by Melinda Minx
I feel her insides clench around my cock as I sink deep into her, and her moans get louder and louder in my ear.
“Come all over my cock,” I whisper to her. “I want to feel how wet you can get.”
She squeals as I thrust harder into her. I try to get just that much deeper, to really send her over the edge. I press my lips against the soft flesh of her neck and grunt into her as I thrust her to orgasm.
She cries out, and her body convulses as if a volcano had erupted within her. I feel her legs trembling against my lower back, and her fingernails clawing into my broad shoulders. I work my hips as if stopping meant death—I don’t dare deny her a single ounce of pleasure as she cums.
And as if a volcano really did go off inside her, I feel a thick flow of wetness flood across my dick, and then she convulses hard from within. It feels as if her pussy is milking my cock, and my balls tense up in response.
“Fuck!” I shout. “I’m gonna’ cum!”
“It’s safe,” she says. “Inside!”
I’m not wearing a fucking condom, but she must know what she’s talking about. She must be on the pill. I was planning to pull out and come all over her stomach and tits, but cumming this deep inside her is more than I could ever have hoped for.
“Fuck!” I shout. “I’m cumming in you!”
The pressure builds up from my balls, and my muscles all clench up as Sophie’s wetness drenches my cock sliding in and out of her. The pressure becomes too much, until finally my balls release it. The thickest load I’ve ever shot blasts through my full length. All the pressure dissipates, leaving only a warm rush and complete relaxation. I come again and again, neither time as powerful as the first release, but the warmth has already swallowed me up, and Sophie’s laughter in my ear is just icing on the cake.
I stop thrusting as my cock twitches, nearly empty now. The last few drops of cum have filled Sophie up, and I fall down on top of her with my cock still buried deep inside her.
My entire body—every part except my cock, which is still hard for now—goes limp. I anchor myself above her with my elbows so I don’t crush her, but I’m otherwise completely relaxed.
Sophie pants and trembles, her pussy still squeezing me tight, and I almost don’t want to pull out. If we just lay like this, I’ll probably get hard again.
But I want to hold her in my arms, so I pull out and wrap my arms around her. She buries her face into my chest and squeezes me tight.
That memory, of the warm afterglow holding us tight to each other, and of everything feeling right in the word—that’s the memory I end up holding onto as I get onto the plane taking me to Afghanistan. As I leave everything right in my world behind me—wondering just what the fuck I’m doing.
11
Sophie
Today
The days have all been blending together. Wake up, work, lounge around the house at night. Aside from trying to make Dad take care of himself, I haven’t had much to actually worry about.
But Mason Steel changes all of that.
Is he going to barge into the Crab Shack every fucking day now? Do I have to try to avoid him, or should I just treat him like any other asshole customer?
And why, why, does my body have to disagree so fucking hard with my brain? After seeing Mason, my brain wants to get the hell out of Tuckett Bay, but my body is begging me to stay. His fucking muscles are bigger than ever, covered in tattoos, but those blue eyes are the same as ever.
It’s so hard to push him away when my body is begging me to give in to him. To let him take me and have his way with me. To—
I shake my head and shove the dirty images out of it. I need to keep up my resolve. I’ve made it more or less fine these last fifteen years without Mason Steel. I don’t need him breaking my heart again.
I hear Dad stomping down the stairs, so I grab his mug and pour him a cup of coffee.
“You came back late last night,” I say.
“Remember when I used to tell you that?” he says, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Sounds like you had a lot to drink.”
“Remember when I also used to tell you that?” he says, laughing.
I smile. I have to pick my battles with him. He doesn’t go out to drink too often, and I’m not going to try to get him to stop.
“I barely drank anything,” he says, shaking his head as he grabs his mug. “My body just can’t handle it like it used to.”
Good, he realizes it on his own.
“Anything new with you?” he asks casually.
Dad is one of the worst people I’ve ever met at hiding his emotions. He’s trying to act like he’s making small talk with an innocent question, but I know exactly what he’s asking me. He knows Mason is back. I don’t want to show him I know that, because it would confirm to him that I still have some kind of feelings for Mason.
“No,” I say. “Not really.”
He nods and sips his coffee. He opens up his newspaper and pretends to read. He keeps looking up at me, waiting for me to mention Mason.
He’s not a patient man, and he finally says, way too casually, “So, I ran into Mason Steel at The Midnight.”
“Yeah,” I say, hoping that I didn’t inherit my dad’s inability to hide my emotions. “I saw him at the restaurant.”
“Ah,” Dad says. “You talk to him?”
“I guess so,” I say. “Just said hi to each other...I guess it had been a while since we’d seen each other. I don’t think I ever ran into him since he left.”
Fifteen years. That’s how long it has been. And I’m certain I’ve never run into him.
“Mmm,” Dad says. “So I guess you, uh, don’t have any kind of feelings for him—”
“God, no,” I say. “Do you think I still like the Backstreet Boys, too? High school was a long time ago.”
“So you’re good,” he says. “Seeing him isn’t hard on you?”
“No,” I say. “Not at all. He’s just one more old face at the Crab Shack. No problem for me at all.”
“Alright,” Dad says. “’Cause I invited him to have dinner here tonight. Just thought since his parents are gone and all, that—”
“You what?” I ask, my face draining of color.
Dad looks up at me with his mouth wide open. “Oh, sweetie, I thought you said—”
“No,” I say, forcing myself to regain control. “It’s fine, I just...I’m not used to having people over. Do you want me to cook? And I haven’t even checked to see if I’m working a shift—”
“Oh,” Dad says. “Should I cancel, or reschedule? If you’re not comfortable around Mason, if you still have feelings for—”
“I don’t,” I say. “It’s fine. Have him over.”
“Alright,” Dad says, picking his newspaper up again and holding it up so I can’t see his face.
He’s probably got a shit-eating grin on behind the paper, but I’m too flustered to care.
Mason is going to be here, eating dinner with us. Mason Steel, in my house again, after fifteen years. Fuck it. He’s Dad’s guest, not mine. I’ll wear sweatpants, I’ll wear my hair up in a messy bun, wear my glasses instead of contacts, and I’ll make small talk with him. No big deal. Dad invited him, I’m just kind of there. I’m just a bystander.
When I get home from work, I only have two hours to get ready. I’ve thought it over all day at work, and why the fuck should I dress like a bum? Mason is not getting another chance with me, so I might as well make him really regret that.
I dig through my closet and find my tight-ass cocktail dress. The one I wore in Boston for dinners where we were trying to secure grants from big donors. The one I haven’t worn in over a year.
I start to ask myself if I’m putting this dress on for Mason, or for myself, but once I see myself in the mirror, I don’t even care what the answer is. I look fucking amazing. The dress squeezes my hips, reveals a lot of leg, and it presses my breasts together just right. It’s an elegant blue—not quite purple—and it’s tot
ally fucking out of place for a casual dinner between three people at our kitchen table. But I’ve got a plan for that.
I spend another hour doing my makeup and getting everything just right, when I hear Dad shout up the stairs.
“You still coming down for dinner?” he yells. “Mason should be here soon.”
I can smell the lasagna from the stairway. It’s the one thing Dad is really good at cooking.
“Coming,” I shout.
But I don’t go down yet. I wait until I hear the doorbell, and then I wait until I hear Mason’s deep voice from downstairs.
Now I go down.
I grab my purse and rush down—as fast as I can rush in heels—and move through the house like I’m trying to rush out the door. Like I’m late and—
I nearly run into Mason’s chest as I turn the corner. He’s filling the doorway between the living room and the foyer, and his stunning blue eyes stare down at me. They widen as he takes me in.
He’s wearing a flannel button-up and tight jeans. I can see some of the tattoos on his chest through the undone top button. He looks fucking delicious. Like something I should not eat, because I know just how bad it is for me.
“Mason?” I say, pretending to be confused. “Oh...shit! I totally forgot. Dad mentioned you were coming here tonight for dinner. I—”
Dad steps in behind Mason. “You’re telling me you forgot, Sophie? Didn’t I just tell you—?”
“I had the sink running,” I say. “I didn’t hear you clearly.”
Then Dad sees what I’m wearing. “Jesus, Sophie, where in Tuckett Bay can you even wear a dress like that?”
“Tillman’s,” I say. “A friend invited me out, but shit, I did tell you I’d have dinner—”
“Get a bite to eat with us,” Mason says. “And then you can go. It’s still a bit early for Tillman’s.”
I bite my lip and shrug. “Alright, I guess I can eat something.”
Dad looks at me from over Mason’s shoulder and rolls his eyes. He knows. Mason probably knows, too, but I’ve at least justified wearing this dress.
More than justified. Mason can’t keep his eyes off me. He’s going to have to see me the whole time we’re having dinner, and know he can’t have me.
12
Mason
My eyes lock onto her ass as she helps her dad get the lasagna out of the oven. The dress hugs her hips and ass, and it shows a good amount of skin above her knee.
Yeah. She wants me. That much is for sure. She’s probably convinced herself she can resist me, but she won’t hold out much longer. That dress says it all.
“Need help with that?” I ask, still staring at Sophie’s ass.
“Just stay out of the way,” she mutters.
She lifts the hot tray of lasagna and puts it on the stovetop.
“Give me one of the oven mitts,” I say, standing right behind her.
I’m close enough to smell her. I put a hand on her bare arm, and she tenses, but doesn’t shove me away.
She peels the oven mitt off and places it on the counter. I let go of her arm and take it.
“Let me slice it,” I say, grabbing the right knife from the block. “You don’t want to get pasta sauce on that nice dress.”
“Fine,” she says.
I see her pick up the bottle of wine I brought from the table. “You want me to open this now?”
“Sure,” I say. “Pour us all a glass.”
I grab the hot tray with my mitted hand and start to slice the lasagna up into square pieces. When I’m done, I wash the knife and dry it with the towel hanging on the oven handle, then slide it back into the knife block.
I turn around and see Sophie drinking from her glass, with two fresh glasses on the table beside her.
“Not going to wait for us?” I ask.
“I do need to get going, Mason,” she says. “Eventually.”
“Mmhmm, who you meeting at Tillman’s?”
“No one you know,” she says.
I grin and sit down. Hank comes in through the back door with green leaves in his hand.
“Here we go,” he says, running water over them in the sink. “Fresh basil from my garden. It’s the killer ingredient that really makes my lasagna better than anything you can get in a restaurant.”
He pats the basil dry and dices it up a bit, then sprinkles it over top of the piping hot cheese.
“I can’t wait to eat, Hank,” I say. “It looks and smells amazing.”
“Hank,” Sophie says, staring me down. “You two are on a first name basis now?”
“I insisted!” Hank says from where he’s standing by the counter, “Mason’s all grown up now.”
She bites her lip and stares down into her wine.
Hank brings us each a plate and pops the oven open, and the smell of garlic hits me hard.
“Sophie’s favorite,” he says. “My garlic bread is the only thing that can compete with my lasagna.”
“I’m not eating garlic bread tonight,” Sophie says.
“Planning to kiss someone?” I ask, giving her my most obnoxious smirk.
Her face turns as red as the tomato sauce, and her nostrils flare. “No, I mean, I’m going out, Mason, I didn’t spend all this time looking nice to smell like garlic.”
“I might go out later tonight, too,” I say, grabbing a piece of the garlic bread, “But I’ll risk the garlic breath.”
I bite into it. It’s nice and buttery, and the garlic is just right. “You’re missing out,” I say.
“I know what it tastes like, Mason,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. I can see her eyeing the bread; she really wants to eat some. She knows in the back of her mind, though, how this night could end, and she doesn’t want our first kiss in sixteen years to be tainted by garlic bread.
She looks up at me chewing, then down at the bread. I already smell like garlic now—she’s realizing it—and the only guy she’s thinking of kissing tonight is me.
She grabs a piece and bites in.
We all start to eat together, washing down the amazing lasagna with sips of wine.
“The basil really does make this go the extra mile, Hank,” I say. “This is the best lasagna I’ve had in sixteen years.”
“It’s the only lasagna you’ve had in sixteen years,” Sophie says, glaring at me.
I grin back at her. “Nope, I had some at an Italian place in Germany a month ago. Your dad’s is way better.”
Hank tries hard not to smile, but he’s shit at hiding his emotions. His whole body puffs up with pride as he fails to hide his smile. I’m not bullshitting him, though, it’s easily the best lasagna I’ve ever had.
“More wine, Sophie?” I ask, grabbing the bottle.
She covers her glass with her hand. “No, I need to be able to drive.”
“How you getting back?” Hank asks.
“I’m not going to drink a lot there,” she says.
“You sure you don’t want to stay longer?” Hank asks.
“I should really go now,” she says, her voice doesn’t quite sound certain.
Hank stretches his arms out and lets out a massive, bear-like yawn. “Man, I’m feeling tired. Must be the wine. You know what, why don’t you two go out together? You said you were going to go out later anyway, right Mason? You can keep Sophie safe tonight—”
I see her jaw clench up. “I don’t need him to keep me safe!”
I laugh and lean back in the chair, as if she took a swing at me.
“I’m not going to drink tonight,” I say. “I gotta get up early for work. I can drive you, Sophie, I’m going into town anyway. I know you don’t need me to keep you safe, but at least let me give you a ride.”
“Fine,” she says. “I’m going to use the restroom, then we can go.”
She gets up from her chair and storms out of the kitchen, her hips swaying hypnotically with each step.
Hank looks over at me with a smug grin.
I lean in toward him, my elbows digging into the table,
and I say to him in a low voice, “What are you smiling at, Hank? You can tell I’ve got her. It’s only a matter of time now. Didn’t you want me to drive her away?”
“Watch it, Mason,” he says, still smiling. “Talking about my daughter like that.”
I look him over, trying to figure out why he’s smiling. I can’t quite figure it out. “What’s your game?”
“Good strategies,” Hank says. “Have multiple victory conditions, right?”
I nod.
“Either you run her out of town, or you bring some life back into her. I thought the first option was more likely, but it looks like I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sophie was like a zombie this past year. I’ve never seen her so angry and flustered since you came back here. You’ve woken her back up. It’s only a matter of time now until she realizes she needs to get out of here.”
I grin. So I really have had the effect on her I suspected? That means—
Hank grabs my forearm, squeezing me with every last ounce of his old man’s strength. He locks eyes with me.
“You woke her up, Mason,” he says. “But I swear to God, if you fucking hurt her again, I will drive you out of town.”
We get into my car, and I look over at Sophie. My car. It’s a mid-2000’s sedan, not my old Camaro.
“What?” she says. “Drive.”
“If we’re going out together,” I say. “Don’t you think I’m underdressed?
I point down to my flannel shirt and jeans. “I can at least get a sports coat on. That’s about as fancy as it gets in Tuckett Bay, right? Sports coat and flannel?”
“You’re just looking for an excuse to get me to your place?”
“It’s on the way,” I say.
“Fine, get a sports coat, I’ll wait in the car.”
I start the car and pull out of her driveway. “I got an apartment over on Broadwell.”
“Okay,” she says, crossing her arms.
I give up on the small talk, waiting until we reach the apartment to try with her again.
