where the hell are your parents!” Mia shouts, as a little girl around her age goes racing past her.
“I really need to stop swearing around you guys,” I say with a sigh.
“It’s fine. Dad swears around us all the time. He just tells us we should never repeat what he says, especially the F-word,” Grace responds.
“What’s the F-word?” Mia asks with wide eyes, walking around Grace to stand in front of me, holding her arms in the air for me to pick her up.
I scoop her up and rest her against my hip.
“Uh, Fruit Loops,” I quickly tell her.
“What? I can’t say that anymore? That’s my favorite cereal!”
Thankfully, Ember walks over right then, holding her son Lincoln’s hand. I finally met him a few days ago, and he is Ember’s twin, with his blonde hair, green eyes, and half the size of all the other seven-year-olds I’ve seen.
“Hey, girls, you want to take Lincoln over to the face-painting tent for me so I can talk to Brooklyn?”
Oh, no. She’s got a serious look on her face. This is not going to end well for me.
I’ve been avoiding Ember ever since my date with Clint at the beginning of the week. Not really on purpose. I’ve spent most of my time in between watching the girls, sneaking away and finding places to make out with him. We went to dinner at the Timber Diner twice after that night, had drinks at the Maple Inn another night, and I’ve had to take my dad to two doctor’s appointments and run a bunch of errands for him. I really have been busy, but I’m also not sure I’m ready to tell Ember I’ve always had a thing for her brother and never told her. She is going to murder me in my sleep. Actually, she won’t even be kind and wait until I’m asleep. She’ll do it in broad daylight in front of everyone.
When Mia starts to struggle in my arms for me to let her down, I hug her tighter to me.
“Face-painting is dumb. You don’t need to get your face painted,” I tell her.
“I want a unicorn on my face!” she shouts excitedly, still squirming as hard as she can.
“What’s wrong, Brooklyn? Afraid to be alone with me?” Ember asks with an evil smile on her face.
I laugh a little too loudly, and have no other choice but to put Mia down before I drop her. Grace grabs both Mia and Lincoln’s hands and starts walking them to the face-painting tent, and I almost call her a traitor, but stop myself when I realize that would be immature.
But seriously, what a traitor.
“I should probably go muck out the horse stalls. Toss some bales of hay that need… tossing. Fire up a tractor or two and make sure they’re in working order for the tractor rides later.”
I have never in my life done any of these things, and I realize I sound like an idiot, but I don’t care. I’d rather shovel horse shit and accidentally run over half the people here with a tractor than have Ember yell at me.
“Don’t even think about it, Brooklyn Marie Manning,” Ember warns, crossing her arms in front of her.
Shit. My full name. This is it. This is how I die.
“Sooooooo, what’s new with you?” I ask in a chipper voice.
“Cut the shit. You’ve been sleeping with my brother and you didn’t tell me?” she shouts.
I quickly turn my head from side-to-side, making sure no one heard her.
“Will you keep it down?” I whisper-yell. “I’m not sleeping with your brother!”
She stares deep into my eyes for a few seconds, and when she’s satisfied with whatever she sees, the pissed off look leaves her face and she nods.
“Good. That’s good. I’ve got fifty bucks on tomorrow night, and six grand would go a long way toward Lincoln’s college education,” she informs me.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” It’s my turn to yell, and I don’t even care who hears me.
“Seriously, Brooklyn, think of his future. Do you want my son to not go to college? Do you want my sweet, adorable little Lincoln to wind up homeless, living on the streets, sucking dick for cash, because he couldn’t afford to go to college?”
“Dude, really? You just said your son’s name and sucking dick in the same sentence. Even I know that’s wrong.” I cringe.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures. Don’t bone my brother until tomorrow night,” she states, pointing a warning finger in my face.
I let out a heavy sigh, cocking my head to the side.
“Are you really not mad at me about this?” I ask quietly.
“I was initially. But only because I didn’t hear it from either one of you first. I mean, I knew he always had a thing for you. Everyone knew he always had a thing for you, but I didn’t think you’d come back here and actually want anything to do with him.”
“You knew he always had a thing for me? And you didn’t tell me? Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask in shock.
“Because I thought you hated him! What good would that have done? He’s annoying as shit, but he’s still my brother. I didn’t want you to rip him to shreds and break his heart.”
Damn, that stings a little.
“I wouldn’t have done that. Because I’ve always had a thing for him too,” I finally admit out loud.
I should probably be saying this to Clint first, but I feel like I owe it to Ember to throw her a bone. And going by the loud, ear-piercing shriek of happiness that flies out of her mouth, I think this makes up for everything.
She throws her arms around my neck, and I laugh as I wrap mine around her waist and she starts jumping up and down excitedly.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! I can’t believe this! We’re going to be sisters!” she shouts.
“Slow your roll there, short stuff. Did you not hear me before when I said we haven’t even had sex yet?”
She pulls out of my arms and beams at me.
“I don’t care. It
doesn’t matter. This is amazing. What did Clint say when you told him?”
“Told me what?”
I jump, and a squeak of surprise comes out of me when I whirl around and find Clint standing next us.
“Told you that there are way too many annoying kids here and I may or may not have taught Mia some new swear words today and maybe someone should clean the puke out of bounce house number eight,” I ramble.
Ember looks at me in confusion, and I subtly shake my head at her. Thankfully, she’s a smart woman and immediately catches on to the wide-eyed look of panic I’m giving her.
“Yes. Puke in the bounce house. I should probably go find someone to clean that up. See you two later,” she announces, giving me a little thumbs-up as she backs away, pausing for a second and pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at me. “Don’t forget. Tomorrow night. Sucking dick for money.”
With that, she turns and skips away.
“Do I even want to know what that was about?” Clint asks, flinging his arm over my shoulders.
“Oh, you know. Just your sister planning for your nephew’s bright future,” I tell him with a smile.
He kisses the top of my head, and I let out a happy sigh.
“Ahhh, just in time,” Clint suddenly says.
“What’s just in time?”
He points toward the driveway, and I see a caravan of trucks pulling in, kicking up dust and gravel as they go. But these aren’t just ordinary trucks, oh no. These trucks suddenly turn the nightmare happening around me into heaven on earth.
“Your surprise,” Clint answers.
“You got me taco trucks?” I ask.
“Not just taco trucks. There’s a pizza truck, cupcake truck, barbecue truck, grilled cheese truck, donut truck, and a pancake truck,” he informs me.
“Oh, God. I think I just came,” I whisper.
Clint laughs, removing his arm from my shoulder to grab my hand and pull me toward where the trucks are lining up along the driveway.
“Food first, orgasms later.”
“Is that a promise? Should we shake on it? I don’t know if I trust your dedication to the cause.”
He bends his head down as we continue walking, and whispers in my ear, “Believe me, fancy pants, I’ve been dedicated to that cause since you came on my lap and moaned my name.”
“Why are we walking so fast? I have a stomach full of tacos and pancakes. All this jostling isn’t good for me,” I complain as Clint drags me through his quiet, empty house.
There is still an entire farm full of people outside, but thankfully, I can’t hear any of the annoying screaming of kids now that we’re inside. I kind of want to hide in here for the rest of the day.
“Clint? Is that you?”
When Mrs. Sherwood shouts from upstairs, Clint starts dragging me faster, pulling me into the kitchen and across the room.
“Clint?” Mrs. Sherwood shouts again, her footsteps thumping down the stairs.
Before I can open my mouth and yell back to her, Clint slides open the pantry door and shoves me inside, closing it behind us quietly.
“What the hell?” I mutter in the pitch darkness.
He shushes me, and I get all set to tell him off, when suddenly his body is up against mine. He nudges me backward until I bump into the shelves behind me. I remain perfectly still and keep my mouth shut, because this man has turned me into a horny ball of need, and feeling him pressed up against me fills me with all sorts of tingly anticipation.
When we hear the front door open and close, Clint finally speaks.
“Turn around.”
His words are said in a low, quiet voice, and it sends shivers up my spine. I immediately do what he says, my shoulder sliding against his chest as I turn since he’s still standing so close to me.
“Put your hands on the shelves and hold on tight,” he murmurs close to my ear.
Sweet baby Jesus, where did this demanding guy come from?
One of his arms wraps tightly around my ribs, right under my breasts, anchoring my back against his front. Without any warning, his free hand presses against my stomach and then quickly glides downward, dipping inside my cotton shorts, under my lace thong, and stops when his fingers are centimeters away from where I need him touching me the most.
“I’ve been dreaming about feeling you come on my fingers this entire week,” he tells me quietly, his hand still holding perfectly still.
Everything about the night we humped like teenagers under the stars was amazing. But Clint wasn’t vocal about anything, and that was perfectly fine. It was still hot as hell. It was actually almost hotter that he was so quiet and just let his actions speak for themselves.
But this? Holy shit. I could probably come without him even touching me if he keeps saying shit like this to me.
“Do you want me to fuck you with my fingers, Brooklyn?” he whispers.
My hips automatically jerk when he says something so dirty, and I swear to God I will start crying if he doesn’t move his hand soon.
“Yes! Holy shit, yes,” I respond in a breathy voice.
He presses his mouth to the side of my neck, gently sucking on the skin there, as he pushes his hand the rest of the way down, sliding through my wetness, and immediately plunging two of his long, thick fingers inside me.
Unintelligible words and noises come out of me that are part moans and part begging when he slowly starts pumping his fingers in and out of me.
“Christ, you feel so good,” Clint mutters against the side of my neck, his hips pushing forward until I can feel his hardness pressing against my ass.
His thumb moves to my clit, and he gently starts circling it, while his thrusting fingers continue their slow assault.
I am full-on whimpering at this point, my hands smacking down on the shelf in front of me, knocking shit onto the floor as I try to grab onto it and hold on for dear life. I hear stuff spilling all over the floor at our feet and don’t even care that I’m making a mess.
Everything is heightened by the fact that it’s pitch black in here and I can’t see a damn thing. All I can do is smell Clint’s cologne that always drives me wild, and feel his hot breath against the side of my neck and his body pressing into the back of me from his chest to his thighs.
He continues to suck and nip at the side of my neck, his fingers pushing into me deeper, and his thumb circling my clit faster. My hips start jerking roughly against his hand, and I wonder if he took some sort of class on this shit. Knowing him, he did extensive research on the computer and made a whole bunch of charts and graphs about the best way to bring a woman pleasure.
I can’t even believe how turned on I am right now, and how fast the ache between my legs is building and building with each and every push and pull of Clint’s fingers. No one has ever made me feel this way, not even myself with my own hands, and definitely not without any kind of build-up or foreplay. But if I’m honest, just being in the same room with Clint is foreplay all on its own. Even when he shushed me, it made me wet.
A tingle starts traveling from my toes and quickly moves up, centering right between my legs. Clint pushes his fingers in deep and holds them there, his thumb swiping back and forth over my clit with just the right amount of movement and pressure, until I can feel myself start to pulse around his fingers.
“I’m coming. Oh, God, I’m coming,” I mutter, smacking my hands against the shelf and sending more items crashing to the ground.
“That’s it, baby. Fuck, you’re so tight when you come,” he says with a guttural moan, my orgasm exploding out of me with the force of a freight train crashing through a brick wall when he says that.
His thumb continues to gently graze over my clit, pulling every ounce of pleasure out of me, until I feel like I might pass out from how good it feels.
Swipe, swipe, swipe goes his thumb, as I continue to pulse, and tingle, and jerk my hips against his hand, this orgasm lasting longer and feeling more powerful than any that have come before it. Pun intended.
With a loud moan, I finally collapse forward, my head smacking against the back of my hand that clutches tightly to the shelf.
I let out a small whimper when he pulls his fingers out of my body. His hands press against either side of my hips, and he turns me around, leaning down and kissing one of my eyes.
He chuckles softly.
“I can’t see a fucking thing in here. I was aiming for your mouth.”
“What the hell was that for? Not that I’m complaining or anything.”
“I can’t just shove you into my pantry and give you an orgasm for the hell of it?” he questions.
“Well, sure. But I feel like there’s an ulterior motive here, so spill it.”
After a few quiet seconds in the pitch dark room, he finally breaks.
“Fine. So maybe I was buttering you up so you’d make another one of those pumpkin dump cake things. A dump cake I don’t have to share with the girls. A dump cake all to myself.”
I can hear the longing in his voice and I can’t help but laugh.
“You just wanted an excuse to say the word dump, didn’t you?”
All of a sudden, bright light floods the pantry and almost blinds me when the door is flung open.
“Sugar! Are you making cookies?” Mia shouts excitedly.
“I was doing something with a cookie,” Clint mutters.
I elbow him in the stomach and glance down at the floor where Mia’s eyes are focused. Sugar, flower, rice, uncooked pasta noodles, and cereal are littered all around our feet, and right now, it’s the least of my worries. If that child would have opened the pantry door a minute sooner, she would have needed therapy for the rest of her life.
