Pretty Instinct

by S. E. Hall

  “I was mad! I’m sorry. Daddy will fix your precious car, geez.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Then yes, I hear her talking and can tell you, after that admission of yours, I’m loving it and recording it!” He grins ear to ear and holds up his phone, waving it from side to side gleefully.

  And…he’s smiling, having some fun now, keyed car and all! My work here is almost done.

  “You!!” she whines/growls/shrieks (in reality, I have no idea WTF that sound was), and lunges at his door, smacking into a wall—a tiny wall, mind you—of overly protective, pissed off Siren. Cannon’s Siren.

  “What’s the password?” I taunt her, straight-faced and cool as a cucumber. His phone’s as good as changed, at this point, I’m simply toying with the bitch, like a little ball of catnip that I enjoy batting back and forth between my paws…like she did with him, all that time, in so many ways.

  “You are such an evil, low class lesbian,” she sneers, an inch from my face.

  “Evil is kicking people you supposedly love enough to marry out in the middle of nowhere and fucking with their future behind their back. Low class is keying cars and begging your way back when you’re not wanted. And a lesbian wouldn’t have sat on his face, screaming around his big dick in her mouth while she came. Guess what I did this morning, Twinkle Toes?”

  Kill shot. Cannon snorts in full appreciation of that one.

  “Have I mentioned lately that I love you and you’re the coolest person I’ve ever known?” Cannon’s praise is muffled through the window behind me.

  “Yes, babe, now zip it. I’m busy schooling a bitch at the moment.” I can’t quite tame my grin fully, but I do manage to school it and turn my attention back on her. “What’s it gonna be, Bad Root Job Barbie? Your phone and a check, or my exercise—well, besides this morning—for the day?”

  “You lay one finger on me and my daddy will ruin you,” she warns, crossing her arms.

  I cannot believe I’m about to play this card.

  “Cannon?” I call over my shoulder, not taking my eyes of her.

  “Siren?”

  “Whose daddy is more powerful?” I ask, literally tasting vomit, but taking one for my team.

  “Yours.”

  “Richer?”

  “Yours.”

  “Thank you, babe. So…” I give her the old “how ya like them apples?” eyebrow. “What now? My patience is running thin. I gotta go house shopping with my man.”

  “Fine, how much?”

  Ah, I just love it when everyone gets a happy ending.

  “Cannon, how much?”

  “I’ll take care of the car and change my phone plan and number. I’d rather she stay out here while I go in and grab my clothes, golf clubs, pictures of my family…”

  She heard him, so I stare her down, waiting for her answer. I may also have my fist locked and loaded if it’s the wrong one. I’ve never punched anyone in my life—well, I beat on a few guy’s heads for being mean to Conner—but she doesn’t need to know that. If I punch her, she’ll think I’m a pro.

  “Fine,” she huffs, “I’ll let you in.”

  “No you won’t.” I put a stiff arm straight out to block her. “You’ll stay right the fuck here. Ten minutes, babe. Go.”

  ***

  “Tell the truth, was I more Training Day badass or like, say…Laura Croft Tomb Raider?” I ask, turned and childishly ecstatic in the passenger seat.

  “You were Training Laura Croft, a hot and nasty all your own.” He glances from the road briefly to wink. “I adore you, you know that, right?”

  “Please, you just want free lessons.” I giggle and swat his arm.

  “You stood by me, for me. You don’t know what it meant Lizzie,” he says. “But you will, because I damn sure plan to show you. In multiple ways.”

  “I do know. Pretty sure I still have the edge of the bar imprinted on my back to remind me,” I joke, looking out the window at our stopping point, empty desolation. “Um, if we build a house, where we gonna live in the meantime?”

  “Not building a house,” he grunts, turning off the car, shoving the seat back violently. Like a blur, several things apparently happen at once, each one more evasive to me than the last.

  At some point, in what order I wouldn’t chance a guess, he’s turned on, or up, or both “Give me Love,” by Ed Sheeran, and gotten his jeans and briefs past his hips, smoldering eyes watching me as he strokes up and down his hardness.

  “Come ‘ere,” he rasps with a sinful cocked brow and come hither chin.

  I’m turned inside out by the chin beckon, the cock in hand, the song, and the chance of being caught in public—a heady, deadly mixture setting me unrestrainedly aflame. I scramble over the console like a jungle cat in heat, licking my lips as I sit astride him.

  My plaid, cotton skirt easily fluffs out and over his thighs, and my thong doesn’t stand a chance as he yanks it to the side. I hear the rip of fabric, at least even to allow some “give.”

  “I’ve never wanted anything in my life as badly as I want you right now. You make me crazy in every way, Siren. Ride my dick, gorgeous, please, now.” He sounds pained and desperate, a dying man that can only be healed by being buried inside me.

  He watches, head dipped, ravenous brown eyes concentrated on my glistening wet center as he stretches what’s left of my thong aside. Using his shoulders for balance, I take him in, so lubricated with desire it’s not at all painful, but noticeably a perfect fit.

  I watching him watch me and decide, since no one can hear me but him, to see how undeniably senseless I can make him.

  “Does that feel good, Cannon?” I purr.

  His head flies up, like quite possibly injured his neck fast, first with a look of astonishment, but the dawning of “oh, she wanna talk dirty” visually moves over his face and his smirk emerges, but with a predatory, primitive edge to it; his eyes go black, bathed in debauchery.

  “So fucking good, Lizzie love. You were made for me.” His breathing is heavy; I can’t look away as he licks along his bottom lip invitingly.

  “You like it fast and hard,” I show him what I mean, “or slow and savvy?” I speak in a seductive taunt, clasping my muscles as hard as I can on the slide up, flexing in and out and circling my pelvis on the way down.

  “Uhhh, my sweet—damn,” he groans, head falling back on the headrest. “Any way, so good, anything you do. I can’t, ah baby, fuck me however you want.”

  “Watch, Cannon, watch me ride your big cock.” I grab his hair and yank his head up.

  “I love when you’re like this. Finally using that naughty mouth to talk to me. You’re feeling like a bad girl, aren’t ya?”

  I nod, continuing my unhurried, velvety strokes up and down him.

  “Naughty girls,” he grabs both sides of my shirt and rips it open, buttons pinging off the window, dash, where ever, “get their tits sucked.” He pulls down the cups of my bra, pushing my breasts up and out. He stares his fill, gradually taking them in his hands, full mitt gropes, then pinching the nipples. “Hell yes, need more than a nibble,” he growls, opening wide to take one breast all the way in his mouth.

  I ride him through “Don’t You Wanna Stay,” by Jason Aldean, but by the closing chorus of “Uhh Ahh” by Boyz II Men, he’s grunting and moaning the exact sounds in the song, his forehead covered in sweat, his teeth searing into my nipple harshly, past the point of restraint. He lets go of my breast, purely to breathe, I suspect, his thighs shaking under me.

  “Feels too Goddamn good, love.” His hand finds its way between us and he gathers moisture off his dick as I rise, using it to slicken and manipulate my clit. “Nobody, never, only me,” he gasps. “Never stop fucking me, Siren. Never.” He makes brutal demands on my clit, holding down my hip with the other hand as he powers up into me. His dick must not reach my throat, although it feels like it, ‘cause I’m able to scream.

  “Fill me, babe!” I beg, falling into his face. “Mouth, kiss me. Kiss me ‘til I’m empt
y.”

  And he does, penetrating me in glorious rhythm, harmonious with his clitoral stimulations, synced with his tongue wrapping around and wrestling mine.

  Unsure if he supports me or I melt into him, I fall against his chest for the most loving, intense orgasm of my life, the rapid thumps of his heart beating on my cheek.

  “Love you,” I hear myself mutter…maybe.

  He runs a hand up underneath my hair, massaging my neck with his thumb. “Not sure that does it justice anymore…I worship, no, I live, because you make my heart beat.”

  Chapter 31

  Once we finally gather ourselves, we’re back on the road to Richmond. Adrift on a cloud, Cannon has to comment several times and finally pat my leg for me to acknowledge that my phone’s ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Bethy! This is Conner, your brother,” he says adorably.

  Sated to crying in seven words—I’m a sap. “Bubs, how are you? I miss you so much!”

  Cannon keeps his hand on my thigh, soothing rubs constant, and shoots me a beaming smile.

  “I’m good, better than Bryson.” Laura’s son? “Some bug bit him and his head’s big as a melon, Alma said.”

  “Oh no, is he gonna be okay?”

  “He better not be faking ‘cause now we’re leaving. Hope and me are mad, very mad. Dad wants to talk to you, bye, Sister!”

  “O-oh, okay, bye,” I say to no one, kinda sad.

  “Conner, son, stop and look at me.” There’s a pause in my father’s voice, now the one in my ear. “Please do not throw my phone in the sand when you’re done speaking, hand it to me. All right?”

  “Okay, Dad!” I hear Conner yell from far away.

  “Hi, daughter,” he chuckles, “can you hear me through the sand?”

  “Yeah, just fine. So, Bryson, is that Laura’s son?”

  “One of them, yes, he’s thirteen. Vaughn is her other son, fifteen. Then there’s Hope, she’s eleven and your brother’s shadow, and last is Lisa. She’s twenty-one and not here with us, busy with work and school.”

  “You’re marrying a woman with four kids, three still young and in the house? You’re no spring chicken there, Dad.” I laugh, then go still, saliva pooling in my mouth. I called him “Dad.” It just sorta came out.

  Oh, he noticed. His returning laugh is as jovial as I’m sure it gets, a warm kindness to his voice—that I put there! Even Cannon’s affected, the hand on my thigh doing a “good girl” pat thing.

  “So, uh,” I clear the frog in my throat, “what happened to Bryson, was it?” I have the memory of an elephant free basing ginkgo biloba, who am I kidding with the nonchalant pseudo-amnesia? Not Cannon, over there snickering.

  “We’re not sure, he got bit by something; high fever, sore muscles, vomiting. As soon as the doctor clears him, we’re flying home. Conner’s not very happy about it, but I’ve managed to bargain his cooperation for his own ultra-large saltwater fish tank in his room.”

  “He does love fish. I don’t remember that fascination before, do you?”

  He thinks, a low hmmm sound. “No, I don’t imagine I do.”

  “All right, well, call me when you land. I’m actually sitting on the Ohio line right now, house hunting, so I’ll be close by.”

  “House hunting?” His interest perks audibly.

  Shit! Think, then talk. I’m gonna have to get it tattooed on my freakin’ hand.

  “Um, yeah,” I look to Cannon, all Mr. Pride and Sunshine. “The band, we’re, ah, taking a break, and I figured I probably needed a place to you know, live.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea, Elizabeth. What town are you researching?”

  Easy, big guy, you’ve already gotten more information that I’m completely comfortable giving.

  “Exactly halfway between Cannon’s family and Sutton, so Conner can visit regularly without a long drive. Maybe I’ll get him a damn dog.”

  “Or a regular dog might work fine, too,” he jokes dryly, but his version of humor all the same.

  “I’m sorry about Bryson, but I’m glad you’re coming back early. I miss Conner so bad it hurts,” I admit, my chest aching.

  “I imagine you do. As against the bus life as I was, you’re an exceptional sister, Elizabeth. When he had no one else, he always had you. I’m very proud of you for that, among many other things.”

  “Ugh,” I groan, eyes rolled clear in the back seat. “Just get here, let’s have our talk, and we can progress from there. These coded, half-assed, sweetsy-yet-non-informative talks are grinding on my nerves,” I snap.

  “Yes, all right. I’ll call when we land. And good luck with the house hunting.”

  ***

  Remember that part about Cannon having OCD and being a perfectionist? Okay, now use an egg as the object of that description and then beat it and smash it over and over again with the biggest, heaviest cast-iron skillet you can find.

  Feel me? The real estate agent does too.

  Well, house #4 was my fault—I walked in, spun on my heel, and cruised on out. NO. STAIRS. It’s one of my only stipulations and one on which I will not budge.

  Numbers 1-3, who knows, I honestly suspect that with half the “issues” Cannon found, he made up a quarter of the words he used to explain his dislike.

  In fact, he’s being persnickety about everything.

  “Jennifer, will you give us a minute?” I ask the friendly, young, obviously new and desperate for a sale agent, then drag Cannon outside.

  I grab his chin off the ground and make him look at me. “Holy Grumpy Guts, what is your major malfunction?”

  He just shrugs.

  “Really? Mr. Walking Thesaurus in there and that’s all you got? Bullshit. Spill it.”

  “Yeah?” He crushes me with just a glance, eyes trying to hope, but doubt weighing that down.

  “Yeah, babe, yeah.” I hug him close. “What is it? Talk to me. It’s like a rain cloud moved in out of nowhere, with a vengeance.”

  “When you told your dad you were house hunting because you needed a place to live and you’d maybe get a dog, it was pretty loud and clear, louder than you never answering me, that I’m not in your immediate cohabitation plans.” He shrugs, breaking my heart as he kicks a few rocks around.

  “Amazing. You’re not just being a passive-aggressive bratty ass man, it’s actually true. I’ve never had ‘a man’ before, so I didn’t know, or think about it. I’m sorry.” My turn to study the ground and pester a few bits of gravel with my toe. “But it’s no urban myth, it’s actually textbook true.” My mouth drops agape, eyes now up, wide and laughing.

  “What is?”

  “You can tell a man step by step, numbered even, instructions and all he hears are the last three words of step eight. But you talk off the cuff and he dissects and analyzes that shit like Cut Up the Frog Day in Biology. Have you,” I poke his chest, “told your parents, who you actually like, that we are housing hunting?”

  My arms are already folded, hip fully cocked out, ‘cause I know the answer.

  “Yeah, I have. Even asked Moms if I could have Grandma’s ring. It’s vintage, you’ll love it.”

  Arms limp at sides, tucking hips back in now. He asked who what?

  Certain kinds of tears, the ones that start down deep inside you and bubble their way up through your soul, actually make a “splat” noise and noticeable wet marks on the sidewalk, did you know that? That’s how he knows I’m crying—not from the snotty sounds I’m so gracefully making.

  “I don’t need you to look at me, Lizzie. I need you to hear me. I love you. I won’t ever not love you. I want to move in with you and build a home, a life…a family. And just as soon as anyone whose opinion you give a fuck about quits making a sour face with their whole ‘he was just engaged’ worn out fucking bullshit, I want to marry you. Now what’s in here?” He lays his hand over my heart. “Their voices or mine?”

  He really should write lyrics, but this isn’t the time to mention it.

 
; “House? You sure? Don’t wanna start with an apartment or condo?” I gnaw on my lip, hopping from foot to foot.

  “Conner would be miserable in a tiny apartment, so would the dog. Condos are not for families, they’re for snowbirds and retirees. Families need a house.”

  “Then pick a house.” I smile, heart decided, and threatening to burst…or flat line…shocked how easy and natural this feels.

  He laughs from deep in his finally not worried gut and scoops me up to spin me round. “I’ve liked ‘em all. Especially the yellow one with the wrap around porch and three acres. Back off the road, huge backyard, no stairs.”

  “That was my favorite too,” I whisper, scared to share my brain with someone else.

  “Jennifer!” he yells, and wouldn’t you know, out she pops, Cheshire smile, sprinkles and cupcakes dancing in her eyes.

  “Yellow ranch, Victorian, porch, got it. Asking price $205,000, already vacant,” she spouts off from her supersonic, eavesdropping memory.

  “My Siren and I would like to put in a cash offer.” He turns to me and whispers, “I’ve got about 85 liquid,” to which I nod. “Cash offer of $175,000 today. Let us know!”

  And he carries me off into the sunset—meaning to the keyed car at four in the afternoon. Close enough.

  ***

  Two hours later, Jennifer calls to tell us the owners countered the house at $180,000, which we jumped at. We sign papers and take possession Tuesday. Three days from now. Only that quick because I shelled out behind Mr. OCD’s back for a rush inspection, Jennifer giddy to facilitate.

  Funniest thing you’ve ever seen—two pretty well-off (especially for our age) people sitting in a hotel room in stark silence. We have nothing to move, no utilities to switch, no pets to board, no jobs to take off from, no mail to forward.

  We could move in yesterday, fully prepared.

  Without words, ‘cause he still shares my brain and refuses to give it back, we bust out in gut-wrenching, side-splitting, obnoxious laughter at the exact same time.

  “So, I guess we chill and fight over paint colors for three days?” I ask amidst suppressed laughter.

  He settles too and kicks off his shoes, climbing up on the bed beside me. “You know my favorite part of the house?”