As soon as I enter her, she slips into a different sort of ecstasy. Her toes curl, and she grinds one heel down the side of the tub. “You feel so amazing every single time,” she says, nestling her cheek against my shoulder.
She doesn’t know the motherfucking half of it. The water runs down off her pussy onto my balls, and the cold tile of the shelf drives into my perineum. I rotate the showerhead once more, and the stream turns into a bullet-like pulse. As soon as it hits her, she squeezes me, hard. She flails a little, one hand reaching out for support. I grip her tighter, showing her that I’ve got her. “Keep going. I’ll keep you safe and steady right through it.”
As I push all the way into her, she finally lets me take all her weight. I position the pulse right above her clit, and I can feel her trying to come for me. Which is, admittedly, so goddamned sexy, but that’s not how I want her. I want her vulnerable and open and however she needs to be. “Don’t do it for me. Enjoy it. I could stay here all night if that’s what you want.”
“Really?” she asks.
The way she says the word makes a flash of anger boil up through me. Who are these fuckers she’s been with before? Who rushed her? Who made her worry about how to come and when? Fuck that shit. “Be yourself. Do what you want.” I kiss her neck again. “You’ve got my permission.”
She groans, shaking her head. “Why is that so sexy? I didn’t even know I wanted permission.”
“But you do. You want it, and you’ve got it.”
“Oh Russ,” she says again, and then it starts to happen for her. Her contractions feel totally different in this position, and so fucking good.
“I came inside you, don’t forget that for one fucking minute,” I say into her ear. “As long as we’re together, you’re mine. That’s how I make you mine.”
“Ohhhhh shit.”
“I make you mine with my cum inside you. I keep you mine by never letting you run out of me.”
“I’m so close.”
“You’re already there. I can feel it.” I give her a thrust from below. “I know it before you do. That’s how it’s supposed to go.”
I kick up the showerhead one more notch, a thrumming ruthless stream straight onto her clit. I tighten my grip on her even more, and then give her the order. “Come.”
And that does it. Boom. Her foot slides out from under her in total surrender. Last night’s orgasms were wild, but this one is Penny completely undone. It starts low and quiet, like water about to boil, and then it builds until her moans turn into screams, until her whimpers turn into snarls. It’s fucking perfect. No holds barred, like she said. She goes and goes. “I’ve got you. I’m with you the whole way.”
I hold out for as long as I can, but as soon she starts to relax in my arms, I tip her forward to get a better position. I grip her where I had her last night, right on the bruised handprint.
She drops the showerhead. It clatters against the tub, spraying into my calf and sending back splash all over us, like a busted pipe. I bend her over at her hips, and in one graceful bend she reaches outside the shower and braces herself on the toilet seat. I get as deep inside as her body will let me. With my hands on her hips, I pull her up on her tiptoes. I take a handful of her wet hair in my hand.
The pain from her knotted hair makes her pussy tighten in a holy-shit squeeze. She takes every thrust, every pound, every furious drive like she was made for me. And finally I fill her with a second-round orgasm that starts deep in my balls, and makes me fuck her off her tiptoes and onto her knees.
28
Penny
My whole body is trembling as he helps me out of the shower. I feel like my legs are made of Jell-O that hasn’t set long enough, all wobbly and unsure. He grabs my bathrobe from the hook on the door and wraps me up in it, running his arms up and down over the terry cloth, drying my skin. I am putty, absolute putty, and he pulls me tight to his chest. With a towel from the rack, he dries off my hair carefully, slowly, and in the reflection of the mirror I see him smiling so sweetly that it makes my breath get caught in my throat. His face is partially framed by my steamed-mirror graffiti heart, and I can tell he has no idea what he’s doing, sort of patting my hair with the towel, totally unfamiliar territory. But he’s determined to do it. To take care of me. It’s the very sweetest thing.
“Thank you,” he says, giving me a soft kiss on the cheek and keeping his lips there as he pulls me closer.
I place my chin to his chest. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”
He shakes his head. “That was amazing. You’re amazing.”
I take a bath towel from the rack, wrapping it around his more-lush-than-ever bum and cinching it below his belly button. I let my hands slide down over the fuzzy fabric, caressing every inch of those perfect, manly muscles.
He doesn’t let me stay like that for long though, and after a moment he turns me around, keeping me close and walking me toward the bed, his body spooning mine as we go. When we get to the bed he undoes my robe and turns me around to sit on the mattress. In one hand, he’s holding my lotion.
I scooch backward. “You’re really something.”
“Pleasure to serve, ma’am.” He squeezes a long squiggle of lotion down my thigh. He rubs it in tenderly, carefully, making sure he gets every inch. Then he moves to my feet, my stomach, my breasts. He’s especially careful with my nipples, which are sore and sensitive. He comes down onto his elbows, one arm on either side of me, and takes the left one in his mouth. This is different than before, softer, gentler. Like he’s healing me. I look up at the ceiling, and run my hand through his short, damp hair. I don’t know if I deserve this, but I’m over the moon that it’s happening.
“You’re fucking delicious,” he says, coming up into a pushup and climbing on top of me all the way.
“By the way, no way am I letting you go to the Residence Inn.”
He nudges me with his nose in a half-Eskimo kiss. “Only if you want me to stay.”
“I won’t let you leave,” I whisper. “And this time I’ll make sure Guppy doesn’t kick you out of bed.”
Russ smiles, sort of laughing to himself. It’s incredibly endearing that not once, not even now, has he ratted out Guppy. Never said, “That enormous bear-dog of yours hijacked my spot,” or “Let’s sleep with the door shut from now on, how about that?” Not a peep against the little man. I give him a go-ahead nod. “C’mon. Spill it. How did you end up on the chaise?”
“There were some midnight negotiations. He’s got guerilla tactics. That’s all I’m going to say about that.”
Under the door, I hear Guppy inhale and snort. I look at the time. He’s not the smartest dog on the planet, but he knows 5:32 p.m. like he’s hardwired for it. Din-din.
I bring my lips to Russ’ for a quick kiss. “Want to help me make dinner? We’ll do ham and brie sandwiches and salad and then… Ice cream sundaes?”
He buries his head against my breasts, smiling. “Where the fuck have you been all my life?”
* * *
Russ puts on my naughty mermaid apron and says, “I’ll do the salad.”
He might have been the one to say, “Where have you been all my life?” but now I’m thinking, How do you feel about elopement? A man who cooks? Who volunteers for salad duty? “Perfect.” I smile and tie my own apron strings. This one says MAY THE FORKS BE WITH YOU. I put a knife on the island for Russ and then open the fridge to grab the lettuce and a new pound of ham. Clearly, Guppy got hungry while we were busy. He spared the brie, though, bless his heart. He knows what side his bread is buttered on. Ham is expendable. Wheels of triple crème are not.
Russ slices a tomato on the cutting board, making precise cuts at regular intervals. He doesn’t have the practiced hand of someone who cooks very much, and that makes it all that much more adorable. His eyebrows are furrowed, and I watch him place the knife on the tomato skin and then move it over one umpteenth of an inch to make sure the slices are all exactly the same thickness.
From the fridge door, I take a can of lamb and rice dog food. I scoop out the remaining half and dice a hardboiled egg, putting it in his bowl. Then I add two cups of wheat-free, corn-free venison and sweet potato kibble. I hold his bowl parallel to the ground, against my apron.
“That dog has it made.”
“Tell me about it.” I say, and then turn my attention to Guppy. “Sit.”
Russ pauses, mid-slice, to watch the show.
Guppy takes his place on the kitchen mat, his huge back feet tucked under his body and his massive paws sprawled out like oven mitts. A little bubble of drool gathers under his right cheek. “Stay.”
I set down his bowl at my feet, and he shuffles his paws. The drool bubble gathers some momentum and turns into a thin stream, which falls like a belaying rope to the ground.
Mom. Mommmmmm.
“Stay.”
Shuffle-shuffle. Egggg. I want my egggg. And my lammmmmmb.
“Free!”
And the inhalation begins!
“That’s awesome,” Russ says. “That he listens to you like that.”
“You say that now that we’ve got it perfected,” I explain. “What you don’t see is three years of me saying ‘stay’ and him running to find his armadillo.”
I rinse my hands off at the faucet and dry them on my apron. Outside on the beach, Mrs. Mankowitz is at it again, but as she ambles along the stretch of beach down below my house, she’s watching for us and making little grabby motions in the air with her mechanical arm. I feel you, Mrs. M., I do.
But then again, there’s a whole lot I don’t know. I turn to him and study him: a big, brawny, bare-chested mermaid. “I don’t even know where you’re from.”
He pauses, knife halfway through the tomato. “Boston. Where it’s snowing like a son of a bitch.” Outside, right on cue, the waves crash and fizzle.
Boston. My immediate image is a mishmash of Murder, She Wrote reruns, old episodes of Cheers, and a vague sort of Revolutionary War vibe. “I’ve never been farther north than Atlanta, and I’ve never even seen snow.”
“Ever? Really?”
“Never! Snow virgin,” I say, holding my head high. I spread a thin layer of butter on the inside of the sandwiches. “You grew up there?”
“Sort of.” He eats a too-thin slice of tomato. “I was an Army kid, so we were always moving.”
“I had a friend whose dad was in the Army.” I pause, trying to remember back. “Her name was Bernadette. We were friends in second grade and…then she had to move. It was terrible.”
He lifts his eyebrow and nods at the tomato. “Story of my life.”
And my heart gives a painful thump.
“Is your family there now, in Boston?”
He shakes his head and considers the tidy row of tomato slices on the board in front of him. “Not anymore. My dad died when I was in high school, and then my mom passed…” He squints, looking off past my shoulder, into the thinking distance. “Four years ago?”
The broad strokes of his life couldn’t be more different from mine. His world is so much the opposite of hot and humid Port Flamingo, where there’s a Darling every half-mile. “I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t say any of the usual things but just wipes the knife off on a dishtowel. “You have other family here besides your uncle? Brewing kick-ass beer in your honor?” He takes a swig of his Penny’s IPA, smiling a little around the bottle.
“There are lots of us here. If you’re not a Darling, you’re probably married to someone who used to be. My folks live out that way.” I point in the vague direction of the llama farm with my butter knife. “Uncle Tom lives that way.” I point the other direction. “Grandpa’s still in Atlanta.” I signal that with my knife-compass, too, which makes Russ smile and shake his head for some reason. I swallow hard, my legs Jell-O all over again.
“Grandpa of Grandpa’s marmalade?”
“The very same!”
“You’re lucky, you know? To have all these people near you. It must be nice.”
Nice. That’s not really the word I’d use to describe it. Difficult to have any privacy at all is more the reality. But on the other hand, I see what he means. Kind of. “Sure, but what must be really nice is to live your life without bumping into your mom in the feminine products section of the drug store.” Oh, geez. Maybe I can take a supplement for this. What is wrong with me? “Sometimes it’s a little…cozy?”
He nods. “I can see that.” He glances at the fridge, plastered all over with pictures of me and my nephews and nieces, cousins twice-removed. Always in the sun, always on the beach. Somehow I have a vision of his fridge, something modern and sterile, and it makes me sad just to imagine it.
He brings the tomato over and places it in the salad bowl, shoving it off the cutting board with his knife. “Full disclosure, I have no idea how to make dressing unless it comes out of a bottle.”
“It’s kind of reassuring to know you’re not good at everything,” I say, looking up at him and giving him a little elbow to his mermaid stomach. I grab the olive oil and vinegar from their spot next to the stove. “Maybe I could teach you a thing or two.”
“No fucking doubt about that.”
That blush creeps up my cheeks again. I measure out one part vinegar, and as I drizzle in two parts olive oil, he gives my tush a delightful little pat.
* * *
We eat dinner on the patio while the sun sets over my garden wall. He’s a fantastically enthusiastic eater, one of those guys who tackles absolutely everything on his plate like it’s going to be his last meal for years. My grandma said that’s how she knew Grandpa was for her, the way he ate. “When he went for a third slice of my meatloaf, I knew I’d found my man.” Guppy watches every bite with his head on the table, his great big eyes shifting from Russ’ mouth to the plate and back again, like he’s a spectator at a tennis match. Russ finishes off half of his sandwich and then takes the salad tongs from the salad bowl and piles up another big heap of spring greens, tomatoes, and shallots.
“So tomorrow, I think we could try the llama farm. It’s got beautiful views from one edge.”
Russ halts with a mouthful of unchewed salad. “Yeah?”
Provided you crop out the llamas. Those teeth! “You know anything about llamas? Alpacas? Cloven-hooved mountain-dwelling camelids in general?”
He shakes his head and goes on chewing.
Poor guy. Walking into a llama farm without knowing about llamas is going to come as something of a rude awakening, and I haven’t even gotten to the goats. “That’s okay. I’ll explain when we get there.”
He polishes off his salad and eats his crusts and then takes a swig of beer. “Penny, listen. About my job…”
I chew as fast as I can so I can stop him. Not this, not now—I can’t take it. I realize it hasn’t even been two days, but I already have the sense of a countdown looming over me, like the rain cloud over Charlie Brown’s head. I don’t need to be reminded. Still with my mouth half full, I say, “Let’s leave work for tomorrow.”
He studies me, almost sadly. “There’s stuff you should know.”
Gulp. I have a vision of Maisie’s favorite beer koozie. Ignorance is Bliss, for Real. “Tonight, I just want to be with you. Just like this. I’ve spent my whole life worried about the next thing, and if this is going to be a fling, let’s let it be a fling.”
He nods and takes a deep breath. “All right. If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
“Then you’ve got it.”
The waves crash again, and before I know it, he’s hooked his foot over the base of my chair and is dragging me across the concrete. When I get close enough, he picks up my legs and puts them on his lap, running one hand up and down my shins.
The one problem with my live-for-the-moment theory, though, is that nothing about being with him feels like a fling. But that could be all my raging, post-showerhead hormones talking.
Maybe.
We stay there in the peacefu
l quiet, watching each other, while the waves break and Guppy’s gentle snore shakes the tabletop, until finally Russ says, “So, I was thinking. You. Me. Your couch. Bleak House.”
This isn’t a fling. Can’t be.
29
Russ
There were no midnight guerilla Guppy tactics, and I wake up the next morning with her in my arms. She’s on her side, tucked up into a ball and wearing this thin, sweet nighty trimmed with white lace. I pull her closer, and nestle my jaw beside hers. I shift her hair aside so we’re cheek to cheek. Her breathing is rhythmic and calm. I glance at the digital clock and see it’s a little after six. The other clock is a cute old retro thing, light green with big white numbers. The alarm pin on the top is pushed down, to off.
I don’t know how I’m going to tackle this thing, telling her who I am. It’s not a state secret, but every minute that passes makes me worry more and more. Because in my heart, in my gut, I know I don’t want to blow it.
She’s special. You know it.
Some fucking fling.
I look at the books on her bookshelf, at the photos on the walls, and on the possibly hand-made drapes. And that’s when I notice that the bush outside the window is…moving. At first, I think it’s got to be a bird, one of those child-sized seagulls that are everywhere. But then the bush shifts, and there’s a noise of crunching feet on the ground. Guppy’s ears perk up, and he lets out a low growl.
I let go of Penny and roll out of bed. I grab my boxers from the ground and head for the front door, Guppy trotting behind me with long gallops. I pull up my waistband, and undo the deadbolt. Then I step out onto the front porch and listen. Down the street, someone’s sprinkler goes kish-kish-kish, and a lady speedwalks past the mailboxes. I go around to the side of the house, walking barefoot through the cool grass, still damp with dew. Guppy stays next to me, and I notice his massive hackles are up.
The bush shakes again, making the leaves rustle. “Come on out. Nice and easy,” I say. Christ, two days of people telling me I look like a cop and now I sound like one, too. But this is different. This is to protect Penny. This is for real.
Just Like That Page 14
